Each Shining Hour (17 page)

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

T
he clinic wasn't busy on Thursday, making for a slow drag of the hours. I was unsettled, worried about the board meeting and thinking I would be glad when it was over. At a quarter of four I found Connie waiting in the bank lobby as planned. We shared tense and brooding faces, exchanging only a few words. With its dark paneled walls, cold marble floors, and gaudy chandeliers, the old bank building had an oppressive heaviness, an indifferent and stifling air that was stiff and ominous. One of the bank assistants escorted us upstairs and directed us down a long hallway to the boardroom.

There was a noticeable hush among the small groups as we entered. We sat in chairs lining the wall, across from the long side of the huge oval table. Nine board members were present, including some lawyers and local accountants. Curiously, even though it was the Farmers Bank, there wasn't a farmer in the bunch. Nor were there any women. Randall Simmons served as the tenth member and chairman. Other than the mayor, Walt Hickman, I was largely unacquainted with the men.

It was nearing four o'clock and there was still no sign of John. About two minutes before the hour, Randall Simmons entered through a side door. He gazed around the room with a placid reserve, showing no change of expression upon seeing that I was there with Connie. The directors ended their conversations and took their seats. As Simmons seated himself at the head of the table, the hallway door swung open abruptly.

John Harris walked in.

His arrival produced no small stir of whispers and mumbles. Body language stiffened, and inquisitive glances shot around the room. They all knew him.

John stood for a brief moment, deadpan, quietly surveying those assembled before him, taking note of faces and names. Satisfied, he walked over and seated himself next to me. Randall intently followed his movements and I could detect a slight twitch in his otherwise dour countenance.

The meeting was called to order. Within the confines of the lamplight and dark paneling, this group took on an august air, a cavalier attitude of detached importance. I was easily twenty-five years younger than anyone in the room and that alone elicited in me a certain unease.

Everything in Connie's demeanor told me that she was nothing short of intimidated. I had never seen her so cowed. Apparently, years of nuanced social cues had conditioned her, had made her uncertain. Since Connie was the largest stockholder, it was natural to assume the board would readily favor her request to buy the property. But she did not own a controlling majority, and now that thought nagged at me.

John was another matter. I couldn't imagine him to be any more relaxed. In his khakis, farm coat, and work boots, he sat slumped in his chair with his outstretched legs crossed at the
ankles. He was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife, casually wearing a face of detached boredom.

During those awkward seconds before the meeting started, I realized that John's aloofness came naturally. In decades past, he had likely dominated the men in this room in sports, outshone them in the classroom, and perhaps even lifted half of them up by their underwear. Their unnerved regard of him communicated as much. I began to be truly glad I had troubled him to come.

The meeting was called to order and Randall Simmons wasted no time addressing the issue of the old bakery. He turned to Connie.

“Mrs. Thompson, I believe the board generally understands that you and your sister have an interest in buying the Hatcher Building property. If you would, please explain your proposal.”

Connie stood, nervously clutching her purse tightly in front of her. At first she seemed frozen, unable to speak, her lips in an anxious, rounded pucker. Some ancient mix of voices was fighting within her, fretting with her to say her piece quickly and sit down. I smiled to encourage her. I found myself silently rooting for her, willing her to say the words.

“Gentlemen, I . . . um . . . my sister and I would like to buy the Hatcher Building property, the old bakery, that is, because she would like to reopen it as a pastry and coffee shop and a catering business. As, um, as all of you know, the bank has owned the property for many years and to my knowledge has no immediate plan for it. So we would like to buy it. It's listed as an asset on the bank's financial statement and we would like to offer ten percent above that amount. This seems a fair and equitable arrangement, and we would, um, we would like the board to consider this offer and move on this request as soon as possible. Thank you.”

