Brotherhood of Gold

by Ron Hevener

  “Absolutely. I don’t have any doubts about you, but this is a big undertaking and I want you to succeed. A plan like this can take a lot out of you, Sarah.”

  “But if you respect me, Ezra, like you say you do, then why have any doubts?”

  “If that’s how I sound, you aren’t hearing me.”

  “I’m not?” she straightened up and looked squarely at him. “I’m not a kid. I’ve been working since I was fifteen. I can lift a bale of hay and throw it on the back of a truck. I can ride the wildest horse you ever saw. And I can run this farm and start with the worst old plugs you give me—and make it the best place around. You didn’t see what I saw over there in Poland, Ezra. I didn’t just buy the first horses I saw, or the ones after that. I only bought three, out of hundreds! And I didn’t buy until I saw what those old mares can produce. Those skinny old mares have made race winners, Ezra—all three of them—and I saw the stallion they’re bred to. You’ll never believe who wishes he could have him.”

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Dr. Armand Hammer.”

  “Not just him—his friends. I saw a group of them at one of the farms. The director said something interesting—he said Americans are buying horses to move money around.”

  “That is interesting,” Ezra said, reluctant to reveal even in his voice what he might already know.

  If she was to succeed, if she was to touch her dreams and if the love becoming apparent between them was to survive, then she would need—she would demand—all the encouragement and belief he could give. “Sarah Mattison, don’t ever let anything I say or do ever change your mind,” he said. “I believe in you more than I’ve ever believed in anyone.”

  It was a vow; a vow from partner to partner, from man to woman, from thief…to a victim loved.

  PART II

  Investigations & False Leads

  CHAPTER 9

  Empty Confessions

  “Darling,” Ben says quietly to Sidney Leigh in the kitchen again now. “Everything’s OK.”

  “But I just don’t feel right about this, Ben,” she says, putting a hand to her head as if she can’t understand herself. “I mean, I NEVER get like that,” she says, as behind her back, Sarah breathes a patient sigh and rolls her eyes to Ben.

  “The important thing is, you feel better now,” Ben says.

  “No, Ben. I don’t.”

  “What is it, really, honey?” Sarah asks, touching Sidney’s hand.

  “It’s the whole interview, Aunt Sarah. I just have this funny feeling that it’s not what Ben wants it to be.”

  Keenly aware of Sidney Leigh’s sense of extra perception, Ben kisses her lovingly on the head, nods to Aunt Sarah as if saying, Please keep an eye on her, and returns to his place on the couch.

  “Thought you’d never get here,” the assistant says in a sly whisper, as he finishes pampering Diane and adjusting Ben’s microphone and collar. Stepping back like an artist from his canvas, he smiles brightly. “Everything OK, guys?”

  Diane sips from her mug, glances behind her shoulder toward the kitchen and faces forward again. “I’m OK, if you are,” she says.

  Ben settles comfortably into the couch. The dog rests his head against Ben’s hand, and a smiling Diane begins. “The man you describe as your mentor and father figure, the late fashion designer Wembly DeCroy,” she says. “He was, maybe even more than your grandfather, a strong influence on your life. Is that true?”

  Ben watches, and doesn’t answer as the sorceress weaves her spell and sets the mood. “You met at a very dark time in your life” she says, as if remembering something she, herself, had no honest sensitivity for, and, perhaps no right to. “Ezra had just passed away…. ”

  “That might be what you’ve read somewhere, but the truth is, I had met Wembly DeCroy years before. I had met him at the races with Aunt Sarah.”

  “The horseraces,” she says, as if having horses is an indulgence for only a privileged few instead of the almost religious lifetime commitment it really is for so many dedicated people of every class and denomination. “How, exactly, did he know your family?”

  “Mr. DeCroy was a sportsman and early supporter of Arabian horseracing in this country. Before he went to Montreal, his family, in France, had raced their horses for years, and he was excited by the chance to be part of the same industry developing here. By the time I met him, he was already established in the clothing business and had his own stores. He was also one of the early members of the Brotherhood, so you figure it out. My grandfather trusted him,” he smiles fondly. “He was a man with extraordinary vision, energy and style. They were very close.” He pauses, remembering an important detail. “And a philosopher. He was…most certainly…a philosopher.”

