The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “Edward threatened to turn them over to the cops if the two thieves didn’t immediately return what they had stolen. The bank teller would testify about May cashing in the bond, and they’d both end up behind bars. May didn’t bother waiting for Sally-Anne’s response. She ran off to get the rest of the bonds. But the moment Edward demanded that Sally-Anne also return the painting, May finally understood what had happened. The argument raged out of control. Sally-Anne hurled insults at Edward, while May was furious with Sally-Anne. In short, it was a scorched-earth free-for-all. When Sally-Anne refused to return the painting, Edward asked what would become of May’s baby if its mother was rotting in a prison cell. Sally-Anne had no idea May was pregnant, and finding out like that was unimaginably painful. There was a brief, shocked silence. Each one of them was visibly shaken by the statement—Edward, because May didn’t deny it; May, for being exposed in front of her accomplice; and Sally-Anne, who had just pieced together who the father of May’s child was. At that point, Sally-Anne gave in and returned the painting to Edward.”

  “Wait! Just wait,” George-Harrison cut in, forcing the words out with trembling lips. “Was Edward shaken because . . . because he was the father?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying,” sighed Pierre.

  “Why? Why have you never told me this? Why wait all these long years?”

  “Because of what happened next,” said Pierre, avoiding George-Harrison’s eyes. “But listen to me: think long and hard before I go on. Even if learning the truth might make you understand and forgive me, even if you finally see why your mother kept it from you all your life . . . the next part changes everything. Forever.”

  “I’m ready, Pierre. I know she killed him.”

  “You don’t know a thing, kid. So, I repeat: think long and hard. Because there’s no turning back.”

  I took George-Harrison’s hand in my own, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles went white. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt it would be best to stop the conversation there, for George-Harrison’s sake. But who, at that point, wouldn’t have wanted to know the truth?

  George-Harrison nodded gravely at Pierre, and the old man at last continued the tale.

  “As Edward walked out of the door to the loft, that god-awful son of a bitch just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Excuse my language, but he was rotten to his very core. It wasn’t enough that he had gotten what he came for; he couldn’t resist making one last threat from out there on the landing, this one the most deplorable of all.” The antiques dealer swallowed, then continued. “Edward threatened to rat them both out, unless May aborted the pregnancy. And he didn’t stop there. ‘My sister,’ he said, with an air of disgust, ‘is an orphan, nothing but a phony Stanfield.’ And after all Sally-Anne had done, he promised that she wouldn’t even be that for very much longer. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to let some bastard child ruin his marriage and tarnish his good name. To his mind, that heartless son of a bitch’s ultimatum was an act of mercy. Spare the child a life of welfare and food stamps while his mother rotted in prison . . . Better the child was never brought into the world to begin with . . .

  “Sally-Anne may have had her faults, but she wasn’t going to stand by and let May take that. She lunged at her brother, screaming at him out there on the landing, and hit him over and over again with all her might. Edward was stunned. He lost his balance . . . and fell straight down those steps, all one hundred and twenty of them. Sally-Anne always called those stairs a death trap. Her brother snapped his neck on the way down . . . He was dead before he hit the bottom.”

  Saddened and concerned, Pierre at last looked to George-Harrison, with nothing but kindness in his eyes. George-Harrison couldn’t get a single word out. Pierre reached out and touched his hand.

  “I can understand if you’re angry at me, kid,” he asked.

  George-Harrison finally met his eyes. “I may never have had a father, and maybe that’s for the best. But I’ve got one hell of a mother. And I have you, Pierre. That’s already a lot, right there. Far too much for me to be anything but grateful.”

  After Pierre paid the bill, the three of us walked back to his shop and gathered in front of George-Harrison’s truck. We were just starting to say our goodbyes when Pierre beckoned us to follow him into his office, where he drew out an old spiral notepad from a desk drawer. It was little more than a common school notebook.