Connie half swallowed the last words and sat down stiffly. She
had gotten through it, but it was clear that standing before these men had cost her something. Seeing her flustered and distraught served as an awakening for me. I saw the toll taken, and the stain left, by previous decades of subtle but persistent bigotry. Despite Connie's strength of character, towering intellect, and unquestioned courage, voices in her past had taught her that the color of her skin changed the rules against her.

By and large, it was a new and, in many ways, a better South than the one she had known in her youth. I felt strongly that the Watervalley of today had moved past the shameful mind-set of discrimination. Yet something about Randall Simmons and the stiff silence of those around him had churned up those deep memories of fear and exclusion. We awaited the board's response.

Simmons spoke impassively. “Thank you, Mrs. Thompson. Gentlemen, I think we all understand the nature of this request. Is there any discussion on the matter?”

I expected some general inquiries about the purchase price, or confirmation about the bank having no plans for the property, or perhaps even a question or two about the proposed business, if only from curiosity. But there was only tight-lipped silence.

Something was amiss here.

The board members sat pug faced, staring blankly at the table in front of them. Then I noticed a slight gesture, a tightening of the eyes and a subtle nod, from Randall Simmons to Rayburn Fulcher, the executive vice president.

Fulcher, a tall, rigid man with a permanently sour face, cleared his throat and spoke on cue. “Gentlemen, with all due respect, I see no need to rush into anything. It has always been our thinking that the Hatcher Building property might serve as a good location for a small branch office. I think it is time we revisit that idea. It seems appropriate to commission a research firm to evaluate this
possibility and then get back with us. After such time, if a branch office does not seem feasible, then we can consider Mrs. Thompson's request.”

Before another comment could be made, Simmons quickly added, “Would you like to put that in the form of a motion?”

Fulcher did so. The motion was immediately seconded. “We have a motion on the floor to table Mrs. Thompson's request and commission a branch office feasibility study. All in favor say ‘aye.'” Parliamentary procedure called for a discussion at this point, but Simmons had moved straight to a vote.

The response was low and mumbled, but definitive. All save one voted for the motion. The only nay came from Walt Hickman, who spoke his rejection of the idea in a stern, defiant voice.

It had taken only seconds for Connie's request and Estelle's dream to be dashed. Knowing glances shot around the room. An almost imperceptible smugness crept across the face of Randall Simmons. “It would appear the ayes have it,” he said.

Connie sat stunned, speechless. It had been a well-orchestrated charade, a short demonstration of power and politics with Randall Simmons wielding his influence over this roomful of invertebrates in business suits. For whatever reason, he didn't want the bank to lose possession of the old bakery, and he had effectively used his lackey Rayburn Fulcher to ramrod his will over the proceedings.

Connie clutched her purse even tighter. Her hands were visibly shaking. She turned to me, her face frozen and speechless. Despite her strengths, the situation was overwhelming her.

Incensed, I rose to my feet. “Gentlemen, this seems rather hastily done. Selling that property is a win-win for the bank and for the community. On Mrs. Thompson's behalf, I would ask that you reconsider her request.”

Walt Hickman echoed the sentiment. “I agree with Dr.
Bradford. We're just wasting time and money delaying the sale of the Hatcher property.”

Rayburn Fulcher ignored Walt and responded to me, his words imbued with subtle condescension. “As I noted earlier, Dr. Bradford, we will reconsider the request, but only after we thoroughly investigate the bank's best interest.”

“And how long will that take?”

Fulcher regarded me down the length of his long nose. “Difficult to say. Probably months. If Mrs. Thompson and her sister's plans are time sensitive, perhaps they should consider some other property.”

Small conversations began to erupt around the room. Walt was continuing to express his disgust. The others mumbled a spineless commentary. The hubbub grew until Randall Simmons loudly tapped a small gavel on the table, bringing the group back to order. He turned to Connie.

“Mrs. Thompson, thank you for coming. I understand your hope to revive the old bakery, but it appears that today is not that day.”

There was nothing Connie could do or say. It was a crushing moment. She began to rise to leave when the heavy stillness was broken by a booming, penetrating, and unexpectedly jovial voice.

