He returned form work one evening, unlocked his mailbox on the ground floor, removed a new issue of Art International and an envelope from the Texas Bank & Trust in Midland, Texas.
He pitched both the magazine and the envelope on the table inside his door. At the far end of the loft, a newly primed Masonite panel stared back in blank indifference. He had given up linen canvas and Old Holland oils, painting now on Masonite with commercial grade acrylics. He meant to call this next work My Father Is a Farmer, and to approach it with the same mindset he had applied to My Mother’s Kitchen. Only here he intended to use bold line and sharp angular shapes related to farm equipment, but more violent, more primal, more masculine—blood, bone, earth—arrowed plowshares imbedded phallic-like in mother earth; the harrow’s disks evocative of testicles. Robert Motherwell’s series, Elegy to the Spanish Republic, came to mind; but My Father Is a Farmer would exhibit less obvious, more complex associations.
He changed into paint-spattered overalls, put a Swanson’s frozen dinner in the oven and set the timer. He thumbed through the magazine before starting to work. An article on Noguchi and one on Antoni Tåpies. But the bulk was advertising—flashy full-page ads to show off hacks like LeRoy Neiman, Simbari, and Leonardo Nierman—painters whose work looked in turn like a sugary dessert, a slaughterhouse and a nuclear meltdown of the solar system. In spite of the ads, the articles were informative, and he regretted that he was having to let his subscription lapse.
He pitched the magazine aside, slit open the envelope from the Texas Bank & Trust, and fished out a sheet of paper. It had both his and Sherylynne’s name on it, with both his New York address and his old address on Chaparral back in Midland. The Chaparral address was marked “Primary Contact.” There was an account number in a box. In red ink, the sheet stated that his account had been charged ten dollars because of a fourteen-dollar-and-twelve-cent overdraft. He pitched the notice on the table, then poured himself a glass of water, and stood looking out at the evening shadows sliding down the wall across the street.
It was a mistake. He had never had an account at Texas Bank & Trust. Not even when he lived there. Probably Sherylynne’s account, now that she was back in Texas. Overdrawn. That figured.
THE NEXT DAY at noon he went down to the pay phones in the lobby of the JCPenney building and placed a call to the Texas Bank & Trust. He asked to speak to someone in charge of overdrafts. A Mr. Lincoln picked up.
“Harley Jay Buchanan calling you from New York. I got a notice yesterday that I’m overdrawn at your bank.”
“Oh?” Mr. Lincoln laughed easily. “We do get those sometimes.”
“Not from me you don’t. I don’t even have an account there.”
“Well, now. That doesn’t sound right, does it. May I have your account number, please?”
“That’s just it. I don’t have an account there.”
Mr. Lincoln hesitated, laughed again. “Is there an account number on the notice? Should be just below your name on the left.”
“Let’s see…yeah, there’s a number, all right. But, like I said, I don’t have an account there.”
“Could be a mistake. May I have the number, please?”
He read off the number.
“Hold on a sec. Um, yep. Harley Jay Buchanan; twenty-three Chaparral, and one-fifty Franklin Street, New York City. That correct?”
“Well…yes, but…”
“Did you remember to allow for the annual bank charges? Maybe that’s the reason for the overdraft.”
“Bank charges?”
“The handling fee.”
“What handling fee?”
A moment of silence. Then: “Well, as we explained at the outset, the handling fee is one hundred and, uh, let’s see here…yep, a hundred and twenty-two fifty a year. You have to deduct that from the total amount, January of each year.”
“Deduct it from what total amount?”
“Why, the ten thousand, of course.”
Harley was silent, at a loss.
“Hello?” Mr. Lincoln said after a moment.
“Yes. I’m here. Tell me about this ten thousand.”
“Tell you about— You are Harley Jay Buchanan?”
“Yes. I’m him.”
“Would you please give me your social security number? Just for verification.”
Harley read off the numbers.
