by Jeff High
John was another matter. I couldn’t imagine him to be any more relaxed. In his khakis, farm coat, and work boots, he sat slumped in his chair with his outstretched legs crossed at the ankles. He was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, casually wearing a face of detached boredom.
During those awkward seconds before the meeting started, I realized that John’s aloofness came naturally. In decades past, he had likely dominated the men in this room in sports, outshone them in the classroom, and perhaps even lifted half of them up by their underwear. Their unnerved regard of him communicated as much. I began to be truly glad I had troubled him to come.
The meeting was called to order and Randall Simmons wasted no time addressing the issue of the old bakery. He turned to Connie.
“Mrs. Thompson, I believe the board generally understands that you and your sister have an interest in buying the Hatcher Building property. If you would, please explain your proposal.”
Connie stood, nervously clutching her purse tightly in front of her. At first she seemed frozen, unable to speak, her lips in an anxious, rounded pucker. Some ancient mix of voices was fighting within her, fretting with her to say her piece quickly and sit down. I smiled to encourage her. I found myself silently rooting for her, willing her to say the words.
“Gentlemen, I . . . um . . . my sister and I would like to buy the Hatcher Building property, the old bakery, that is, because she would like to reopen it as a pastry and coffee shop and a catering business. As, um, as all of you know, the bank has owned the property for many years and to my knowledge has no immediate plan for it. So we would like to buy it. It’s listed as an asset on the bank’s financial statement and we would like to offer ten percent above that amount. This seems a fair and equitable arrangement, and we would, um, we would like the board to consider this offer and move on this request as soon as possible. Thank you.”
Connie half swallowed the last words and sat down stiffly. She had gotten through it, but it was clear that standing before these men had cost her something. Seeing her flustered and distraught served as an awakening for me. I saw the toll taken, and the stain left, by previous decades of subtle but persistent bigotry. Despite Connie’s strength of character, towering intellect, and unquestioned courage, voices in her past had taught her that the color of her skin changed the rules against her.
By and large, it was a new and, in many ways, a better South than the one she had known in her youth. I felt strongly that the Watervalley of today had moved past the shameful mind-set of discrimination. Yet something about Randall Simmons and the stiff silence of those around him had churned up those deep memories of fear and exclusion. We awaited the board’s response.
Simmons spoke impassively. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. Gentlemen, I think we all understand the nature of this request. Is there any discussion on the matter?”
I expected some general inquiries about the purchase price, or confirmation about the bank having no plans for the property, or perhaps even a question or two about the proposed business, if only from curiosity. But there was only tight-lipped silence.
Something was amiss here.
The board members sat pug faced, staring blankly at the table in front of them. Then I noticed a slight gesture, a tightening of the eyes and a subtle nod, from Randall Simmons to Rayburn Fulcher, the executive vice president.
Fulcher, a tall, rigid man with a permanently sour face, cleared his throat and spoke on cue. “Gentlemen, with all due respect, I see no need to rush into anything. It has always been our thinking that the Hatcher Building property might serve as a good location for a small branch office. I think it is time we revisit that idea. It seems appropriate to commission a research firm to evaluate this possibility and then get back with us. After such time, if a branch office does not seem feasible, then we can consider Mrs. Thompson’s request.”
Before another comment could be made, Simmons quickly added, “Would you like to put that in the form of a motion?”
Fulcher did so. The motion was immediately seconded. “We have a motion on the floor to table Mrs. Thompson’s request and commission a branch office feasibility study. All in favor say ‘aye.’” Parliamentary procedure called for a discussion at this point, but Simmons had moved straight to a vote.
The response was low and mumbled, but definitive. All save one voted for the motion. The only nay came from Walt Hickman, who spoke his rejection of the idea in a stern, defiant voice.
It had taken only seconds for Connie’s request and Estelle’s dream to be dashed. Knowing glances shot around the room. An almost imperceptible smugness crept across the face of Randall Simmons. “It would appear the ayes have it,” he said.
Connie sat stunned, speechless. It had been a well-orchestrated charade, a short demonstration of power and politics with Randall Simmons wielding his influence over this roomful of invertebrates in business suits. For whatever reason, he didn’t want the bank to lose possession of the old bakery, and he had effectively used his lackey Rayburn Fulcher to ramrod his will over the proceedings.
Connie clutched her purse even tighter. Her hands were visibly shaking. She turned to me, her face frozen and speechless. Despite her strengths, the situation was overwhelming her.
Incensed, I rose to my feet. “Gentlemen, this seems rather hastily done. Selling that property is a win-win for the bank and for the community. On Mrs. Thompson’s behalf, I would ask that you reconsider her request.”
Walt Hickman echoed the sentiment. “I agree with Dr. Bradford. We’re just wasting time and money delaying the sale of the Hatcher property.”
