“Hey, were your ears ringing?” I asked.
“You sound like my uncle Frank.” He chuckled. “Did you turn 70 or something?”
“How is your uncle 70?”
“Because he refuses to be called ‘great.’ He thinks it… you know, makes him sound old.”
“Because he is?”
“Yeah, well, don’t tell him that when he sees you.”
“Why would he see me?” I’d heard about his uncle over the years, but had always pictured him as our parents' age. Not older than my grandparents.
“Because he wants to talk to you about your research project.”
I was sure I’d misheard him. From what I remembered, his grandfather was a businessman. But then again, I hadn’t known he was more of a grandparent than a fun uncle, so what did I know.
“Why would he do that?”
“Because he’s loaded and needs something to do with his money.”
Stevenson and I had shared a dorm on campus, but his family had always wanted him to move out and offered to buy him a house. He said no because he was staying with me. It made sense he came from more money than I realized, but funding my project was a lot of money.
“And how does he know about my research project?”
“Because I may have mentioned I didn’t know what to get you for your birthday, and he asked what you wanted. And I told him for one of your grant proposals to be accepted.” Stevenson understood me well enough to know I’d have asked him not to share, but also that I wouldn’t be mad if he did. A heads-up would’ve been nice, though.
“I don’t want charity. You know that.” Even if it was for the polar bears. This was legit scientific research and should be treated as such. If not, no one would take the results seriously.
“It’s not charity.”
“How isn’t it charity if he gives me the money as a way to give you something to gift me for my birthday?” And also, how much money do you need for that to be a reasonable response over suggesting a watch or a new set of headphones?
“Because he cares about animals too.”
“And how does he think that I can make a difference, that my proposal is any good?”
“I supposed he doesn’t, but I do, and he trusts me.”
It didn’t make sense that he would give me the money, especially without talking to me or hearing my pitch. But when the three of us got on a Zoom together the next day, I quickly found out he knew exactly what my study proposal was thanks to Stevenson. When I’d given my grant proposal to him to proofread, he’d sent a copy to his uncle. This wasn’t an all-of-a-sudden decision, which had me not completely comfortable with the entire scenario.
He could love his great-nephew, but this wasn’t typical “I’ll do you a favor” money. It didn’t matter how rich he was, he was going to feel the amount I asked for.
“I promise I won’t get in the way,” his uncle insisted, when I started to waver, unsure if I should take it or not. I wanted it so badly I could taste it, but also, I couldn’t risk the project by taking the wrong money, money with strings attached that I hadn’t seen when accepting it.
“Good, because I won’t cross my boundaries. I want to do this research, but I need to do it in a way that will 100% benefit the polar bears, not humans. There is no patent at the end of this. There’s no money-making end in sight.”
“If I wanted to make money, I wouldn’t be investing in animals. I’d be investing in pharmaceuticals or technology,” he insisted.
We went back and forth, with Stevenson basically on the other camera as my support buddy. In the end, it came down to being able to do the research now by accepting, or hoping that next year my grant writing would go better, which was highly unlikely given my track record.
Ultimately, I accepted and closed out the Zoom.
“I promise you, I’m going to protect them,” I vowed to Bear-Bear.
I didn’t know how that would look or what I might uncover there, but that was a vow I intended to keep.
3
