Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“The man who dies thus rich dies disgraced.”
Monty stretched, well rested from his first night’s sleep in his new bed in his new house. He’d been more than grateful for any safe place to rest his head after the flood, but there was no place like home.
He dressed and visited the outhouse before slipping on his boots and making his way to the commissary for breakfast. Stocking his pantry was a task he needed to add to his list. He greeted friends and neighbors, all the while wondering if Annamae was safe and wishing she were by his side.
Quiet and distant since their talk a few days earlier, she was working through her turmoil. He could sense it. He hated to see her struggling but knew if she’d let God finish the work He’d started within her, it would enrich the rest of her life.
After a quick meal of bacon, eggs, and oatmeal, Monty mailed his latest letter to Joanna and went to the bank to inquire about the status of his frozen account in Pittsburgh. He chatted with Mrs. Rodriguez about her husband’s job at the new livery until the proprietors unlocked the front doors.
The institution smelled of disinfectant and damp currency.
The ping of coins sounded as Mr. Kohl counted the money in his tray.
Two long lines had already formed with folks collecting their portion of the disaster relief funds donated from across the country.
After purchasing supplies, the financial committee, spearheaded by George Swank and Cyrus Elder, had an abundance of cash left over to distribute among the survivors.
An abundance that had left the committee in a quandary, according to the town council meeting last evening.
No one could decide on the best course of distribution.
Some survivors argued they should get more than others because they’d owned a business or were wealthy before the flood and, therefore, had lost more than those who’d lived in tenements.
Others argued the flood forced everyone into the poor class, so the funds should be distributed evenly as everyone started anew.
No matter how the funds got dispersed, some would be unhappy. Monty was glad he wasn’t in charge of the job.
“Next customer, please.” Mr. Porter, a short, thin gentleman with gold spectacles and a limp in his gait, waved Monty forward.
“A hold was placed on my account at the Pittsburgh Savings Bank after the flood to prepare for its transfer to my next of kin had I not survived. I filled out the paperwork a few weeks ago to prove my existence and request access to my account once again. I was wondering if you’d received any update on the situation. ”
“Let me check, Mr. Childs.” Mr. Porter adjusted his glasses and shuffled into an adjoining room behind the long counter.
Several minutes passed. Customers at the back of the line complained.
Finally, Mr. Porter returned, holding an envelope.
“Sorry for the delay, Mr. Childs.” He adjusted his glasses once again.
“The postman delivered this notation last week. You should find the information inside sufficient for answering your question.”
“Thank you.”
Monty slipped a finger beneath the flap of the envelope, wanting to read the contents before leaving the line in case he had more questions, but a man bumped him out of the way and took his place at the barred counter. Swallowing his frustration, Monty exited the building, needing fresh air.
The bright sun made the paper hard to read.
He moved to the west side of the building, shaded this time of the morning.
The notation, as Mr. Porter had called it, stated that the bank had received his paperwork, had unfrozen his account, and that his account balance was now three hundred and eight dollars.
Monty blinked.
He scanned the paper again, reading carefully.
He had tried to withdraw fifteen thousand dollars on July 2 and couldn’t because his account had been frozen.
His inheritance money was gone. And there was only one person on earth who would have the clout to withdraw money from Monty’s account despite it being illegal.
What a coincidence that the amount withdrawn was the exact amount “donated” to rebuild his church.
Fuming, Monty crinkled the paper in his fist then shoved it into his pocket.
As he stomped off, he could hear Annamae’s voice ringing in the back of his mind, reminding him that this was yet another instance where too much power yielded injustice.
She was right. Men like his uncle needed to be accountable for their actions.
Then the Holy Spirit pricked his heart and he suddenly stopped, wiped a hand over his brow, and took a deep breath. Justice must be served in the right manner. Not in hate and malice, despite how his flesh wanted to react right now.
He walked back, prepared to reenter the bank and stand at the end of one of the long lines, when he plowed into the formidable man himself.
Monty’s eye twitched from the zing of pain, but he schooled his features.
He was glad his broken nose and the bruises on his face had healed, all except for two small areas that were a pale yellow.
