by Dave Balcom
When the sliding glass doors closed behind us, the silence of the house was a relief. “Whew!” I said. “That would take some getting used to.”
“Music to my ears,” Crawford said. “Everybody’s heard about all the racial tensions around St. Louis over the years, but here in Chesterfield we found the place to be pretty much color blind. Granted, the population here is mainly white and mainly financially comfortable, but African Americans don’t seem to threaten anyone here. Our Jentrelle is the only African American child on this block, but she’s over at the pool there with a bunch of little ones from the school – white and black – celebrating a fourteenth birthday.
“Here it seems it’s the quality of your actions that speak louder than the color of your skin... We feel very fortunate.”
“Was it like that for you and Riley when you were growing up?”
He pursed his lips and thought for a second, and then answered, “Not totally; not always.”
“Like how?” I asked.
“Oh, there were just times, you know; not everyone was as liberated as Ed and Rita, but for the most part, once they took us in, we didn’t get much of that other stuff... but it was still not like it is for Jentrelle.”
We were seated around a table in the kitchen. Clara had brought out a pitcher of iced tea and some cookies; Jan had found napkins and glasses and pitched right in.
“How close?” Jan asked as Clara settled into a chair.
“Any day now,” she said with a sigh and a smile. “Jentrelle was born in ninety-nine; I was twenty; this has been a little more difficult than I remembered...”
“I’ve never had a baby,” Jan said, “but all my friends tell me that every one is different and unique.”
Crawford spoke up softly, “She’s uncomfortable this time, but the doctor and all the tests say that everything’s coming along as perfect as can be...”
I raised my tea glass, “To that!”
We clinked glasses, and after a moment of silent thought, Crawford said, “Mom told me this was about the big prize and how our family has changed or reacted to it, is that right?”
And that launched a two-hour interview that mirrored everything we had heard in our first two meetings with these kids. While they were far from rich, Crawford and Clara were living a dream. They had many friends, were close to both sets of parents. Clara had a brother who was nine years older than she who lived in Chicago. They exchanged Christmas cards and little else.
“What was his reaction to the announcement,” Jan asked casually.
Clara smiled faintly and shook her head a bit as she answered, “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since it came out; I don’t even know if he heard.
“My parents were thrilled for Ed and Rita. My dad is retired from the U.S. Postal Service with a full pension and all that. When Ed’s company cut him loose the way they did, my folks were very concerned. They’ve become quite close over the years. Our dads fish together every summer. So, when they heard on the TV that Ed and Rita had won this outrageous prize, well, you’d have thought they’d won it they were so happy.
“All my dad could say was, ‘I guess I’ll still have somebody to fish with.’ He was always afraid Ed would have to take some menial job to make ends meet and wouldn’t be available for fishing...” She ended with a giggle and I could see the humor in her eyes.
“You know,” I said as we were getting ready to leave, “I don’t know if I’ve ever known anyone to win the lottery big or like that... and I’m pretty sure I’d be happy for them, but I do know folks that I think would have a different take.”
Crawford nodded, “I know what you mean. When we were up there last, I kinda expected a line outside Ed’s door of people who wanted a handout or something. We went golfing last time, and everything was just like the prize had never happened. We played with his two buddies, Mr. Trisker and Mr. Flynt – hell, they ribbed him constantly just like in the past, only now they added jokes about instant wealth interfering with his putting, stuff like that.
“For the most part, it was all in good fun. I think I’m more sensitive to veiled insults and two-faced innuendo than a lot of folks, especially white folks – for the most part I didn’t get a sniff.”
“Have you spoken to your Dad about how his resources might help you?”
He shook his head dismissively, “Unless he buys ABC and makes me the play-by-play guy on ESPN’s college football games, I don’t see much he can do to help us.
“He has told us that he set up a college fund annuity for Jentrelle, just like he has for all the grandchildren; other than that?” He shook his head.
“Listen,” Jan said as she held Clara’s hand, “We can’t tell you how much we appreciate your letting us barge in on your day. You keep well, Clara; and, Crawford? You make sure we hear about this baby, okay?”
“Will do,” he said, fingering the business card she’d given him earlier. “But I do have a question.”
“Go ahead,” Jan said with a smile.
“Which of you writes and which of you edits?”
“On an assignment like this, we both do both,” she said with obvious pleasure. “With Jim’s books, I edit, gently; on my work, he runs over it like a Mac truck.” She was laughing by then, “Or at least that’s how I always explain it to friends.”
“Like any writing,” I chipped in, “the story dictates our role.”
We parted and walked back to the car. The roar of laughter, music, shrieks and splashes coming from the city pool hadn’t lessened a bit.
Chapter 20
Jan had a shower as I typed up my version of our notes from the day, and when I got out of the shower she was on the phone.
“That’s all right, Rita,” I heard her say, “We’re just wrapping up our notes and observations from the day, and we’re going to grab supper and then, probably by eight or so, we’ll be sending the report – of course, we’ll copy you.
“We have an early flight tomorrow. We’ll be landing in Syracuse by nine their time. Jim used to live in that part of the world. He said it’ll take about two hours to get to Cornell.”