Rayburn Fulcher ignored Walt and responded to me, his words imbued with subtle condescension. “As I noted earlier, Dr. Bradford, we will reconsider the request, but only after we thoroughly investigate the bank’s best interest.”
“And how long will that take?”
Fulcher regarded me down the length of his long nose. “Difficult to say. Probably months. If Mrs. Thompson and her sister’s plans are time sensitive, perhaps they should consider some other property.”
Small conversations began to erupt around the room. Walt was continuing to express his disgust. The others mumbled a spineless commentary. The hubbub grew until Randall Simmons loudly tapped a small gavel on the table, bringing the group back to order. He turned to Connie.
“Mrs. Thompson, thank you for coming. I understand your hope to revive the old bakery, but it appears that today is not that day.”
There was nothing Connie could do or say. It was a crushing moment. She began to rise to leave when the heavy stillness was broken by a booming, penetrating, and unexpectedly jovial voice.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this just pretty?” The board members froze as John Harris’s cool, taunting words poured over them. He remained focused on his pocketknife and fingernails as if he were talking to no one in particular. His deep, gruff, baritone voice filled the room.
“Just look at you boys. Five years ago Mrs. Thompson here poured her life’s earnings into this bank and helped save it, along with this community. She’s never asked for a thing, not even a seat on the board. Now she comes to you with a simple request and suddenly you fellows are short on memory.”
John admired his nails briefly, folded his pocketknife, and looked up at the men in the room. “What say we talk about it?”
He stood, coolly engaging them. With his broad shoulders and powerful arms, he rose like an awakening giant. The directors began recoiling in their chairs. Even the walls seemed to expand away from him. This was the John Harris I had only heard about. It wasn’t just his brawn and stature that held sway. The hard contours of his face conveyed a volatile, smouldering intensity. He had a raw, powerful presence and a brilliant, penetrating gaze capable of complete intimidation. He was a lion among them and they withered fearfully under his glare.
His amused words were crisp with confidence.
John let this sink in as he began to walk slowly around the table, carefully placing his hands on the backs of chairs and looking into the eyes of all the suited men, who were now displaying the collective testosterone of beached jellyfish. They began to glance at one another with taut, worried faces, telegraphing their understanding of John’s words. His lighthearted banter continued.
“Now, I know some of you fellows think you’re clever, winking around the table and playing your little game of footsie with Chairman Simmons. Well, boys, that’s today’s news. Let’s talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow’s news will prove to be much more interesting. A few months from now, three board member seats come up for renewal, three more next year, and three more after that. So, here’s what’s going to happen.”
Just that quickly, John’s cajoling manner disappeared. Now his words were cool, hard, toxic. “By exercising both Sam Cavanaugh’s and Mrs. Thompson’s shares, I am going to personally castrate each one of you sum’ bitches right out of here.”
I knew John was in complete control. Even still, there was an intensity, a consuming fire just below the surface that even I found unnerving. The men on the receiving end of his chastening scorn were petrified.
His next declaration oozed out slowly, deliberately. “One by one by one I am going to replace each of you with living, breathing human beings.” He paused again and began to shake his head. “Shame on you boys. What could you possibly be thinking, trying to pull a bullying stunt like this?”
A smothering, dreadful silence ensued and all the men sat paralyzed. John’s words hung fat in the air, pushing out the oxygen.
Soon, however, his broad smile returned. “So, fellows, by damn, wink and think on that a little bit.”
Now he turned his full attention to Randall Simmons, stepping slowly toward him. His tone remained low and calm. “Randall, old friend, you are correct about one thing. Today is not Connie’s day. Today belongs to you and your little band of bobbleheads.”
Then John stopped and did the most fascinating thing. With his eyes locked on Randall, he raised his hand and pointed toward Connie. “But take a good look at that incredible lady sitting in the chair over there, Randall, because I want you to remember something. Tomorrow is going to belong to her. Tomorrow will belong to Constance Grace Thompson. Bet your ass on it, sport. I’m going to see to it personally.”
John wasn’t done. He moved boldly up beside Randall and hovered over him. He put one hand on the back of the banker’s chair and the other on the table. As John leaned in, Randall shifted to the side, pulling away as best he could, and looking straight ahead with a wincing, indignant face. Within inches of the banker’s ear, John spoke in a low but audible whisper.
“Write this down, Randall. Dear Diary: Today, I pissed off the wrong guy.”
His point made, John straightened and surveyed the room. The men around the table huddled with downcast faces, their guilt easily read. Their small scheme of stagecraft had gone terrible awry. No one said a word. No one dared to offer a challenge.
John smiled and spoke in an almost kind, instructive manner. “Well, looks like we’re done here, boys. Now, I’m going to leave and give you fellows an opportunity for some important personal reflection, during which time I recommend you rethink your agenda. Otherwise, rest assured, in due time, each of you will be on my agenda.” He looked at me, nodded, and then departed out the large door. Connie and I followed.
