Hannah's Dream

by Diane Hammond

  “Rats.”

  “But—and here’s where it gets fun—what if Sam deems that the zoo itself does not and cannot meet Hannah’s needs? Does he have the legal right to move her to a facility that can?”

  “Like the Pachyderm Sanctuary,” Neva said.

  “Like the Pachyderm Sanctuary. My father needs a little more time to look into this before he gives us his final opinion. And no matter what, we’ll probably wind up in court. But the bottom line is, things are going to get better for Hannah. Sam has the power to make that happen.”

  “Someone going to tell that to Harriet Saul?” Sam asked.

  “My father’s offered to talk with her and the city as soon as he’s had a chance to find a precedent or two and feels like we’re on absolutely solid ground. You know lawyers—they move like molasses. But he’ll get back to us as soon as he can.”

  Truman and Neva sat in Truman’s car watching the rain outside Teriyaki Time long after Sam and Corinna had driven away. “I don’t understand why no one ever told Sam he was the trustee,” Neva said. “That makes no sense. And it had to be on purpose, because who would forget to do something like that?”

  Truman smiled and said, “I’d never have guessed it—you’re naïve!”

  “Me? Naïve?”

  “Think about it. Sam is a black man. He was a black man in 1958 when Max Biedelman died.”

  “So you’re saying it was racial?”

  “I’m saying it’s a lot of money, and it seemed like even more money back then. I’m saying some small town leaders probably weren’t going to put an uneducated black Korean War veteran in charge of seventy-five thousand dollars a year.”

  “Seventy-five thousand, is that how much the zoo gets? That’s less than a third of what we’d need for the sanctuary to take her.”

  “No, no. That’s just the annual earnings—that’s how much goes into the zoo’s operating budget,” Truman said. “The trust itself is worth more than half a million.”

  “God, I love you,” she crowed, and then she folded herself over the emergency brake and the gear-shift column and kissed him in a way he hadn’t been kissed in years or maybe longer; maybe ever.

  In bed on their backs, side by side in the dark, Sam took Corinna’s hand and placed it flat on his chest, over his heart. It was a gesture that went way back to when they were young and Corinna liked to tell him that with each beat his heart was saying, I’m yours, I’m yours, I’m yours. Who was Sam to disagree?

  “She told me this afternoon we couldn’t go and sit with shug at night anymore,” he said after a while.

  “Who said that?”

  “That Harriet Saul,” Sam said bitterly.

  “Big old mean-spirited cow. Why’d she say something like that?”

  “She asked me if I knew about the Neva drums, and I said yes, which was my first mistake—I know, Mama, you were about to say it—but I didn’t want to get the girl in trouble so I said we only knew because we were there at the barn when she brought them in. So of course she wanted to know why we were there, and when I said we came in sometimes to keep shug company in the evenings, that’s when she said we couldn’t anymore. Said it was because she couldn’t pay me for the time—like I care about that. I told her, too, but she said it didn’t matter. She couldn’t pay me, plus something about liability, so we can’t be there. But maybe now this news, this other, means we don’t have to do what she says.”

  “Maybe I’ll just put a little something nasty in her hair color next time,” Corinna said. “Grind up a little Hannah-doo, maybe.”

  “Woman, you’re bad.” Sam started laughing and then Corinna started laughing, too; and both of them laughed so hard they thought they’d never stop, and if they didn’t, it might not be such a bad thing, after all they’d been through. When they finally returned to their senses, Sam took Corinna’s hand in his and said, “Looks like the Lord might have performed a little miracle for us today.”

  “Do you know,” Corinna said, “He might just have.”

  chapter 17

  Miles was dancing with excitement when Truman came home from work—it had been another long day alone for the pig. Truman squatted beside him, Miles did his Fall of the Dead trick, and Truman scratched him all over, armpits included. Then he scooped some pig kibble into a dish and tuned the radio to a classical station that was likely to play Mozart for Miles in Winslow’s absence.

