by Ron Hevener
CHAPTER 6
Big Plans
“Some of your critics say Ezra was a shark.” Diane Wallace looks Ben in the eye. “They say it runs in the family.”
At the question running across his face, she says, “Turning people down for loans no matter how much they needed them…buying up family heirlooms cheap…stocks for pennies on the dollar and properties for back taxes…”
“But that’s just business, Diane,” he says.
“I don’t know,” she counters in an easy kind of way indicating she has information to the contrary. “Some of your critics call them setups. They say, when you’re holding the purse strings for a whole town…you know?”
“Of course,” Ben says. “I make no excuses for my grandfather, Diane. But can all the Kennedys be blamed because their fortune supposedly came from bootleg whiskey? Or because old Joe Kennedy conned a movie star into thinking he was buying her expensive gifts when he was really charging them to her own account?”
She listens attentively. “Names?”
“Gloria Swanson. But, of course, we don’t blame people for what their grandparents did. We judge people on their own merits today. Yes, maybe it tarnishes their image to know some of these things. And that’s sad. But, shouldn’t we take people on the merits of what they, themselves, can do?”
“That’s exactly the point of this show, Ben. So, let’s digress here for a minute. I’ve read that you’re a supporter of the Native American Indian movement.”
Sidney, in the kitchen and away from the camera, is livid.
“OK, I get it. I see where you’re coming from. Yes, we’re fortunate enough to have friends of all nationalities and persuasions, Sidney and I,” he says.
“Sidney, for our listeners, is your wife,” Diane explains, as the camera shows a photo of Sidney riding a horse.
“Yes,” he says. “But if what you’re saying is that somehow I—or my wife, or you, for that matter—are responsible for things a government of people we never even elected or knew…well, to believe such a thing would be to possess the biggest ego anyone could ever imagine!”
“Would it?” she asks in all seriousness. “Come on, Ben. Society pretty much accepts now that certain racial groups were wronged in this country and they deserve to be helped. So, doesn’t it stand to reason that we’re all responsible for whatever our relatives do…or did?” She smiles.
“Slavery, you mean, although slaves weren’t all one color and they still aren’t? Blamed for making fun of Hispanics, even though they’ve given us some of the most vibrant points of view in society? Orientals for giving us an incredible variety of foods and some of the most fascinating games to exercise our minds? Oh, my,” he says sarcastically, “put a guilt trip on all of us if everybody doesn’t get a fair shake.” Ben shakes his head. “I think you’ll find that most people are strong and proud and capable, dealing with their own lives in the best way they know how. And better than any of the rest of us would ever suspect. Please don’t make them into victims, Diane. Let them keep their self-confidence and pride. The very last thing anybody needs is to be psychologically crippled and bought off.”
He smiles. “Have you ever met any people—truly confident—who don’t feel good about themselves? That’s how it begins, Diane. Not with guilty handouts—and the government knows that.”
“But you have to admit, your own fortune did start under some pretty shady circumstances, Ben. Don’t you admit that?”
“My fortune, Diane, only began when I took over my responsibilities…and not a minute before.”
Point made, and Diane wisely changes the subject.
* * *
Steitzburg, Pennsylvania
Everything about the bank building on the corner of Main & Broad seemed calculated to intimidate those daring enough to enter its sanctum. Past formal, Greek-style pillars and up wide, marble steps worn by the feet of so many such as her, Sarah entered a giant lobby dominated by murals painted wall to wall. As the nation’s founding fathers stared down at her in monochrome financial green, Sarah concluded that psychological warfare had its roots in banking. Across the main floor, she saw Ezra Hoover’s office, door open, and, inside, she could see him working among well-oiled, comfortable furniture. Paintings of rural landscapes and waterfalls behind his desk protected the back of the man surveying the entire floor of employees from a forbidding oak desk. Few people in Steitzburg had escaped the silken touch of this man, waiting for her in silence.