“Right,” said Mr. Lincoln. “You were left a certain amount of money, a stipend, from Mavis Whitehead of Midland. Correct?”
A distant noise, a faint rush of blood, began to replace the silence in his head.
“Hello? Mr. Buchanan?”
“A stipend you say? When was this?”
“When— I don’t understand?”
“Well, that makes two of us.”
“Let’s see here. The first deposit was made the third of October, nineteen-sixty-four. Ten thousand, minus the bank’s fee, of course.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying Mavis left me some money? Ten thousand dollars?”
“Well…yes…”
“How come I never heard of it?”
It was Mr. Lincoln’s silence that filled the space now.
“Hello? Mr. Lincoln?”
“Mr. Buchanan…”
“I don’t have the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
“You, uh… This is highly irregular. Let me have you talk to Mr. Gonzales, the executor in charge of your account. Can you hold, please?”
“I’m calling from a pay phone. I’m almost out of quarters.”
“Let me have the number, please. We’ll get right back to you.”
Harley hooked his fingers in the cradle and kept the phone to his ear so people would think he was still talking. It had to be a mistake… Or was it possible that Mavis really had left him ten thousand dollars? October of nineteen-sixty four—the same month he left for New York. Was that what Mavis had meant to tell him that time in the hospital? Had Sherylynne… But it couldn’t be… Or could it? It had to be a mistake. He let out a long breath.
The phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Buchanan?”
“Speaking.”
“Mr. Gonzales here at Texas Bank and Trust in Midland. Mr. Buchanan, am I to understand that you’re unaware of this account?”
“This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“Sherylynne Buchanan is your wife? A joint account?”
His pulse picked up even more.
“Mr. Buchanan?”
“Like I told the other fellow, I didn’t even know there was an account.”
“But we have your signature. Witnessed and notarized.”
“Not my signature, you don’t.”
“Now, just a minute here. Witness: Wendell L. Whitehead, notarized by…a notary public from Duval County, looks like.”
“I haven’t signed anything. I can tell you that.”
“You’re suggesting…forgery?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying that if I had ten thousand dollars in your bank, I’ve never seen so much as a damn dime of it. You tell me.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.” Mr. Gonzales of the Texas Bank & Trust chose his words carefully. “After all, Mr. Whitehead is a prominent citizen and an influential member of the banking community himself.”
“I don’t care if he’s the king of Timbuktu.”
“Mr. Buchanan—”
“All I know is you’re telling me I had ten thousand dollars in your bank, and this is the first I’ve heard about it.”
“There does seem to be some sort of…well, irregularity. Of course, you do understand, the bank has acted in good faith.”
“Hell, no. I don’t understand anything of the sort.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but you do realize, too, that Texas is a community property state? What belongs to the husband belongs to the wife and vice versa?”
“That money was left to me for an express purpose, a gift, an in
heritance. We’ll see what my attorney has to say about it.”
“Mr. Buchanan, is there somewhere you can be reached? Let me look into this and get back to you on it.”
Harley had a hard time concentrating on the JCPenney spring catalog that afternoon.
HE ARRIVED HOME and had his work clothes on when Whitehead called. “Boy, what the hell’s goin’ on up there?”
“You tell me.”
“Gonzales sez you don’t know nothin’ about that money.”
“Well, Gonzales got something right, anyway.”
“That Sherylynne, she told me you signed over checkin’ rights to ’er.”
“And I understand you witnessed it. Imagine that.”
“Now, lookie here, son, you was up there in New Yark. She said she sent it and you signed it.”
“That how you witnessed it?”
“Well, god a’mighty, it was either that or you was gonna have to make a trip back down here.”
“All I know is somebody forged my name on that paper and you witnessed it.”
“Boy, Harley Jay, now you listen here to me. I thought you knew about that money all along.”
“Yeah? That just leaves Sherylynne, doesn’t it.”
“Now, wait a minute. She’s your wife. I don’t think you can—”
“My wife? She divorced me. Remember?”
