He Always Pays His Debts

John Cleary let out a quiet groan as he reached the end of the corridor and turned into his office suite. Nothing was easy today. He glanced at his watch, noting that the trip from the board room had taken an extra seven minutes. It’s the damn cane, he thought looking down at the cane supporting his left knee, wrapped in an ace bandage that strained against the pant leg of his suit. He briefly considered taking off the bandage and casting the cane aside, but he’d promised his wife he’d follow the doctor’s orders. 

He pulled out the top drawer on the left side of the desk just enough to give the cane a resting spot and eased his lanky frame down to the chair. Two stacks of manilla folders sat one next to the other on his polished oak desk awaiting his attention.  He swiveled his chair slowly toward the windows and looked out over the eighteenth hole as the sun hit the tips of the tall pines lining the fairway, casting shadow stripes across the grass. His meeting had not gone well; the board of directors demanded more scrutiny of proposed members, reminding him of the exclusivity of the club. They were barely civil he would tell his wife that evening. 

He turned back to address the files and shuffled through the stacks quickly, separating them into three groups: those provisional members who were legacies; those non-legacy provisional members who’d received negative reviews from other members (marked with a red X on the cover of the folder), and those provisionals whose files required his close attention. The top file in the last category was Don Segretto.

  John opened the folder, stamped “deferred” because of military service, and examined Don’s photograph, a black and white taken from the waist up. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, coat and tie, he looked at the camera directly, his black hair closely cropped on the side and slightly longer but slicked back on top. He didn’t smile for the camera, but he didn’t scowl either.  His gaze was neutral, present but without emotion. John set the photograph aside making a mental note of the occasions where he’d met Don. He could remember two gatherings at the club but there must have been others. John knew that Don worked in the lumber business, but he placed a checkmark besides a notation that he had worked in his early twenties as an apprentice millwright for a small lumber company near Redmond, Oregon.  John turned the page to the summary of member interviews. 

Bill McMurray, whose grandfather had been one of the founding members of the club, reported that he’d met Don a couple years ago. Ernie from the golf shop had recommended Don as a reliable fourth for the club’s monthly golf challenge so Bill sponsored him as a guest. Don told a good story and was quick to laugh at the group’s jokes. “He had the best set of clubs of all of us and his score that day kept us in the running, that’s for sure.” Bill knew less about Don’s life than John would have liked, but one answer caught his attention: Don was dating a good friend of Bill’s sister. “If my sister weren’t already engaged I’d wonder if she was jealous,”  he’d said.

       John turned to the next interview, Randy Sacks, one of the club’s premier younger members, a solid man from a well-respected family.  Randy reported that he’d met Don several years ago, when Don began working at the lumber company in Portland and the two of them were seated together during a lunch for local businessmen. He’d been impressed with Don, thought he asked good questions, and seemed to be a quick study. The two have seen each other socially, although Randy did not describe him as a close friend. When asked about Don’s service, Randy replied, “It was a surprise. I thought he was a 4-F, but, then one day I heard he’d enlisted. . . . Funny thing as I look back on it now, the war was almost over…. he couldn’t have known that though.”   

John leaned back in his chair and ran his hand over the top of his head, a motion that used to smooth his hair back from his forehead, but now was done only out of habit. He looked over the two interviews, both positive, both recommending Don for full membership. And, yet, these men knew only Don’s public persona, his aspirations. Before making his recommendation, John wanted to know about Don’s private life, his character. 

         He turned the page to the last interview: Ernie Samuel, the manager from the pro shop. Ernie had worked at the club for more than twenty years, starting as an errand boy, then assisting in the pro shop and now the manager. Ernie’s loyalty to the club and its members was absolute, John knew that. When John found out that Ernie had known Don for nearly fifteen years, he decided to interview Ernie himself. 

Ernie dressed in a coat and tie, not the golf polo shirt he typically wore in the pro-shop. He offered none of his usual banter and instead formally shook John’s hand as he entered the office, thanking him for the opportunity to speak on behalf of Don.  Ernie sat in the hard-backed chair opposite John, erect and unmoving as John began his questioning.

The interview was halting; Ernie answered John’s questions but without embellishment. John tried a different approach.