I went back to the bathroom to finish drying off and getting ready for dinner. When I re-entered the bedroom, I found her reading over what she had typed.
“You finished?” I asked.
“Just another minute, then you can read what we’ve got so far, and I’ll finish getting ready for dinner. I found a restaurant just down the street that sounds good – we can walk.”
“Reservations?”
“I called; they’re come as you are.”
“I’ll be the hungry and thirsty one.”
She took over the bathroom and once again I marveled at how such a beautiful creature as this felt the need for makeup. Not that makeup made her less beautiful, but the incremental difference, to my eye and my mind, wasn’t worth the investment in time.
When she reappeared, I was sitting staring out the window at the long shadows draping across this part of St. Louis. Jetliners were launching and landing in the distance to the north, but I wasn’t watching them. I was just staring as my mind reviewed the words we’d typed against the words we’d heard that day.
“Something bothering you?” Jan asked from behind me.
“Not really bothering, but I’m not finding a string that I can unravel from these three interviews. All of these people seem too good to be true.”
“I know what you mean, but, after all, they were raised in an above-average home, performed above average in school and sports, and have developed what I would consider above-average lives for most everyone except...”
“The above-average?”
“Exactly.”
We walked to the restaurant and reviewed a menu at the bar over cocktails. We went to a table, ordered, I had another drink, and Jan opted for wine with her pasta and salad. I switched to iced tea with my lasagna and endless salad. We didn’t say much, but we agreed that our report for the moment was complete and that
we’d e-mail it when we got back to the room.
The rest of our time there we did what we always do in restaurants in strange places, we watched the people.
“Do you realize you’re the only guy in this place not wearing a ball cap?” She said as she scooped another helping of the salad into her bowl.
“Our waiter doesn’t have a ball cap on.”
“Okay, the only male customer.”
“It’s America.”
“It’s a Thursday night in a restaurant that serves fifteen to twenty dollar entrées,” she said with some wonder in her voice. “Don’t these dolts have any respect for their dates or themselves?”
“You’re beginning to sound old, my dear; old and irascible.”
“Can you see the couple at the bar sharing that out-sized margarita?” Jan asked. She was holding her napkin over her lips so I could only see the humor in her eyes. “Don’t gawk, but when you get a chance...”
I turned in my chair as casually as I could, and found the couple in question. The drink was huge; it looked to be a frozen margarita in a glass large enough to hold a gallon of the stuff, and they each were bowing over straws that looked to be two-feet long.
“Ugh,” I said.
“Not the drink, look at them.”
He was short and round. I could see that his feet fit comfortably on the bottom rung of his stool. She, on the other hand was long and narrow. She too was sitting on a stool, but her feet were flat on the floor. He had on a nylon jacket that stretched across his ample back; she was wearing some kind of sleeveless top and peach-colored shorts.
From my point of view they looked like something out of a Star Wars bar scene with their long snouts poked into a syrupy drink of unknown proportions of unknown beverages.
“Look,” she said. “We’re not the only ones looking at them. Check out the guy at the far side of the bar...”
I saw the guy and it was obvious that he was enjoying watching the two alien-looking drinkers across from him. “Note, he doesn’t have a cap on. In fact he’s quite attractive in a dark, crew cut way,” she added..
I noted the drape of his sports jacket and the hint of curly hair at the open collar of his sport shirt.
She continued, “Perhaps you two should introduce yourselves as the only respectful gents in the place.”
“He’s probably like me; left his Cardinals’ hat at home by mistake.”
“Very funny. Had enough of this conceited fun?”
“Take me to bed, will you?”
And she did.
Chapter 21
The plane touched down in Syracuse just before nine on Friday morning, and we were in our rental by nine-fifteen and headed west on the Thruway.
I picked my route from memory, driving down the east coast of Cayuga Lake for the final forty miles of the trip.
Jan called Matt just as we hit Ithaca, and he directed us to his home on the east side of town, on a shaded street along one of the ravines that run through the Cornell campus.
He was at the top step of his home with the door opened by the time we got out of the rental SUV. He was wearing shorts and a tee-shirt with Cornell Ornithology Lab’s logo. He had a wild shock of sandy hair and dark rimmed glasses which were on a lanyard around his neck. He was barefooted and smiling as we walked up to him.
“The great Jim Stanton, as I live and breathe,” he chortled good naturedly. “I feel as if I’ve known you all my life.” He had his hand stuck out and I shook it.
“This is Jan Stanton, my wife.”
“Liz – Elizabeth – is inside feeding Sylvia at the moment,” he said as he ushered us inside. “She wanted to time it so she could put her down for a nap and sit in on this interview without interruption.”
Jan picked up the message. “Sylvia? She’s what, two?”
“Just about; her birthday is in December. She is already a handful, though.”
We had entered a formal living room that looked unused despite the comfortable looking furniture and a built-in fire place. The room was all wood, leather and brick in earthy tones of browns and greens, but it was saved from being dark by the lively art on the walls and the accents of pillows and throws on the couch and chairs.