  “I’ve never read a single word, I swear. It was your mother who gave it to me,” he told George-Harrison. “But I believe . . . it belonged to yours,” Pierre said, turning and handing the notebook to me.

  “Take it,” he said. “I’ve had enough secrets for one lifetime.”

  George-Harrison drove his pickup through the pitch-dark of a moonless night, headed for home. I sat watching the headlights stream down the highway, holding my mother’s diary tightly on my lap. I didn’t have the heart to crack it open. Not yet.

  38

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Magog

  I spent the night snuggled up to George-Harrison while he slept, or at least pretended to sleep. I thought that might be the case, that he had his eyes closed to give me my privacy while still staying close by my side, should I need him.

  I read my mother’s diary start to finish, rediscovering the whole story in her own words: the terrible suffering she endured at the boarding school in England; the tortured, sleepless nights she spent at the dormitory; and the onslaught of loneliness and abandonment she felt day after day. There was also joy in those pages. I read about her meeting my father in a pub with the Beatles singing “All You Need Is Love” as the perfect soundtrack. The first chapter of their relationship seemed like a three-year stretch where she came close to finding true happiness. I could understand why she had to return to Baltimore, driven by hope and a need to reconnect with her family. I discovered her life as a journalist, full of adventure and freedom, the two things she lived for above all else. I was amazed at how similar we were at the same period of our lives, both seekers venturing to the far ends of the earth while never even truly knowing our own parents. I revisited all that I had learned of my mother from the beginning of this journey: her total commitment to journalism, the harsh struggles she had faced, and the madness that she got caught up in.

  I read all through the night. Around the break of dawn, I reached the end of the diary and discovered, to my surprise, a worn envelope between the last few pages. I turned to George-Harrison—knowing full well I might be in love with him already—and woke him up. I had decided to read him the last few pages. After all, my mother’s final entry was addressed in part to May herself.

  October 27, 1980

  This will be my final entry.

  I think back to that fateful day when we went rushing down those stairs, all but certain we would find my brother dead at the bottom. But May saw he was still breathing, however faintly. It wasn’t too late; there was still hope. We jumped into my mother’s car and drove Edward to the hospital. Mere moments after they came to take him away on a stretcher, we ran for the hills like the thieves we were. In the middle of the night, I called to find out how he was, and the doctors told us there wasn’t much hope. He had a broken neck and it was a miracle that he was still breathing, with machines the only things keeping him alive. In the blink of an eye, we went from idealistic thieves to hardened, violent criminals, even if it all was by accident.

  We went down to the waterfront at dawn and drove my mother’s car straight off the docks. We stood together, watching it sink down and disappear into the frigid waters. No one knew that he had come to see us, and the car was the only evidence that could link us to the crime. Later on, around midday, I got the call from my mother. She ordered me to come to her side immediately, so I climbed onto the old Triumph for one last ride.

  My mother was there at the hospital waiting for me. She had watched over my brother through the night. I wanted to see him, but she wouldn’t allow it. I planned to confess right then
and there, no matter the consequences, and return the painting that she loved so dearly, which would only come as a small consolation, of course. But my mother never gave me the chance.

  She ordered me to stay quiet and listen.

  “Go. Leave the country and never come back. Leave now, before it’s too late. I lost my son last night. I don’t want to lose my daughter to a life in prison. Don’t look so surprised. I know everything; I’m your mother. When the nurses told me that two women had brought Edward to the hospital, I feared the worst. All it took was one look at you, and now I see everything. Remember, on the phone: I told you to come to my side, but I didn’t say where I was. And yet, here you are. You’ll have to get rid of my car, if you haven’t already.”

  With that, my mother left, dignified in her heartache, leaving me shattered and alone in her wake.

  After the hospital, I stopped by the loft, but May wasn’t there. I decided to go to the bank to cash the check that my mother had given me to buy me off and put me in my place. At the bank, I ran into Rhonda’s husband and had him open a safety-deposit box in my name. I knew my mother’s precious Girl by the Window would be safe there. He had me fill out the papers, no questions asked. I refuse to take the painting with me. Despite how beautiful that girl is, I can’t look at her any longer without thinking about what the painting has done to our lives, without thinking of my brother . . .