His receptionist, a high-school classmate of hers, looked up without a smile or hint of recognition. I am a worldly banker’s secretary now, her look seemed to say. I see so many people, how could you possibly expect me to remember someone as insignificant as…you? Just the slight lifting of her chin meant, “Is someone expecting you?” High-school rivals never changed, Sarah realized.
“Betty Frable!” Sarah blurted as loudly as she could. “How the hell have you been?” she said, slamming the insurance check down on Betty’s desk. “Your boss in there looks about as busy as a big old frog sittin’ in the middle of a great big pond!”
“Excuse me?” Betty tried the old do-I-know-you trick.
“You tell him he needs to have a good long talk with me!” Sarah demanded. “I’ll put him to work.”
“Mr. Hoover is a very busy man!” Betty tried protesting.
“Well, busy or not, I’m cashing this check.” Sarah pointed to the amount. “That is, if the bank really has any cash,” she said, bringing up old memories.
Touching horn-rimmed glasses once smashed by a red-headed hellion in pigtails, Betty stood up and smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her dress. Quivering inside, she stood with as much dignity as she could gather and purred her way between a maze of desks whose pilots were anxiously staring.
“There’s someone here to see you, Mr. Hoover,” she said, knocking on Ezra’s door.
“I heard,” he answered firmly.
“Well, I know her, Mr. Hoover, and I don’t think she’s going away.”
“You should pick your friends more carefully, Betty,” he said. “Is that Sarah Mattison?”
“Yes.”
“She wouldn’t happen to be Joe Mattison’s daughter, would she? Here about the trust fund Arden Miller wanted us to set up for her?”
“Yes, sir. I believe so.”
“Send her in, Betty.”
One could hope a boss would stick up for one occasionally.
“Well, Betty! Don’t just stand there!”
Shocked from her moment of self-pity, the secretary took a quick breath and returned to her station. Wearing a carefully rationed smile, perhaps acquired from carrying out too many commands against her own will, she restrained herself and simply said, “Mr. Hoover will see you now.”
“Well, Miss Mattison! What can I do for you?” Ezra asked professionally. “I apologize for Betty. She’s been working too much overtime.”
“You know me?” Sarah asked.
“I knew your father,” he said. “We did some business over the years.”
“He never told me.”
“Well, I don’t suppose he would,” Ezra said. “Most of us tried forgetting what happened during the Crash. Terrible times. Terrible.”
“Dad never recovered from it,” Sarah said. “He knew your wife though—Mary? Great ping-pong player, he said.”
“I guess they play a lot of ping-pong there, don’t they?” Ezra replied, referring to the hospital.
“Well,” Sarah looked at the floor. “We couldn’t take care of him anymore.” Her attention popped back. “But I remember Mary, from our visits. And I remember your daughter, too. She was a few years behind me in school, but I saw her sometimes when I’d go see my Dad. How is she?”
“Ruthie?” he brightened a little. “I think she really is going to be a singer.”
“She’s good,” Sarah said. “You know, my Dad said she did a concert for the patients at the hospital once.”
“She’ll be glad someone remembers,
” Ezra said, proudly. “I’ll tell her.”
“Does she still go to New York?” Sarah asked. “I heard she does.”
“A singer goes where the opportunities are,” he said. “Now, what opportunity can I help you with, Miss Mattison?” he said, bringing them back to business.
Attempting to appear business-like in her boots and fringed leather pants and jacket, Sarah seated herself and crossed her legs. “Well, I am here on business, Mr. Hoover,” she said. “I’m here about the money Arden left me.”
“I understand,” he said, studying her.
“I’m getting my own place. Nothing big, or grand. A fixer-upper, probably. And I need my own horses. Good ones. I want to go and pick ’em myself. And I want to be sure there’s enough money to keep the farm going, no matter what. You’re a banker. You can do that for me, right? I know you can.”
Tilting his head as if being presented with an impossible challenge, he smiled. “That’s a tall order, don’t you think?”
