White Elephant

The Greenleaf family was an extended clan of alcoholics, producers of methamphetamines, riders of expensive motorcycles - respected for their reputations as both hard workers and brawlers. Meg’s uncle, after years of abuse, had killed his father during a fight in the kitchen. This killing, like the conflict in a band of mountain apes, propelled the young man to the positon of Greenleaf patriarch at the age of nineteen. His leadership was contested by a cousin, who was in turn blinded for life by a load of birdshot, collapsing in the front yard of the ramshackle house.

Out of this environment of violence, chaos, ignorance, and squalor, Meg Greenleaf clawed herself inch by painstaking inch, like a swimmer sidestroking to a piece of flotsam on the open sea. She graduated high school, attended a local university and, after many starts and stops, was certified as a licensed professional counselor. She began her professional career with an inveterate hatred of the backward and agrarian culture of her home state. She cut off contact with her family and left her past for good. But she was still a Greenleaf, from the blood coursing through her heart, to the electrical sparks jumping from synapse to synapse, from her irrational passions to her sudden explosions of violence, it was Greenleaf sparks and Greenleaf blood.

This day, a Friday, Meg showered and ate breakfast in her little kitchenette. She loaded her purse methodically. Pepper spray, book (The Colossus of Maroussi), sack lunch, little black enamel notebook, car keys. She put on her granny glasses (an ex-boyfriend had called them her fetish glasses) and appraised herself in the mirror. Her hair was dark, long and thick, but strangely inert. “Good,” she thought, “but beginning to look pillowy.” She went out of the door and locked it, got into her car and on the road to her job at the Green River Mental Health Center.

Friday contained her session with Thomas. Thomas was a Rittermark, a scion of one of the last, sclerotic, old money families in that part of the deep south. “A redneck Brahmin,” Nelson had called him when they discussed his referral. Thomas had studied at law, hung out his shingle, and began his climb up the ladder in the old Roman fashion. Divorce and a latent addiction to alcohol obliterated these prospects. Now, disinherited and penniless, Thomas humbly took his place with the lowliest crack addicts, male prostitutes, and schizophrenics. Broken and discarded, he embraced them all as brothers and sisters. He was Meg’s crowning achievement, her masterpiece.

“Hello, Thomas. How has your week been?”

“Miss Greenleaf, I have never been better,” said Thomas, affecting the extra mint julep twang he did when he was “up”.

“I’m glad to hear it. I have a piece of great news for you.”

“That’s great, because I have some good news for you. Really it’s good news for me. But you too, by extension.”

“Why don’t you go first,” said Meg.

“I have heard from my mother for the first time in five years. One of my relatives died and my mom is splitting the sale of the house between the kids. I stand to get twenty.” At this point Thomas lost his usual sense of gravitas and broke into a huge grin.

“Twenty…thousand, I presume?”

“Yes ma’am, you presume right. Twenty grand. And my mom spoke to me, which is great. Not as great as the money, but worth a mention.”

“Well, congratulations are in order Thomas. I really don’t know what to say.”

“Well, you can start by congratulating me.”

“Congratulations.”

“And your big surprise?”

“We’ll bump it to next week. I’m not sure our surprises are compatible,” Meg said.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” said Nelson.

“I needed time to digest this. Once I tell him, I can’t get the information back. I can always tell him. I can’t untell him.” Meg stretched her legs out in Nelson’s office, with its single desk and trite inspirational posters. Meg thought they were some sort of camouflage to lull people into a false sense of security. They did not coincide with Nelson’s cynical and acerbic personality.

Meg went on, “There has to be some way to stop him from getting that money, like legally or administratively. He is not ready for that kind of, well, power. Moneypower.”

“That is the rub of the situation. You have spent this time setting him up as a residential manger. You lay the groundwork that he is ready for that level of responsibility. You can’t in the next breath make him some sort of ward of the state. It’s too transparent. He would fight it and he would in all likelihood win. Nothing would make Tom come out of his haze like losing that money.”

Meg bristled slightly, “Don’t say that, even sarcastically. He has put in so much effort. That’s why I can’t believe this. Aside from some sort of substance relapse, this is the worst thing that could happen. Is his mother an idiot?”

“I didn’t think they were on speaking terms,“ Nelson said.

“They aren’t. Until she dumps all this money in his lap.”

“Well, let’s look into the details. Maybe it will be in a trust. Maybe it will get doled out by a lawyer. Let’s see. It could be that both of these situations will work out. Just keep me posted on what you find out.”

Meg used the landline from her shared office. The line buzzed, then picked up.

The voice was female, gently southern and patrician. Meg instinctively clenched her teeth.

“Yes?”

“Hello, my name is Megan Greenleaf. I serve at the Green River Mental Health Center, as Thomas Rittermark’s substance abuse counselor.”

“Yes. You have lovely voice. You sound just like..”