  After leaving the bank, I went to buy a plane ticket and put what money I had left into an envelope. I will leave it on the nightstand for May to help her cross the border into Canada, in hopes she’ll find a fresh start with the new life that awaits her there.

  This is the last time that I will write to you, my love.

  I went back to the loft a second time and found you there waiting for me. I told you of my decision. We spoke at length, and then shed tears without saying a word. You packed your bag and then mine.

  I left while you were still sleeping. I didn’t have the heart to lie to you and say we might see each other again one day, and I simply couldn’t bear the thought of having to say goodbye for good.

  I left all the bonds on the nightstand so you could build a new life from the ashes of the one I had destroyed. The child you now carry, my love, may not be of my own blood, but he carries with him part of my story, a past I’ve now left behind. The day will come when you will need to tell your child the truth.

  Don’t worry about me, my love. There’s someone I know in London who I can count on, or at least I hope so. I think you know who he is. It’s his fault you had to listen to those Beatles records around the clock, which I know must have been torture for such a huge Stones fan.

  This is the last time I’ll be able to write to you. I don’t want any more secrets or lies, or any more cheating. If the man in that faraway land can bring himself to forgive me for being away such a long time, I will devote my life to his happiness, giving him every last ounce of love I still have left in my heart.

  I hope that you, too, will have a happy life together. Fill your child’s life with the joy I know you can bring. Some of the best moments of my life have been spent by your side. No matter what becomes of us, you will be in my heart for the rest of my days.

  Sally-Anne

  It was the very last page in the diary. Day was breaking. George-Harrison handed me a sweater and jeans, and the two of us went out for a walk in the forest.

  39

  ELEANOR-RIGBY

  October 2016, Magog

  I called to check up on Michel, missing him more than ever at that moment. I managed to slip in a question, asking if Mum had ever mentioned a bank where she might have hidden a painting. Michel was confounded, finding the whole thing nonsensical. Why store a painting in a safe, when it was meant to be hung on the wall? My explanations just weren’t up to snuff. He asked if I’d be back soon, and I told him I would come as soon as I could. Then, Michel asked if I had found what I was looking for. Yes and no, I told him, smiling as I looked to George-Harrison. Maybe, as it turned out, I had found what I wasn’t looking for. Michel confirmed he had read that such things were known to occur. Many scientific discoveries were a simple matter of chance. Although chance, in and of itself, was not scientific at all, he clarified. Michel then told me there were two people visiting the library, and with that kind of “crowd,” he should probably get back to work. He promised he’d send Maggie and Dad my love, then made me swear that I’d call up and do it myself anyway.

  George-Harrison stood waiting for me in front of the pickup. We closed up his studio and hit the road again, making it to the outskirts of Baltimore by nightfall.

  First thing the next day, we paid Professor Morrison a visit and upheld our end of the bargain. We filled him in on all we had discovered—or at least all the news that was fit to print, since the rest was just for us. We tried asking subtly if he had any leads for tracking down the bank my mother might have used to store the painting. Morrison didn’t even blink an eye at the question, taking on his normal crabby disposition and shoving his manuscript at us like we were fools.

  “See for yourselves! It’s written right in here, if you had bothered to pay attention. The Stanfields were major stockholders on the board of the Corporate Bank of Baltimore, an establishment still in existence today, I believe. I trust you’ll be able to procure the yellow pages and look it up yourselves? Now, once more: Do I truly have your consent to publish this book?”

  “Yes, as long as you can answer one final question,” I told him.

  “Well then, for goodness’ sake, ask away!” he said, flustered.

  “Are you the one who wrote the anonymous letters?”

  In response, Morrison pointed toward the door.

  “Out! Just get out. You two are absolutely out of your minds!”

