by Ron Hevener
Ben looked at the floor. Where had he been when his grandfather died? What had he been doing, exactly? Laughing? Dining at a fancy restaurant? He knew the answer. He had been getting dressed, like some ancient warrior preparing for the battlefield. But what battle? What war? “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he said, looking at the floor, the ceiling, the wall. Anywhere but into her eyes filled with things he didn’t, couldn’t, know, and in which he found no comfort or escape.
“Don’t be,” she said. “He wanted it this way.”
“Wanted?”
“Ezra was a realist, Ben. A big thinker, right up to the end. He always looked at the big picture. You know? We held hands.” She broke off, couldn’t finish, unable to be strong for even one more minute.
Ben reassured her with a touch to her arm, as Sidney came into the room, still in her nightgown and robe. “How was New York?” she asked. “Did you get your suit?”
He blushed. “Yes. And I got to know Wembly DeCroy a lot better. He had a lot to say.”
*
Funerals are easy. No matter what you do, it’s OK.
Cry? Cry all you want to. It’s because you’re overcome with grief. Cry really good and you might get paid to be a carpideira. Wouldn’t that be a kick? Your next job application would say, “Previous work experience?” and you’d answer, “professional funeral crier.” What a kick.
Swear at a funeral? Ben couldn’t help himself. He swore everything he knew how to say or think.
Go nuts? That’s something he had left in a New York City porn shop.
People push you around at funerals like you’re some kind of movie extra. “Over here” they say. “No, no. Over there!”
“This is so-and-so and oh-so-important. Do you remember your cousin Alpert from twenty years ago? Sorry he never got around to visiting, but, hey, you understand.”
“Good ol’ Ezra. He sure knew how to squeeze the life out of a dollar.”
“You’re gonna be rich now.”
“See?” Ruthie might have said. “I told you things take care of themselves if you just get out of the way and let them.”
That’s great, Ruthie. Only, to you, “things” are what the rest of us call “people.”
Chauffered Cadillacs, Lincoln Continentals and Rolls Royces descended onto the farm as Ben observed foreign dignitaries and business associates paying their respects to his grandfather. How could Ezra Hoover, from a small town in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, have known people from such exotic, faraway places, he wondered?
Beside him and Sidney Leigh, Sarah and Wembly shook hands, nodding politely and reassuring anxieties of people they seemed to know. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around, he thought, as Theodore Trimble and his companion approached the casket?
What was it that made Sarah stiffen?
“It won’t be the same without him,” the attorney was saying to her, frozen as if she were falling off a cliff and couldn’t scream.
Wembly answered. “You are right, mon frer,” he said, conveying a message of which Trimble appeared to understand the meaning.
Turning his attention to Ben, the attorney said, “If there’s anything I can do….” He stepped then to Ezra’s coffin, hat to his chest. Suddenly, with a shiver, he shook, just once—quickly—as if forgetting himself in the nervous convulsion of a split second. “Ezra!”
Gently, his friend put her gloved hand on his arm. Even Theodore Trimble had someone, Ben thought, searching for all his heart for the one whose presence would have meant more to him than anything else in the world. More than a hundred important strangers. But no matter where he looked, he didn’t find Ruthie. No one even mentioned her name.
*
Mornings after the death of someone you love aren’t easy. You expect to hear them. You feel their thoughts and you wonder what to make them for breakfast. But there isn’t any breakfast for them, unless, you feel like they’re watching you through an invisible curtain or membrane that you want to break through and tear apart. We’ve all done that. We’ve all broken through the wet, slippery membrane wrapping us in a safety net and fallen into the edgy, dry world of our lives. That’s what birth is all about.
If Ben and the others looked at this as birth, nobody said. For now, there was just the haunting stillness of death being felt all the way through them.
Sidney Leigh, in her down-to-earth way, puttered around the kitchen in jeans and a sweatshirt before sliding into a jacket and heading for the barn. There would be horses to feed. Horses to water. Timothy hay to smell and stalls to muck.
Sarah would be there, quiet and thoughtful.
