by Ron Hevener
“What about right here?” Esther said quietly. “In the piano? He said a lady once told him never trust a bank. And I think we both know who that lady was, don’t we?” She was smiling.
A sob burst from Sarah’s heart. “I guess we do,” she managed to say. “But he never went near the piano. In all the time I knew him.”
“A fox throwing people off the scent,” Esther said. “Because he played very well. His favorite was Moonlight Sonata.” Together, they lifted the piano lid, revealing metal strings running length-wise across the instrument’s sound board. Sarah felt for a key to a safe or a lock box somewhere, but found nothing.
“Here,” Esther said after a while. “Let me help you.”
Lifting the board in front of the keys, she touched a delicate metal bar in the center of the keyboard, pushed up slightly and began to pull. “There’s a trick to it,” she said. “It needs oiled and it’s heavy. You take one end. I’ll take the other,” she said, bending over slightly to support the weight. Together, they eased the entire mechanism of the Lindeman to the floor as if removing the door to a pharaoh’s tomb.
There, before them and carefully ordered on stacks of file folders, were letters, photographs and documents. “How clever,” Sarah said, although whether she was marveling at Ezra’s hiding place or Esther’s unashamed knowledge of it wasn’t quite clear.
In a file of yellowed newspaper clippings, she found reports of local horse show wins. “Before I even knew him!”
“Look at these,” Esther said of a file holding snapshots of Ben as a baby, along with report cards and pictures he had drawn.
There would be time for this later, they decided. For now, they must get Ben to the farm, where he would be safe.
*
Recovering in the nest of those you love makes things easier. Like Ben, the yearling colts and fillies grazed and frisked without a clue about what lay ahead for them. Like his, their future was a mystery. “You can sure tell Juanita’s family from the rest of them,” he said to Sidney Leigh one day.
She agreed. “A lot of people would have sent her to the killer’s after what happened to Arden,” she said. “But it wasn’t her fault he got tangled up in that line. Anyhow, Aunt Sarah would never do such a thing to an animal.”
“She never believed it was an accident, though, did she?” he said, watching the young horses play.
“You know she didn’t. Why bring it up now?”
“I guess when you’re on the mend like this, laying around all day, you’ve got a lot of time to think about accidents like that,” he said and then he went quiet.
“What is it, Bennie?” she asked, sitting beside him now and taking his hand in hers.
“They really hurt me, Sidney,” he said.
She looked him in the eyes. “I know.”
He looked away. “It makes me feel…”
“Like strangers saw too much of your personal life, I guess?”
“Not a bad way of putting it,” he said.
“Well, Bennie, we can do something about that.”
“Like what?”
“Well, let’s make a promise to make privacy the most important thing in our lives.”
If it was the promise that helped, or if it was just knowing she understood, Ben felt closer to Sidney Leigh than ever now. Strange how we discover who is in our corner in the most unexpected ways. It wasn’t just physical, though. What bothered him more than anything was how easily he had been caught off-guard, how fast it had all happened, and how different the outcome was in his mind as he played it over and over again. In his mind, he was fighting off both attackers and giving them exactly the same warning they gave him—in exactly the same way. It was Wembly who put things in perspective.
“You look quite well,” Wembly grinned with a sting of torment and mischief. “The black eye is very becoming. As for the rest of you, well, without a personal inspection, I can only say you must choose your friends more carefully. And I would hope they are more gentle.”
“Remind me to take up Karate lessons!” Ben said, not amused.
“New York has some of the best schools for it,” Wembly replied. “Karate, Ben,” he said, making sure he was understood. “And you can live there now. I’m giving you keys to the apartment, to the store, everything. You have an important job to think about. There is work to do.”
“There is?”
“Did you not see the magazine ads, Benjamin? From now on, you’re The DeCroy Man. Your life must take you far away from Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, and the safety of your little, green haven. You must travel with me now on a different path and discover your destiny. You must travel on business, reviewing investments with me as you represent The Good Life—the best of everything life has to offer.”