Without hesitating, Sarah went on. “Theodore Trimble, the lawyer, thinks I have enough money to do anything I want now. He thinks I should leave town. But I don’t think so. A woman knows a lot about herself when she’s growing up, and this is where I found Arden.” Almost stumbling as she remembered, she picked herself up and made the jump. “He was the best. And funny! Oh, that guy could make me laugh.” Softening, she went on. “It was all about horses for me, but I didn’t know he was teaching me a lot more than that. He was teaching me about people. He said, ‘When you want something, you go to the experts, hon.’” Sweeping an imaginary piece of lint off her legs, she crossed them the other way. “Which is why I’m here. I’m not showing off, or acting high and mighty or anything.” She looked across his desk and he felt her on him. “I’m just talking to the expert.”
Without thinking, Ezra eased himself back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. Perhaps it was too soon for him to appear so relaxed with this young woman, but she seemed to accept it. “You’ve got it all figured out,” he said with admiration. “But do you honestly realize how rare it is to have a lot of money in the bank?”
Saying that, he sat forward, as if to bring their unexpected visit to a close, but not wanting to. If she was like the rest of them, the unexpected security of a large bank account would lull her into the complacency of forgotten dreams and ambitions. She would buy pretty things and strangers would circle around her pretending to be friends in the ancient, predictable dance of wealth and power. After all, he thought women couldn’t run their own lives, no matter how bright their nova was. Nobody could, really, with sudden money in their pockets. Could they? Unless…unless they weren’t like all the rest. Unless she—Sarah Mattison—wasn’t.
“Not so fast!” she snapped. The silence, uncomfortably hot, linked them like a steel bridge in the glare of truth. “Look. I was raised to believe bankers and lawyers are shysters, Mr. Hoover. But I know you made it through the Crash—you made it, when men like my own Dad couldn’t. I don’t know how you did it—but I need somebody like you. I’m staying in this town, no matter how I feel about what really happened to Arden. I have a chance at a life—a real life—and I’m doing it.”
This wasn’t somebody asking for a loan. Not somebody pretending to be what she wasn’t, while plotting to get what she wanted. This was a woman who knew completely and exactly and honestly what she believed and what she would do with her life. There was no intent of harm or revenge or the sad and self-serving drama of a victim here. Taking off his glasses now, was this the same young country girl who had walked into his office only a few minutes ago?
Ezra Hoover took another look, and knew she wasn’t.
*
“Delicious, Esther. You’ve outdone yourself,” Ezra said at home later that night, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin and leaning back in his chair. His belly was soft and rounded. Where had the tight muscles gone? What in this life of his could make him soft? Only a fool could think a banker’s life was easy. Whether he had chosen it, or the other way around, was something he didn’t often wonder, except on nights like this.
Pleased, Esther smiled. “You’re always welcome, Ezra.”
“I think I’ll play for a while,” he said to this woman who had stood by him when Mary and so many others hadn’t. “Thank you, Esther.”
She didn’t say anything. She just smiled, wondering if he would ever look at her in the way of lovers in the romance novels she kept in here room. Would he ever throw open his shirt, revealing a hairy chest and smelling like a man? Would he be young and dark and would he throw her to the bed, ripping off her dress—his eyes on fire for her, only her, and no one else? Ezra! See me! Look into my eyes instead of looking away. Feel my breath! Kiss my mouth! Touch my soul—feel how much I love you!
But he only smiled politely, left the table and headed for the music room dominated by a square, dark mahogany Lindeman grand piano. As Esther cleared the dinner dishes and made her way to the kitchen, aching for his thoughts, Ruthie offered to help in a rare gesture of peace.
It must have been a good dinner for all, Ezra thought with a grin, as he saw them. Either a good dinner, or else Ruthie was being good to Esther because there was something she wanted.
Seated at the piano, he carefully took hold of the thin metal handle centered on the board on which the keyboard rested. Gently, he pulled out the mechanism like the smooth, well-oiled center drawer of an office desk. Slowly, he reached for a chamber slightly to the left, removed a manila-colored office file and pushed the keyboard back in place.