  It was odd, being at home without the boy. They had developed a way of life together and there was a sort of companionable, bachelor comfort to it. He couldn’t imagine losing a child, the way Sam and Corinna had, or giving one up, the way Neva had. But then, Neva Wilson was a different flavor of fish. She was going to lose her job before this mess was over, and she must know it, yet she’d said nothing at dinner about the likely effect their rescue mission would have on her personally. For that matter, Truman would probably lose his job, too, once his role in the intrigue became clear. In Harriet’s eyes, you were either loyal, traitorous, or an idiot; her childlike worldview lacked nuance. She sulked; she pouted and stewed and wheedled and undermined; she was as maddening as a nine-year-old. And yet her portrayal of Maxine Biedelman had been powerful and entertaining and fully developed. Was it possible to be better at being someone else than you were at being yourself?

  Truman opened a bottle of beer and took it with him to the telephone, speed-dialing his parents’ number. He filled Matthew in about the disastrous day, and then spent the next hour with the telephone receiver pinned between his ear and shoulder, listening. Before they hung up, they agreed to meet with Sam and Neva before work the next morning.

  At seven a.m., Truman, Sam, and Neva sat at a table farthest from the door of the Oat Maiden, nervously fidgeting with thick, mismatched mugs of coffee. It was the first time either Truman or Sam had been inside—and most likely would be the last, at least as far as Truman was concerned. The café’s walls were painted navy blue and all the tables and chairs apparently came from mothballed public high school classrooms. Cheerful little notes were taped to the walls everywhere, written in a childish hand and proclaiming, TRY THE ORGANIC HAND-PRESSED CIDER! and WE CHEERFULLY SUBSTITUTE SOY MILK. Only Neva seemed at ease.

  Matthew and Lavinia arrived with heavy briefcases and broad smiles. They each shook Neva’s hand, and then Sam’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brown,” Matthew said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Don’t know what there’d be to say about me, sir. But me and Hannah and my wife are real grateful to you for helping like this. You can call me Sam.”

  “All right then, Sam,” Matthew said pleasantly.

  Truman tapped the third envelope of sugar-in-the-raw into his mug of coffee in a vain attempt to render it drinkable. No doubt it was some variety harvested exclusively by the last virgins of an indigenous people living high on some obscure mountaintop in South America. After vigorous stirring, the coffee still tasted like roasted dirt.

  Matthew spread documents across the tabletop and described to Sam and Neva what each one established, and what he felt was the best plan for opening up a discussion with Harriet Saul.

  “Will you be there?” Sam asked after he was finished.

  “Yes, if it’s all right with you, Sam. I think that might be best.”

  Sam slumped in relief. “Yes, sir, that would be just fine. I’m not much good at talking about things sometimes. I lose my way, if you know what I mean.”

  “Well, this is complicated stuff.” Matthew smiled disarmingly, and Truman felt a rush of affection for this man who had taught him to value integrity and humanity above everything. Matthew continued, “Lavinia and I thought it might be best for me to open up the meeting with an overview of the changed situation in which we suddenly find ourselves. Let me take the fallout from Ms. Saul. Mostly we need to establish that you, as Hannah’s legal guardian, have the privilege, right, and responsibility to ensure that Hannah’s care and surroundings are of the highest quality. Is this all right with you
so far?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sam said gravely.

  “After that, you may say whatever you feel needs to be said—for instance, that you and your wife will continue to provide company for Hannah in the evenings as often as you see fit.”

  “She doesn’t do well being alone, sir,” Sam said. “I hate to be stirring things up, but shug just doesn’t do well when she’s alone too much.”

  “You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Sam. Truman has described the situation, and I believe you are every bit within your moral as well as your legal rights to act as you have done and no doubt will continue to do.” Matthew pressed Sam’s forearm reassuringly.

  “Any reason why we’ve got to tell her today, instead of waiting until after Thanksgiving?” Sam asked. Thanksgiving was only two days away. “Seeing as how it’s going to spoil her holiday and all.”