“Yes ma’am. I needed to bring you up to speed on Thomas’s treatment, his progress, and the matter of…”

“Tallulah Bankhead,” said the voice. “Yes. Girl, you sound just like Tallulah Bankhead. And I’m sorry, this is Pam Rittermark. I’m Thomas’s mother.” She laughed. “Guilty as charged.”

“Yes ma’am. Thomas told me that he was going to come into some money.”

Through the land line and electric waves, Meg could feel the frost instantly puff from the receiver and cover her hand and cheek.

“Yes, there is an arrangement. I’m not sure I understand the interest of your facility. Or yourself for that matter.”

“Thomas is at a critical stage in his treatment. He has made great strides, you should be proud of him. But access to such a large sum of money would, again, at this critical stage, be too much for him. It could cause him to regress. That is my concern. I’m sure you are concerned too.”

“Being his mother and all? Thomas is an adult, Miss or Mrs. Greenleaf. He is responsible for his actions. Now I appreciate your concern for my son but I think my money and how and to whom I wish to disburse it is really none of your business.”

“Yes, Mrs. Rittermark, thank you for your time,” said Meg, and hung up. Then she dialed Thomas.

“Um, basically, we’re going to set up an account with a debit card. And put the whole kit and kaboodle in there. Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Any plans on how you’re going to spend the money?”

“On you, baby cakes. I think I can get the entire Criterion collection for twenty grand. They almost go out of business every few years and it would be an honor to save them. And in your name as well. A double honor.”

“I know I’m coming across as a gold digging chiseler here, but isn’t there a trustee of some sort? I’m sorry but I feel like I have to ask.”

“You mean a financial babysitter? To make sure I don’t drink myself to death the second I can scrape a few bucks together?”

“Thomas, let’s be honest. Put yourself in my shoes. This is a huge responsibility. You live in the moment. It’s the way you’re wired. You’re sober and you feel good, so you’ve always been sober and you’ve always felt good.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Thomas. “You think I don’t know being a drunk sucks? Hmm, I recollect being present when that occurred.”

“Thomas, I care about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Then, a bolt of inspiration. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe the money isn’t a gift?”

Thomas paused.

“That Pamela wants me to screw up and destroy myself? Honestly no, it did not occur to me. I just thought my mother had softened her attitude toward me and the money was a token of that sentiment. You know, when I say it out loud, it does sound kind of shady. What do you think I should do?”

The weekend came and went. On Monday, at 1:05PM, Meg’s phone rang. It was Pam Rittermark.

“Is this Miss Greenleaf? Yes, I want you to know you are skating on the edge of a lawsuit. Your nuthouse wouldn’t last a week without state and federal funding. What happens when that funding gets diverted to legal penalties because of misconduct on the part of meddling dogooders like yourself? And a Greenleaf of the methhead Greenleafs, good heavens.” The woman’s voice was tight but under control.

“Mrs. Rittermark, it is clear you are agitated about something. Would you care to tell me what it is?”

“You know exactly what it is. Thomas says he wants the money to go into the care of a trustee.”

“And you object to this? You seem like an intelligent woman, Mrs. Rittermark. Aren’t you aware of the risk you are taking by giving him that amount of money? I am genuinely confused, Pamela.” Then the line went dead.

Friday came and Thomas did not appear. With a weight of anxiety pressing harder and harder on her shoulders, Meg drove to Thomas Rittermark’s little bungalow.

Thomas’s door featured the rampant elephant and scarlet letter of a college football team. She could smell him through the cheap presswood. She knocked. There was a shuffling sound, then the door opened. Thomas smiled stupidly and waved her inside.

“Siddown,” Thomas said amiably. She could smell his body odor, passed from ripe to scorched, the smell of puke, the sweet smell of booze.

Meg stood in the tiny living room.

Thomas said, “Here, Meg, I wantoe show you something.”

He sat down heavily in a recliner, pivoted at the waist and brought up two stacks of bills, one in each hand, forefingers and thumbs stretched to the limit.

“I love you, Meg,” Thomas said, his radio voice beginning to quiver, “and I want to give you tenthousand dollars. To go on a date. No sexy stuff. You are not a whore, you are a good woman. I just want to be seen with you. You’re so pretty. And I want to talk to you. Before I was a drunk I was smart. You know when you go to a country and you meet an American? That’s meeting a smart person. We’ll go out and you can leave after two minutes if you wanooo.”

Thomas’s head began to sag slightly.

“And have money.”

Thomas wiped away a tear, but when he spoke his voice was controlled.

“All cultchur an art, are garlinz of flowers wrapped around the chains that enslave. Mankind.”

Thomas snored softly.

On the drive home to her little house, Meg tried to contextualize Thomas and failed. Instead she thought of the multitudes of the shattered, misfired and insane. She thought about a leaky boat on a vast ocean, taking on water. As she furiously bailed, the Rittermarks and Greenleafs of the world poured water in by the bucketful.

“I can do this,” Meg said “the boat will never be sink, just like it will never be saved. I’ll just keep bailing.” She sighed.

She arrived home and ascended her front steps to the door.