by Ron Hevener
“Draped in richly elaborate, decorative fabrics embellished with jewels of the Nile and beyond, the great horses represented their tribes throughout a history as brilliant as the costumes being presented here, tonight, in a special tribute from America…showing us the fashions of its Native Costume class. May we see the horses, please.”
The crowd held its breath as first one, then another, then all ten American riders, six of them on Mattison horses, rushed into the arena under glaring lights, color and glitter splashing off every curve, every angle, every available inch of horse and rider alike. Which one was Sidney? Was Sarah the rider to the left? Or was that someone else?
Back and forth across the arena they raced, horses drenched in splendor, faces obscured from each other by masks of delicate silk and golden tassels flying wildly. A team of living, screaming Banchees; their identities impossible to distinguish.
Dramatically, the band of horses broke into groups, each dashing off to opposite ends of the show ring. To the sounds of exotic music, they rallied together, planning their strategy and lining up to face the enemy.
All at once, to the urgency of a musical crescendo, they charged. Madly, violently, as if their very souls would explode. The crowd jumped to its feet in roaring applause, whistling in exhilaration as they passed within inches of each other. Then, in a grand swing of the arena, the entire class passed by the spectators for one last and final turn of glory as, together, they exited the ring and left it barren. The showmanship of their class was more than infectious. It was epidemic. It was the spontaneous height of a sparkling event.
“God, it was great, Wembly!” Sarah heaved, catching her breath after the class. “Did you see us out there?”
“I saw everything, Sarah.” He was standing very still.
“The horses were great!” she went on. “Sidney and Ben were great, too!”
“They were splendid,” he said. “All of you were. Can you hear how much the crowd loves you?”
“And those costumes! You made them so authentic! Nobody else’s compare! I was so proud!”
“As was I,” he said.
“Are you coming back home with us, Wembly? We’re packed and the plane leaves in the morning.”
“Your last night in Paris?” he asked.
Something about the way he said it made her stop.
“Meet me tonight, Sarah…I need a friend. I must take you into my confidence.”
*
Their night was beautiful. As the song says, the lights of Paris were aglow and they talked in the hotel restaurant by candlelight. A brow, a cheek bone, a hairline, a proud bearing hinting of vigor and joy. Aware of this on a deep level, each wondered how long such things between them could have been unnoticed.
Her eyes caressed his silver hair, touched his face and held his strong, powerful hands. But it was his manner that brought her back to the urgency of the moment. “You wanted to talk about something,” she said.
Without a smile, he said, “A photograph, actually.” Pulling out his wallet, he removed the photograph and held it. Then, slowly, he slid it across the table. “It’s not the first one,” he said. “They’ve been coming since the first ad.”
She studied a recent snapshot of Ben and Sidney Leigh at the farm and fear stabbed her heart at the words painted across it: “Stay Away From Phantom Lake.”
“Where did it come from!” she said.
“Pennsylvania.”
“So this is why you asked if we have visitors with cameras at the farm.”
He nodded. “The handwriting. Is it familiar to you?” he asked, certain of her answer.
Gradually, she remembered the letters to Ezra.
“And the red paint?” he whispered, leaning forward.
“Ruthie,” she said, without an ounce of doubt.
“Only she would know we’d recognize her in an instant.”
“Would she hurt them, Wembly?”
“Ben? Never. But, Sidney? I don’t know how Ruth Anne’s mind works now. The stakes are high and it depends on who is in it with her.”
“Where is she?”
“My question exactly,” he said. “I tried New York, but she is not there. Someone else is performing for her at The Temple. In any event, I have already taken steps to protect our financial liquidity.”
“Sounds good,” Sarah said. “May I ask how? Where? You did say you need to take me into your confidence,” she reminded him.
“I cannot discuss details at this time, my love.” He had said it, and the warmth in her heart was undeniable. “But if my efforts are successful, I will explain. For now, Sarah, please trust me.”
“As long as we’ve known each other, Wembly, there’s never been an instant when I didn’t trust you completely,” she said, as he took her hand and kissed her for the first time.