           “Ernie, you know we appreciate your work at the club . . .”

           Ernie nodded, saying nothing.

           “But I need a sense of this man. I need you to help me fill-in the picture. I’m relying on you here.”

           Ernie shifted his weight against the chair.

           “Tell me about the day you met Don. Do you remember the time of year?”

           “Yeah, it was in the fall, after Labor Day.”

           “Do you remember where you were?” the club manager prodded.

           “Sure, it was the gas station, just off the Ross Island Bridge. I was coming back from visiting my sister in Salem and I stopped for gas.”

           “Was Don filling up his tank?”

           “No, no.” Ernie smiled. “Don’s old man had just bought the station. They were still unloading inventory when I pulled up. I think Don must have been thirteen, fourteen years old.” Ernie paused. “It was clear to me that they needed help, and I knew about stocking a store from working at the club. So, I offered to help them get set up.”

           “Did you meet Don’s mother too?”

           “Nah, it was just Don and his dad.”

           “So, later you met….”

           “No, I never asked about her. Don’s dad, Ray, seemed like he had enough on his mind trying to keep that station going… you know … the depression, it was tough, and then he added a repair shop on credit, and that kept the money tight.” Ernie paused again. “Ray always paid his bills, though. Don too, always pays his bills.”

           John nodded. 

           “One other thing, sir,” Ernie looked at John directly. “Don’s always done right by his dad. A couple of years ago, he helped him sell the station. Didn’t make much, but Don used his own money to buy him a house in Redmond so Ray could retire and use the money from the sale to live on.”

           “How is Don’s father?” John asked.

           “That’s the thing, sir. Ray died, not too long after. I wouldn’t have even known if Don hadn’t let it slip that he’d rented out the house.”  

            John read his summary of Ernie’s interview again, made a couple of margin notations, and turned to the next section, separated by a blank page. The envelope that followed was still sealed and the outside was stamped “CONFIDENTIAL.” John took out his letter opener embossed with the club’s logo, slit open the envelope and pulled out the stapled report. 

The first page summarized Don’s childhood and his family’s background.  “The subject, Don Segretto, was born in Lincoln, Nebraska on June 2, 1915 to Raymond and Myrna Segretto. One sibling, Robert, a male born on March 15, 1912.”  John set the summary page aside, shifted his weight in the chair and rubbed his sore knee. The attachment was far more interesting: a handwritten letter on several pages of onion paper. John turned to the last page, the letter was signed by Leo Segretto.   

October 25, 1946

Dear Sir:

           I am Don Segretto’s uncle on his father’s side. A man stopped by my house asking about Don and after we talked for a bit, and I understood his purpose, I asked him if he’d give you this letter. I want to set the record straight. 

           I know Don since he was born. He was a good kid, taking care of his brother even though his brother was older than him. That’s where this all starts. His brother, Robbie, got the flu when he was about seven years old. He got through it, but his lungs weren’t right afterwards. Robbie couldn’t run like most of the kids, he’d stop and cough and have to go inside. Don got bigger and stronger, but Robbie stayed small. 

           Those boys stuck together though and Don stood up for Robbie if any of the other boys made fun of him. Back and forth, they’d go on about baseball and school. My wife would tease them about chirping like the morning birds, so noisy she couldn’t hear herself think. Sometimes Ray would bring the boys over to stay with me and my wife for a few days. Ray and Myrna lived in town, and we were a few miles away up the road with some land for the boys to run around and play. We got chickens, a nice garden my wife planted and a pond that we let the boys jump into after chores. 

One week in the middle of August in 1923, a real hot week I remember, with that kind of heat that takes hold of everything and doesn’t let go, Don and Robbie had come to stay with us. They knew the rules, home by dinner and then inside by dark. The boys were real good with us and never broke the rules. 

           But that night, one of them got the idea to go down to the pond. I don’t know which of them started it, but both of them snuck out of the house after my wife and I went to sleep. There was a full moon that lit the path to the pond, and it would’ve only taken them five minutes or so to get down there.  I still go over that night in my mind, thinking I should have known they got out of bed, but I never heard a thing. At least not until Don raced into our room all wet yelling that Robbie had slipped and couldn’t get out of the pond.

