by Ron Hevener
The Directors he was talking about were local farmers and business owners whose families had started the bank and financed the town since it was named. All towns have founding families, and Steitzburg was no exception. John Steitz had been a farmer who made carriages and tested them on a dirt road along Phantom Creek. After a while, his carriages became so popular for their easy rides that he opened a produce stand, which became a market, and he built a few houses for his employees, who wanted houses for their kids, who wanted houses for kids of their own…who wanted…and wanted…and wanted. They wanted a schoolhouse. They wanted a shoe store, a dress shop, a doctor, and they wanted a church. The town wasn’t big enough for two of most things, so as the population grew, the school and the church and the doctor just got bigger.
That was Steitzburg. John himself didn’t live to see it. And he didn’t leave a family to cry about him. But the good people in town managed to put a bronze statue of him right in the center of town…which is where his house used to stand before they tore it down to make the bank.
Ezra thought about it every day. He thought about how a town is like a big, hungry organism with an ever-shifting shape to it. Not like a bee hive or an ant colony exactly, but a rolling, breathing, crawling thing with muscle and claws and teeth.
If it was—living—where was a town’s brain? Where was the center of its intelligence? Was it with the mayor? The schoolmaster? The librarian?
Was the heart of a town its church? Its hospital?
Was the voice and memory of a town its newspaper? Its radio station?
If any of these things were true, then the same must be true for a state, or a country, he decided, and maybe for the whole world. These were things he wondered about, but who else could he talk with about them?
The answer to such things, and perhaps the trust that comes with it, showed itself after work one day. “Care to join me?” Mr. Fenstamacher had said from his office.
Seeing the unmarked bottle on his boss’s desk, Ezra relaxed. It wasn’t often that William Fenstamacher let his hair down. “Where’d you get this wicked stuff?” Ezra asked, easing himself into a chair.
“No secrets, no lies,” Fenstamacher laughed. “Let’s just say bankers have connections. We’ve had a good day, and I just got a report on our investments, so let’s celebrate!”
“That depends on what you call a good day, doesn’t it?” Ezra asked, taking the glass Fenstamacher handed him.
“A good day, Ezra, is when you give people more chances than you take away.”
“Do I detect a note of philosophy and caring in there someplace?” Ezra said, tasting and wanting more.
“I studied business at Franklin and Marshall,” Fenstamacher said. “But I took courses in philosophy, just in case. You know?” Maybe that was the answer Ezra was looking for. Maybe a town’s center of intelligence was the nearest college.
“Professors didn’t always see things the way I did,” Fenstamacher said. “Maybe because a lot of them don’t come from here. A lot of the students don’t either,” he said. “Like that Swiss kid I hired. How’s he working out?”
“Theodore? He’s sharp,” Ezra said. “It took me a while to understand how he talks. But he knows what he’s doing.”
“Good. Did you know he comes from a family of bankers?” Fenstamacher asked.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, he does.” Fenstamacher smiled. “Their family started its own bank years ago, then took on investors when the trouble hit the markets last time. But they still control the biggest block. At one time, it was the biggest bank in the country. Connections all over the world—a lot of them depositors with, shall we say, big fortunes and questionable reputations?”
“Gangsters?”
“You can be sure of it,” Fenstamacher said. “I could tell Trimble, Sr., is a man of the world the minute he started asking me about protecting assets—as if he just assumed we needed to. But that wouldn’t be hard for somebody like him to guess.”
“Him being a man of the world, you mean.” Ezra nodded.
Fenstamacher smiled. “Not to mention, with connections like Al Capone,” he said.
“Oh? Well, we couldn’t forget Mr. Capone.” Ezra smiled back at him, wondering where this was headed.
“No, we’d never want to do that.” Fenstamacher laughed in a way that meant there was more to the story than he was telling.
Ezra nodded again. More sure of himself this time. “Ol’ ‘Snorky’ might send his guys to shake us up!” he said.