*
They awoke in his Paris apartment, mirrors on the ceiling, on the walls, on the bed headboard. “Good morning, my love,” he whispered, holding her close, one leg over hers.
“Beautiful.” She opened her eyes and touched his lips. “Truly, truly beautiful.”
“You will come to me in New York?” he asked.She hesitated, but only slighty. You know I’m always going to love Ezra.”
He waited.
“God forbid anybody should think it’s too soon for me to say this, but…right now, I think I’d come to you just about anywhere in the world, Wembly. I’ve been so lonely. The world is big -- I know that. But my heart is so empty and I need to talk and hold and feel…I need to feel hope again. You know?””
He smiled. “Good. Then, every mile between us will be a mile of hope and will soon have enough to reach the Heavens.”
“I love that,” she said. “It’s a deal. Oh! What time is it?” she asked suddenly.
“Late. You must catch a plane and I must stay here for matters at the store. I will see you again in New York.”
Moaning at the thought of leaving him, she pulled the blanket off the bed, playfully wrapped it around herself and whirled across the room. “Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!” she laughed. And to the hundreds of reflections mirrored around her, she added, “To all of you!” Overflowing with life, she shook her head in disbelief and wonder, and laughed again.
*
The other American “ambassadors” were waiting at the airport with trunks of saddles, bridles and show equipment as the horses were loaded for home. Lively conversation and stories about the show broke the monotony of an otherwise uneventful cross-Atlantic flight, until Ben’s ears could feel the cabin pressure changing as they came in for a landing.
“Safe!” he imagined Sidney Leigh’s big Umpire in the Sky yelling as he nudged her awake. “Almost there,” he said. She opened her eyes slowly, not wanting to break into consciousness. “Do I have to?” she whispered in a husky voice. “I was dreaming I was in Paris, Bennie. And I was Sheherazade and the sheikhs of Abu Dhabi were throwing diamonds and pearls at my feet. It was won-der-ful.”
“Who in his right mind would throw pearls at your feet? Haven’t they heard that you don’t cast your pearls to swine?” he teased. “It’s in the Bible.” The slam on his arm caused a “Whap!” and a “Shhh!” from one of the other passengers.
Amused, Ben held back a laugh and said, “I guess I won’t say that again!”
* * *
New York City, JFK Airport
Slugging their way to baggage claim, they blasted the lack of futuristic conveyer belts to carry one’s luggage. After all, wasn’t everyone coming off a plane usually carrying something? They trudged to the baggage area before anyone else decided they liked suitcases that weren’t theirs (Now, there’s a nice one. Maybe I’ll trade!).
“I forgot how much a trip like this takes out of you!” Aunt Sarah said. “I hope it doesn’t take too long for our suitcases. I’m worried about the horses.”
“Home!” Sidney Leigh drooled. “Good old American burgers and fries!”
“Apple dumplings!” Ben said.
“Schnitz an’ Knepp! Pretzels!”
I just want to see the farm,” Sarah said. “I’ve had enough shows for a while. Look! There’s our stuff!” she pointed to DeCroy signature suitcases and duffle bags emerging from the plastic curtain spewing forth its guts.
“Off to Customs!” Aunt Sarah laughed. “The worst part is gonna be standing in line. But you get to see some of the most awful, embarrassing things people hide!” When the Customs Officer finished their inspection, Sarah’s usual bravado went the way of the Dodo bird.
“Would you mind stepping into the office? Your friends, too.” No “please.” No “thank you.”
“What for?” she wanted to know.
“Just come along,” a security officer said.
“Wait!” Sidney protested. “If it’s the porcelain dish with the flowers, I bought that at the airport. I bought it for a friend of mine,” she said, reaching inside her blouse and pulling out a gleaming white porcelain dish embossed with colorful, distinctive flowers. “Here,” she said. “Take it.”
“Sidney!” a shocked Aunt Sarah said.
The Customs man shook his head. “I don’t think so.” Sidney followed a few more steps silently.
