Brotherhood of Gold

by Ron Hevener

  “What are we going to say in the ad, Aunt Sarah? What pictures?”

  Sarah grew confident. “That’s where you and Bennie come in,” she said, with an expression of here’s the kicker. “Along with the best horses, my ads are going to star my two favorite people in the whole world. Wembly’s going to dress you guys—he knows all the latest—and we’re going to make a name for this place, Sidney. I’ve decided, we’re taking the money Ezra left me and we’re having fun!”

  “Oh! I can’t believe it!” Sidney screamed, jumping up and down. “Can I tell Ben right now?”

  “In the barn,” Sarah whispered. “After supper, right?”

  Later that night, nestled on a horse blanket in the hay loft and listening to the munching of grain, Sidney Leigh couldn’t help herself. “Can you believe it, Bennie? I’m finally going to be a model!”

  He propped his head. “What’s the idea again?”

  “Aunt Sarah wants you and me—her two favorite people in the whole world, she said—to pretend we’re having fun at the stable after the races. Our horse won the race and we’re feeling so good now. And we’re alone and all those good feelings and love!”

  He felt the heart-pull. “Love for the horse. Yeah, I get it,” he said, knowing it wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

  She turned away, embarrassed, and he touched her shoulder, but she was sliding off the blanket now, brushing hay off her jeans and heading for the horses nearby. “Don’t you ever wonder what they feel, Bennie? Don’t you wonder what they’re thinking?” He narrowed his eyes intently, trying to decide what she wanted to hear and surprised that she could even think he never imagined such things. For him, such questions had been settled long ago: Of course they feel.

  She went on. “Do they miss their children? Do mares really care what stallion they’re bred to?”

  “Well, I know they do have their favorites,” he said. “Like all females do,” he smiled. “Am I right?”

  Taking a deep breath, she plunged into unchartered waters. “I honestly believe animals feel the deepest things, Bennie. I think they long for each other. I think they miss us when we’re not around in ways we don’t even have the words for. And they don’t even need words, Bennie. Because they know. They just know in their smart, animal way, that when you really feel something, Bennie, you don’t even need the words.” She faced him then, and every thought, idea or sensation in him was reflecting from her.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered, and they were glad nobody was looking.

  It didn’t take much for Wembly to get the idea and make the arrangements. On the day of the photo shoot, the DeCroy team of photographers and makeup artists arrived at the farm ready for adventure. “Sarah, my love!” he waved in big, show-biz style.

  “Wembly, darling!” Sarah called out in the same playful tone from the barn, where she was pitching fresh hay into a stall selected for the pictures.

  “Beautiful!” said the designer, looking victorious and energetic in boots and tweed. “I always forget what a good eye you have for a picture. Perfect setting!”

  “Isn’t it, though? This is going to be their stall at the track. I’ve got all the gear right here—saddle, bridle, water bucket, sponge, brush. Everything I could think of. I’m so excited!”

  “I have a good feeling, too, Sarah. It’s a great idea. If anyone reading the magazine wants a horse, surely they will call you. Are you printing a brochure as well?” he wanted to know. “We can take pictures for that as well, if you like.” Reaching for her hand, he said, “Come and meet the crew, Sarah. They do all my ads for the business. They’re very good. Very New York,” he whispered, as if sharing a secret.

  Sidney Leigh and Ben joined in, as Wembly made the introductions, finishing with a grand flourish. “And this,” he said of the wiry imp of a man sporting feathers in his long hair, is your makeup man, Wildwater. He has done covers for some of the top fashion magazines in the world. He just finished a shoot with a splendid American actress in London—what is her name? She sings like Ethel Merman.”

  “Oh, I know who you mean!” Sidney said, excited. She’s great! I just love her!”

  “Me, too, honey!” Wildwater chimed in. “She’s such a trip! That bright red hair and SUCH a doll!”

  “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO! This will NEVER do!”

  “Melvin!” Wembly said, pointing to a tall, slim man in tight, black leather approaching them from the barn. To Sarah, he said, “Your photographer. A genius! Whatever he says, Sarah. Do whatever he says!”