Searching through the newspaper clippings, he placed one of them between the music sheets of “Moonlight Sonata” and began to play.
He had found it: “Horse Trainer Found Strangled.”
Why he hadn’t questioned the irony of that headline before today was something he couldn’t answer.
Why he hadn’t questioned what it could mean to his conscience, was something he didn’t want to face.
CHAPTER 7
Silent Partners
“What do we really know about our grandfathers?” It’s an odd question.
“In what sense, Diane?” he asks.
“Well…yours, for instance.” She smiles. “Did he take you places? Bring you presents?”
Benjamin chuckles. “No, he was too busy for things like that…too busy drawing money trees.”
“Money trees?” she asks, TV blonde with her legs crossed tight. “That’s interesting.”
He smiles. “Whenever he was talking, which was most of the time, he’d have a pencil in his hand, or his gold pen. You’d think he was taking notes, but he wasn’t. If you looked, you’d see he was scribbling trees all over the paper…with dollar bills on them where apples should be.” He traces an outline in the air as if to show her a tree. “It’s amusing, looking back on it now. I mean, he wasn’t a farmer—I take that back, he did start out as a farmer. He was raised on a farm and hired out when he was young.”
“Hired out? What do you mean?”
“It’s a custom among certain religious beliefs. It means sending young people—kids, really—off to live on another farm, in trade for their room and board.”
Diane goes silent.
“Yes,” Ben says. “I know it sounds strange when you put it that way. Archaic. But, in farm life, it’s common. I remember growing up…some of my friends—my best friends, really—just…disappearing. Poof! Gone. I’d ask where they went and just be told, ‘They were farmed out.’” He laughs at himself, amazed at the innocent acceptance of it all. “Part of life…just…part of life and how things are.”
Back to the subject, he pulls this from the ethers and says, “As a banker, Grandpa said he planted money trees and watered them with promises. But I guess, if you think about it, there was a blight in his orchard.”
“A blight. You like talking in riddles, don’t you?” Diane says, leaning closer and smiling a glorious smile for the viewers.
* * *
&
nbsp; Pennsylvania Dutch Country, 1947
Sunday afternoons at the state mental hospital with Mary were a ritual now.
Darkness has a way of becoming dawn and dawn brings a light to everything around us. Invincible or weak, there are many variations.
There is frailty of the spirit, frailty of the mind and there is frailty of the soul. These are things that vary from one life to another, from one day to the next, from the impulse of thoughts following the sound of a bird, the smell of a flower, the skittering of squirrels fighting for acorns dropping from wise old trees who know so much.
Acorns have an inner strength. Acorns are seeds carelessly scattered by Nature across the lawns of places like this. Mary’s place now. Far away from her parents’ farm. Far away from the worries of a life that didn’t turn out the way she had ever wanted or hoped for. It was the perfect place for them to be together no matter what had ever happened to tear them apart. Life turns out that way sometimes for those who live in small towns where everybody else is perfect…except you. Scandals never die. Scandals and accusations have a way of driving people apart, even if love finds a way to hold them together, and even if it takes a death or two along the way for it to happen. Hateful, selfish mothers-in-law. Bless their dead hearts. Bless dead fathers-in-law, too.
Forgetting the in-laws who had worked Mary into guilt-ridden, low self-esteem and thinking about those acorns, Ezra stopped. Such small things they were, and yet, so important to a bigger picture. What was the saying, “From a tiny acorn, the giant oak doth grow?”
Mary would like an acorn today, he decided, picking one up for her as a squirrel flicked its tail and watched him pull out his gold pen to draw a happy little face on it.
Pale and thin now, she waited inside her room unaware of everything but him. Her black hair, once so radiant and full of life, had been brushed for her by someone that morning. Sad and lost in her own medicated world, her eyes reflected desolation. But for him, something was still there. To her last breath, she would be “his Mary” and he would be “her Ezra,” no matter what anybody did or said about it. Even the mother who had long ago stepped aside when Ezra could finally afford to come back for her, and when it was too late for the life they had once hoped for so much.
