The Last of the Stanfields



Eight days later, a miracle occurred at the bank. Rhonda Clark, their friend who was the assistant accountant at Procter & Gamble, dreamt of one day becoming financial director. She also knew that a woman attaining such a post at a multinational corporation was akin to scaling Mount Olympus in flip-flops. Rhonda had already set up an operating account for the newspaper that covered all the bases. She created budgets so detailed they accounted for every last paper clip, with thorough two-year projections of advertising revenue versus cash flow, calculating just what was needed to keep the paper up and running. She bound the report with a nice plastic cover as the final touch. Then the big day arrived: a meeting with Rhonda’s husband, the manager of a Corporate Bank of Baltimore branch, who was set to review their application for a line of credit.

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.”

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