We walked down a short hallway and entered the kitchen that included what was obviously a family room. A back door led to a screened porch. Another door obviously led to either an attached garage or the basement. I couldn’t remember seeing a garage.
“We’ll land in here,” he said waving toward the family room. “This was a bathroom and a bedroom when we bought this old house. We modified it to fit our lifestyle. There are two bedrooms and a full bath upstairs; and two more bedrooms and a full bath and laundry downstairs.” He pointed to what looked like a closet at the other end of the family room, “A powder room, I’m told,” he said with a chuckle.
“This is delightful. Did you do the remodel yourself?”
“It’s still a work in progress, but yes, we’re doing most of the work.”
“You take after your father with the carpentry skills?” I asked.
“More like Liz takes after her father who is a building contractor in Orange County, California. She grew up working for him summers. She’s totally fearless with a crowbar or Sawzall in her hand.
“Ahh, here she is.”
I wasn’t prepared for Liz Sweet. She looked more Beach Bunny than Rosie the Riveter. She was as tall as Matt in her bare feet. Her blonde hair hung to her shoulder and other than the enormous belly announcing that Sylvia wouldn’t be an only child, one could easily see she was athletically built for speed.
“Hello,” she purred, and I really mean it; she purred. “I’m so very glad to meet you. It’s Jan isn’t it?” And then she turned a megawatt smile in my direction, and I got the full load of her beauty. She was animated and breath-taking. “And you’re Ed Sweet’s favorite writer, Jim Stanton. I’ve had my Jim Stanton books out here for signing ever since Rita called to ask if you could come. Will you sign them?”
I found it difficult to answer, my throat kind of swelled up under the intensity of that smile and those dancing eyes... I could only be grateful that Stanton men don’t blush, no matter how Jan described this meeting later.
“Certainly,” I finally choked out, and she bounced over to a computer table in the corner and brought three copies of my last book. “Do you mind signing them all? I want to donate two of them to the Ornithology Lab’s annual banquet and fund-raiser. They’ll be auction items. Do you mind?”
“No; of course not. How would you have them signed?” I asked as she handed me a pen. “Personalize to you, to birders or ...”
“I love the way you signed the book I have upstairs when you were in Lake City two years ago; that ‘Thanks for reading’ I think would be perfect for these books.”
I dutifully signed them and handed the pen back to her.
“Thank you;” she gushed, “really, this is great.”
“Oh, no,” Jan said in the background, “You just made old man Stanton’s whole day, Liz. Believe me, you did.” And then she cackled, like an old irascible lady. That brought outright laughter from Matt and a blush to Liz’s cheek.
“How about some coffee or juice?” Matt asked as we settled in the family room.
It only took about fifteen minutes to figure out that while she might have looked built for beach blankets and sand dunes, Liz Sweet was a savvy and poised woman, a total match for the studious and successful man she had married.
We covered all the normal questions about the impact of the Sweets’ good fortune on them and their family, and they acknowledged how pleased they had been to hear about the college annuity Ed had set up for Sylvia and the rest of the grandchildren.
“But all in all,” Liz said, looking at her husband for affirmation, “I don’t think it’s had any impact on us or anything. It’s nice to know Matt’s parents will be financially secure for the rest of their lives, but we’re really focused on making that happen in our lives,
and that hasn’t changed.
“Ornithology isn’t all that lucrative, and certainly working for an Ivy League school has its cachet, but we know that our future will only be as secure and comfortable as we make it through all the avenues open to us.”
“Careful, here,” Matt said to the two of us, “You’re in danger of opening up an entire lecture on self-determination in the market place by the most beautiful PhD in the world of economics and finance.” He was smiling, but I could see Liz back off a bit.
I hadn’t thought to ask if Liz worked outside the home, but Jan covered for me, “Do you write or speak on these topics or both?”
She blushed a bit, “I don’t mean to go off on a rant. My work is pretty much on hold right now, but I consult from time to time and, of course, I’m fully involved in the academic world of ‘publish or perish’...”
“I was only teasing,” Matt said as he poured more coffee into Jan’s cup. “Liz’s ‘consulting’ work includes research and opinions for a number of top-five-hundred industries and the White House. Unless we develop some awfully intense addictions, our financial comfort in our later years is pretty much assured – Liz will pay taxes this year on about twice as much income as I make, and she’s working sometimes as much as ten hours a week.”
“That’s not accurate, and you know it,” Liz retorted. “I read a lot, and while I love mysteries, I don’t have much time other than when we’re really on vacation for that indulgence. Right now I’m not traveling for business, and I’m spending fewer than ten hours a week on conference calls. I don’t write very much or very often other than e-mails and notes.
“I’m being paid, as they often say, on my track record.”
“Track record?” Jan asked, looking up from her notes.
Matt summed it up for us, “She’s asked to predict what is coming down the economic and commercial pike, and she’s very seldom been wrong, Jan.”
At about eleven, we heard a whimper from where Liz was sitting, and she stood up, “Excuse me, my real duty calls.”