Would Sarah be thinking about love and wondering if she would ever know it again? Or was it too soon for that? Sidney knew it was too soon. She knew it would always be too soon. “Are you OK?” she managed to say when she found Sarah in one of the stalls, a brush in one hand and a curry comb in the other.
Sarah didn’t answer.
Sidney tried again. “It’s OK if you want to be alone,” she said, turning to go.
“No,” Sarah said, but she didn’t look up. “Don’t go.”
Sidney Leigh waited. She wasn’t accustomed to this side of her aunt’s nature. The quiet, reflective side. She wasn’t accustomed to much of anything except what she saw on the surface of others.
“I don’t want to bother you,” she said. “I mean, right now. After yesterday and everything. I mean,” she struggled for the right words, “if you want to be alone, I certainly understand.”
Did she? Did she understand how it felt to hold someone you loved—loved most in this whole world—to hold him in your arms while his head tipped back, his skin turned color and his eyes stared off at things you couldn’t see?
Did shallow-minded young Sidney know what it was like to feel Ezra’s hands go still? Did she feel his mind pull away? And did she hear him say with his last breath, “I’ll help you”? Did she understand that?
No. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Some people just weren’t made that way.
Sidney Leigh didn’t even understand herself sometimes. Measuring out the grain, adding vitamins for various horses who needed special attention and making a mental note to call the farrier and make sure he’d show up, she thought about everybody now. But, mostly, she thought about Ben.
Would his life change, now that Ezra was gone? She knew better than to ask that. Of course, his life would change. Along with it, so would hers. So would all of their lives. Nothing could be the same now. She was foolish even to entertain the thought. How much it would change is something only Theodore Trimble knew, as he arrived at the house in a dark grey tweed, no overcoat, wearing the same hat he had carried so respectfully at Ezra’s funeral the day before. Removing it politely and revealing slight balding, he bent over to pet Sidney Leigh’s dogs, who seemed to know him.
He shook hands with Wembly, who merged into the formality of the occasion, and Sidney Leigh offered coffee, which he accepted asking where they should be seated for their business and followed Sarah into the study.
Inside, he asked to use the walnut desk so that he could spread out his papers, and he removed four sets of Ezra’s will from his attaché case. These, he laid out onto the desk, leafing through them to make sure all pages were in order before handing one set to Sarah, another to Wembly, one to Sidney Leigh and the last to Ben. Finally, he spoke.
“Ezra wanted me to settle things as soon as possible, so there isn’t any disruption of the business. I’m sorry if this is too fast for you. It wasn’t my idea,” he said.
“The first part of the will divides the personal property, as you can see. Most of it goes to Benjamin Franklin Hoover, with the exception of certain items going to Sarah Marie Mattison and Sidney Leigh Drabek.
“In addition to real estate,” Theodore explained, “Ezra left various sums of money. ‘To Sarah, the love of my life, I bequest full title to Mattison Farm and the sum of one million dollars built with investments from insurance money made on her behalf. Did I do wel
l, Sarah? I owe you this and more. I pray when I meet Arden Miller, he will say I did right by you. The rest of my estate in cash, business stocks, insurance policies and bonds, I leave under the guidance of Wembly Pierre DeCroy, who shall act as executor for my grandson, Benjamin, in its use, management and voting wisdom for as long as he is willing.’” Trimble paused, looking around the room at them. “There is a list of investments here,” he said, “in companies Ezra controlled one way or another. I’ll leave it to read that yourselves, and if you have any questions, I am available. It’s quite extensive,” he said. “About the trustee position,” he said. “I should point out to all of you that there isn’t any time limit. But that was Ezra’s choice. He was very specific,” Trimble said. “And there is an important codicil to the will, signed not long before he died. I’ll read it to you now: ‘Last, but not least, I leave to my daughter, Ruth Anne Hoover, all of the mortgages, leases and titles in my name for properties bordered by Phantom Creek along that part of Lancaster and Lebanon Counties known as The Ridge. I leave these to her to do with as she sees fit, with the legal counsel of Theodore M. Trimble.’”
