The Domino Effect

by Davis Bunn

  Esther carried her coffee upstairs and entered her office. The markets were Sunday calm, so she switched all but the central screen to standby. A long breath, another sip from her mug, and then she pulled up her website.

  At Keith’s suggestion, Esther had included a column down the right side of the home page that read simply, Sponsors. If anyone clicked on the headline, they first read in boldface Esther’s declaration that she would not accept donations. Rather, everyone on this list had committed to sharing her information with a minimum of five hundred others. They also agreed to withdraw all business from her list of tainted banks within sixty days.

  Calling the high-risk banks “tainted” had been Keith’s idea, and he used it in spite of her strident objections. “Whatever are you going to call them, Esther? Naughty?”

  “Something that doesn’t lend itself to taking offense,” she argued.

  “The entire website is going to offend them,” Keith replied. “You might as well get used to the reality that sooner or later they’re going to come down on you like a ton of bricks.”

  She rubbed her forehead. It was going on two in the morning and both their tempers had become somewhat frayed. “I had no idea you were going to be such a trial to work with.”

  “My first preference for the bad-bank page would be, stinkeroonies.”

  “Be serious.”

  “We could put a smiling skunk at the top with its tail curled around the page. Wait, I know, and every thirty seconds a putrid green cloud would—”

  “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Okay. Second choice. ‘Confirmed Members of the Evil Empire.’ You like?”

  “Not even the tiniest little bit.”

  “Okay then. Tainted Banks. All in favor, say aye.”

  “No.”

  “Aye. Tainted Banks has carried by a technical majority. We are moving on.”

  And move on they did. Next was the question of whether Esther wanted names of new sponsors to be added to the top or the bottom of her column. Esther had suspected Keith was using such an inane decision as a means of diverting her from further argument.

  She had phoned Talmadge Burroughs the next morning and wearily explained what she was intending, and been surprised when Talmadge had not allowed her to complete her request. “My company will sign on by lunch today. I’ll phone some buddies too. But, Esther, that isn’t why I told you yes.”

  “I’m just getting started.”

  “Esther, listen to me. How long do we have?”

  “You asked me that already.”

  “I’m just making sure you understand. We don’t have time for you to dance a polite little two-step here.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  “You need to start focusing on the big picture. What should people be doing to protect themselves? How can we raise the alarm while there’s still time? Answer those questions, then get back to me.”

  Now as she sat there, nine fifteen on a Sunday morning, she watched two more names appear on the list. One was a company so large, Esther suspected it was a prank. She made a note to contact them later to ask if they knew where their name had just turned up. But in the back of her mind, she knew Talmadge had been correct. She scrolled down to the bottom of her home page. The visitor-count Keith had installed was clicking steadily forward, the number approaching half a million.

  As Esther dressed for church, she could almost hear a faint whir in the background as ever more people came to her for answers.

  Craig called her as she was driving to church and said, “The girls can’t help you this afternoon.”

  “Aww, that’s a pity. Why not?”

  There was a pause, then he said, “I’m sorry, I thought I was speaking with Esther Larsen about not needing to spend another afternoon with my daughters.”

  “I like them.”

  “Okay, there is something wrong with this connection.”

  “What is going on?”

  He grew serious. “There are several issues. But at its heart . . .” He sighed. “Their mother is pregnant.”

  “Oh.”

  “They feel excluded. They’re sure now that their stepfather wishes they weren’t around.”

  “I understand.”

  “He hasn’t said anything like that. I’m certain of it.”

  “He probably doesn’t need to, as far as they’re concerned.”

  “He’s a civil engineer, works for CP&L. Right now he’s supervising the construction of a new power plant. At the best of times, he is not very demonstrative. Right now . . .”

  “His focus around the house is on the expectant mother,” Esther supplied. “The girls aren’t getting much attention from either of them.”

  “Anyway, Samantha phoned to say they’re all going boating on the lake together.” Craig hesitated, then added, “I think there’s some element of concern about how much they like you.”

  “The feeling is mutual,” Esther replied. “Your daughters are wonderful.”

  “Can I invite myself over and study at your place this evening?”

  She smiled into the sunlight and the quiet Sunday street. “Sure, I’ll make us dinner.”

  Esther carried her smile all the way through church. After the service, she walked down the hall to her classroom but halted at the buzzing of her phone. These days she did not cut it off, even in church. The screen showed a blocked number, but doctors often did that. She turned away from her classroom door. “Esther Larsen.”

  “Ms. Larsen, this is Emily Waters with ABC Television. I’m calling to ask if you would be our guest tomorrow on Good Morning America.”

  Esther walked toward the end of the hall. “Repeat please.”

  “Ms. Larsen . . . may I call you Esther?”

  “Who is this, really?”

  “My name is Emily Waters and I am a producer with ABC.” The woman had the briskly intelligent manner of many successful New York women. “This conversation is for real, I assure you.”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “I have assistants who get paid to track down whomever I tell them to find. As for our interest in you, one of our show’s advertisers has signed on as a sponsor of your new website. Can you tell me, Esther, is the counter running at the bottom of your home page showing unique visitors to your site?”

