The Lumby Lines
A Consumer’s Report
BY CARRIE KERRY September
The Barkolator: Last Wednesday, at two o’clock in the morning, I was coerced into buying yet another product from a shopping network on satellite television: the Barkolator. The concept behind this high-tech, cross-species translator, for those who have not yet heard, is to allow your dog’s bark to be read in English, and convert your words into canine barks. If only communications with my boyfriend could be so simple.
A team of scientists, animal behaviorists, and clinical psychiatrists in Asia defined nine emotional categories for dogs: fear, happiness, hunger and so on. I would think dogs’ fears run high over there since they are often served up for lunch and dinner, but who knows.
Anyway, each bark is transmitted from a receiver in the pooch’s collar to a small handheld computer, which then displays the words behind the bark, so to speak.
When I received the package yesterday, I strapped the bright red collar around little Maggie’s neck, Maggie being my flat-coated retriever.
“Bark,” she sounded. “I’m hungry,” the display read.
“Bark, bark,” she sounded. “I’m jealous jealous,” it read. Jealous jealous of what? I thought.
I could neither dispute nor support the translation, but it was fun.
I then decided to take the Barkolator out for a field trial, and went to the Fairgrounds where I strapped it on one of the renegade chickens.
“Cluck,” it said. “I’m hungry,” it read.
“Cluck,” it said. “I’m free,” it read.
Fair enough.
My final test was at Mcnear’s Farm, where I asked to borrow Bertha, as her emotions are fairly superficial.
“Moo,” she voiced. “Dumb,” it read.
“Moo,” she voiced again. “Dope,” it read.
I’ll never understand that one, but I acknowledge that I may have pushed the envelope too far by testing it on a bovine.
So, overall, I give it four out of five bananas. Why not? Wouldn’t our town be that much better if we all knew what our dogs were telling us?
After reading the paper Monday morning, Pam went to pick up Brooke. Upon leaving Montis she noticed that Hank was preparing for the colder weather to come. He had donned a lightweight green sweater with a striped scarf casually thrown around his neck.
When Pam and Brooke arrived in town, their first stop was at Chatham Press, where the Montis Inn brochures were ready. When they got to the entrance, however, a large “CLOSED” sign hung on the door. As they peered inside, the lights were off, in spite of the business hours printed on the schedule. They agreed to bide some time in the Lumby Bookstore, but found a similar “CLOSED” sign.
“Is today a holiday?” Pam asked Brooke, mystified.
“Not that I’m aware of. Let’s grab a bite at S&T’s and come back in an hour.”
Returning to Chatham Press after an early lunch, they found the “CLOSED” sign was still hanging on the door, but they saw people working inside.
Pam knocked on the window, catching the attention of a man who was standing away from her, reading galley proofs at the front desk. When he turned around, she saw Dennis Beezer and drew back in surprise.
“It’s Dennis!” Pam said under her breath. “In his father’s building.”
Dennis opened the door but didn’t say anything right away.
“Hi, Dennis,” Pam said awkwardly. “I came by to pick up the Montis Inn brochures, but it appears you’re closed.” She ended the sentence more in a question than a statement.
Dennis looked at her and then Brooke.
“Dennis, are you all right?” Brooke asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head as if to end a bad trance. “The press will be closed for business for the next few days.”
He saw Pam peering inside at the staff at work.
“We’re printing a special edition in remembrance,” he explained.
“For whom?” Brooke asked.
“My father. He died in a car crash on Priest Pass last night.”
“We’re so very sorry, Dennis,” Pam said. “Is there anything we can do?”
“No. Well, actually, yes. I’ve been trying to reach Joshua. If you see him, would you please let him know what’s happened?”
“Of course,” Brooke said.
“Please call us if there is anything we can do,” Pam said as Dennis began to close the door.
“I’m speechless,” Brooke said, walking back to the car with Pam. “I feel so sorry for Dennis—he looked so distraught.”
“It must be painful for him just to be in that building,” Pam correctly assumed.