She was visibly shaken, her steps plodding as she progressed down the hallway, lost in hurt and confusion. John stopped her.
“Connie, I’m sorry. I had no idea Simmons would try to pull this stunt.”
“It’s okay, John. I should have seen it coming. I appreciate what you did in there, but part of me wants to get away from this whole ugly business. Maybe it’s the Lord’s will that the bakery not happen.”
John’s eyes tightened. “Connie, it’s the Lord’s will that a slimeball like Randall Simmons not get away with his shenanigans. I don’t know what his motivation is, and frankly, I don’t care. Just sit tight. The bank pays those clowns a goodly sum to sit on the board, not to mention the prestige they think it gives their tender egos. I felt it my duty to let them know that’s all going away if things don’t change. I’m betting the dollar bill will trump whatever loyalty they have to Simmons.”
Connie stood silently with a downcast and ashen face. John, however, was hardened with resolve. It was only now, away from the tension and drama of the boardroom, that I realized I had witnessed something rather wonderful.
Days earlier, John had taken great delight in chiding and pestering Connie, teasing her in a game of one-upmanship. It was a match they had replayed over the years and a contest in which she invariably won.
But he stood before her now as a watchtower of strength, a champion against the petty injustices served upon her. Despite his cynical and brooding nature, John Harris had come down out of the hills, out of his self-imposed exile, and stood in the gap for Connie’s sake. I had witnessed the return of the king. He was both fearfully and wonderfully made . . . but mostly, fearfully.
Connie shook her head. “I just don’t know, John. I just don’t know.”
His eyes grew soft and a confident smile emerged. “Don’t worry, Connie. I do.”
Two hours later, I received a phone call at home from Walt Hickman. In a vote of eight to two the board had reconsidered Connie’s request and had approved the immediate sale of the old bakery at the presently assessed value, no additional ten percent needed. Connie and Estelle could close on the property within the month.
CHAPTER 25
The Getaway Car
On the following Tuesday I received an unexpected package. Oddly, it had been delivered to the clinic rather than to my home. The large yellow envelope had been sent certified mail from a law firm in Nashville. It concerned the estate of Mildred Strum.
Mildred had owned low-rent shanties and dilapidated trailer parks in some of the meaner corners of the county. She had died in December after a lifelong love affair with booze and tobacco. Known as a scornful old harpy, she’d had a hard, angry face that was invariably adorned with a dangling cigarette. When people talked to her, she regarded them with a rude contempt, as if they were a waste of her time. Everyone who did business with her eventually found some reason to loathe her, usually sooner rather than later.
When Mildred came to see me in October of last year, she was already dying of cancer and had defiantly accepted her imminent demise. She simply wanted something for the pain. She was my last patient of the day, and before writing a prescription, I told her to follow me to my office. Once there, I pulled out a bottle of unopened Scotch that had been given to me and poured her a glass. She looked at me warily.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“You said you wanted something for the pain.”
She chortled a throaty laugh and drank it.
I studied her for a moment. “Tell me about your pain, Mildred. When did it start?”
She poured herself another Scotch, drank it, and released a grunted smirk. “Fifty years ago.”
During the next hour, Mildred told me about her life.
“I never was very pretty and had a rough time of it in high school.”
She went on to tell me that her mother had left her dad when Mildred was little. Even still, her dad had done well and owned a lot o
f property. After she graduated from high school in 1965, he took her to Nashville and bought her a sports car as a graduation gift.
“It was going to be my getaway car. I was going to leave Watervalley for good and go get a job on the West Coast and live there forever. But two days after we bought the car, my dad had a stroke. I ended up staying here and taking care of him. I took over the business and the years began to roll by. When my dad died, I was almost forty. So I thought, ‘To hell with it,’ and just stayed on.”
Mildred told me she had parked the car in their barn a month after they bought it and it had sat there ever since.
At my insistence, I followed her home that night to make sure she arrived safely. We walked to the barn and she showed me the car. I guess she saw the captivated look on my face, because the envelope I received on Tuesday morning contained a letter of explanation from the estate attorney, a handwritten note from Mildred, and the title to the car along with the keys. Mildred was giving it to me as a gift. I was ecstatic.
I called Chick McKissick, who agreed to meet me with the wrecker out at the Strum place later that afternoon. I asked him to wait for my call because there was something I needed to do first. Chick said that was fine.
I had arranged a meeting with Louise Fox to discuss the offer that Connie, John, and I wanted to make. At three o’clock I knocked on her front door. She greeted me with a frail smile.
“Hello, Dr. Bradford. Please come in.”
Louise Fox was a small, somewhat timid woman with a sweet face. She was in her early forties and the strain of her years had already placed fine wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Still, she smiled warmly and did her best to engage me graciously with what I suspected was a slender supply of strength.
“Thanks, Louise. I’m guessing Will’s not home from school yet?”