“Sweet.”
“I believe you will soon say bittersweet, Benjamin. We are going on a mission. We do not know who is looking. We do not know the enemy. From now on, we must remember our real purpose. We are private citizens of the world, you and I. We are doing—as every thinking person should—everything we can to understand it and make it a better place.”
“I’m ready now,” Ben said.
PART III
Convictions
CHAPTER 15
The DeCroy Man
“If all this is true, then what happened at Phantom Lake was a secret for years!” Diane Wallace says incredulously.
“Decades,” Ben says. “Decades of laws, movies, TV and school books.”
“Didn’t” she holds his gaze and sways her head slowly “anyone ever notify the authorities? Wasn’t there an investigation of some kind?”
“Very good questions,” Ben says. “Almost from the start, we began to get anonymous threats.”
She nods in agreement. “The attack on you,” she says. “That was certainly a warning. After that, weren’t you scared for your life?”
“At times, yes. Absolutely. I’d be a fool to say I wasn’t. But as things went on, we realized by the threats it wasn’t just a local thing. We became convinced the threats were coming from the highest levels of federal government. So, Wembly was right when it came to not notifying anybody. We couldn’t. If you talk to the wrong people, they could be the very ones you’re reporting! See what I mean? Who do you think they’d go after first, Diane?” He smiles bravely; a man carrying a burden far too long.
“Of course,” she says, to the obvious.
“Fortunately,” Ben continues, “Wembly was a step ahead of them. You and I might question his methods, but he understood the scope of the problem enough to convince us the one thing we needed most…was time. We spared no expense in buying all the time we could. Did we succeed? All I know is, you and I are still here today, right?” Amused by her surprise, he says, “You wanted dirt.”
“OK,” she says. “Can we talk about your personal life?”
“Of course.”
“The horses. You have racing horses.”
“I also have dogs, cats, birds. I have many pets, as you can see.”
“Magnificent animals. I saw your kennel when we arrived here,” she says.
“Sidney raises them,” he says.
“Yes,” Diane smiles. “Mrs. Hoover. The nature lover.”
“She says they make her happy,” Ben laughs. “But I thought that was my job!” He smiles again and says of the dog next to him on the floor: “You might remember this one from some of the commercials?”
“I thought I recognized him! I loved those ads. Can we get another close-up?” The camera moves in to the beautiful dog lying beside Ben’s feet now. “Wasn’t he the George Orwellian dog, thinking, ‘How would they feel if’…and each ad showed a different issue each time?”
“Yes, that was him.”
“He was so popular, he could have run for president!”
“If you count all the write-ins, I believe he almost had it,” Ben says.
“Incredible!” she says. “Well, you’ve been quoted as saying you can judge a person
by the animals he keeps, Ben. And for saying love is what keeps us from blowing up the whole world. Do you really believe that?”
It’s his turn to be incredulous now. “Believe it? Of course I do. Hasn’t everybody figured out by now that if you blow apart the whole world, the very things you love will be blown apart, too?”
Embarrassed, she laughs at herself.
“But,” he raises a question, “what if you can’t love anything?”
* * *
Pennsylvania Dutch Country, Mattison Farm
Conviction comes in many forms, and just because they have a fancy room to say it in, doesn’t mean judges or juries are the only ones who have it.
Conviction doesn’t need creepy buildings or a special, high and mighty language nobody else but lawyers can understand. Real conviction comes in all shapes and sizes. Conviction is how we see things, and it’s also called “belief.”
Just exactly who has conviction can be anyone, and convictions can come from anywhere, even right out of the blue. It was Sidney Leigh who brought up the idea that gave the campaign new energy and a greater sense of psychological conviction.