“Gabrielle mentioned that Dennis hadn’t stepped foot in his father’s business for thirty years. And now, to have to go there under these circumstances,” Brooke said. “I was hoping to ask William Beezer about the fires, and about the journals. In fact, I was planning on bringing it up this morning.”
“Well, that’s definitely not going to happen,” Pam said dryly.
After dropping Brooke off at her cottage, Pam went home and told Mark about William Beezer’s death.
Within no more than a few minutes, the phone rang. Pam listened to Mark, and his brief responses: “Yes, I just heard…. Uh-huh…. That’s fine…. Yes…. Yes…. See you then.”
“Who was that?” Pam asked.
“Russell Harris,” Mark answered.
“Is there something wrong?”
“Not that I’m aware of, but he would like to see us in his office this afternoon at three o’clock.”
“Why so?” Pam asked.
“He wouldn’t say, other than to tell me that he is handling William Beezer’s estate and final requests.”
Pam had the sinking feeling that something was about to go terribly awry, fearing what she referred to as “the other shoe dropping,” although Mark had always wondered when the first shoe dropped.
“Can we be sued posthumously?” she asked.
”Sued for what? We’ve done nothing wrong. We don’t even know him,” Mark reminded her.
“I know. But he had such a strong vendetta against Montis. Perhaps it was his final wish that he bring the abbey to its knees.”
“Interesting metaphor,” Mark laughed. “Don’t worry. It will be fine.”
“But why do you think Russell needs to see us?” she asked. And Pam repeated that question no fewer than ten times in the next hour.
“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Russell said, shaking both Pam and Mark’s hands. “These matters are always so difficult, and usually time is an unfortunate reality. I trust all is going well at Montis.”
“Very well, thanks. The weather has been good for the orchard,” Mark said, filling in for Pam, who was too nervous for small talk.
“Wonderful party you had. It’s nice to see the community come together like that,” Russell said.
Pam couldn’t hold back. “What can we do for you, Russell?”
“Here, please sit down,” he said, offering them chairs around a large mahogany table, the same table on which they had signed their closing papers for Montis Abbey.
“As you know, William Beezer passed away last night, and, as I told Mark, I have been asked to handle his will and last requests.”
“But we didn’t even know him,” Pam said, bracing herself for an expected blow.
“Oh. I thought you might have met him since moving here,” Russell said, “but that was just an assumption on my part.”
“No. All we knew is that he didn’t think too favorably of Montis,” Mark said.
“Well, that would be difficult to know,” Russell said. “There are actually two different reasons why I needed to see you.” He tapped the paper in front of him. “The first is in respect to his will. It was William Beezer’s request that he be buried in the cemetery at Montis.”
“At Montis?” Pam asked, startled.
“Yes,” Russell answered. “On the one occasion when he and I spoke about this, specifically when I was drawing up his last will and testament, he told me that he wanted to be buried next to his brother and father, and that he wanted that request stated as such in both his will and letter of last request.”
“I’m shocked,” Pam said.
Mark explained, “Given an article he wrote in The Lumby Lines last spring, we assumed that he would prefer Montis be torn down, stone by stone.”
“Personally, I don’t think that was the case. Perhaps he just didn’t want the past stirred up by your purchase and restoration of the abbey.”
“Why do you say that?” Pam asked. “Are you aware of William Beezer’s connection to the abbey?”
“Only slightly.” Russell moved on. “I know this must come as an unexpected request—”
“To say the least,” Mark interrupted.
Russell continued. “And I would like to give you as much time as you need to consider his request, but unfortunately, matters must be finalized today. Perhaps I can leave you two alone to discuss it.”
“Yes, please,” Mark said.
“Before I leave, though, I need to give you this envelope. In William’s letter of last request, he asked that you do not open it until you advise me of your decision regarding his request to be buried on your property, which I have already cleared by the county and state if you agree. Regardless of your answer, though, he wanted you to have this,” Russell explained, placing a white business envelope on the table in front of Mark, and then left the room.
“I’m amazed,” Pam said, looking at her husband.
“Me, too,” he said. “Could we have misread the situation so badly?”