When he faced his uncle, he wanted to do it as a whole man.
Amusement played on Uncle Henry’s face. Thin lips upturned beneath his mustache that curled at the edges and blended into a beard that held as much gray as brown.
“You look mighty angry, son. Haven’t I taught you a cool head keeps the mind clear?
You can’t possibly strategize against the enemy if your emotions cloud your thinking. ”
Monty stood to full height. “I haven’t the luxury of hiring someone to act out my emotions for me.”
Monty reached into his pocket and produced the banknote.
The dark bags beneath his uncle’s eyes puffed as he smiled. “If you’d have stayed with me where you belonged, money would be of no consequence.”
“And what about withdrawing money from an account that isn’t yours? Does that hold any consequence?”
“You requested that money yourself days earlier. I simply persuaded the bank manager to let me send it to you personally.”
Monty hadn’t intended to use the entire fifteen thousand dollars to rebuild his house and the church.
Losing Joanna to an orphanage so far away had made him realize how important such an institution would be to Johnstown.
If they’d had one from the start, Joanna and the others wouldn’t have had to leave their community.
Monty had decided to use part of his funds to fill that need.
“How nice of you to deliver it with a personal touch.” Monty rubbed his sore ribs.
Uncle Henry nodded. “My employees are loyal to me and don’t take kindly to threats.”
“And I don’t take kindly to you destroying my town. Or interfering in my business.”
His uncle’s stern frown might have once intimidated him, but not anymore. “You’d better watch your tongue, son.”
“I’m not your son.” Monty delivered the words with a calmness he didn’t feel. Turned out he had more of Annamae’s crusading spirit lying dormant inside than he’d thought.
Uncle Henry rotated the crystal top of his cane. The thing served no purpose other than to remind others of his wealth and status. “You lived off the bounty of my fortune as if you were my child, without complaint. Until you abandoned your birthright and left to wallow among common men.”
Times like this made it hard for Monty to act honorably. He understood Annamae’s fury, though he couldn’t act on it. “What do you have against the common man? If it weren’t for them running your factories, you wouldn’t have your fortune.”
“True, but you see, there’s something that sets us apart. It’s called ambition. We all have it, but they capped theirs at mere survival. I plan to leave a legacy that will transcend the ages.”
“You’ll leave your legacy, but it won’t be the kind you think.”
His uncle laughed. “Says the orphan who threw away his shares in the greatest coke company in the world to live in a town so dirty the trees can’t breathe.”
He reached inside his tailored coat and pulled out a book. “Whitney asked me to give this to you. She figured your original copy was destroyed in the flood and it might bring you comfort.”
Great Expectations. Monty tucked the tome to his side. “Thank her for me, will you? I’m touched that she would think of me in such dire circumstances.”
Uncle Henry glanced around. “Do they even know who you are around here?”
Monty tried to view the scene from his uncle’s point of view as shame spun in his gut like a cyclone. No. His congregation did not know he was a nephew of the Coke King.
He’d wrestled with his omission many a night since the flood and had concluded he needed to confess. It was only fair he come clean. These were his friends, and they deserved no less.
His introspection was cut short when he spotted Annamae exiting the newspaper office across the street, a young, tall reporter way too comfortable by her side.
Through the haze of dust clouds and people crossing between them, Annamae’s gaze locked with his. The reporter’s smile fell, and he blinked. He said something to Annamae and pointed at the man standing beside Monty.
Her face went pale.
“Ah, the very woman I came to see.” Uncle Henry stilled his cane and stood erect.
Monty’s heart thumped hard. “What do you want with Annamae?”
“Annamae, is it? I came to thank Miss Worthington for informing the world of my membership in the club as well as the exact location of our charter. What she meant for the club’s detriment, I’m certain, came to our benefit.”
A warning bell sounded in Monty’s ears. “What makes you think Annamae was the source?”
Uncle Henry huffed. “Come now, boy. You’re foolish, not suicidal. But once again, you allowed your bleeding heart to loosen your tongue, and she betrayed you.”
With a determined set of her mouth and a raised chin, Annamae lifted her skirt and marched toward her enemy.