In a nutshell: an alum I’d been sending thank-you notes to for as long as I’d been head of Stewardship, had, right before his death, reminded his not-totally-with-it/about-to-be-widowed wife that he wished to grant the gift we’d been discussing.
Great! Except the widow dug out my business card and lovely thank-yous, all of which she’d saved, and wrote a check for $100,000 made out to the very nice woman who’d been dancing attention on them: me. Pay to the order of Faith Frankel, without a mention of Everton Country Day except for the accompanying note that said, Payne wanted to fund those things we talked about.
And here was the evidence, the damning check. Did they really have to encase Exhibit A in plastic and handle it with latex gloves?
When it registered finally that I was suspected of steering donations into my own pocket, I said, “I never saw this check! Mrs. Hepworth—she’s like ninety years old—obviously just made the check out to her contact person.”
“What did she mean by ‘the things we talked about’?” asked the headmaster, another ex-jock whose hand had once grazed my backside in a way that could be argued was accidental.
“To reshape the swimming pool . . . and to renovate the locker rooms,” I explained. “Mr. Hepworth had swam . . . swum for the school.” Now I was rattling. “A championship one! He was captain the year they beat some college team.”
“Yale,” said Nick quietly, looking red-faced, looking as if he’d been forced at gunpoint to attend.
I said, “I don’t understand why you’d think that a check made out to me—a check I never cashed, never even saw, puts me under suspicion.”
Reggie said, not kindly, “This is a major gift, Faith. This isn’t stewardship, per se, where you’re having tea with some nice people who put their name on a debate club trophy. This was planting a seed, and watering it, and cultivating it until it grew into a major gift.”
Nick said, with a sneer, quietly, “Exhaust a metaphor, why don’t you.”
I said, “Oh, then excuse me for doing such a good job and getting a huge donation instead of a token one.”
“You’ll probably want to engage a lawyer,” I heard one of them say.
“Does the accused need a lawyer if it’s a kangaroo court?” Nick asked. Then: “Did anyone call Mrs. Hepworth and ask her what her intentions were?”
“Of course,” snapped the lawyer. “And her answer was not what I’d consider exculpatory.”
“Why? What did she say? What could she possibly have said that didn’t straighten this out?” I cried.
The lawyer said, “Most unfortunately, Mrs. Hepworth is under the impression that her husband wanted the money to go to you.”
I said, “Well, she must be senile. Or he was. Because I never ever, ever—” At which point I broke down and managed only a string of soggy protest syllables.
Nick asked if I needed a tissue or water.
“She’s fine,” snapped the lawyer.
The headmaster said, “Another name came up. Which seems to have played a major role in Payne Hepworth’s largesse.”
“What name?”
“A man named Stuart. Did you tell the Hepworths about his foundation?”
“Foundation?” I repeated. I looked at Nick, who was shaking his head in a way that seemed both depressed and furious.
“Mrs. Hepworth said that Sandy—she called her late husband Sandy—was very taken with the story of the man walking across the country for some noble cause—”
I said, “No! I never told them that.”
“But this Stuart is your fiancé, correct?” said the lawyer. “And he raises money for his charity?”
“This is crazy! I told them about Stuart walking across the country, but Mr. Hepworth must’ve mixed it up—he was, like, a hundred years old—with a real charity.”
The headmaster said, “Mrs. Hepworth said that the money was meant for you and for the young man who was walking across the United States. That was her understanding.”
“Did I cash this check?” I demanded. “Did I ever see this check? And if I’d seen it or if it had been addressed to me—was it addressed to me?—I would never have guessed in a million years that it was actually to me, let alone Stuart. Who is no charity, believe me.”
Nick said, “May I speak?”
One or two nodded begrudgingly.
“This is fucking crazy! Some old, probably demented guy gets all mixed up about what Faith is asking him to donate to, and he writes a check, and the wife is no swifter, and it’s Faith’s fault? It could’ve happened to anyone given the geezers we solicit donations from.”
When his speech was greeted with only silence, Nick asked, “What else? Am I missing something here?”
“Mrs. Hepworth believes she was following her husband’s instructions,” the headmaster began.
“Wanna bet?” said Nick.
“Well, be that as it may, she won’t rewrite the check.”
I said, “She doesn’t have to. I’ll endorse it and put it straight into the capital fund.”
“On the sly? Listed as ‘anonymous’ in the list of donors? No plaque outside the natatorium?” said the headmaster.
“I can’t believe you’re blaming me! I’ve been visiting them for a year, with one goal—that he remembers Everton in his will. And he’d get to designate where the money would go, into the pool. Of course we talked. They fed me tomato sandwiches. I drove them to home swim meets. I went to his funeral.”
Reggie asked, “Since when are major gifts your bailiwick?”
I said, “Development is my bailiwick! I write letters to thank people for their generosity and describe all the good their gift is doing. And sometimes I visit them because they don’t have children and they don’t get many visitors. And sometimes I become friends with them—”
The lawyer who knew me not at all said, “It’s your word against the widow’s.”
“How does that sentence make any sense?” asked Nick.
I said, “And the check was mailed here. To the school! I never touched it! I never saw it—”
“Luckily, the envelope was addressed in such a shaky hand that it’s a miracle it ever reached the—”
“Was it even addressed to me?”