“OK!” she said, stopping them again.
“Well, now what!” Sarah wanted to know.
Sidney squirmed a little and unfastened her belt.
“Young lady,” the officer said. “If you have any more contraband, just keep it to yourself. That’s not why you’re going to the office.” Without a further word, they followed: Sarah frowning at Sidney as if wondering what else she needed to know about her niece, and Ben completely silent.
Inside the office, they were met by two men who obviously meant business. After flashing their badges, it was clear there would be no more jokes. Treasury agents didn’t have much to laugh about. “Do you know a man named Wembly DeCroy?” one of them asked.
“Yes,” Sarah said.
“Mr. DeCroy was found dead in a Paris subway this morning.”
“Well, it can’t be him,” Sarah calmly placed her arm in Ben’s and started to leave. “He never takes the subway. Never. Only cabs.” She shook her head, yes, as if convincing herself, and said, “You have the wrong man!” Smiling strangely, she said, “Come on kids. It’s just a mistake. Let’s go.”
“I’m sorry,” the agent said, stopping them. “It isn’t a mistake. Mr. DeCroy was a well-known figure in Paris and he was under surveillance for quite some time. Our agents gave positive identification.”
“Surveillance?” Ben asked. “What for?”
“We aren’t permitted to say,” one of the officers answered. “But it involved a lot of money.”
“But, Wembly never took the subway!” Sarah murmured. “Never!”
He had warned them against government authorities and now they were cornered. Gently, Ben guided Sidney Leigh between himself and Sarah, as the agents addressed him now. “We want to make this as brief and painless for all of you as possible, Mr. Hoover. We’ll have to inspect everything you brought from Paris.”
“Everything? But I packed those boxes and trunks myself,” Ben protested. “It’s show tack for the horses.”
“No, it’s a matter for the Feds now, Mr. Hoover. We have to get started so you folks can be on your way. The ladies can wait here with the others,” he said. “Come with us, please.”
*
Sarah and the others wouldn’t have liked what Ben saw at Cargo. Their horses, isolated and frantic, were impounded in separate trailers, screaming in protest, as valuable saddles, grooming equipment and clothing lay scuffed and scattered on the airport hangar floor. Bridles and reins lay in a tangled heap; jars of ointment and other veterinary treatments were spilled open or missing, “for lab analysis” he was told.
“Wheew-eee! Get a load of this!” somebody whistled as he tossed the fancy costumes. “Ain’t I purrrr-ty?”
“I’m calling our attorney,” Ben said. As The DeCroy Man, he had travelled the world, passing through Customs many times on business. Never once had he seen horses or riding equipment treated so ruthlessly.
“Sometimes they get carried away,” the agent said. He didn’t have to say anything more. They had been seen and the games were over. “OK, boys. Take it easy!” he called out.
“What are they looking for?” Ben asked again. “Maybe I can make it easier on our stuff.”
“Looking for?” the agent said. “Whatever they can get.”
A deadly, mercenary silence followed, as inspectors bent leathers, ran experienced hands over blankets, stirred the contents of bottles and dumped anything arousing their slightest suspicions.
“What happens if you don’t find anything?” Ben said. “Do you put it all back together again and make an apology? How do you compensate for damages?”
“We don’t,” the agent said with a smirk.
Changing the subject he knew wasn’t going anywhere, Ben asked, “How did you find him…Wembly?”
“You mean, how did he look like after a train ran him over? He looked like shit. Bloody shit.”
Ben ignored the man’s insensitivity. “How were you able to find him is what I mean?”
“I told you. He was being tailed.”
Standing there, watching how roughly, how joyously, the Customs agents were ransacking what didn’t belong to them, Ben dreaded knowing how they had treated the horses. Even tranquilized, he could hear the horses calling to him. “How do we know he wasn’t pushed?” he wanted to say, but didn’t.
*
In the office, Ben, Sarah, Sidney and the others all surrendered their passports, although not without protest. “It’s just a formality,” somebody reassured them. “Until we finish.”