  * * *

  Turbulent 1940s have a way of becoming not-really-perfect 1950s, have a way of becoming dirty 1960s, have a way of becoming sexy 1970s, depending on what side of the fence you’re on and who’s telling the story.

  Ruthie left town and Ezra bought himself an heir. That’s not all he bought. Maybe because of Sarah, he took a liking to the properties along The Ridge and he started tying them up with leases and mortgages in every shade of grey. Why he didn’t tell her, is anybody’s guess. Maybe he wanted to make Arden’s death up to her by getting back what used to be his, and more. Other lovers have done as much, and for lesser reasons.

  By now, Theodore was a lawyer with a big client and he didn’t need anymore than that. Between Theodore, Jake Zimmerman and the boys, a lot got done around Steitzburg. A lot got done outside of Steitzburg, too.

  Sarah was in the Arabian horse business just like she wanted to be and Arabian racing was starting to make the jump from the County Fair circuit to a few pari-mutuel tracks, just like Arden Miller said it would.

  Mary was still in the nut house, which she wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.

  Esther was still taking care of Ezra’s house, cheering Ruthie on and never admitting it.

  Funny how time flies when you’re having fun. And how slow it can be when you’re not. Twenty years is a sentence for some, and you don’t have to be in prison to feel it.

  You don’t have to yawn at phony lawyers making indignant faces in the age-old drama of who did what to whom and why. You don’t have to hear sobbing accusations of victims wronged by things that weren’t even crimes when America was tough. You don’t have to wrack your brain and be scared to death about saying anything wrong or politically offensive to minority points of view. Majority rules, or at least it should. Other than for Arden Miller, things were fine in Steitzburg. People were happy, and why not?

  You’d be happy, too, if every Christmas there was a surprise check in your mailbox you never asked for.

  Wouldn’t you be happy if you wanted to start a business and somehow the money came through?

  What if all those medical bills got paid off by an unknown benefactor?

  Wouldn’t you be happy if the kids got an unexpected scholarship for college?

  And what if it was your old rust-bucket of a car that got hauled off one night when Jake Zimmerman and the boys just happened to be in town…and a new one showed up the next morning with the keys and title on the front seat?

  Steitzburg was a great place to live in those days. Maybe if Arden had kept quiet about what he saw that night, he might still be living on The Ridge, training horses. But if he had, Sarah wouldn’t have gotten the bloodlines she was after, she wouldn’t have a place for her niece from Baltimore to live when she needed it and that same niece, Sidney Leigh, wouldn’t have a crush on Ezra’s good-looking grandson, Benjamin right now….

  * * *

  Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Mattison Farm

  “Benjamin! Benjamin Franklin Hoover, get your sexy man butt in here this instant!”

  Black hair and sideburns on a big-smiling, handsome face lifted up from under the hood of a car and lively eyes flashed toward the house. Tan, muscular arms slammed the car’s mouth shut and wiped greasy hands on a chamois clot
h. Grabbing a bunched-up shirt, he shook it loose and slid inside with a smile. “I’m comin’!” he hollered, polishing fingerprints off the car’s white enamel with his shirttail. He had been lucky to find this ’68 Mustang in the junkyard. But wasn’t that his nickname, Lucky One?

  “I made dinner and it’s gettin’ cold!” the pretty blonde girl yelled, tucking herself back into the kitchen where she had come from. Curly-haired Sidney Leigh, just a few years younger than him, shuffled off to her Aunt Sarah’s farm on weekends until, one day, the relatives from Baltimore just didn’t pick her up anymore. Not that they had a choice. Car accidents have a way of making up our minds for us sometimes.

  But that’s not what the young man vaulting up two porch steps at a time was thinking about as he swung open the screen door, latched onto the soap at the kitchen sink and started scrubbing. “I’m starved!” he said.

  “New recipe,” Sarah said, from the table, rolling her eyes in Sidney’s direction. “Do we trust the chef?”

  “I don’t know,” Ben teased. “She’s pulled some fast ones.”

  “Stop pickin’ on me!” Sidney scolded. “Everything in this stew comes right out of our own garden, OK?”

  “Ah,” Ben said, faking interest. “Vegetables!” and Sarah smacked him.

