Brotherhood of Gold

by Ron Hevener

  “Oh, he knew all right,” came her answer. “He was just worried you’d finally tell the Treasury about the bank money when he was gone!”

  “What would it matter then?” Theodore said.

  “Benjamin!” she reminded him. Were those her maternal hackles showing?

  Theodore poured himself another glass. “We’ll take care of Ben,” he promised.

  “Daddy knew how much I wanted that land!” she said suddenly. “What I’d teach them! I could have strangled him for holding out on me so long like he did!”

  Theodore couldn’t help himself: “But, darling,” he laughed, “your father was a holding company!”

  “I hate your jokes!” she said, slapping his face and spilling his drink across the floor. “Don’t ever make a joke about this! It’s the most serious thing of my life!”

  “OK! OK!” he said, holding up one arm in defense and wiping his face with a handkerchief. Her outbursts of temper were becoming more frequent now. “Did you take your meds today?” he asked.

  “Of course, darling,” she smiled now, kittenish; the slapping incident completely forgotten in just seconds. “Why are you looking at me that way?” She truly didn’t seem to know.

  He had no appropriate answer. “Nothing, Ruthie,” he said patiently. “I was just thinking how much I love you.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Some Lessons Don’t Come in Books

  Diane Wallace cocks her blonde head and raises her chin as if to make a challenge. “A person is curious…why did the fact that Ezra owned the land make such a difference to Wembly?”

  “At the time, I didn’t make any connection and I didn’t know,” Ben says. “It was a government project funded by taxpayers, as these things are. Anything else he said about the properties, I didn’t see a connection. I just knew it was a wildlife refuge, you know? Fishing, hiking, ducks, geese. You know.”

  “And what did you uncover?” she asks, somewhat suggestively.

  “For me? Nothing, Diane. For Wembly, it was a different story. For a while, things were unreal. My life was changing, but I was far from ready to understand the responsibilities he had left me. Wealth is a responsibility. Just like poverty is. Wembly was in charge. Directing things—gladly! Diane, I’ve been accused of interfering in government at times. But may I ask you something?”

  “Turnabout is fair play,” she says, for viewers who could catch the double entendre.

  Ben doesn’t get it and sticks to the subject. “Do you believe government is so smart, so omnipotent, that it always does the right thing?”

  She smiles, too smart herself to risk controversy. “Maybe you’d like to answer that,” she decides to say.

  “OK, do you think the American government, great as it is—and believing it could be even greater—always makes the right decision in matters of national importance, for example? It’s a simple question.”

  “And a fair one, too, Ben. But, the answer would be a matter of opinion, wouldn’t it?”

  “Well, in your opinion, then. Do you—a reporter, a successful journalist. In your wildest dreams, do you even remotely believe this country—this whole world—is doing everything right?”

  “Do I look to you like an expert in foreign affairs, Ben Hoover?” she scolds, amused.

  “You look, to me, like someone who has her finger on the pulse of the nation, yes. His eyes narrow shrewdly. “How could you say anything that could offend your viewers? Do you think they like living in a world where tax collectors treat you like dirt? Where weapons are more and more sophisticated? Where gangs rule your cities and terrorists threaten the subways you ride? I see a world of real danger out there, Diane. A world where free-thinking people like you and me won’t be able to walk into an airport, or a court house or any government building without taking off our shoes, our belts, our jewelry and going through an Xray machine.”

  Her shock escapes the camera, but her voice thickens with disbelief. “Not. Ever. Ben.”

  “No? I beg to differ, Diane. All it takes is fear. Oh, it might not happen overnight. It might not happen in five years, or ten. But it could happen in twenty, and that’s a whole generation. And, then, you have a whole generation of citizens—voters, Diane—who make decisions and laws and policies; who run the corporations that give jobs so people can buy their groceries and pay their bills. And none of those people—not one of them—will ever know what it was like to be,” he paused for emphasis, “free.”