“Well, well, well. Isn't this just pretty?” The board members froze as John Harris's cool, taunting words poured over them. He remained focused on his pocketknife and fingernails as if he were talking to no one in particular. His deep, gruff, baritone voice filled the room.

“Just look at you boys. Five years ago Mrs. Thompson here poured her life's earnings into this bank and helped save it, along with this community. She's never asked for a thing, not even a seat on the board. Now she comes to you with a simple request and suddenly you fellows are short on memory.”

John admired his nails briefly, folded his pocketknife, and looked up at the men in the room. “What say we talk about it?”

He stood, coolly engaging them. With his broad shoulders and powerful arms, he rose like an awakening giant. The directors began recoiling in their chairs. Even the walls seemed to expand away from him. This was the John Harris I had only heard about. It wasn't just his brawn and stature that held sway. The hard contours of his face conveyed a volatile, smouldering intensity. He had a raw, powerful presence and a brilliant, penetrating gaze capable of complete intimidation. He was a lion among them and they withered fearfully under his glare.

His amused words were crisp with confidence.

“Let me afford you boys a little history lesson. My departed wife and my very alive sister-in-law were Cavanaughs, the daughters of Sam Cavanaugh. He's the gentleman whose picture hangs on the wall over there. The Cavanaugh estate still owns a tidy share of the bank's stock. Coincidentally, I happen to be the executor of Sam Cavanaugh's estate, including the bank shares. Now, along with Mrs. Thompson's stock . . . well, you're all smart boys and I'm sure you can do a little basic math. I think the proper term is ‘majority ownership.'”

John let this sink in as he began to walk slowly around the table, carefully placing his hands on the backs of chairs and looking into the eyes of all the suited men, who were now displaying the collective testosterone of beached jellyfish. They began to glance at one another with taut, worried faces, telegraphing their understanding of John's words. His lighthearted banter continued.

“Now, I know some of you fellows think you're clever, winking around the table and playing your little game of footsie with Chairman Simmons. Well, boys, that's today's news. Let's talk about tomorrow. Tomorrow's news will prove to be much more
interesting. A few months from now, three board member seats come up for renewal, three more next year, and three more after that. So, here's what's going to happen.”

Just that quickly, John's cajoling manner disappeared. Now his words were cool, hard, toxic. “By exercising both Sam Cavanaugh's and Mrs. Thompson's shares, I am going to personally castrate each one of you sum' bitches right out of here.”

I knew John was in complete control. Even still, there was an intensity, a consuming fire just below the surface that even I found unnerving. The men on the receiving end of his chastening scorn were petrified.

His next declaration oozed out slowly, deliberately. “One by one by one I am going to replace each of you with living, breathing human beings.” He paused again and began to shake his head. “Shame on you boys. What could you possibly be thinking, trying to pull a bullying stunt like this?”

A smothering, dreadful silence ensued and all the men sat paralyzed. John's words hung fat in the air, pushing out the oxygen.

Soon, however, his broad smile returned. “So, fellows, by damn, wink and think on that a little bit.”

Now he turned his full attention to Randall Simmons, stepping slowly toward him. His tone remained low and calm. “Randall, old friend, you are correct about one thing. Today is not Connie's day. Today belongs to you and your little band of bobbleheads.”

Then John stopped and did the most fascinating thing. With his eyes locked on Randall, he raised his hand and pointed toward Connie. “But take a good look at that incredible lady sitting in the chair over there, Randall, because I want you to remember something. Tomorrow is going to belong to her. Tomorrow will belong to Constance Grace Thompson. Bet your ass on it, sport. I'm going to see to it personally.”

John wasn't done. He moved boldly up beside Randall and hovered over him. He put one hand on the back of the banker's chair and the other on the table. As John leaned in, Randall shifted to the side, pulling away as best he could, and looking straight ahead with a wincing, indignant face. Within inches of the banker's ear, John spoke in a low but audible whisper.