  Lavinia touched the cameo at the throat of her cashmere twin set and smiled. “It’s very thoughtful of you to worry about the holiday,” she said, “but we’re going to need a governmental permit in order to legally move Hannah, and that will require the zoo’s cooperation. The process will take weeks, at best. We’ll follow your lead, of course, Sam, but we’d recommend that in this case we get our first hand of cards out on the table right away.”

  Sam looked alarmed. “You going to tell her about us taking the girl to the sanctuary?”

  Lavinia said, “For now we think it would be best not to talk about moving Hannah. We have a little more legal work to do before we’re comfortable scaling that wall.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sam said, visibly relieved.

  “This is new and somewhat confusing ground for us all, Sam,” Lavinia said gently. “I hope you’ll ask us questions any time you have them. We’re pretty good at finding answers.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Truman drove back to the zoo alone, while Sam, Lavinia, and Matthew stayed behind to go over their talking points before they met with Harriet at nine o’clock.

  When he arrived at the zoo Sam checked in at the elephant barn, but then turned right around again to leave. Neva looked at her watch. “You’ve still got almost half an hour,” she said.

  “I’ll only upset sugar if I stay here, nervous as I am,” Sam said. “Naw, there’s something else I’ve got to do. I believe it’s time to meet this Maxine Biedelman.”

  He reached the front porch of Havenside just in time to hear Harriet Saul calling, “Welcome to my home!”

  Sam’s father had had an old tom peacock that had mooched around the farm dragging its raggedy tail feathers in the dust. That bird was as ugly an animal as Sam ever saw, but you would have thought he was king of the world, for all the preening and strutting he did. Sam hadn’t thought about that old peacock for forty years or more, but Harriet Saul brought back the memory like it was yesterday, she was so desperate for everyone to look, to pay attention, to say nice things. If Miss Biedelman could see the woman she’d laugh out loud. The small crowd around him was clapping, so the talk must be over. Sam saw by his watch that it was time to go to his meeting, and his heart hopped right up into his throat and stayed there.

  Matthew and Lavinia were already in the reception area when Sam arrived. They shook hands all around, and then Lavinia told Sam, “I forgot earlier that I have something for you, Sam. In going through the city’s files, I stumbled across this. Apparently Ms. Biedelman had left it for you.” She handed Sam a yellowed envelope of rich, heavy paper stock. “I don’t know why you never received it. I’m sorry.”

  Sam recognized Max Biedelman’s personal stationery. He put it in his pocket for later. The receptionist got a call, listened, then hung up.

  “She’d like you to meet in the conference room. It’s across the hall.”

  “All right,” said Matthew, with the faintest twinkle in his eye. “Come, then, my dear.” He put his hand under Lavinia’s elbow and nodded to Sam once, firmly, to strengthen his resolve.

  “You don’t expect me to take your word for any of this, do you?” Harriet Saul said after Matthew and Lavinia had finished their presentation. Sam hunched in his seat at the conference table.

  “Of course not,” Matthew soothed. “You’d be wise to talk with the City’s legal counsel. In the meantime, however, I trust we’ve been clear that Mr. Brown will be on the premises whenever he feels it’s necessary, day or night, but that he does not intend to request compensation beyond his usual and customary wages. And if you consult the zoo’s insurance carrier, I’m sure the liability issues will be easy to resolve.”

  Harriet stared at him hostilely. Matthew continued, “Let me remind you that Mr. Brown’s wages are not paid by the zoo itself, but by the trust, which is held and administered by the City of Bladenham. Technically, Mr. Brown wouldn’t require your authorization for overtime compensation. But never mind—we’re acting in good faith, and we’re confident that you’ll proceed in the same spirit.”

  Harriet turned and stalked out of the room without a word, slamming the door behind her.

  “Well,” Lavinia said brightly. “I think that went well, don’t you?”

  Sam caught just the hint of mischief way deep down in her eyes.

  “What happens now, ma’am?”

  “A rebuttal from the zoo, I would imagine. Challenging the validity of the trust, challenging your appointment as trustee. Don’t you think so, dear?”

  “Yes indeed.” Matthew winked at Sam. “My wife’s an excellent predictor of these things. Now, Sam, we’ll be off, but you know how to get hold of us. I want you to call if you have any concerns or questions, or if Ms. Saul takes any action that you’re uncomfortable with.”