  * * *

  New York City

  Hate…contempt…disgust. They’re not so different from each other. What it takes to earn them, however, can be vastly different from one person to the next. In Ruthie’s case, the feelings went both ways, but, from where she watched, nobody knew how far down they had rooted. How wide they went was about five thousand acres’ worth. How deep, was all the way to China.

  “They went for it,” Theodore said to her now, and Ruthie smiled. “The money, and the rest of the deal.”

  “I knew they would,” she said, thanking her skills with the weakness of people for it. “Isn’t it wonderful knowing what people do when nobody’s looking?”

  “Even better when you have the pictures to prove it,” he said, thinking of a few Pennsylvania politicians at The Temple and their taste for cocaine.

  “When do they start?” she asked him.

  “They’ll go through all the rituals,” Theodore said. “Put the project out for bids; a few write-ups in the press, that kind of thing.”

  “What for?” she said. “We already picked the General Contractor. That’s part of the deal.”

  “Yes, but it has to look legit,” he reminded her.

  “What for?” she said again, laughing. “Those people are so dumb—all they’ll care about is losing their homes! And I can’t WAIT! I can’t wait to see their faces!” she said, in a way that sent a shiver through him. Could it really mean so much to her after all this time? He could hardly imagine it. But then he couldn’t have imagined the years of sacrifice and patience it had taken, and how she had engineered a way to get what she wanted without ever getting her hands dirty.

  “Ruthie, you have more talent in your little finger than the whole town put together,” he said. And she loved him for it.

  “I’ll call the senator in the morning,” he promised. “He can notify his buddies at the Fish & Game Commission and they’ll take care of the rest. Where do you want your money deposited?”

  “Well, Steitzburg, darling! Where else?”

  * * *

  Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Mattison Farm

  Money wasn’t on Sarah’s mind. The lives, the hopes of people she had known and loved, even those she had hated or envied in Steitzburg…her heart could only cry for them now. What had they ever done? she asked herself. What had any of them done, and their children, to be pushed off their homes now, like this? What was so important—so unforgivable?

  People were the hope of everything. She had spent her life trying to understand that, and—with the death of the one she loved more than anything else in this world—she finally believed it.

  Families had lived in this town for generations. They had lived through the stock market crash, through the Great Depression, the Korean War, Communist blacklists in Hollywood and they had made it to the 70s now. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And it was theirs!

  She and Ezra had talked—many times—about his hopes and dreams for Steitzburg. How it could become a center of business activity like nothing else, with shops and studios; with factories and restaurants and offices and theaters. Mattison Farm would be a tourist attraction where visitors could see beautiful horses born and raised. A place where, just like Arden had hoped so many years before, the young Kennie Martins of the world could find their strength and confidence against all odds. Idealists? Of course, they were. Dreamers? Absolutely. Like Arden had taught her from the time he first set her on a horse, everything starts with an idea. And his were still out there growing.

&nb
sp; So were Ezra’s. With great attention to detail, he had planned and made notes about every purchase and loan made though BG Investments-Steitzburg. Most of those investments had been good. Surely, Ruthie would respect him and take care of the properties on The Ridge he had left to her. She would protect the friends and neighbors living there—no matter how deep her need for revenge might be against a town that had turned its back on her so long ago, and forgotten by now.

  It was like a play she had once seen and couldn’t remember where anymore. Maybe at the old Mount Gretna Playhouse. A play about a young woman shamed in her hometown who grows up to destroy it. Ruthie didn’t have to see that play. She was born knowing the script.

  Sarah went to her horses now, like she always did when faced with things beyond her ability to understand. Wrapping her arms around the nearest one, she pressed her face against a shoulder great enough to carry all her burdens, and cried.

  * * *

  New York City

  Wembly didn’t have time to cry. His work had just begun: Conversations reviewing how much hope there had once been, how mediocrity had become the Jake instead of the unacceptable in a society grown commercially, industrially and scientifically complacent. Wembly pulled. He cajoled. “When the gardener plants a tree and waters it, Benjamin, he gets a tree. But as the discipline of Bonsai teaches us, a tree will bend to the shape of any pressure we apply. The tree is formed—or it is de-formed—according to the pressure. But it continues to grow.”