  “Half the world lives on vegetables and plain old grass—which is a vegetable, too—and it sure doesn’t hurt a horse any!” Knifing a potato, she added, “Your grandfather’s completely vegetarian now, Ben. Did you know?”

  Midway between buttering a slice of bread, Sidney wondered out loud, “Do you think it’s helping?” She looked to Benjamin and Sarah both.

  “Well, he’s not any worse,” Sarah answered. “And I’m sure he’ll like this. I’ll take him some.” Turning her attention to Ben, she pointed to his plate and glared. “You! Eat!”

  Further in the house, where Ezra was staying now, the doctor on his weekly visit to Ezra’s bedside finished taking blood pressure, temperature and making his routine check of medicine bottles.

  “You think I’m cheating, Doc?” Ezra said, watching him.

  “On Sarah? Never! She’d kill you before the leg does. But when the pain gets bad enough, a man can do anything. And I don’t blame him for doing it,” he said, adding a blue bottle to the collection.

  “Pain?” Ezra asked, lifting his leg with both hands to move it aside a little. “You have no idea.”

  “We’ve talked about surgery,” the doctor said.

  “Cut it off? After all this time,” Ezra almost joked. “I’d miss the damn thing. And Sarah would work me to death if I get better!” He actually laughed. And, it was a good laugh.

  “I don’t think you have to worry about that,” the doctor said, knowing Ezra accepted there was no cure.

  “Just what I need,” Ezra said. “An optimist! Or is that the guy who takes care of my glasses,” he smiled through his pain. “Can you believe this thing started with just a lump?”

  “A calcium deposit, Ezra.”

  “From the acorn, a mighty oak doth grow,” Ezra said, looking at his knee that was the size of a small watermelon now. “If you took it,” he asked the doctor, “how far up would you have to go?”

  “The whole way now,” came the answer.

  Ezra went vulgar. “Shit!” Jolting up, he grabbed for his cane.

  “That’s one thing you’d have trouble doing,” the doctor said, calmly.

  “I just need a little more,” Ezra said, reaching for pills. “Just a little more time.” A child couldn’t have been more vulnerable. “I want Sarah.”

  “Did I hear someone mention my name?” Sarah asked, coming through the door with a bowl of Sidney Leigh’s hot vegetable stew from the kitchen, settling onto the bed and handing Ezra a spoon.

  “We’re talking about the leg,” the doctor said. “Or trying to.”

  Hesitation was something Sarah Mattison never learned. Patience with Ezra, rebelling against his denial and watching his torture since the diagnosis, she had hoped and prayed for him to reach the decision on his own. But when he finally asked her, she said “Do it! He’s tough. He’ll get around.”

  “No!” Ezra said. “We haven’t tried everything yet. There’s a clinic in Mexico.”

  “Ezra…we’ve tried pills, gallons of mineral water, prayer, willpower, books and, for God’s sake, we’ve tried everybody’s advice for what saved their friends and families and anybody they ever heard of, or knew. It’s huge now, Ezra. Let him take it—please! Oh, my darling, please.”

  His face, his eyes, went softer as he put his arms around her.

  To the doctor, he simply said, “I’d like to see my grandson now.”

  “Let me get him,” Sarah said, pulling away and wiping a tear from her face. “He’s in the kitchen.”

  To the doctor, who was closing his bag, she said, “I’ll show you out,” and he followed her.

  “How much time does he have, Doc?” she asked when they were outside.

  “Not long,” came the answer. “We both know he isn’t going to have the surgery.”

  She didn’t say anything. She only looked around her at the flowers, the shrubbery and the bird feeders she and Ezra had decorated the place with, together. “I’ll let Sidney Leigh and Ben know,” she said, and the doctor said good-bye.

  *

  “Grandpa?” Ben said, knocking gently on the door and entering the darkened bedroom a while later.

  From the bed, he could hear the creaking of springs as Ezra sat up and pulled his blankets aside for Ben to see his frail and wasted body. The smell of illness and the mist of a vaporizing machine rising from beside the bed stung Ben’s nose. He had never seen his grandfather undressed before, but Ezra wanted him to now.

  “Sarah said you want to talk with me,” Ben whispered.