It was official. It was final. It was over.
“If you have any questions,” Theodore said, putting down his coffee, “we can go over them now. Otherwise, I can understand why you might want to be alone. You can reach me at my office if you need anything.”
“Wait a minute.” It could only have been Sarah stopping the world and speaking with such bluntness. “I don’t get it. Why would Ezra—I’m just curious—do I understand this right, or am I missing something here? Can anybody tell me why Ezra would go to the effort of buying up The Ridge—I mean, it must be a lot of land—and sell them off and hold the mortgages, peel off cash for me, but end up giving title for the land, itself, to Ruthie? Ruthie, who never comes here? Ruthie, the city girl who never even visited him? Don’t get me wrong, I’m more than grateful. But what sense does it make?”
“He was a man of many surprises,” Trimble added.
“He sure was!” Sarah said. “Ezra was my life for years and he never breathed a word to me about those properties. Let alone, any of the rest of it,” she looked at Ben and Sidney Leigh for support.
“Sarah,” Theodore said. “Let me explain. Do you remember Arden Miller’s insurance money?”
“Sure I do,” she said. “You called me a cowgirl and you wanted me to get lost!”
“I didn’t really,” he said. “Back then, I had a lot on my mind. But you went to Ezra like you said you would. And you told him what you wanted. Well, Sarah, he fell in love with you. And a man in love will do whatever he has to. He took your money and bought something Ruthie wanted. And now, he’s making it right.”
It was the age-old struggle between a daughter and her father’s mate. And Ruthie had won.
Gathering his papers to leave, the attorney said, “If nobody has any other questions, I’ll be going.” He closed his briefcase, picked up his hat and walked to the door, which Sarah closed sharply behind him. On a hunch, Ben checked from the window to see if anyone was waiting in the car outside for him, and saw no one.
“Aunt Sarah? Are you OK?” Sidney Leigh asked.
“I feel like we’re running ahead of an avalanche,” Sarah said. “We’re idiots if any of us think this isn’t a life-changer,” she said, flat of emotion.
Her sudden show of common sense did wonders to lighten the atmosphere, and Wembly, grasping the need for a change, brightly asked, “Why don’t we go for a walk, Benjamin? I feel like I’ve just been on a—gee, how many years?—roller coaster.”
*
Outside, Wembly chased Ben’s silence into oblivion. “I knew about the investments, Benjamin, of course. But, he was very capable in business and I was never expecting to be trusted in this way, in case you are wondering.” Pausing respectfully, he said, “If you want to change his wishes—you will tell me?”
“No. No. I know Grandpa had faith in you. There’s just a lot I didn’t know. It’s like getting hit by a mountain. All those people at the funeral,” he said. “And Aunt Sarah’s right—I can’t imagine running anything close to this big on my own. I need your help. I don’t know anything. I must have been living in a bubble when I should have been going to business school, or…working in his business. Or something!”
Wembly relaxed. “I’ll help any way I can,” he said. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”
Looking down at his boots, polished as Ezra always made him keep them, Ben considered his next line of questioning. “You knew Grandpa a long time, right?”
“One would think it was long enough to know someone, yes,” Wembly continued, “but from what Theodore has just told us, perhaps I did not know Ezra as well as I thought. And I didn’t know about the codicil leaving such property to your mother.”
It was the right moment for Ben. “Did you ever meet here?” he asked.
Wembly stopped, surprised at the sudden openness of the question.
“My mother, Ruthie,” Ben said, again. “Did you ever meet her?”
The sophisticated Frenchman didn’t speak for a while. When he did, he answered carefully. “I knew your mother, Benjamin. Yes. As a young woman, she would come to New York for auditions, often with your grandfather, and I helped with her wardrobe,” he said. “Later, when she had her own club and no longer needed to audition for work, Ezra knew she was still too young for such a life, so he had people in the right places, so to speak, taking care of things. I was the one he asked to select stage costumes and makeup intended to make her appear mature and sophisticated; things I knew from growing up in the theater—things that came very natural to me. In that sense, I protected your mother in the City and Ezra was very grateful.”