  We arrived at the bank and were received by a cold, no-nonsense teller. Before he could confirm or deny the existence of the safety-deposit box, we had to prove that we were the rightful owners. I tried in vain to explain that it had belonged to my mother, who had recently passed away, but the man wouldn’t budge. He asked for proof that I was the legitimate next of kin. As soon as I showed him my passport, everything spiraled into a Kafkaesque merry-go-round. My last name was Donovan . . . Mum had opened the safety-deposit box under her maiden name . . . which she’d changed when she moved to England . . . Even if Dad had sent me an original copy of their marriage certificate, it wouldn’t have been enough to convince the overzealous gatekeeper.

  Finally, clearly wanting to get rid of us, the teller explained that the only person with the authority to override the bank’s strict rules was the branch president and CEO, who only stopped in twice a week and wouldn’t be back until the day after tomorrow. It was pointless in any event, he added. After all, Mr. Clark was a Mormon, and Mormons never bent the rules, not even a tiny bit.

  “Sorry, did you say Mr. Clark?”

  “Why, are you hard of hearing?” sighed the teller.

  Knowing we had no time to waste, I begged and pleaded with the teller to get a message to Mr. Clark that Sally-Anne Stanfield’s daughter was in town. I told him to remind the bank president that his wife—or at least his wife at the time—had worked closely with my mother to launch a weekly paper, and that my mother had entrusted him with a painting of a girl sitting by a window. I was convinced it was enough to land us a meeting, at the very least. I left my number with the teller, as well as the address of our hotel, and even offered to leave my passport. The man waved away my offer, immovable as ever, but took the scrap of paper and promised to pass along the message, as long as I agreed to vacate the premises immediately.

  “I just don’t think it’s going to work,” said George-Harrison as we finally walked out of that horrible bank. “I mean, especially considering the boss is a Mormon.”

  “Say that again! Repeat what you just said.”

  George-Harrison balked. “What? I didn’t mean to offend anyone! I’ve got nothing against Mormons.”

  I leaned
in and kissed him, leaving him totally clueless as to what caused my sudden burst of energy. What he said had reminded me of a conversation between Maggie and my dad, when my sister was cooking up an excuse for sneaking around his apartment.

  “Mormons wouldn’t call the work of other Mormons into question!” I whispered, breathing fast.

  “Slow down, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Mormons! They’re obsessed with genealogy. There’s a whole genealogical center in Utah they founded at the end of the nineteenth century. But they didn’t stop there! They continued into Europe and managed to convince nearly every major country to provide them with all these vital records for their studies. To this day, they’ve still got millions upon millions of records on microfilm, all stored in safes hidden away in the mountains.”

  “How the hell do you know all this?”

  “It’s my job. For whatever reason, my father used the Mormons at some point to get info on our family tree. He was careful to only show me the part with him and my mother in it, but I’m sure I can get the rest if I go straight to the source . . . The point is, Mr. Clark would accept my family tree, since it uses research done by Mormons!”

  I found what I was looking for on the internet in no time. The Mormons had gone completely modern. All I had to do was enter my info and my parents’ names on their genealogy website, and I nearly instantly obtained the family tree that would serve as proof of my lineage. I had planned to march straight back to that teller with the document to give him a piece of my mind, when I got a call from Mr. Clark’s secretary.

  The branch president had agreed to meet with us the next day, at twelve o’clock sharp.

  I couldn’t tell which was oldest: the president, the furniture in his office, or his secretary.

  As we settled into a pair of cracked-leather armchairs, I took a closer look at our host. Impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit and bow tie, Mr. Clark wore rectangular glasses that rested on the tip of his nose, and had a bald head and white mustache. He looked like a well-dressed version of Geppetto, which I found sweet. Despite his charming appearance, the man kept a poker face throughout my entire explanation, leaning down and closely inspecting the documents I had brought. He studied my family tree with utmost care and attention, muttering “I see” on three different occasions, while George-Harrison and I awaited his verdict with bated breath.