  “I understand,” Benjamin said.

  “That is when we plant a tree. But another way is when a tree takes root in the farthest corner of the smallest backyard,” Wembly said. “After a long time, its branches can reach out far beyond its original limits.”

  “What are you comparing to a tree?”

  “In time, you will know,” Wemby said. “And you will know there are many trees in a forest, Benjamin. Each with its own purpose, no matter how different. The tree I am speaking about is this country. The United States of America. A daring economic and political adventure embarked upon, coincidentally, not far from where you were born and raised. It is a tree whose branches shade and nourish people far and wide. But its own heart—its very root and core—is rotting, Benjamin. Being eaten away by termites we call terrorists. Just like the ones draining what they want from the riches of Phantom Lake while the great tree looks elsewhere and doesn’t even know.”

  “Can we save the tree, Wembly?”

  “If we are good tree doctors, we can.”

  “Tree doctors?”

  “The tree doctor is mobile, is he not? He goes from place to place because he has freedom. If he is wise, and cautious and intelligent, he heals the tree by exposing the termites to the light of day. Termites die in the light, Benjamin. They scramble off into oblivion!”

  “But I’m still asking, can we do it?”

  “Have you not heard me? Do you still not understand? A leader becomes all things to all people, or he tries to. Loved by everyone, or he wants to be. He can be romantic—who can be against romance? He has strong morals, or at least he knows what strong morals are. Do you begin to see? A leader stands for the best of all things. An Ambassador of Light sent forth and financed by an international business community could inspire many things. He could spread his golden light, Benjamin. The light of possibility. And in time, the qualities we hope to nurture—independent thought, self-confidence and greatness of spirit—these things could be the standards to which we all return. It would be a new paradigm.”

  What did he mean?

  “A new way of thinking,” Wembly said, “taking us beyond expectation and current understanding. The world is fighting to keep its head above dark and dangerous waters, Benjamin. Our economic and spiritual strength is eroding. By spirit, I do not mean any one, particular dogma. I mean the common denominators of all dogmas—the great truths in all of them.

  “People are living in ever-increasing fear, Benjamin.” It was a constant theme in his conversation and point of view. “They are losing their drive to produce. They are sad and medicating themselves with pills, injections and you will see more and more drugs in our movies and all forms of entertainment.” His posture slumped just slightly and he was quiet for a while.

  “When you think of yourself as a victim, Benjamin, are you not giving someone else power over you?” Ben considered that.

  “More and more people are living as victims,” Wembly said. “But in a free society, does anyone truly want to feel that way?” He smiled sadly and said, “Survival is on their minds, not achievement.”

  “Unless you consider survival to be an achievement,” Ben observed.

  Wembly faced him. “Once again, you see clearly. Survival is, indeed, an achievement, for without it, there can be nothing else. But babies are preoccupied with survival. Are they not? And there is little more from babies than eating, sleeping and excreting.”

  Ben had never thought of it in exactly those terms.

  “When survival is on your mind, there is no astronomy, no geometry, no science or literature or greatness. With only survival on your mind, maintaining the status quo is all you can think about. I know this,” he said.

  How could a man surrounded by luxury, as he was, have the slightest idea of life’s tragedy and battles?

  “Life is very long and filled with many turns in the road,” Wembly said. “And there is no country without its people,” he said after a while. “But how many leaders truly know their own people and what is really happening in their country? What the people are thinking. Feeling. The crash of the stock markets, that is my frame of reference as some might explain. Before then, oh, I thought I knew people. I was a fashion student, one might say. Although my teachers were tailors and artists who did not really know someday they might be called designers!” He laughed at himself. “I was so young, Benjamin.” He shook his head, no doubt remembering many mistakes along the way. “So young. We did what we felt we should—and sometimes what we knew we should not!” He blushed with naughty pleasure, remembering. “We made jokes. And we laughed. We had fun! We thought we knew life and we believed life would never change, only get better, you know?”

