Friday, February 01, 2008

Chapter 26 - The Root of All Evil

A church designed by Frank Lloyd Wright's son Lloyd


In the end, Maria Escalante had grown quite rich. Having spent most of her life without money she did not feel comfortable spending on herself and so she began to make donations. A lot of money went to the obvious charities most of it, she used to improve the various institutions she had worked for or been involved with throughout her life. For instance, a large chunk went to the school district where she had been a bus driver. There were new air conditioned busses, new desks, new chairs, musical instruments, and other things that perhaps would make going to school a little more exciting for the children.

She also donated, anonymously, to the Stirring Water Christian Fellowship enough money for them to get their own building with a sanctuary and a banquet hall, a nursery, sound system and overhead projectors. Even after that, enough funds were left over to pay for mission trips to the major gambling centers of the country and major starvation centers of the world.

While Stirring Water's official stance on their sudden financial abundance was that the Lord was rewarding the faithful, James McInnis, the church treasurer had seen the signed check and was suspicious as to why a woman famous for portraying the woman who invented prostitution was giving vast amounts of money to a small charismatic church. At the time, James was fairly young. He had married into the Stirring Water administrative structure two years after the donation had been received, and therefore had not been present when Maria used to attend church services,

The issue was never formally discussed, but the church had little trouble convincing itself that that the Maria Escalante who pretended to have the Holy Spirit so many years ago could not possibly be the same Maria Escalante who was the second Persephone. The one or two times someone mentioned that the famous Ms. Escalante seemed familiar, a Church elder would put his or her hand on the mentioner's shoulder, look him or her in the eye and say, "Yes, isn't that strange."

When the check first arrived in the mail, Mrs. Pole, the woman who sorted the mail, answered the phones, and vacuumed the worship area, was alarmed. She took the check right up to Pastor Ralph, who was laying hands on a young teenager who had shown up at a youth group basketball match the previous weekend. Mrs. Pole waited patiently in the doorway until the boy, his face wet with tears, was lead out into the hallway.

"See you on Sunday Moose," Pastor Ralph said to the boy. "And see if you can't get your mother to come along too."

Mrs. Pole shoved the young Pastor into the tiny prayer cubicle and held the check out in front of him. "Is someone playing a joke on us?" she asked.

"Huh," went Pastor Ralph. "Let's go find out."

Of course it was not a joke. An emergency elder's meeting was held that evening and the next morning the check was cashed. The following Sunday, after Moose and his mother demonstrated the power of the holy spirit, Pastor Ralph delivered a well organized and persuasive sermon, announcing the miracle of the mysterious church benefactor and outlining the plans for using the money with Christian responsibility.

It should be noted that a great deal of Christian responsibility was indeed exercised with Maria's donation. No one tried to use the money for frivolous personal gain. Mrs. Pole was given a much deserved raise. Some people in financial need were given appropriate assistance and of course the Church itself was improved in the ways already mentioned.

So for the two years before James McInnis found the photocopy of Maria's Check in the back of the file cabinet, no one had ever thought to question Stirring Water's miraculous windfall. James went on a secret investigation as to why Maria Escalante would give money to his church. She was known to be a philanthropist but she had a large foundation for such things and a personal check for such a large sum to such a specific little church could not have been given arbitrarily. James had heard rumors that Maria Escalante had lived in town for a brief period and upon further research was able to discover that fifteen years ago she had occupied a small house a few blocks from the church's original location and that the house had burned down.

Mrs. Pole said she remembered something about someone named Maria attending a few services in the early days but that she could not have been the Maria Escalante. It was Pastor Ralph who finally broke down and told the whole story to James. James was shocked at first, but Pastor Ralph was able to calm him down by explaining that the church's actions had been biblically supported and even pointed out the corresponding passages. "I see," James said, and then asked if he would be able to share about fiscal stewardship the forthcoming Sunday. "Not this Sunday, but the next," was Pastor Ralph's reply.

James McInnis' sermon two Sundays later was about a lot more than fiscal stewardship. In fact the focus was on hypocrisy and the terrible injustice that was done by the church to a then not-famous Maria Escalante. The sermon was quite long and went down unchallenged, thanks mostly to Pastor Ralph, who made a discreet peace sign to a furious elder.

At the end of the week a tape of the sermon and a long letter signed by Pastor Ralph and the Elders of Stirring Water Christian Church (that now included James McInnis, replacing one of the two elders who felt it best to find new congregations) apologizing, asking sincerely for Maria's forgiveness and an invitation to become and official member if she so desired.

Maria wrote back promptly, politely thanking the church for its concern and assuring them that she had never felt they had done her wrong. She also thanked them for the invitation but said she had grown quite fond of the services at the Anglican Cathedral, may God bless them all.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

Chapter 25 - Finance

a pneumatic door closer


The story of how the son of a television programmer and a librarian was able to finance a play like Persephone (although there is, of course, no play like Persephone) can be classified under fables about the Modern American Dream. Not the Classic American Dream where Horatio Alger leaves the farm to sell lemonade on a street corner in New York and uses his profits to invest in the production of his invention of the pneumatic device that keeps screen doors from slamming, but the Modern American Dream where the son of a television programmer and a librarian approaches an old man who made several billion dollars on his invention of the pneumatic screen door closer and convinces him to finance a ludicrously ambitious theatre project that would not even start performances for five years.

There are a number of occasions when Oliver Fagin Thomas has been reported to be visibly nervous but the most detailed account of this phenomenon comes from the section of Vincent Regula's memoir "Hold the Door for Me" that describes the day Oliver first approached him to finance Persephone. As the book is out of print and extremely difficult to come by at the time of this writing I have included an excerpt.

