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.
Back when her mind was still sharp and her sense of humor even sharper, my mother would always say I was like an old man, driving around in my silly old pickup. I had to admit I did spend the lion’s share of my time in the workshop, alone. Working with wood can be truly magical. It makes you feel like you can transform matter itself. I first wanted to be a carpenter after reading Pinocchio. That Geppetto really got me thinking: if he could create a son with his bare hands, maybe I could use wood to create the father I had never known. I stopped believing in fairy tales as I grew up, but I never stopped believing in the magic of my chosen trade. The things I make go on to become part of people’s lives. Tables for family dinners and unforgettable evenings, beds where couples make love, beds where children lie dreaming or staring up at the ceiling in wonder, bookshelves that house all the important books a person will ever read. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
One morning in October, I found myself in the middle of a tough job, wrestling with a drawer slide for a chest. The wood had come from planks that weren’t nearly seasoned enough. The slightest misstep and they’d split apart, which had already happened twenty times over. I was furious that the precious maple was rebelling against my touch. When the mailman arrived and broke my concentration, I admit I was a bit gruff with him. He interrupted me, and for what? All I ever got in the mail was bills and other paperwork from bureaucracies that eat away at life like termites.
Yet that day, he came bearing something else entirely: an anonymous letter. The beautiful handwriting on the envelope gave no hint as to the identity of the sender. I tore open the envelope and sat down to read it.
Dear George,
I hope you don’t mind that I’ve abridged your name, but hyphenated monikers run a bit long for my taste, even when they are as dignified as yours. But I digress. My opinion about your name is not why I’m writing to you today.
I can’t even begin to fathom how difficult it must be to watch your own mother slip away right before your eyes, day after day.
Your mother was a talented and courageous woman. But she was other things, as well. All we can ever see of our parents is what they wish to show us, and we in turn must choose how to see what we’ve been shown. And how easy it is to forget that they had a whole life before us. The life of which I speak was theirs and theirs only, a life with all of its dreams and fantasies, as well as the tormented hardship of youth . . .