  “Like what?” Sam said.

  “Oh, there are a number of things she can do to make things difficult for you,” Matthew said. “Taking away your keys to the facility, or changing the locks on the gates or doors. Firing Ms. Wilson. Attempting to fire you. Denying you access to the zoo property. Harassing you in any way, such as directing the security staff to maintain a watch over you and Hannah around the clock. Demanding that you sign in and out, so there’s a record of your presence at the zoo. I’m sure you get the idea.”

  Alarmed, Sam said, “You think she’s going to do any of those things?”

  “Ah—that I don’t know,” Matthew said. “But I’d say she’s certainly capable of it. Wouldn’t you say so, dear?”

  “Oh, certainly,” Lavinia said serenely, standing and straightening her pearls. “Absolutely.”

  As Sam walked out he noticed that although the room was badly overheated, neither Lavinia nor Matthew had so much as broken a sweat.

  On the way back to the elephant barn, Sam opened the thick, creamy envelope Lavinia had given him. It looked like it had been opened before—a wax seal he had seen Max Biedelman use on other correspondence was broken. Nevertheless, he handled the envelope with great care, wanting it to remain, as nearly as possible, the way it had left Max Biedelman’s hand so many years ago. Unfolding the paper, he read:

  April 15, 1958

  Dear Sam,

  I am entrusting Hannah to your care, dear friend. She needs you as much as you need her. I suppose she is the legacy of my last foolish act, for how selfish it was to bring her here to Havenside knowing she would outlive me. I trust that the attorneys will fully explain Hannah’s circumstances to you, as well as your powers as her guardian, but please accept this note, however inadequate, as my thanks for your friendship and for the love you have shown Hannah, Effie, and me. It has been my great privilege to know you. May you and Hannah prosper.

  —Max L. Biedelman

  The note was dated just two weeks before her death. Miss Effie had died five months before, and Max’s decline had been precipitous. She still accompanied Sam on walks from time to time, but she had had her gardener remove the campaign tent that, except for its periodic replacement, had stood on the grounds for fifty-eight years. Increasingly unsteady on her feet, she often held Sam’s arm when they walked.

/>   “I promised you a story of my family, Mr. Brown,” she said one warm afternoon as they moved slowly across the lawn with Hannah ahead of them. “And I always make good on my word. I shall tell you about my mother’s cousin. His name was Ernest, though he himself was not. In fact, Ernest was a shyster, a born con artist. But my mother was fond of him, and supported him off and on for years.

  “Once, Ernest claimed that he had come up with a patent medication that cured pustular tonsillitis. Of course there was no such treatment available back then, but he placed advertisements in all the major newspapers in the country, all the way east to New York and Boston. Well, the advertisements proved to be persuasive, and soon Ernest was flooded with orders he couldn’t fill, not having put by an ample supply of bottles. He became quite frantic, as you can imagine, and solicited my mother’s help. She showed him a little bottle of medicinal opium my father had obtained for her in Morocco, beautifully made out of cobalt glass, and told him that my father knew of a Turk here in the United States who might produce similar glass bottles for Ernest’s tonic. They could be filled with anything—tincture of violet or laudanum. It could hardly matter, since the product was a sham to begin with. Ernest, however, had forgotten that, and insisted on filling the bottles with some foul-smelling, execrable concoction he made himself, the secret of which he swore he would never reveal to anyone.

  “Soon the little bottles were speeding across the country, to households large and small. Do you know, Mr. Brown, that women began to write to him that whatever was in those little blue bottles cured them and their children? This came as quite a surprise, as you can imagine. It turns out that Ernest, whose only goal in life was to make easy money off the misfortunes of others, had accidentally brewed up a natural antibiotic, using tincture of Echinacea in addition to toadstools and swamp water, or whatever other god-awful ingredients he’d chosen. He died a wealthy man.”

  Max Biedelman laughed heartily. “So you see, Mr. Brown, it is possible that even the most despicable people can sometimes do good.”