  Ben could have listened forever to him.

  “When the Crash happened,” Wembly said, with sadness in his voice, “others ran for cover, and I would never see most of them again. They went home to their families in France, or England or Argentina and tried holding on to their family fortunes. Or making a life for themselves in some way, far different from the dreams we all had in Montreal. But I came here, instead. I came here and found work and opportunity in theater. And that’s how I met Ruth Anne.”

  “Two souls looking for understanding,” Ben said.

  “Beautifully said, mon frer.” Wembly looked at him as if such understanding had not come often in his life. “I came here with nothing, Benjamin,” Wembly said, as if needing to explain his decisions and choices along the way.

  “I found friends. Very special friends, who, like me, had found it hard to live in their hometowns. People can be very cruel to those who are ‘different’ growing up. And there is safety in numbers,” he said. “But I didn’t find them right away. On the streets, I could not shave or comb my hair. I could not change my clothes. I begged for anything I could get. A blanket. A hat. A few pennies! I ate garbage in stinking alleys. I slept anywhere I could. And with anyone who could give me a meal or shelter from a storm. I lived it, Benjamin! Night after night, I heard fighting—slapping flesh, tortured screams from things I cannot even describe to you, and will not. I felt dirty hands grabbing at me! I smelled stinking breath! What happened to you that night?” There was no need to remind Ben. “Let me tell you, a body is easily surrendered in times of desperation and need—when a body is all we have to bargain with. How insulting to the sensitivity of human nature!” Wembly said. “How deteriorating to the vitality and bravery of the human mind! And yet, so very, very common even in the finest of bedrooms.”

  B
en wanted to comfort him now, to touch him and say it was a very long time ago. And, yet, he knew it would never be “long ago” for Wembly. Inside Wembly DeCroy—so distinguished and accomplished—would always be a young and frightened artist trying to find himself and not knowing how.

  “Contrary to what you might think, the whole country did not come to a sudden, screeching halt like a freight train or a subway stopping for an innocent child on its tracks. Many people could not believe what was happening even after the banks closed. Their lives had been easy and they couldn’t believe it was really true. The New York Stock Exchange, or Chicago—those cities were far away for most Americans. Factories were still running in some places. In the city, one could find food outside restaurants in the theater district. And that’s where I met Willie.

  “There was a place I knew. You’ve been there. A fine place, where great Broadway stars go. And the leftovers were very good. After a while, the waiters knew me and they would save me a plate, which they would hide under a dish towel in one of the dumpsters in the ally. One night, I went there for my meal, and—to my surprise—a stranger had found it before me. There he was, having my lasagna.” Wembly laughed. “I am telling you, Benjamin, it was very good lasagna and I was not very pleased!”

  “I’m sure you weren’t!” Benjamin said.

  “We fought over that lasagna—oh, did we fight!—and that man was none other than Willie! So, you see, Benjamin. I do know what it is like to live on the streets.”

  “But what happened to Willie?” Ben asked.

  “Are you asking why one man is still on the streets and the other is not?” Wembly said. It was exactly what Ben wanted to know. “Perhaps he is the one to ask.”

  * * *

  Pennsylvania Dutch Country

  For months now, it had been nonstop like this at radio station WGPA. Day after day, they played music, broke for the news, and went straight to the Talk Hour. But people around Steitzburg didn’t want to talk about Democrats or Republicans or schools and who got arrested for what kind of nonsense anymore. Now, they wanted to know why a bunch of pesky wild geese had more rights than they did. Now, they wanted to know why sheriffs and deputies with badges and guns were knocking on their doors with court warrants and no trespass signs for their own properties. Now, they wanted to know why they had to sell off their livestock or give them away to meet impossible deadlines, why bulldozers were knocking down their houses and why handcuffs were being slapped on people who stood up for their rights and why those people were paraded through town.