“Chicago’s their game, Ezra—they don’t care about Steitzburg.”
“Why not?” Ezra asked with all the common sense in the world. “We’re close to Philly. Baltimore. New York. Not to mention D.C. being just about in our backyard. Put all of it together and Chicago looks like…”
“Little Steitzburg, maybe?” Fenstamacher winked.
“I wasn’t going to say it,” Ezra replied.
“You don’t have to. Switzerland already asked about depositing money here, Ezra. With us.”
“You’re kidding,” Ezra said, without being surprised.
The look he got from his boss left no doubt that “kidding” was the furthest thing from anybody’s mind. “What did you say?” he asked.
“I said, yes, of course,” came the answer.
Ezra laughed, not sure if he wanted to know any more about it—and wondering now if Mary would smell the liquor on his breath. “Anything else?” he asked, unable to resist.
Fenstamacher sobered. “It turns out, Trimble, Sr., speaks perfect English and we got into a few things. He’s grateful for his son to have a chance at some American banking, but he wants him to be a lawyer and he wants his son to have clients. He says it’ll look good for Theodore to have international connections.”
“Like Snorky does, I’ll bet,” Ezra said, referring to Al Capone’s nickname in the press and asking himself when anything even remotely close to that could ever happen. As Fenstamacher had said, this was, after all, Steitzburg, where just about the biggest thing that ever happened was, maybe, a squirrel getting hit on the road or a car running out of gas.
“Why shouldn’t he?” Fenstamacher asked. “The world’s a big place. The future’s a long shot. You gotta look ahead as far as you can.”
“Like Snorky does,” Ezra said again, but in a different way.
“You do know where that name comes from, don’t you?” Fenstamacher said, touching one of the silk ties he liked to wear lately.
Ezra admitted he didn’t.
“It’s because Capone’s a snappy dresser,” Fenstamacher said. He’s Italian. They know what a suit means. And they know how to use it.”
“Yeah,” Ezra said. “For hiding pistols.”
Fenstamacher just smiled and poured them both another drink. “Well, the way things are going overseas, and how it can affect the markets here, I was thinking it over. And I wondered about Swiss interest rates. Next thing I know, me an’ Trimble are talking about moving money around. An’ it turns out he’s looking ahead at Wall Street and it doesn’t match what everybody here is saying.”
Something in the way he put that, made Ezra take notice.
“I opened an account, Ezra. And I wanted you to know about it. Just in case.”
He would remember what Fenstamacher told him to say “just in case” the authorities ever came knocking on his door. He would remember the other bankers he called from the list of numbers Fenstamacher had given him “just in case” and the fear in their voices. One by one, they said what was happening to their banks and what it meant to their towns. They hadn’t seen it coming, they said. Wall Street had never crashed like this before.
Ezra never knew a woman’s love could run so fast or the door of an open heart slam shut so hard. If he told Mary any of this now, would it make a difference? If he said Fenstamacher had a plan to protect the town and make everything right—would she believe him? Could she believe him? Would her family and anybody else she loved be
lieve him?
He didn’t know—if he did, he would never have let her go in the first place.
He couldn’t know—because, nobody in her family wanted him to.
He wouldn’t know—because Mary’s family would never tell him.
They would say she didn’t want to speak with him or see his face anymore. They would say she was better off without him and they weren’t putting their money in a bank—ever again.
They would blame him for Mary going into labor that night because of the shock. They would just say the baby had ten fingers and ten toes and he didn’t have a right to know anything more.
What nobody counted on was how much the baby would remind them of Ezra and how much they really wouldn’t want her. Snorky Capone knew being wanted isn’t always a good thing. But, nothing hurts more than not being wanted by someone you want to be wanted by.
Fighting the impulse to forget about everything else but Mary and his own life, he dressed and looked in the mirror one last time. Straightening his tie now and putting on his hat, he took a few breaths. He wasn’t going to close the bank, like Fenstamacher said he should do. He was going to work instead.