“Son—”
Harley hung up on him. He went to the kitchen and stood, thinking, wishing he had a stiff drink of Jack Daniel’s on hand.
The phone rang.
“Boy, Harley Jay, now don’t you go hangin’ up ’cause I gotta tell you, them people over at the bank, they ain’t too happy about this. You and me, we gotta try and come to some kinda agreement on this thang.”
“Agreement? All I know is that between you and Sherylynne and that bank, my money’s gone.”
“Well, I guess you could call it your money, but if you’re anything like me, you ain’t the kinda feller to sponge off other people.”
“What do you mean, ‘sponge off other people’? What do you mean by that?”
“Mavis mighta left you that money, all right, but you ain’t never done nothin’ to earn it that I know of. That’s spongin’ in my book.”
“I never took anything from anybody in my life, and you know it.”
“Now boy, Harley Jay, don’t go gettin’ testy on me here! You forget how I helped you when you was down and out, give you that job and that car and paid your way to all them places.”
“Just a damn minute! You didn’t give me any car and you didn’t pay my way anywhere and you know it! As for that job, you never had anybody more reliable, work harder or any better than I did, and you know that, too!”
“Son, I’m sorry you feel that way. Aside from ever’thang else, I thought you and me was friends.”
“Uh-huh. So now it’s friends, is it? If you didn’t have anything to do with this, what’re you worried about?”
“You know, you and Sherylynne been like my own flesh and blood. I wouldn’t want you bringin’ charges against her. You wouldn’t do that, now, would you?”
“Who’re you worried about, you or her?”
“Now, listen here, son, they ain’t no use bustin’ a gut over it. It ain’t but a few months till you’ll be getting another one a them checks. So why not let Sherylynne and that baby have that money and be satisfied. Write it off as child support. I mean, you ain’t been payin’ nothin’, right?”
“What do you mean, ‘getting another one’?”
“W’hell, you’re gonna get that ten thousand ever year fer five years. You didn’t know that?”
Again he was stopped in his tracks.
“Boy? Harley Jay? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m here. And while we’re on the subject, I have been sending child support, and for what it’s worth, I have receipts.”
“Forget that Mickey Mouse child support! That damn bank can make a lot of trouble for us.”
“For you and Sherylynne, maybe. And if my ten thousand isn’t replaced by Monday, they’re going to get a grand opportunity.”
“Just what’re you plannin’ to do?”
“I can’t make it any clearer. That ten grand better be replaced in my account by Monday morning, or you’re going to find out, big time.”
“Boy—”
Harley hung up.
THE NEXT DAY at noon, Harley went down to the lobby and called Gonzales. “Mr. Gonzales, Harley Buchanan.”
“Ah, yes. Delighted to hear from you. I’m told your little, uh, problem is straightened out.” Mr. Gonzales’s attempt to be light and friendly sounded fairly strained.
“Just so we’re clear, I wasn’t the one with the little problem.”
“Well, yes. In any case, I’m told you’ve come to an agreement with Mr. Whitehead and Mrs. Buchanan. Is that correct?”
“Depends. If he replaced my money, we can all relax.”
“Yes, yes, of course. In fact, Mr. Whitehead was in this morning, said your wife had withdrawn all the money without his knowledge, and he was willing to make it up to you on her behalf.”
“That old man’s full of shit and you know it.”
“Well—”
“I understand I have another ten thousand coming to me on the first of January. That right?”
“Why, yes. Yes, you do. Not only that, but the amount is to increase by two thousand a year. So this year you’ll be getting twelve.”
“Twelve…?”
“Next year it will increase to fourteen. And so on to eighteen, two thousand more a year for four years. That’s the way she set it up. Inflation I suppose.” Mr. Gonzales sounded eager to spread good news.
“You’re saying I’m going to get that on the first of the year for the next four years?”
“Yes, sir. That’s absolutely correct.”
Harley took a moment to catch his breath. “Okay. Now, listen. I could really stir up a stink over this if I wanted to. You know that.”