  Ezra glanced at the table beside him and the yellow tablet never far from his side. “Hand me that, Ben.”

  Dizzy, Ben gave the tablet and a pen. Surely this suffering must come to an end, he thought, as Ezra began to write.

  “There’s a funeral coming up around here and it’s going to be soon. I guess I’m in charge of this one.”

  “Where’s it going to be?” Ben asked, as the moment robbed them of pretense, forcing them into black and white, and killing the magic doves that still fluttered between them.

  “Right here,” Ezra said. “I never liked that funeral parlor in town.”

  “What about Grandma Mary?”

  “She’s a nosey thing, an’ she’s gonna want to know where I am. They could bring her and let her see for herself, but it’s better not. Damn it—I need more time!” he said, smacking his swollen, deformed black-and-blue knee and almost fainting. Ben lunged forward to help and Ezra just stared—his eyes glazed and unable to speak, his face slack.

  “Hold onto me, Grandpa.” Ben gathered Ezra in his arms. This old, suffering man was all he knew of guidance, shelter and love. “I won’t let go,” he said, rocking Ezra side to side, back and forth, as the eyes that had seen too much closed and the head filled with so many memories drooped.

  In an instant, Ezra was awake again. “Ben!” he said—surprised—coughing and clearing his throat. “What kept you so long? I told Sarah I wanted to see you hours ago. Nobody listens to me!” he said, knowing much better.

  Forcing a smile to cover the despair he really felt, Ben just said, “Aunt Sarah’s in the flower garden.” Give me every minute with him you can, Lord…every minute you can spare.

  Ezra felt the pen and tablet near him. “Where did these come from?” he asked. “Did I fall asleep writing again?”

  “Yes, Grandpa,” Ben said, pulling the blankets around the grandfather he loved so much. “And here’s your pillow.”

  In command now, Ezra took the pillow, covered himself with a blanket and struggled to sit higher. “Well, I want to talk to you,” he started again. “We have important business, and I should’ve done this a long time ago. Because one of these days, sooner than we think, there
’s going to be a funeral, Ben, and it’s going to be mine.” Moments of clarity like this were fleeting now, and he knew that. Grateful, he went on.

  “After the funeral, you can trust Theodore with any legal stuff. Sarah doesn’t like him much, but he knows what he’s doing, and God knows, he’s part of the story. Then there’s your grandmother to think about. She won’t want for anything. But you must visit her, Ben. Often. Mary hates it when she doesn’t know everything.”

  Ben promised.

  “Now, about your mother.” At the mention of Ruthie, Ben’s senses went on high alert. “She don’t like funerals. I know you want to see her, Ben—I know that—but don’t ever try telling Ruthie what to do. She hates this town—she’s got her own reasons for that—and I respect that. So, just let her do what she wants and that’s your best way to handle her when I can’t do it anymore.” An uncomfortable silence fell between them now, as it always did when the subject was Ruthie.

  “Sarah’s gonna be OK. She’s got a nice surprise coming. And Esther, too. She’s a female hard-ass, and she always was. But I’m leaving something for her, and if she wants to keep looking after you, well, let her do that. It won’t hurt anything and I know you like her cooking. But I do wish she’d quit trying to fool anybody with that man she talks about so much.”

  “Zimmerman?” was Ben’s guess.

  Ezra shook his head, and his look hid nothing.

  Making no further comment, Ezra went on. “The minute all this is finally over for me—or when you just can’t stand it anymore—that’s OK. I can hardly stand my own self sometimes—you just get away from here a while. You shake yourself off like a wet puppy, Ben. Hop on a train for New York City, the way I did sometimes, just to get away and think. And if you run into your mother some place, well that’s good and you give her a great big hug and a kiss and you tell her it’s from Daddy! Ruthie knows—she knows what it meant to me, New York, with all the people who think big and do big things. Just look at you! You’re the biggest souvenir anybody ever got me!” He almost laughed when he said that.

  “And Ben, when you do get to New York, you go an’ get yourself the best suit and tie anybody ever saw around here. ’Cause you’re wearing that suit at my funeral. Don’t look at me like that! You wipe that sad look right off your face or I’ll give you something to be sad about!” Shaking feebly, he tried making a fist and couldn’t. They both smiled.