  “NO! I say AGAIN! This is not what I envision. You hire me—you hire Melvin Fontaine to create magnificent shots for you, Wembly, my love, and THIS is what you give me to work with? I can’t believe it! What do you expect of me! I’m an artist. An ARTIST! I can do miracles. God knows I’ve done miracles with some of your models. But why do you insist on making things so difficult?”

  “What does he mean?” Sarah, intimidated, whispered to Wembly.

  “He wants you to know he’s an artist,” Wembly explained. “Forgive him. He is not always like this.”

  Wildwater rolled his eyes and slid in his opinion: “Wanna bet?”

  Wembly stepped forward to comfort his photo-diva man. “Melvin, my friend! How can I make things right for you?”

  “First, you can get us OUT of this stinking shit hole and give us some LIGHT!”

  “He’s talking about my barn!” Sarah protested to anyone who would listen. But they weren’t.

  “You do not like the set? The location?” Wembly was asking Melvin.

  “No! I do NOT!” Melvin retorted. “Get us OUTSIDE of this barn where I can BREATHE! It stinks! Do you expect my crew to work in this miserable stench all day? Not even the money you pay is enough, my dear Wembly!”

  “As you wish,” Wembly acquiesced. “We shall move the set anywhere you like. You know how much I respect you in such things.”

  “AND how much you don’t in others!” Melvin went on. “You SHOULD respect me in ALL things! I’ve made a fortune for DeCroy’s. A fortune! I put you on the map! I’ve gone to considerable lengths to make time in my schedule for this—you know that!” His mood shifting on an emotional barometer only he could read, he said, “I’ve already picked the location,” considerably calmer. “Outside the barn. Beside the stall door. Last stall. Near the small shed that has such beautiful tiger lilies blooming around it. Didn’t you notice them coming in the lane? You must have noticed them. The color of those flowers will bring out the color of the horse you selected—incredible, by the way—and it complements the young lady’s hair and almost all the clothes you brought along for her.” Pleased with himself, he added, “We’re selling romance here, are we not? You must notice such things, Mr. DeCroy!” he said with a click of his fingers.

  “Ah, yes,” Wembly agreed. “And what I notice more is a showman—a very talented showman—and a master of his craft.”

  Flattery was obviously Melvin’s weakness. “Art, dear. ART!” he preened.

  “I stand corrected, mon frer. I shall never use again the word craft in your presence. Now, come here, darling, and meet your subjects.”

  With a sullen toss of his head, cloaking himself in professional composure, the photographer strode toward the others with an air of authority effectively won, however blatant, and extended to Sarah his bejeweled hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Mattison.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too,” Sarah managed to say, standing her ground now. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the location I picked.” Without allowing their eyes to meet, she turned to Sidney. “This is my niece.”

  “Sidney Leigh,” Melvin said, making sure it was noticed that, with his uncanny attention to detail, he already knew the name. “The love interest in our little story.”

  “And this is my nephew, Ben,” Sarah said, unwilling to allow Melvin to show off again.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Fontaine,” Ben said, showing the photographer that, he, too, didn’t miss much.

 
“My name in the trade, dear boy, is Black Melvin.”

  Somebody sounding a lot like Wildwater mumbled, “That’s what he thinks!” under his breath. This shoot was going to be fun, Ben thought, hoping Black Melvin hadn’t heard the comment.

  “Well, then!” the cheerful and inspired artist clapped his hands. “What are we waiting for, people! It’s showtime! Wardrobe! Dress these kids—I can’t stand the rags they’re wearing. Rags! Rags! Bring the bomber jacket for Ben! Leather! Lots of leather! Sidney! Pants for Sidney. She’s a beautiful girl, and we want to make her hot, hot, hot! Pants! Boots! Riding crop! I want a riding crop! And do something with that HAIR! Surprise me, Wildwater. SURPRISE me! You’re good at that.”

  He had heard!

  “Silk scarf! White—No. I want ivory! Ivory-colored scarf around her neck. Did you bring one?” he asked the wardrobe lady—who looked to Wembly, who said, “Of course! Every color of the rainbow!”

