The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  Three years had passed since May’s letter. Even if her mind had deteriorated, the son she mentioned might be able to provide some answers. I thought of the sacrifice she had alluded to. Did he grow up knowing his mother’s mysterious past, or was it kept secret from him as it was from us? I wondered what he looked like and tried to figure out how old he must be.

  I glanced at my watch, anxious for the plane to arrive in Baltimore at last. I had to be patient. Still six hours to go.

  When we finally landed, I was questioned by an immigration officer about the purpose of my visit. I flashed my press card, explaining to the man that I worked for a prestigious publication, and had come to give his fair city its moment in the sun. No reaction. The officer had been stationed in Baltimore for only two years. He was a Charleston native, and didn’t think much of his adopted city. Nevertheless, he stamped my passport and wished me well.

  An hour later, I checked into a cheap little hotel two blocks from Sailor’s Hideaway and settled into my room. I thought of those other letters Michel had mentioned. It was already too late in the UK for me to call him, eager as I was to learn more. I longed to find answers to all the questions that were still haunting me and had kept me awake throughout the entire flight. In the meantime, I decided to go wandering along the pier.

  I came upon Sailor’s Hideaway and pressed my face to the window for a view of the space. With the rendezvous still a day away, I felt like a spy lurking about, come to case the joint. The interior was old-fashioned, to say the least, with rustic wooden tables and floor, and scores of old framed photos lining a wall. Above the counter between the dining area and the kitchen was a large blackboard with choices from the menu on display: oysters, various shellfish, and the daily special sauce.

  The restaurant’s patrons seemed a bit more modern than the decor, for the most part, a mix of lively young city dwellers crowded around large tables. My stomach began to growl. I had eaten almost nothing since London, so I decided to head inside for a bite. The hostess seated me at a table against the wall.

  In all the countries I’ve ever visited across the globe, I’ve noticed that restaurants never seem to appreciate the solo diner—hence my table with a lovely view of the wall in all its glory. Luckily, this particular wall was lined with faded photos, vestiges of a past long forgotten. They were all of the same group of friends, probably around the same age as me, drinking and enjoying a night out. The young people seemed wild and giddy, with a life of freedom I could only imagine. As my envy swelled into full-blown jealousy, I decided to get over it by mocking their outdated looks and over-the-top attire. The guys looked absurd in grotesque bell-bottoms, and the women’s hairstyles were just as bad. Clearly moderation wasn’t in fashion back then. Each of them had a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and their glazed looks made me think they were puffing away at more than just tobacco.

  My eyes drifted from frame to frame, until one particular photo caught my attention. I rose from my seat and leaned in for a closer look. Two women were locked in a passionate kiss, one of whom I had never laid eyes on before. But the other . . .

  My heart began thumping at a hundred miles an hour. The other woman in the photo—not yet thirty years old, looking far younger than I had ever seen her—was my very own mother.

  20

  SALLY-ANNE

  September 1980, Baltimore

  With the night already in full swing, Sally-Anne traipsed about Sailor’s Hideaway with a magnum champagne bottle in hand. May winked at her from the bar, and Sally-Anne blew back a kiss, zig-zagging toward her and filling up champagne flutes along the way.

  “You don’t slow down with that champagne, you’re gonna blow all our money on one party!” May warned.

  “Darling! We got the green light. The bank approved our loan! I think we can afford to splurge for one night.”

  All formal steps to register the new publication had already been taken, and the lease for the warehouse transferred into the paper’s name. The newsroom was fully staffed with an impressive roster of journalists, all of whom were gathered now for the official baptism of the Independent. Joan, who was in charge of graphic design, had created a new typeface for the paper that the whole team was buzzing about, and she’d gone with sophisticated Caslon italics for the nameplate. With a month left before the first issue, May was working hard to bring her feature article up to date, the very same investigative report her former boss had refused to publish.

  As for Sally-Anne, she had an entirely different target in her crosshairs: a sprawling tale of fraud and scandal, how a formerly wealthy and renowned family rose back to prominence in the aftermath of the war. As she took another sip of champagne, Sally-Anne savored the sweet taste of revenge that had gotten stronger over the course of almost two decades.

  The two women were too drunk by the end of the night to ride Sally-Anne’s Triumph, and accepted Keith’s offer to drive them back home to the loft.

  Two days later, the whole staff shuffled in at eight in the morning for the paper’s first editorial meeting. As each new team member settled in at their workstation, Keith took a moment to admire his own handiwork before leaving for his day job.

  They started by reviewing each of the current leading story pitches, which were posted on a large board in clear view of the entire team. There was a rumor in town that city officials had accepted bribes in exchange for a shady deal that would award a public works outfit from a neighboring state with a plum contract. Sally-Anne insisted they would need far more than unsubstantiated rumors to go to print. The Independent was no tabloid rag; the paper had to maintain an irreproachable standard of ethics.

  Another writer suggested an article on the lopsided allocation of funds in the budget, with education getting the short end of the stick. Schools in impoverished neighborhoods were subject to steep cuts, while funding for schools in higher-income, generally white neighborhoods seemed to be untouched.