“You know Mr. Ed the talking horse on TV?” she asked Ben one day. “Or Smokie the Bear? It’s funny how people pay attention to talking animals. What if we could take it a step further? What if we could animate the campaign with talking flowers, talking mountains, talking trees—even the all-knowing, all-seeing giant in the sky I’m always talking about, you know? We could have a theme running from one ad to the next…like, “life” in general saying exactly what it thinks and feels about us—you know?”
The idea of talking animals wasn’t new, as she had pointed out. But thanks to a slight twist on Sidney Leigh’s feeling of being watched by someone or something a whole lot bigger than ourselves, it really did strike a chord. It was idealistic. It was Disney, and “You know? I think it could work!” is what Wembly said, knowing he could leave refining The Good Life campaign to professionals, but grooming a product like The DeCroy Man could only be trusted to himself.
An almost fictitious character above any kind of reproach, The DeCroy Man would be one of those beautiful, indestructible heroes—half-man, half-god—born of an advertising agency’s fantasy. He would represent the highest standards of personal conduct. He would be an ambassador of imagination, accomplishment and possibility. With as much attention to detail and training as ever was bestowed on a Hollywood star, Benjamin Hoover was destined to be The DeCroy Man from the moment Wembly DeCroy had engineered his immaculate conception.
There were meticulous instructions in manners and etiquette…introductions to all the right people…conversations with bankers, senators, scientists…professors, authors, artists, journalists, publishers…galleries…theater…voice coaches…personal trainers…dining in all the right places. And through it all, there was Wembly, hiring the best coaches and trainers while he personally explained the DeCroy concept, and the team of creative engineers churned out the ads for television, radio, newspapers, magazines and billboards.
Such conversations usually took place during dinner; their sacred time. Their chance to review the day’s accomplishments, to discuss world events, to look to the future and how they might affect it. “What do you know about reincarnation?” Wembly asked one evening.
“I’m not familiar with it,” Ben answered honestly. “I’ve heard about it, but I wouldn’t say I understand what it’s about. Don’t step on bugs because they might be your own ancestors?” It was a joke. “Be careful what you do, or you’ll come back as a salamander?”
“Close,” Wembly said, pouring himself another glass of wine. “When the soul is born to start all over again a new life; that, mon frer, is reincarnation.” Ben listened as Wembly continued. “Many cultures throughout the world believe life is a learning experience and we enter a period of rest after we die. During this period of rest, we remember our entire lifetimes and we decide what we might do differently regarding the choices we made, if we had the chance to do it over again. Being born as a child again, with the chance for a whole new adventure, and until the soul has learned all that is good and all that is bad, this is how we perfect our souls.”
“What do we come back as, exactly? An insect?”
“Perhaps,” Wembly smiled. “Especially if you left as one.”
“What do you think I’ll come back as?” Ben wanted to know.
“Well, this time, you have obviously come back as The DeCroy Man,” Wembly said, amused. “Shall we go out on the deck? I like the city at this time of night.” They opened the sliding glass doors and let in the sounds of the city. Laughter, screams, sirens, cars; the sounds of life in all its drama. “A long time ago, Benjamin, this was a beautiful place to live, this city. Can you imagine the carriage rides, the beautiful shops and how clean it must have been? Not like today. Back then, everyone had a dream. It was amazing to be human! There was respect. And hope. If your father was a blacksmith, you would be one, too. And you would be proud of it. Son of a tailor? You would take over your father’s shop. Families took their names from their trades and professions: Taylor. Miller. Carpenter. You see?
“One could start a business in those days, or learn a trade and live happily ever after. People worked hard and they played by the rules. They lived a good life, and, if they couldn’t, they knew without a doubt what a good life was. It was easy to understand. Not like today. Do you know when all this was?”
Ben said he didn’t and Wembly sipped his drink. “A long time ago, all the way back to when this bloated, disillusioned country that your grandfather cared so much about first started. That is when.”
He reflected on that image for a while, as did they both. Immigrants such as himself were so much more aware of American possibilities than those born here. Sensing this, Ben remained silent.