“Well, uh, the bank—”
“I don’t give a hang about the bank. I want that money deposited to my account at First National City Bank, one-fifty-three, East Fifty-third Street, here in New York. In the meantime, nobody’s to touch it except me. Understood?”
“Certainly, Mr. Buchanan. Certainly. We’ll send you an authorization form. Return it certified mail. In the meantime we’ll put a hold on all withdrawals.”
Harley went back up to the art department. He sat at his drawing table with his T-square, the pre-printed layout pad, information on the latest camping accessories from Product Management. Twelve-thousand dollars. Just about twice what he made here at JCPenney. He choked up, thinking of Mavis—dear, lonely, lovely Mavis, friending him with such a gift.
It was bad enough that Sherylynne and Whitehead would swindle him, but he had a hard time accepting that they could do such a thing to Mavis, knowingly going against her express wishes. And when she was dying. It was hard to believe Sherylynne had spent ten thousand dollars from the time he left Midland in October of ’64, to the present, November of ’65. Thirteen months.
The next day he called several Midland attorneys. Two sounded promising until he mentioned the connection with Whitehead regarding Sherylynne’s last known whereabouts. Then they politely declined representation. So. This custody thing was going to be a problem.
The next morning he knocked on Mr. Nelson’s office door. He gave two-weeks’ notice and apologized for letting Mr. Nelson down. Mr. Nelson said Harley was ripe for an art director job if he wished to stay on. Mr. Nelson was somewhat taken aback when he learned Harley was resigning in order to paint. Harley shook Mr. Nelson’s hand and said with humor that he regretted he couldn’t stick around long enough to take Mr. Nelson’s job, after all; he had had good intentions. Mr. Nelson smiled, clapped him on the back and wished him good luck. “Change your mind, we can always use you.”
That evening after work, he went down to Forty-Seventh Street Photo and bought
a thirty-five-millimeter Nikon with a good telephoto lens, fifteen rolls of slide film, and some lighting equipment. On Saturday and Sunday he made slides of all his paintings. He shot them with the telephoto lens, as distance kept the rectangular edges true, parallel to the slide mounts. He had them developed and divided them into sets. He wrote a short résumé by hand, in which he mentioned that he had studied with internationally known artists in Dallas and New York. He mentioned that he was currently represented in New York by 20/20 Insight, but failed to mention he was still a student.
On Monday, he paid Nelda five bucks to type it up. He made photocopies of the letters, and that night he packaged slides to two galleries in Houston, one to a gallery in Dallas, one to Santa Fe, one to Philadelphia, and one to Chicago.
Word had gotten around that he was leaving, and friends and fellow workers arranged a going-away luncheon on Friday, his last day. He hadn’t confided his windfall to anyone, only that he was leaving to paint full time. When a few asked openly if he was independently wealthy, he only laughed. “Hardly.” Quitting a decent job to paint? They probably thought he was outright lying. Or completely nuts.
Chapter 41
Reconnect
TWO WEEKS BEFORE Christmas he bought a doll for Leah. The eyes closed when you laid it down. They opened and it said “Mama” when you stood it up. The salesclerk said that no doll had ever said “Daddy” that she ever heard of. He boxed the doll up and mailed it to Leah in care of Whitehead.
As always on holidays, a box arrived from his mother. There was a hand-tooled Western belt with a silver Tony Lama buckle, a Christmas album by Ernest Tubbs, and a tin of homemade candies. Included were a hand-crocheted blanket and a set of interlocking plastic blocks for Leah. And for Sherylynne a gold locket that had been his grandmother’s. A note said Anna Mae and Annie Leigh, coeds at Texas Tech, were home for Christmas and doing well. Aunt Julie’s health was beginning to fail. One of his second cousins had been run over and killed while working for the highway department. The fall crops had been fair, but the price of beef had dropped again and it wasn’t worth it to feed through the winter. His mother wished he and Sherylynne and Leah could all be home for Christmas.
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