  “As far as I know, yes.”

  “And your site has only been up and running for three weeks?”

  “No. That’s not—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Three days.” Esther reached the exit and stared through the glass door out at the parking lot. “The website went live on Friday.”

  “Astonishing. Can you come to New York?”

  “That would be difficult in the extreme.”

  “We would be happy to pay all expenses—”

  “An illness in the family makes it impossible.”

  “I see. In that case, we can arrange for a live feed with our affiliate station there in Charlotte.”

  Esther heard herself agree to the arrangements in a voice not her own.

  26

  When Craig arrived that evening, Esther was still coming to terms with the idea of a national television appearance. She fixed a large salad, baked a loaf of frozen sourdough bread, and heated the leftover cannelloni. But she did not mention the phone call from New York. Craig’s expression remained clouded by a worry he would not discuss. When she asked, he simply replied, “My girls.” Now he worked at the dining table, his books and papers spread out before him. Esther decided her own news could wait.

  During the renovations, Esther discovered a pair of solid mahogany doors embedded in the wall between the dining room and kitchen. The doors were drawn back now, making for a wide opening through which she could see Craig frowning over his work. She set two places at the table’s far end, away from his books and papers.

  They ate in companionable silence until Craig said, “This is truly a beautiful home.”

  Sh
e looked away and mulled that over for a time.

  “Why does that make you sad, Esther?”

  She toyed with her food. “I’ve spent every cent I earned making this place special.”

  “You’ve succeeded.”

  “It’s a box.” Speaking the words brought a lump to her throat. “Just an empty box.”

  “It’s a home,” he said. “Your haven against the world.”

  They finished eating in silence. There was nothing more she could say without weeping. Which was very strange. She rarely felt the lonely emptiness of her house so intensely. Esther stacked the dinner dishes and put on a pot of coffee while Craig returned to his studies.

  Esther went up to her office, scanned the markets, then returned with her laptop and a pad and pen. She pulled up her website and spent a few moments watching the counter turn. Just that day, forty-three more companies had signed on as sponsors. There were two unrelated issues she needed to deal with. Watching the counter was her way of focusing, of tightening her concentration.

  The first issue was that the website remained incomplete. She felt it in her gut. She wished she could talk about it with Craig, but one glance in his direction was enough to know this was not the time.

  The second was, something was not right with the number of visitors. Six hundred thousand visitors in four days? This seemed impossible. No way could word about her site have spread to such a degree. And yet the numbers defied her arguments. Twice she had asked Keith to check and ensure no one was manipulating the counter. Both times he responded that the rising tide of visitors was as real as it was baffling.

  She was missing something.

  Esther sipped her coffee, trying to wash away the rising anxiety. Why should she be afraid now? She was certain it wasn’t the invitation to appear on television. She had been called out to do spots on a local business program any number of times. The bank even had a camera-ready room where employees shot videos or participated in live feeds.

  She opened the technical page and ran through her analysis one more time. The structure and the formula, her investigation and conclusions were all sound. She returned to the home page and slid over her notepad. She listed the steps she had laid out, stages she urged her website’s visitors to take.

  Step One: Get out of debt. In a falling market, debts become anchors that can drag down a family or a company.

  Step Two: Withdraw all financial assets from banks now using the same dynamics that brought the nation to the brink of economic collapse in 2008.

  While listing those banks she had identified to Keith, Esther had come up with a warning that now formed a banner over this page: STOP FEEDING THE BEAST.

  Step Three: Transfer all accounts to regional banks, which tend to be more conservatively run.

  Unlike past recessions, when larger groups were more likely to weather the turbulence, in 2008 the regional institutions were the ones that held up best. Esther was certain the same would prove true the next time around.

  Step Four: Make sure all deposits remain below the FDIC insurance threshold, so even if the bank goes under, the family’s liquid assets will be protected.

  Step Five: Shift all savings and retirement accounts out of the stock market, and move away from funds that deal in stocks and high-risk bonds.

  Step Six: Urge all companies and institutions in which viewers have a voice to do the same.

  Esther laid down her pen and turned to the night beyond the window. She sighed.

  “Esther?” Craig had lifted his head from his book and was watching her.

  She felt the nervous tension rise up until it crawled like an electric current through her entire body.

  “What is it?”

  She looked at him. “I know what I need to do next.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Slowly she shook her head. “Not yet.” Talking about it would only make things worse.

  Two and a half hours later, they decided to call it a night. The new page on Esther’s website remained only half finished, the blank spaces a silent challenge to everything she had refused to write down. But keeping it bottled up inside did not help either. At some deep and secret level, Esther knew the plans were already in place, the stages worked through, the seventh step simply waiting to be acted upon. She had hoped that by now the electric fear would have diminished. Instead she was certain she would not sleep a wink, which meant arriving at the television station looking far from her best. But there was nothing she could do about it now except call and cancel. . . .