I ran down to the pond as fast as I could. I don’t think I even put on shoes. I jumped in and tried to find Robbie, yelling his name and reaching into the water near the edge to see if he was right under the surface. I didn’t know it then, but he’d already sunk to the bottom.

I kept looking until I couldn’t do it no more. Don and I ran back up to the house.  I changed and took the car over to the sheriff’s house and explained what happened. By daybreak, he’d rounded up maybe ten men to help look for Robbie. For hours, the men kept combing the pond.  Ray and Myrna were there too. Ray was in the pond with me and the other men and Myrna paced around the edge of the pond shielding her eyes from the sun and watching for any sign of her boy. My wife kept Don inside with her even though he wanted to help. We didn’t want him to see what was coming.

  One of the men found poor Robbie’s body close to the middle of the pond. Lord knows how he got all the way out there. 

Don stayed with us. Myrna needed some time, Ray told me. My wife and I took Don to the funeral. He sat up straight and didn’t cry. Overnight he’d turned into a sad, quiet kid. He watched me and his father, plus a few other men we all knew, walk the casket up to the front of the church. Myrna sat with her mother, but you could hardly make her out. She was skin and bones my wife said.  It wasn’t until we were at the graveyard that Myrna acknowledged Don, no words, just a nod. Don looked down at the ground and shoved his hands in his pockets. They looked like he’d balled them up into fists, but I couldn’t be sure. 

Don stayed with us for a few more weeks. We had chores to keep him busy and school hadn’t started. Ray stopped by to see Don and every time he did, he told Don that Myrna just needed a little more time. After a few visits, Ray said Don stopped asking about his mother.

From the beginning, there were whispers in town about Robbie’s death. I didn’t worry about it too much, the sheriff and I had gone over things a few times and he was satisfied, but Ray worried about Don and about Myrna. “What this is doing to her,” he told me. The rumors continued. 

One night I heard car tires on the gravel coming down the drive. I looked out the window and the headlights were off. My wife and Don had both gone to bed, but I was up reading the newspaper. I didn’t want any trouble, but I pulled out the pistol I keep in the reading table beside my chair and tucked it into my waistband. The truck stopped in front of the house and a man stepped out. I turned on the porch light - I wanted this guy to know that I knew he was there - and kept watching from the window. He stepped into the light, his shoulders slumped and his hands in his coverall pockets. It was Ray. I called him inside quietly and he walked up the steps apologizing for giving me a scare. He’d borrowed the truck from a guy he worked with. The guy wanted to sell the truck and said Ray could drive it for a day or two to see if it suited him. 

Ray had hardly sat down before he told my why he came over so late. “Myrna’s gone,” he said. “Moved in with her mother.” Ray was shaking. “She quit on us, Leo. . . first Don and now both of us. She told me I’m no good and she wanted no part of being a wife or mother any longer.” Ray paused, but his jaw kept moving, clenching over and over like it could grind her memory into dust if he pressed hard enough.

I pulled the whiskey down from the top shelf in the kitchen and handed him a shot to calm his nerves.

“The boy should come back with me,” Ray said. “I’m going to buy the truck and Don and I can go out west. I hear there’s work out there and no one will know . . .”

Ray picked up Don the next day and they left town. I’d get letters from Ray every now and then saying that they were fine. The envelopes were always postmarked from a different town.  He never mentioned Myrna, except one time. He’d heard that she’d died, lung cancer, I think. He told me it was a shame she’d gotten sick. 

A few years later, I got a letter from Ray saying that he had the chance to buy a gasoline station in Oregon. He thought maybe Don could finish high school near Portland. He wanted to borrow some of the down payment from me and he promised to pay back what I sent. I sent him the money and I know he tried to pay it back, but there was always other expenses. After he died, I got a check from Don for the full amount. He wanted to pay off his father’s debt.

                                                          Sincerely,

                                                                      Leo Segretto



           John folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope, resealed it and put the envelope back into the manilla folder. He stood, grabbed his cane, which felt lighter now, and moved toward the door.  He had all the information he needed.