The Last of the Stanfields(25)
Mr. Clark, who had been married to Rhonda for fifteen years, was a small man with a friendly sparkle in his eyes and a smile that was positively disarming. He possessed such charm and warmth that he seemed completely exempt from normal beauty standards. Cynics might have whispered that Mr. Clark already knew just how serious and thorough his wife’s projections were, since questioning their quality would have cost him more than a few nights’ sleeping on the couch.
“Let me begin with a question, if I might,” he said, peering at Sally-Anne over his glasses. “If my establishment were to become your lender, would you ever write an article that runs counter to our interests?”
As May began to answer, she was cut off by a sharp kick in the shin from Sally-Anne. “Actually, I have a question of my own, before we get to yours,” Sally-Anne asked. “This bank, insofar as being one possible source of financing for our paper, obviously wouldn’t have any current issues with integrity, correct?”
“That goes without saying,” replied Mr. Clark. “And while we’re speaking so candidly, let me say that a project like this takes a lot of nerve. I really do admire your ambition. The fact is, a certain person, who shall remain nameless, has been talking my ear off about it every night. I can now see what all the fuss is about.”
With that, Mr. Clark opened his desk drawer and took out a form, which he passed to Sally-Anne.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll fill out this official loan request quickly. As soon as it’s complete, come back to see me. That way I can present your application personally at the credit committee meeting. This step is little more than a formality; I’m overseeing your application myself. We’ll open an initial line of credit of twenty-five thousand dollars with a repayment duration of two years. By that point, since the paper will have achieved, or hopefully surpassed, its financial goals spectacularly, I hope that you will consider choosing our establishment for all your banking needs.”
Mr. Clark shook their hands and walked them out of the office. As they stepped out of the bank, Sally-Anne and May were so ecstatic that they practically leapt into each other’s arms even as they were thanking him. The two women were positively beside themselves as they made their way down the block.
“We’re really gonna make this happen, aren’t we?” Sally-Anne said, still coming to grips with what had transpired.
“Yeah, I think it’s for real, I really do. Twenty-five thousand dollars is no joke, you know! We’ll be able to hire two secretaries, a telex operator, maybe even a receptionist . . . Of course, down the line, we’ll have to hire all women to cover graphic design and editing, photography and political reporting, the culture beat, and one or two reporters at large.”
“Just women? I thought we’d decided on equal treatment.”
“True. You’re right, we should hire men, too. Just imagine how euphoric it would feel to say, ‘Frank, honey, go and fetch me that file I asked for, will you?’” May mimed hanging up a telephone. “‘John? Be a dear and fix me a cup of coffee,’” she continued, batting her eyelashes condescendingly at her imaginary assistant. “‘Boy oh boy, those sure are some very flattering slacks, Robert. They really make your ass look fantastic!’ That would be something else.”
Cynics might have speculated that Mr. Clark would have never have approved the loan if he hadn’t been married to Rhonda. But they would have been dead wrong. The manager of the Corporate Bank of Baltimore branch was keenly aware of who Sally-Anne was, and more importantly, who her family was. The Stanfields were major stockholders at the bank. He knew they would never allow outstanding debts there, not in a thousand years. Regardless of the success or failure of the newspaper, the bank’s investment was safe.
Cynics might have argued that Mr. Clark had been wrong to give the green light so quickly, and that it was far too early for the two women to be celebrating. Maybe on this front, the cynics would have been right. Just a few days later, a bank employee discovered the application prior to the credit committee meeting. He immediately picked up the phone and made a call to none other than Hanna Stanfield, Sally-Anne’s mother.
12
GEORGE-HARRISON
October 2016, Eastern Townships, Quebec
My name is George-Harrison Collins. Every time people start giving me a hard time about my first name, I tell them I heard enough taunting back in the schoolyard to last me a lifetime. The funny thing is, I didn’t even listen to the Beatles growing up. My mother was more of a Stones fan. She refused to give any explanation of her choice for my name. It was just one of her many mysteries that I never could quite unravel.
I was born in Magog, and haven’t lived anywhere outside the Eastern Townships of Quebec in the thirty-five years since. The scenery here is breathtaking, and the winters long and brutal. Spring pops up like a light at the end of the tunnel as everything wakes up again, followed by scorching summers that light up the woods and make the lakes sparkle.
Khalil Gibran wrote: But memory is an autumn leaf that murmurs a while in the wind and then is heard no more. While nearly all my most cherished memories revolve around my mother, her own memory was now languishing in the desolation of a permanent autumn.
From the time I turned twenty, she pushed me to leave home and go out on my own. “This town is way too small for you!” she would say. “Go see the world.” But I defied her wishes. The truth is, there’s nowhere else I could think of living. My heart belongs to the Canadian forests, and there is nothing better than living out among the maple trees. After all, I am a carpenter.