  Craig interrupted her futile thoughts. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “It’s about the girls.”

  “What about them?”

  He closed and stacked his books and gathered his pages of notes, his movements as slow and deliberate as a bricklayer’s. “Do you think there is validity to their request? I mean, about their not wanting me to be a pastor?”

  Dread rose like a giant fist and wrapped itself around her middle. “Now isn’t the best time for such a discussion, Craig.”

  “It’s been on my mind for days. I really need to know what you think.”

  “With your exams and all the stress you’re facing, maybe we should wait and talk about it another day.”

  “It keeps me up at night. I feel like I can’t see my way ahead.” His gaze was dark, fathomless. “You’re a professional analyst. I need your sense of clarity to help me see how I should respond to my girls. Please.”

  Esther felt pressure building on all sides. Tomorrow morning would mark her first appearance on national television. She had to complete work on what she now recognized was the necessary next step with her website. And now this. She forced out the words, “Do you want your daughters to come live with you at some point?”

  “There is nothing I would like more,” he replied. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I could take them away from a place where they feel so unwelcome and bring them home where they are loved.”

  “Then that is your answer, Craig.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Being a pastor has similarities to being a politician. You live in the spotlight. And you don’t do this alone. Your family will be there too. Your daughters are not thinking about you when they tell you not to take this step. They are being selfish and self-centered teens. They don’t want this as the life for themselves.”

  “So you’re telling me to give up my current direction. For them.”

  “I’m saying . . . is there some compromise? A position where you could wear the less-public persona they want to have in their father and still fulfill this new sense of calling?”

  He blinked slowly but did not respond.

  “Is there a faith-based organization that needs a firm hand with their finances? Or a company where you could start an in-house ministry? Or—”

  “I’ll think about what you said.”

  “Don’t be upset with me. You asked—”

  “I certainly did.”

  “Craig . . . please—”

  “Good night, Esther.”

  She watched as he strode across her living room and out the front door. Leaving her gripped by all the fears she felt powerless to do anything about.

  Esther locked the door, climbed the stairs, got ready for bed, and lay there in the dark. Surrounded by her elegant and empty home.

  27

  MONDAY

  Esther’s drive to the television station was punctuated by the morning business reports. The news from China was grim. The European markets had caught wind of further turmoil in the Shanghai markets, with two major groups rumored to be going bankrupt. The fact that there was no hard news did not stop the newscasters from predicting another difficult week for the American markets. As Esther turned into the station’s parking lot, she shook her head. Any day but today.

  She had slept only a few fitful hours. Her phone had remained on her bedside, or in her hand, on the dresser, the kitchen counter,
now on the console between the front seats. She called Craig four times. At first she did not apologize; she was certain she had done nothing wrong. But when he did not answer or phone back, she broke. Just after dawn she made the last call, apologized profusely, and wished him the best with his exams.

  Sunlight glanced through the windshield, irritating her weary eyes. The ABC-affiliate station was housed in a featureless redbrick building surrounded by towers and a fenced-in area filled with satellite dishes. Esther pulled into a visitor’s space just as a nervous young staffer rushed over to meet her.

  “Esther Larsen?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Excellent. We were worried . . . This way, please.”

  The station director had obviously been alerted, because he appeared five seconds after she entered the building. He introduced himself as Chuck Welton and said, “We’d like to go live with an interview of our own once the network completes its segment. This will segue into our morning business report.”

  The lobby appeared to have been decorated twenty years earlier. The shag carpet was garish, the furniture scratched and forlorn. “All right.”

  “Our segment will pair you with our business anchor, Suzie McManning.” He flashed his badge at the security portal. “We want Suzie to expand on your comments with Good Morning America.”

  “I understand.” People rushed about, radios squawked, and the lights were too bright. The hall was decorated with wall posters of hit shows and local newscasters.

  Welton pushed open a door and ushered her into a long, narrow room containing a massive lighted mirror. A waist-high shelf ran the length of the room, fronted by leather-backed stools. “This means your answers will be unscripted.”

  “I understand.”

  He nodded to the cosmetician. “Five minutes.”

  The woman was matchstick thin and smelled of cigarette ashes. She was the one person Esther had seen who remained unfazed by the clock. “Come on, honey. Let’s make you look like a star.”

  The monitor positioned above the main camera served as Esther’s connection with the New York studio. The camera itself was massive, almost as tall as she was, and set on a robotic dolly. The screen showed a bright trio seated on a yellow couch in a mock parlor with a color design that could only be described as fluorescent. By contrast, Esther was stationed in a cavernous studio draped in shadows. She sat on a narrow stool with a low back that required her to sit very straight. Other than herself and one technician, the Charlotte studio was empty. She noticed a wide window high in the wall directly opposite her. Esther assumed this was the production booth, though the technician’s was the only voice she heard.