He was going to the bank. He was taking down the sign that said, “Closed” and he was telling every customer what was happening.
He would hire back the old clerk who meant so much to everybody and he would comfort anyone he could.
He would hold them through the darkest night—every one of them…every man, woman and child—and he would love them for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER 2
What Now, My Love?
Wild geese aren’t the only ones who can fly. Sidney Leigh in pink, with her zesty blonde hair and bouncy step, flies like a blur to the manicurist, the pharmacy and the bakery for just a few things this morning. How she avoids staring at those pictures of her husband on the front page of the tabloids as she waits to pay for a blueberry muffin is anybody’s guess, but dark sunglasses have a lot to do with it.
Look at those disgusting faces. Doesn’t anybody know how to take a decent picture anymore? Thank God she remembered to smile when they snapped Ben and her leaving restaurants…leaving the theater…leaving the lawyer’s office. Leaving. Leaving. Leaving. Exactly what she felt like doing every day of their lives now.
Smiley Ben and Smiley Sidney for the whole world to see. Accused of things they, themselves, hadn’t started and hadn’t even known about until the shit hit the fan. What did it matter after all this time, anyhow? She reaches for the tabloid, tosses it on the counter and prays the clerk won’t say anything.
“Don’t!” she warns, when the kid looks at the headline and straight back at her.
See it. Buy it. Pay for it. Odd, how cash is something we don’t carry much of anymore. Odd how something so important as cash disappears from your life, just like it disappears when stock markets crash and banks close. “Debit or credit?” the kid squeaks as Sidney whips out the plastic.
*
A few days later, a van is cruising in the lane of Mattison Farm bringing a TV crew, the glaring light of Truth according to the media and cameras. Sidney is hushing the dogs; impressive animals she has raised herself in the kennel she’s had since forever, and she’s facing Ben, with his morning coffee. It’s maroon and hunter green comfortable in this room, with horse paintings, books and antiques. A hint of leather furniture and the delicate scent of dried rose petals in a glass ashtray complete the finishing touch of country living in a grand style.
Ben crosses to the desk and looks out the window knowing Diane Wallace can’t be far behind. “Remember the first time a crew like this came here?” he asks Sidney.
“Sure do. That was a great day for us. The start of some really exciting stuff. Are you scared about this, Ben?”
He takes a sip before answering, “Does it matter?”as they see a white sedan pulling up to the house now bearing the initials “D.W.” on the front doors.
Polite, efficient and no-nonsense in her dress suit, honey-blonde Diane Wallace with the rosebud in her lapel is escorted to the set being prepared in the living room. Seating herself comfortably with a yellow notepad in her lap, she studies her questions and observations while a makeup artist does his magic, technicians run their cables and the lighting experts make sure she is perfectly illuminated.
Does anybody wonder where the past goes after you live it?
Does anybody care? They would find out very soon. The stage is set, the proverbial curtain is opening and the interview is coming to life.
Polite introductions are made all around. A few naughty memories are exchanged and fade away—lives and laughter of the past—and Ben enters the room, wearing a loose-fitting, linen Armani jacket, Saville Row shirt open at the collar showing the glint of a thin gold chain from which hangs an Egyptian turquoise stone he is never without. Matching cufflinks complement a golden ring with an unusual design. His pants are well-fitted and his riding boots, which have seen many miles, are polished, but chosen for comfort. He appears relaxed as the sound technician attaches a small, inconspicuous microphone to his shirt, and Sidney Leigh is staying watchful, but out of sight, in the kitchen along with her curious Aunt Sarah, a striking middle-aged red head in jeans and plaid shirt, who has just come in from feeding horses in the barn. Sidney puts a finger to her lips. Sarah shuts the door as quietly as she can, and pours them each a cup of coffee. “Sorry!” she whispers, seating herself beside Sidney Leigh at the table.
“Ready when you are,” they hear the director say calmly.