“I don’t think so,” she said. “I’m sure Brooke was totally accurate in what he said to her. And there was little room for misinterpreting his editorial in the newspaper.”
“So, you think no matter how he felt toward Montis, his desire to be buried next to his brother was stronger?” Mark asked.
“I do,” Pam answered. “So what do you think?”
“I think we would both feel strange to have William Beezer, alive or dead, at Montis.”
“I do, too,” Pam said, concurring. “But…” she paused.
“But,” Mark completed her thought, “all of us will have our own last requests and hope that they will be honored.”
“Yeah, I think so,” Pam said.
“So we should agree?” Mark asked.
“I think so. Do you?” Pam asked back.
“I do.”
They asked for Russell to rejoin them.
“We’re fine with William Beezer being buried at the Montis cemetery,” Mark told Russell.
“Very good,” the lawyer said, and picked up the phone to advise his assistant.
“You said there were two matters?” Mark asked.
“Yes. The other is the envelope on the table, which you can now open,” Russell said.
Mark picked up the envelope. Taking out what looked like a slip of paper, he read it and handed it to Pam in silence. They both stared at the paper in shock. In Pam’s hand was a cashier’s check made payable to the Montis Inn in the amount of fifty thousand dollars.
Pam peered at it more closely. “‘Persolvo’ is written on the memo line. What does that mean?”
“In Latin, it means to pay off one’s debt,” Russell answered.
“But William didn’t owe us anything,” Mark said.
“He thought he did.”
“For what?” Pam asked.
“For last year’s fire,” Russell answered more softly, offering no further information.
After gathering whatever composure they could, Mark and Pam thanked Russell and left his office.
When they returned home, they invited Brooke and Joshua over to tell them what had transpired. Joshua had just been in town to console Dennis and was clearly shaken, holding Brooke’s hand tightly. Pam poured strong martinis for everyone.
“Do you think we did the right thing?” Pam asked Brooke.
“Yes, I do. Given everything, I would have made the same decision. Interesting how he didn’t want you to see the check before giving Russell your answer.”
Mark agreed. “I’m sure he didn’t want the money to influence our decision.”
“And, in truth, it could have,” Pam said. “That’s a lot of money. I’m glad it wasn’t hanging over our heads when we were discussing his burial request.”
“Would it have swayed you?” Joshua asked.
“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but yes, I think so,” Pam answered honestly. “If I had been strongly opposed to the idea but knew about his check, I would have felt that approving his request was the least I could do for the money he gave us.”
“But the money wasn’t for that,” Joshua said.
“Exactly,” Mark concurred. “That’s why he wanted to keep the two separate.”
Brooke shook her head. “I have to admit that I admire his forethought and sense of objective fairness.”
“Me too,” Pam said.
“And so it was his grandson who definitely set fire to the main building last year?” Brooke asked.
“Yes, although Russell never said those exact words,” Mark said. “He explained that his role was simply to handle any legal issues that came up regarding Brian Beezer’s potential involvement in the fire. He never confirmed any of the stories we have heard.”
“But a man doesn’t give fifty thousand dollars away for no reason,” Joshua said.
“One hundred thousand,” Pam corrected him. “Today’s remittance, if you can call it that, plus the other check that was in the journal sent to Brooke.”
“Here,” Mark said, handing Brooke the paper. “Before leaving town, we picked up the special edition of The Lumby Lines.”
Brooke began scanning the numerous articles about William Beezer, his father, his sons, and their lives. Below the obituary and framed by articles on each side was a series of photographs that showed William Beezer as a carefree young boy, a high school football player, a graduate student at Northwestern, a loving husband and father, and a community leader in Lumby.
Brooke grabbed the paper and held it closely to her face, studying the center photograph. Tears came to her eyes as her hands started to tremble. Joshua looked at her.
“What’s wrong, Brooke?” he asked.
“Brooke?” Pam asked, trying to get her attention.
She put down the paper and pointed to a man standing next to William Beezer, one man among six, all laughing, in a photograph that was entitled “Northwestern Medill School of Journalism 1943.”
“That’s my father.”