  “True, but that’s not really much of a scoop, is it?” said Sally-Anne, sighing. “Everybody knows about that, it’s just that nobody gives a damn, at least nobody whose vote matters.”

  “Well, I’m pretty sure families in the poor neighborhoods still give a damn,” May quickly responded. “The mayor plans to center his reelection bid on safety. While he’s out there vowing to put a stop to all the violence, he’s leading the charge on creating new ghettos. So, why not tackle the story from that vantage point? Shine a light on the incoherence of his policy and all its consequences.”

  Everyone agreed May’s angle might have legs, and the story was added to the short list. The meeting came to a close just before noon, with a daunting amount of work remaining before the first edition could go to print. Sally-Anne jumped onto her motorcycle and rode across town to the bank. After all, she would have to write everyone’s paychecks by the end of the week.

  After waiting forever at the teller window, Sally-Anne was told the checks she had ordered were nowhere to be found. More troubling, there was no account listed under the paper’s name. She asked to see Mr. Clark, but the teller insisted he was in a meeting. In response, Sally-Anne barged straight into the bank’s administrative area and whipped open the door to Mr. Clark’s office without knocking. The man’s warmth and charm had evaporated. Mr. Clark, with downcast eyes, explained regretfully that there was a problem.

  “What kind of problem?”

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Stanfield. Believe me, I did everything I could. But the committee rejected your loan application.”

  “No, that isn’t possible! You promised me that money!”

  “I’m not the only one who decides here. There are scores of loan managers who—”

  “Listen to me. We both know my family has a large stake in this bank. So, I suggest you do something, unless you want to try explaining to your boss why you lost the Stanfield account.”

  Mr. Clark motioned Sally-Anne to close the door and take a seat.

  “Look, I’m counting on your dis
cretion. My job is on the line. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to tell you a word about any of this, but since my own wife is mixed up in it, I may as well. I’ll have to tell Rhonda eventually, unless I want to find my things out on the sidewalk when I get home tonight. And as soon as I tell her, she’ll turn around and tell you, so you may as well hear it from the horse’s mouth. The members of the committee got cold feet. They were scared your mother would be upset.”

  Sally-Anne sat bolt upright in her chair, white with shock. “You’re not suggesting that my mother would have actually intervened? To prevent me from getting funding for my newspaper? Who would have told her about it at all?”

  “It wasn’t me, I can tell you that much. My best guess? There was a loan manager at the hearing who spoke out quite forcefully to make sure your loan was rejected. It could have been him.”

  “And what about client confidentiality? Is there even a shred of morality in this place?”

  “Keep your voice down, please. You have to believe me. I am truly sorry for all of this. But you know your mother better than I do, and you should know neither of us stand a chance against her.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but there’s no way in hell I’m taking this lying down. This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

  Sally-Anne rose and stormed out of Mr. Clark’s office without looking back, breaking into a run as soon as she got out the front door of the bank. By the time she reached her motorcycle, she had to stop, doubling over in pain from the rage in the pit of her stomach. She waited a few seconds for the spasms to pass, then leapt onto the bike and roared down the road.

  Fifteen minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the country club, stormed inside, and stomped down the corridor to the dining room, where Hanna Stanfield was dining with a pair of well-to-do ladies. Sally-Anne walked right up to the table and glared at her mother, enraged.

  “Tell your two parakeets to find somewhere else to squawk. We have to talk. Right now.”

  Hanna Stanfield let out a heavy sigh of apology. “Please forgive my daughter. Despite her age, she still hasn’t grown out of her teenage angst, and rotten manners are how she wages her rebellion.”

  The two women exchanged a sympathetic look with Hanna, then rose and nodded politely, far too “elegant” to cause a scene. The maître d’, who had followed along skittishly during Sally-Anne’s dramatic entrance and had been hovering nearby ever since, led the women to a nearby table. Everyone in the room had turned to watch, and the man was positively mortified by the entire incident.

  “Well? Sit down,” Hanna commanded. “But I’d caution you to change your tone, young lady. I won’t sit here and be disrespected.”

  “How could you do something like this? It wasn’t enough to exile me?”

  “Ah, the exaggerations! The drama! To think of the education we gave you, only to watch you throw it all away. And, might I add, your homecoming was contingent upon maintaining a harmonious relationship with the family. You, my darling, agreed not to cause trouble. That was the condition for receiving help from your father and me. If you don’t live up to your end of the bargain, you suffer the consequences.”

  “Exactly what have you been helping me with? Banishing me from my own family?”

  “You thought that plum job at the Sun just fell into your lap, based on charm alone? You came back from London with nothing, not even a diploma. Eight years, princess, whiling away your youth and having a jolly good time at our expense. And just what have you accomplished since then? Drinking yourself silly night after night, prowling around town in vulgar clothes on your precious motorcycle? Not to mention your . . . entanglements. Is a little discretion really too much to ask? Your brother said you even had the gall to bring that girl here to the club!”

  “‘That girl’ has a name; it’s May. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Edward would go running to Mama to brag about his latest conquest.”