  “Now the saddle!” Melvin commanded, as the excitement, the energy, the magic of his spell began to smoke. “Get me some of that other stuff—brush! Cloth! Now—give that horse a bath, kids. Make him wet all over! Lots of suds—LOTS and lots of soapsuds! That horse is gonna be the cleanest horse around and he’s gonna shine on! Don’t just stand there! Get to work, darlings! Energy! Lots of energy!”

  Click, click, click, click, click!

  “Beautiful! BEAUTIFUL!”

  For the rest of the day, they worked like this. Hour after hour. Sidney and Ben gave their best for a madman with a camera—but he was a madman who knew exactly, and without a shadow of a doubt, what he was doing. “Look at each other! For God’s sake! Pay attention and look at each other. You’re at the track. The race is over. The horse just won a GREAT race and you had your picture taken in the winner’s circle. Now you’re back at the barn and it’s just the two of you and the horse. You’re washing him down like you’re supposed to do, or whatever, and it’s just you after a great, once-in-a-lifetime day. Got it? OK. Now, give me the feeling. Get into it and BELIEVE it! Make it real and I’ll give you a picture that’ll make everybody who sees this ad want to be just like you!”

  Take after take after take. Breaking for lunch. Breaking for “brain sessions”. Breaking for adjustments, changes, touch-ups. This is right. That isn’t. NO! NO! NO! Try again. Come on, people! Come ON!

  As evening approached, so did the transformation. A slow-motion self-control obvious to everyone, and Sidney felt it first. “What’s going on?” she asked Wildwater.

  Hushing her, he whispered, “The magic,” before dropping back into a respectful silence. “The reason we put up with all the bullshit.”

  To Ben, she said, “Do you maybe get the feeling the giant man in the sky crashlanded here and he’s a crazy-ass photographer named Melvin?”

  “Black Melvin,” he reminded her, nodding his head.

  She frowned. “Oh, yeah. Let’s not forget the black part.” Looking to the pond, the rebel in her started showing itself. “He thinks he’s tough shit? We know what bossy is really like. We’re Sarah’s kids!” she laughed, but only to Ben, who was looking at the pond, too. “Tonight, she whispered. “In the dark. Buck. Fuck. Naked.”

  “OK. Kids! Break it up!” It was Melvin-the-big-time-director again. “We took up all afternoon on this BUT,” he shielded his eyes against the sun, “I have a dream. What I need for this now is exhaustion—you against the world—and, to get that shot, the scene has to be at the end of a long, hot day. This is it now! We’re shooting with real film this time.”

  Real film? That son of a bitch! Scooping up handfuls of suds from the bucket, Sidney and Ben laughed hysterically, splattering soap all over the horse, all over themselves—and ran straight at the camera!

  “GREAT!” the master screamed. “PERFECT! PERFECT! PERFECT! THAT, my beautiful, beautiful new friends, with whom I hope to work many times again, is what we call a WRAP!”

  It was the last thing he shouted before they yanked him screaming and cursing out of the director’s chair and—with help from Wildwater and the rest of the crew—pitched him firmly into the pond.

  “Well, Sarah,” said Wembly, laughing with dismay as Melvin thrashed and cursed, “I believe you’ll have some very distinctive pictures and a wonderful ad.”

  “Will he be all right?” she asked, genuinely concerned.

  “Without a doubt,” said Wembly. “From the very beginning, that is exactly what he wanted. The spirit! The spontaneity. He’s thrilled! Now all that remains is to see the response. Are you sure you can handle it, Sarah?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Bennie looks pretty good in those clothes. Sidney might have her hands full keeping anybody from tearing them right off!” She laughed. “Are you sure you have enough extra pants at DeCroy’s?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Uninvited Guests

  Diane Wallace checks her notes. There is enough footage to edit the interview almost any way the network wants. She’s sure of that. But is Ben sharp enough to know if they slant it any way except how he wants, there won’t be enough footage to fill the show’s hour? Curious, she asks him during a break, “Did somebody coach you for this?”

  “What do you mean, Diane?

  “Well,” how can she put this, “you know, Ben, there are different points of view on things. And you do know footage like this is edited.”

  His response is direct, “Unfortunately.”