“You think I am crazy for feeling so strong?” Wembly asked. “No? Then, back to our lesson. Let us say you have an idea. The idea is so big and so great it can change the world and you love this idea with all your heart. Can you imagine such love, Ben? Can you imagine such passion that you would die for an idea?
“Suppose the idea is so different and revolutionary that there has never been anything like it ever before. And suppose you are so committed to it that nothing else matters—nothing! But, before you can finish the idea you love so much, you run out of time because you become old and you die?”
“Just when I was getting started!” Ben joked.
“You were cut off from your dream before it has come true!” Wembly breathed in the night and poured more wine. “Benjamin?” he asked. Ben covered his glass with a hand and shook his head. “If such a thing happened to you—cut off from finishing what you loved the most—and you had the chance to come back and finish what you started…would you not come back again if you had the chance?”
“Well,” Ben said calmly. “Who wouldn’t?”
Wembly studied him now with a curious, familiar expression and Ben felt a strangeness in his chest. The Frenchman was searching his face as if he knew Ben very, very well. Inordinately well, one might even say. “Perhaps, this time, you would finish the job,” Wembly said. “And, perhaps I am, as they say, just an eccentric designer believing his work is far more important than it really is. Or…perhaps they are wrong and I see my work for what it can be. We have talked about what it means to be The DeCroy Man, Benjamin. Humor me now. There is no harm in listening, yes?”
“I always listen to you,” Ben said, sensing himself being guided through political and financial minefields.
“The trucking at Phantom Lake has stopped, yes, as we suspected it might after our talk with Theodore. But they have tasted an aphrodisiac sweeter than,” he held up his glass, “any power you can think of. Wherever the uranium has gone, it will not lie there untouched. This exposure has drawn dangerous attention to the investments, to how far they reach, and to how it all started. We cannot risk investigations and Ezra knew that. So do the ones who implic
ated him.”
“Implicated. You still want to believe that, don’t you?”
“Benjamin. We are investment bankers. Our entire purpose is to encourage, build and develop economic and intellectual freedom through entrepreneurship and self-sufficiency. We are an independent, international bank—a consortium of business makers that doesn’t answer to anyone. We think for ourselves. No single government thinks for us, and for that reason, none can destroy us! We are proof that what this country was founded upon can work! But to the powers that be, we—and others coming up through the ranks like us—have become its greatest threat! Don’t you see? The business stage—and, make no mistake, that is what it is—is the last power of the individual! And, to be effective, the plans, inventions, discoveries…they must be kept private. There is safety in that. There is protection. It is why the bird sits on her nest until the results of her effort are hatched. It is why the parent protects the child against all intruders. It is one of the great laws of getting things done. Business is unpredictable and it crosses all political boundaries. It links people together no matter what government, educational or religious or racial prejudice they come from and it is the ticket to wealth for anyone willing to take the risk!”
Impassioned and direct, he gestured to the city around them. “Be free, Benjamin! Throw off the limits you learned in school. Too many schools are meant for training slaves. They want to numb the mind and dull the senses, not sharpen them. Forget the educational system for at least the next fifty years and think big!”
At last, the dots were beginning to connect. Or at least they seemed to be. What could Ben say? What could he ask, without breaking the glass of Wembly’s proud exterior protecting a golden heart?
Wembly didn’t let him waste a minute trying.
“No matter how beaten and destroyed a life becomes, there are ways to survive, but survival takes daring and guts. I have seen enough guts splashed on the sidewalk, Benjamin, and trampled by the crowds to scare the shit out of me.
“You are many years past the Crash. You do not remember how hard it was for people to find steady work. Many worked in the fields, planting crops for fifty cents a day. A tobacco buyer for cigarette companies might get a dollar a day and wear a white shirt and tie. A worker in a chocolate factory supplying candy bars to the soldiers might get five dollars a day to feed his wife and six children. I believe such a family ate a lot of chocolate.