"I happened to be spending the day in my bathrobe. This was quite a nice bathrobe, green with a soft furry inside. I've never been able to find another like that one. I wasn't really thinking about my attire when I answered the door, but the young man who was standing there looked shocked. "I didn't wake you, did I?" I distinctly remember him saying that. He looked like his whole world view would have been invalidated had I said yes. I might have actually been taking a nap, I don't remember that but I know I just chuckled and shook my head and invited him in. This fellow had something about him that won my sympathy. He seemed nervous, but it was an honest nervousness, no attempts to pretend that he wasn't feeling what he was feeling. That's a rare thing to come across in a young man, and rare in anything but the best of old men, in women this can be annoying, there's a threshold of politeness past which the expressions of one’s feelings just makes those around you uncomfortable.

I thought this young man was doing door to door evangelism. He looked Mormon to me, but they always come in pairs. When I let him in I decided that I'd listen to what he had to say, argue with him to make sure he was reasonable and send him on his way. I sat him down in the sitting room. I used to keep a nice set of oversized leather chairs in there at the time. Very comfortable; good for talking. I offered him coffee, and he declined. This brought the Mormon issue back to my mind. To make sure, I offered tea and he accepted without asking about caffeine. That settled the Mormon question right there.

He told me that his name was Thomas. Still thinking that he was at my house for evangelistic purposes I assumed Thomas was his first name, had I realized he was there on business I would have known he meant his last. Still he didn't correct me when I called him Tom. "What is it you're here for, Tom?" I asked.

"Money." he replied. That was a lot blunter than I expected. I remember thinking whatever church he was peddling this was the only one I'd ever seen that was honest about its number one priority. He must have sensed my shock because he started to look ashamed.

"Tom," I told him, maybe too matter-of-factly, "I'm Jewish." The kid got pale in a way you might get pale when you think someone is going to tell you that he subscribes to a harmful stereotype about himself. "And while I'm all for religious freedom." After that he just looked about as confused as a mule in a genetics class. "Hell," I said, "I've always been open to hear someone pitch an idea about how the world works, but truth is I'm very fond of being a Jew and I'm not about to go writing checks to someone else's church."

"Church?" he said. I'll never forget the way he said that.

"Yeah, what are you? JW? You're not Mormon, I figured that out. You look too intelligent to be a scientologist and I'm fairly sure they don't go door to door. I give up." He told me weakly that his father was Episcopalian. I laughed; he sort of forced a smirk. "You're not here evangelizing, are you?" A person always gets a pleasant feeling when things start to make sense. I think our friend Tom got a pretty good sensation because he snapped right back into the role of healthy young man.

"No. Of course not. I want you to finance a play." I laughed even harder. He, of course, did not. "If this was any other play," he told me plainly. "I'd laugh right with you. There are plays that have cost a great deal of money and plays that have made a great deal of money. The play I am proposing is going to cost more money than any play before, but it's going to make more money than any company has ever made."

I've never been quite sure why Oliver Fagin Thomas chose me to be his financial backer. I've never achieved anything that anyone would call prominence. I was just an engineer who loved being an engineer. I once stumbled across a good idea and ended up with a few banks keeping records with awfully high numbers next to my name. I never knew what to do with all of that money. I just let it sit and accumulate--Pretended that it wasn't even there for the most part except to buy a nice bathrobe or sitting room chair on occasion.

I'm not sure why I felt so generous to Oliver. He was not the first person to ask for money but I had never given in before. Too afraid of giving anything to the wrong person I suppose. Not that I was worried about losing my fortune, but more because I didn't want to be scammed. I never once thought that Oliver Fagin Thomas was trying to pull one over on me. He was too honest, too confident for me to question.

That afternoon we went together to visit my lawyer. We set up Persephonia Inc. right then. I gave Oliver pretty much everything. I'm proud of that decision. The money certainly went to good use."

Wednesday, January 09, 2008

Chapter 24 - The Return

Michigan Wines

Eleanor Thomas had been gone for twenty-one years when she returned for the opening night of Persephone. She packed enough clothes for the weekend into a carpet bag that had been passed down from woman to woman in her family since the civil war. She read Mark Twain on the flight over, and took a cab directly to the New Globe. She sat quietly through the play, after which she checked in to a moderately priced hotel and went to sleep. The next morning she woke up early, took the subway and made a surprise visit to an elderly aunt, taking her out to lunch before heading back to the airport and taking a plane back to Moscow. Oliver knew nothing about the trip until he received a letter in a peach envelope, attached to a case of fine vodkas.

Dear Oliver

I am writing to congratulate you on your recent successes. But along with these congratulations, which I assure you are most genuine and heartfelt, I regret I must also offer you a confession. My declaration of guilt is not based just on the fame and reputation of you and your work but on the achievement itself. To speak plainly I have seen the work. I apologize for not informing you and apologize even more for not visiting you while I was there, but I know how such things are and I cannot, in good conscience accept any credit for your achievement. Anytime a mother is brought into focus in a situation like this, she is invariably congratulated. I could not bear to be congratulated. You and I both know I deserve no congratulations. I have never put this into words before but I hope you have taken for granted the considerable guilt I keep in regard to your upbringing. I, in my infinite selfishness made far too many decisions that were detrimental to you. That you have become what I at one time most hoped for you despite all of my many many mistakes is to me only more evidence that I have nothing to do with the way you turned out. Still, I want you to know that I love you and I hope you have lots of people in your life who are much better at loving you than I am.

Your Mother.

Eleanor

Oliver sent his reply in a lime green envelope attached to a sample case of Michigan Wines.

Dear Mother

I know.

Your Son,

OFT