  She accepts his honesty. “Well, if they don’t have enough footage for what they want, I guess we can always turn it into a documentary. It would mean changing the format slightly. But I guess we could do that.”

  “Why would you want to mess with anything we’re saying here?”

  She glanced sideways and then back to him. “It’s not always me, Ben. Surely you know that.”

  “Everybody on set!” somebody calls out. They return to their seats. The lighting and makeup are checked one last time, and, once again, Diane becomes the consummate reporter/friend representing her viewers.

  “You say that Wembly was intense; that he was spending more and more time on something related to the Phantom Lake Wildlife Park Were you concerned, in any way, that it was turning into an obsession?”

  “Concerned?” Ben shakes his head. “No, Diane. By now, he had a good idea what we were dealing with. The only thing we didn’t know was ‘who’ and how far all of it went. If anything, Wembly was a visionary and I trusted his instincts.”

  “Visionary. Would you care to enlighten us?” Clever play on words.

  “Visionary in the sense that—perhaps because he was a designer—he often seemed to have a sense of what was ahead, around the next corner, even far into the future. The idea that we might one day accept it as natural for people to be walking around talking to themselves because they’re on a phone and not just crazy, for example?”

  She laughs. “So, maybe he was on to something. But how does this connect to Phantom Lake?”

  “I wasn’t sure, but I knew I trusted him. Perhaps because of his talents, his experience, his age, he could see things farther ahead than me, yes. I was young. I had gone from being a kid with a car and a girlfriend to something I wasn’t really sure of yet. I was starting to realize that without Wembly there for insulation, I had no idea how to handle the complicated business affairs of my grandfather. I wasn’t ready. I needed him. But you’re right about Phantom Lake. It started taking over his life. And mine along with it.”

  * * *

  Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Mattison Farm, 1972

  Munching his way through a PB & J sloshed down with a glass of milk, Ben heard voices coming from the study.

  “You’re sure of what he saw. It wasn’t a mistake?” Sarah cross-examined Wembly.

  “I am sure there is no mistake,” Wembly said, taking a seat and folding his hands. Reason must prevail now; not emotion. “Sarah…did Ezra ever say why he wanted those farms on The Ridge?”

  She shook her head. “No, he just said some day they cou
ld be worth something and he was getting his hands on the property while he still could. He was always good at making a profit. Who knows? Maybe he just did it for Ruthie, just like things turned out. She was always roaming around there from what I heard. They were always taking hikes together. God knows, I couldn’t get either one of them on a horse. No, they had to get down and feel things. They always had to feel the dirt and pick up stones and rocks, like they were experts or something. The only stuff on The Ridge is iron ore and the market for that gave out years ago.”

  “Perhaps they were looking for Indian arrow heads. Or it was just the farmer in their blood, or curiosity about a bygone era?” Wembly observed gently, as Ben entered the room from the kitchen asking if he could join the conversation.

  “Of course, you can!” Sarah said to Ben. “We’re just talking about the old farms on The Ridge and the Project.”

  “I know. I’ve been listening from the kitchen. Actually, I’ve been doing some wondering myself. Like I can’t figure: after all the work of pulling those properties together, why would Grandpa turn them over to Ruthie just so she could sell them off?”

  “But that’s not how it happened,” Sarah corrected him. “Yes, he left it all to Ruthie. She’s the one the state actually got it from, when they foreclosed on just about everything out there. But that doesn’t mean she sold it to them on purpose. All the government has to do, when it wants something, is show a bunch of blueprints.”

  “Theodore!” Wembly blurted out loud, facing Ben.

  “He told us he saw plans. Perk tests, survey reports—everything!” Ben said.

  “I remember!” Wemby said. “And he told us if there was anything valuable, the government would know. So there was nothing valuable but the land itself.”

  “We’re idiots!” It was Sarah talking now. “That guy’s a lawyer! He’s always going to be editing what he says in case it ever shows up in court. I don’t hear him saying that land’s worthless, at all. I don’t hear anything of the kind! What I hear is Theodore Trimble sending you a message: He’s saying, the government certainly ‘would’ know if the land on The Ridge is valuable—but you guys didn’t pick up on it. You didn’t ask him if they actually do know it!”