“But what about Wembly?” Sidney asked. “Without our passports, how can we bring him back,” she hesitated, “for a funeral?”
“Mr. DeCroy’s body and personal effects are being held for his family. Someone will come forward to claim them,” they were told.
“You won’t find any family,” Sarah said quietly. “We claim him.”
So final.
“Call Trimble,” she said to Ben.
Aunt Sarah asking Trimble for anything meant she was in over her head and Ben knew it. Hoping Theodore would be there, he dialed the attorney’s home and a gentle, but strong, voice said he wasn’t back from Harrisburg. She was waiting for him—and, she wanted Ben to know, she didn’t like waiting. Could he leave a number?
“Tell him it’s Ben Hoover, please.”
There was an odd, curious pause and Ben repeated himself. “I heard you the first time,” she said. “I was just thinking, where can Teddy reach you?”
He thought quickly. He had no idea when Trimble could get back to him. “Uh, tell him I’ll be at the DeCroy apartment in New York.”
“I’ll let him know. But he was supposed to be here by now. We have a date.”
The thought of Theodore Trimble dating anyone made Ben’s skin crawl, but he remembered the funeral, and the attorney wasn’t alone. What kind of woman could possibly be interested? One thing about this one: She didn’t mind answering his phone. “Do you have the number for the apartment?” Ben asked her.
“If you’re talking about the store,” she laughed confidently, “of course I do, baby! Best parties in town!” She laughed confidently. “He’ll call you, hon.”
“Please,” Ben said. “Tell him it’s urgent. There’s been an accident.”
She stopped mid-laugh and let out the sad, almost hopeless breath of one who has heard those words too many times. For just an instant, Ben wanted to tell her it would be OK.
Back at the Customs office, certainly not designed to make anyone feel comfortable or welcome, Ben found the other riders and explained their delay. “We’ve got rooms for you guys at a hotel,” he said. “We’ll be at the apartment and here’s the number if you need it for anything,” he said, making sure everyone was connected. “Sorry, but it’s going to be like this until they release the
horses from quarantine—my guess is, a few days of checking horse manure should be enough.” There were a few moans, but not many. “Call your families and make sure they know how to reach you. Everybody cool?” Yes, everybody was cool.
“What about us?” Sidney Leigh asked.
“We’re staying at the store,” Ben said.
Brightening at the prospects, and wondering if it was proper at the same time, Sidney looked at him with a question in her eyes.
“I live there, too,” Ben reminded her.
Realizing the sensitivity for all of them, Sarah put an arm around her niece. “It’s OK, Sid. Wembly wouldn’t have it any other way.”
*
A cab ride later, Willie greeted them in his usual Irish style. “Evenin’ Mr. Hoover! What a fine an’ beautiful night i’ tis!”
“Willie!” Ben said as cheerfully as he could. “Can we lower the bridge so our guests can cross the moat?”
“Certainly!” said the beggar with a flourish, as Ben tipped him and they walked to the side door.
Inside the darkened store, Sidney shivered. “Spooky. It gives me the creeps.”
“The apartment’s upstairs,” Ben told them, as they made their way to the elevator. Tonight it seemed like every mannequin, and the ghost of the day clerks in every department, wanted to know why the king of DeCroy’s was not coming home. Remembering his many falls from horses, Ben shuddered at the thought of Wembly falling onto the tracks of a subway train. What a way to die.
The place seemed to know. It was distant somehow, as if sensing its master would never return. The precious collection of paintings and sculptures gathered over a lifetime from auction houses and galleries during Wembly’s travels. Furniture so distinctive and individual. Polished marble floors from the Orsi mines of Italy. His presence was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. Wembly DeCroix. Immigrant designer with a mission.
“I’ll take your coats and hang them up,” Ben offered, respectful of Wembly’s orderly sense of protocol even though he would never be there again. Aunt Sarah excused herself for the bathroom, leaving him with Sidney and the inspiring view of the city, as they walked onto the balcony.
“It’s beautiful here,” Sidney Leigh said.