Diane nods and the count begins, “Five…four…three…”
“Good evening.” Diane smiles to her loyal viewers who aren’t really there. “We’ve all seen his face on billboards and in magazines,” she says to them as if speaking with intimate friends. “He’s the man who has everything. Winner of the advertising industry’s highest awards and starring in more commercials than any other spokesman before or since, making the world around us a subject of national, even international, controversy. And…” she pauses dramatically, “we’ve also seen his fall from Amazing Grace.”
The camera zooms in for a close-up of her face and those sincere blue eyes. “Today, Benjamin Hoover is a private man, living here, on this beautiful horse farm in Pennsylvania. When he’s not here, we can find him at any of his offices in New York, Paris or London. He considers himself a private business ambassador these days, nothing more, saying business is the ultimate freedom and privacy is our most basic right. Exactly what he means by that is something for Benjamin Hoover to tell us in his own words.” She smiles. “Let’s get to know this man of mystery. I promise you a fascinating hour.” She turns to Ben, seated across from her on a well-lit couch. “Benjamin Hoover,” she says. “Good evening, and thank you for inviting us here. Is this,” she gives him a complimentary look, “how you dress at home?”
He gives her a warm smile and says, “It’s how I dress for important interviews on national TV,” he says, respectfully. “I admire the makers of good things,” he explains, about what he is wearing. “And I admire professionalism,” he adds. It’s a genuine compliment to her.
Cocking her head thoughtfully, she aims and fires. “The public knows you as the epitome of moral responsibility, someone we all admire. Someone we all want to be like in one way or another. How does it feel now, being accused of things like fraud, conspiracy and even worse?” she asks, as the camera cuts to scandalous headlines from around the world.
“Accused?” Ben responds, and his eyes reveal the sadness of one who knows betrayal. “I think we both know better than that,” he says. “The court of public opinion is the only one that matters—and I’m already convicted.”
“The court of public opinion,” she repeats his words. “Are you…” she pretends to search for the right word, the right emotion, and decides on something not quite in sync with his image as the cool, collected DeCroy Man, “…bitter, perhaps, about that?” Is it the slight twitch of a smile he sees at the corners
of her mouth?
He doesn’t fall for her bait this early in the interview, and laughs. “I don’t have time for bitterness, Diane. Disappointment is a more honest word for it.”
“Well, is it true you’re suing the media? The very media that made you what you are?”
“Sue the networks? The Internet? Magazines? Newspapers?” He frowns as if speaking with a young sister. “What for, when they’re right? There is—there always has been—a hidden agenda in my life. But not anything near as dark as what they want you to believe. My best shot is to show my feelings to the public exactly how they showed theirs to me. My privacy is already invaded—by angry strangers I’ve never met. Strangers lying about me and those I love without paying any consequences for it. They can stalk you on the Internet—and that’s what it is: stalking—making links to sickening newspaper stories or TV reports every time you make a public comment or your name is mentioned. For what? For their own satisfaction and to show off to their so-called friends?
“They blast phony, embarrassing pictures of you behind bars anywhere they want—and they laugh about it—as if they have a right to. Perverted threats of bodily harm and vulgar insults as if you have no feelings at all, and they get away with it.
“Charities? Even charities aren’t above it. I’ve seen ‘charities’ raging and collecting money from the public using my name without consent—savaging everything I stand for like it’s their duty, and trying to boycott the DeCroy stores. I might be wrong, but I do think I learned in high school that sabotaging someone’s livelihood is against the law. How many people could stand this kind of public pressure without going crazy—or killing themselves? Tell me that. Because I’m sure—with a show like yours—you know people who have been driven to it. And nobody was punished. How do you punish a nameless, faceless mob for character assassination? It’s a public sport these days! Target somebody, stone them to death and get away with it. How is public bashing in the media any different? If a person gets sick and dies from it, or commits suicide, that’s murder, Diane. A crime.