“The store,” Ben guessed.
“Yes,” Wembly said. “He helped me start DeCroy’s just like he helped start many businesses. We saw the wisdom of an international store like DeCroy’s, where business partners and their associates could meet. As the circle of influence grew, and the investments became more international, there was no question it was a wise choice.”
“Even if you never made a sale, right?” Ben said, to Wembly’s silent nod.
“It was the meeting rooms that mattered to him the most,” Wembly answered.
“Was there more between you and my mother?” Ben asked, sensing there was.
Wembly opened both hands as if asking what else there could be, and knew it would be unkind to evade anything the young man could ask now. “What more can there be than friends?” Wembly said. “When she became pregnant with you, I offered to marry her. I followed her here, to this town.”
“And?” Ben asked.
“I saw for myself where she came from and how she lived. And I knew all I could offer was my name and my dreams.”
“Are you my father, Wembly?”
“No, no, no, Benjamin,” Wembly said, with a started laugh. “Do not think I am your father. But if I was, I would never let you go.” Gently, he placed a hand on Ben’s shoulder.
Disappointed by this answer, yet comforted by its graciousness, Ben asked, “What happened to the marriage?”
“She laughed at me, Benjamin.” It seemed as if Ben had never seen eyes so filled with sadness as Wembly DeCroy’s just then. “She laughed,” he said. “But your grandfather didn’t.”
It was enough. At least, it was enough for now. “Nobody saw her at the funeral,” Ben said, after a while.
“Dear Benjamin. That doesn’t mean she was not there. Nobody would recognize Ruth Anne unless she wanted them to. She has the advantage of many years, and great intelligence, on her side. Not to mention, her belief that privacy is the first layer of the costume, and the most important. Remember, I taught her well. A change in makeup, a different walk or accent? A good wig? You would never know. Not even I would. I’m sure it was difficult for you, growing up alone. But you can be very proud of someone like her. She is a master of self-control and disguise. But, first of all, she is on
e of the most discreet and cunning business players on the world stage. And that is the biggest stage of all.”
Proud? How could he be proud of a mother who never wrote, never called, never visited. A mother who gave up on him?
“No, Benjamin. That is not true. Like her father, Ruth Anne is—and always was—a believer in business,” Wembly reminded him. “It was her religion, her strength and her abiding love. The career was, I have often thought, simply an easy-to-explain way to go anywhere she wanted, and meet anyone she wanted to. The Temple?… ‘her very own place of worship’ she once called it, that no one could take away. It has been, for many years, the perfect place to make deals that neither you, nor I, might find honorable. I am not saying anyone except Ezra could understand her,” Wembly added. He wasn’t making this easy for Ben. “But I will always know I tried.”
“Are you always so guarded about people you know?” Ben asked.
This, Wembly heard clearly. “About Ruth Anne? It is Ruth Anne, herself, who is the guarded one. As I said, she is a very private person. And there are very few of them left.”
“Since when is a singer private?” Ben pressed.
“Since they made your mother, mon frer. These days, sometimes I think privacy is what she cares about, even more than business. But I have heard she is making it her business. I have heard that she is financing political candidates based on their stand regarding privacy.”
There was finality in his answer, and this time it was Wembly’s turn to ask, “Are you surprised by the extent of your grandfather’s investments?”
“Yes,” Ben said. “I’m very surprised, actually. Maybe more surprised that they were all around me and I never asked,” he said, wondering why he hadn’t. He was sure Ruthie would have.
* * *
New York City
Not everybody felt that way. In her private apartment at The Temple, Ruthie sat quietly, staring at a painting of Steitzburg. “Teddy, I’ve waited a long time for this,” she said. “It’s finally mine.”
“He didn’t even know what he was signing,” Theodore said, raising a glass of champagne and clinking it with hers. “Doc gave him some medicine and when I showed up, he was ready to sign anything.”