  “His conquest? I thought she was yours. As far as I’m concerned, all the better he snatched the girl away from you. Had I asked you to cut short that shameful ‘relationship,’ I’ve no doubt you would have disobeyed me, as always.”

  Sally-Anne balked. “Impossible. You’re not saying it was you who sent Edward? Even he wouldn’t stoop so low as to—”

  “To act responsibly? To adhere to his mother’s wishes? You have done nothing but drag our reputation through the mud time and time again. When will it end? To think of this latest blow. Associating our good name with that little rag of a tabloid . . . You must be out of your mind!”

  “Me? You treat people like they’re marionettes, whose strings you can pull whenever you please.”

  “People are free to do as they wish.”

  “To think of the woman you once were. Is there even an ounce of her left? Or are you nothing but bitterness and resentment stuffed into an empty shell?”

  “Darling. By the time I was your age, I had already survived the unspeakable. I had worked endlessly and restored my father’s name and legacy to its full glory. Just how do you plan to live up to your name? What have you achieved, what gives you the right to judge me? Have you ever once done good for the people around you? All you’ve brought is pain and sorrow.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong. I love with all my heart, and I’m loved for who I am, not for what I represent.”

  “You love? Tell me, who is it you love? A husband? Children you’re raising, a family you’ve built? All you love is having those pitiful souls orbit around you. You have no values, no sense of morality.”

  “Oh, please, don’t talk to me about morality. Your whole life is built on a lie. And how dare you bring my grandfather into this! As far as I can see, I’m the only one who hasn’t betrayed his memory.”

  Hanna burst out laughing in response. “My poor darling, you are so very far off the mark. You’re not like us, Sally-Anne, and you’ve never wanted to be. Let me be crystal clear: I’m not your enemy, so long as you don’t cross me. But I won’t sit by while you destroy what took me a lifetime to build.”

  With that, Hanna opened her purse and took out a pen and checkbook. “Since money is what you’re after, you don’t have to borrow from a bank.” Hanna finished writing the check, tore it from the book, and held it out to her daughter. “But don’t be foolish enough to spend a penny of it on your newspaper. That rag will never see the light of day—you’d just as well throw the check out the window. I know exactly what you planned to do with that paper. For once, I implore you, try not to be so utterly selfish. All your efforts and persistence won’t change a single thing for the big players in this city. But it will hurt our clientele. You were looking for twenty-five thousand dollars. This is half, which should be more than enough. Now, please leave us in peace. Why not go abroad again, darling? It’s a fine notion. Go see the world. A nice long trip is just what you need to open your eyes. Return to London if you wish, wherever you want, just stop meddling in our affairs. Your father and I are on the brink of a major sale, which should close in the next two months, and the profits will be used to finance his campaign. Perhaps you haven’t heard, since our lives seem to be of such little interest to you, but your father’s friends have been pushing him to run for governor. I trust you will keep quiet and not cause any disturbances, at least not until after he announces his candidacy. I hope I have made myself clear.”

  Sally-Anne grabbed the check and stuffed it into her jacket pocket.

  “And for the love of God,” her mother added, “start by buying yourself some proper attire.”

  Sally-Anne rose to her feet, shooting daggers with her eyes.

  “What do you think my grandfather would say if he could see you now? I’ll ask you one more time: Is she gone forever? His daughter? The young girl you once were? All I can do is pray she’ll come back one day, when you finally realize no one can live a lie forever.”

  21

  GEORGE-HARRISON

  October 2016, Baltimore

  I drove all night in the pou
ring rain and got to Baltimore exhausted. After checking into a hotel near the waterfront, I peered down the alley from the window of my room, filled with dread at the thought of what I might discover in the mysterious meeting that was to take place that night. I decided to take a nap, and woke up a few hours later. It was late morning, and I set out to explore the city. Walking past all those souvenir shops only reminded me that I had no one waiting for me back home. I still missed Melanie from time to time, and that day I missed her terribly. But then something back at the hotel made me forget all about her.

  A young woman was asking a question at the front desk. Her rough, scratchy voice immediately drew me in, not least because of her English accent, which was pretty charming. As I waited patiently behind her, I played a little guessing game I’d made up. The game was to figure out what brought her all the way here. It wasn’t like Baltimore was a particularly appealing tourist destination, especially in late October. Maybe work? She could be traveling for business, maybe for a conference. The convention center wasn’t all that far away. But why not stay at a hotel for business travelers in that case? Could she be here visiting family?

  “Yes, you’ll get the busy signal if you don’t hit 9 for an outside line,” the receptionist explained. “Then dial 0-1-1 to call international.”

  She was traveling alone, so maybe she had to call and check in with her husband—or boyfriend, rather, judging by the lack of ring. Next, she asked how much a taxi to Johns Hopkins University would cost. Bingo! A clue. She had to be a professor—English literature, I’d have bet money on it—living at the hotel until her official accommodation was organized for the semester.

  Just then, she turned around to face me.

  “So sorry. I’ll just be one more minute.”