The Benefactor

It was a most ordinary start to what would be the least ordinary day of Billy Rankin's life. He took his toast with his usual honey and butter, tore yesterday's page off his A Day in History calendar, revealing a headline from July 11, 1924 which read:

"American flyers complete world flight, have arrived at Constantinople in good health and high spirits!”

Ain’t that something? What they must have seen!

Billy went outside, and walked around the block for his morning exercise, looking up at the birds.

"You've been fired.”

The man who’d said it was a stranger; they were standing outside the library. He was refined-looking despite wearing a long, multi-colored fur coat atop a sweat suit. Billy knew the man didn’t work at the library because Billy knew all his colleagues intimately, he knew their children’s birthdays and hand-delivered them each Christmas cards and cookies annually. Billy Rankin loved the library.

“What?” Billy asked.

“Okay, you haven’t been fired, but don’t go inside.”

They were standing outside the library. “Why not?” asked Billy.

“I called in sick for you, you’d create hysteria if you went inside, walking around sick like that, who would do that?”

“But I’m not sick,” said Billy.

“Knock wood. I have a gift for you,” said the peculiar man, “it’s from a benefactor, will you accept?”

“A benefactor? What is it?”

“A person who donates a lot of money.”

“What?”

“It’s $20,000.”

“What?”

“Yes.”

“Do you often go around offering people inordinate sums of money along their morning commute?” Billy inquired.

“Sometimes,” said the man. “Will you take it? I have an 11 o’clock.”

“No, thank you, but have a good day," Billy said politely, turning toward the entrance.

What in the world..

The man caught Billy’s arm at the door.

“Ahh! Stop!” Billy squealed—he hated being touched. “No thank you, I said no THANK YOUUUUUUUU. You have the wrong man!” Billy yipped like a small dog.

“Here. Look!” the man insisted, and he cracked open a leather bag revealing piles of cash.

“Jesus Christ,” said Billy Rankin.

“Billy Rankin?” The man asked.

“Jesus Christ!” Screamed Billy.

“Are you Billy Rankin?” Screamed the man. People were watching now.

“Yes!”

“That makes you the right man. Don’t worry. This money is of no consequence to the benefactor, he is of magnificent opulence," said the man.

“I don’t want any trouble” said Billy. He escaped inside, but the man said:

“If you decline, the library will suffer.”

“What? No. Don’t say that. What?” Billy asked, frustrated.

“The benefactor funds an annual endowment, it’s coming up. Without his donation, they’d surely close within a few months,” the man said.

Billy thought of his his friends’—Tracy—the attractive digital-dewey-decimal savant who’d joined the staff last summer, he’d been meaning to ask her out—and Frank the head librarian, Billy’s mentor.

“Can I talk him out of it?” Billy asked.

“I doubt it,” said the man.

“I have to tell Frank I won’t be in. We were supposed to clean the T-Z non-fiction shelves today. ” Billy said.

“You can call from the car,” said the man.

—

Inside the car, it was revealed that the odd man with the bag of money was called Zed, the identity of the benefactor was also revealed. Billy knew who he was—Dr. Charles Yentessy, a morally questionable pharmaceutical tycoon.

What on earth does this man want with me? Billy thought, he’d become very upset.

As a boy, Billy had once begged for a tamarind candy, pointing and screaming to the YENTESSY’S PHARMACY sign from a moving car, his mother had said:

"That company profits off starving children in Sudan by overcharging them for malaria pills, we're not buying their tamarind candy or malaria pills or anything else!”

She'd been surprisingly passionate on the topic. An idle smile folded across Billy’s face as he thought of his mother..

The golden gate swung open like two behemoth arms coming in for an overdue embrace, they approached the bizarre castle. It had Mexican-style tile work in hexagonal arrays across the front facade beneath a roof made of Spanish clay, there were archways across the grounds inciting visions of the Arc de Triomphe, the gardens were lined with non-indigenous plants and murals depicting battle scenes on golden walls. Billy was curious about the origins of the architecture and cautious about the man who’d built it.

When Zed led Billy into Dr. Yentessy's library there were books and books, maps of the world, exotic relics and foreign treasures. These were valuables Billy appreciated! All of this surrounded the great wooden desk and chair which spun slowly revealing Yentessy, a large man with a heavy jaw supported by a thick neck which poured out from a tight shirt collar, and small, circular glasses that looked about a size too small atop his wide nose. His eyes were blue and warm.

“Hello, Billy,” said Yentessy, with a charming air of familiarity, "I'm Charles Yentessy. Please, sit.”

Billy obliged, "Yessir, I know who you are.”

“Given my reputation, I’d wager that may not be a good thing.” said the doctor.

“It’s not.”

“Perhaps we can pretend I’m someone else then,” said the old man.

“I can’t accept your money, but you must continue funding the library,” said Billy.

“I’ll fund the library if you take the money.” Replied the strange doctor.

“I don’t want to be in anyone’s debt, and I have enough money. Besides, you profit from starving children in Sudan by overcharging them for malaria pills,” he said.

“My medicine saves lives,” said the doctor.

“The ones that can afford it.” Billy said.

“Your name is Billy Rankin, yes?” He asked.

“Yes.”

“Thirty-seven years old?”

“What does this have to do with the library?”

“Your mother is Anna Beth Rankin?”

“So what?“ said Billy, defensive.

"I'm sorry. Anna Beth Rankin, died age 58 of breast cancer three years ago next month, she did not receive Rodenerodeneroderol despite it being the obvious and recommended treatment, the cancer metastasized into stage four and then she died. She couldn’t afford the treatment.”

Billy stood up, and retreated toward a window, he glanced outside. He’d been calm in facing this man for the sake of the library, but he never thought the doctor could’ve known about his mother, surely it wouldn't come up. Zed offered him a tissue, Billy answered with an angry glance.

“I don’t talk about that,” said Billy.

"My company makes Rodenerodeneroderol."

"Okay.”

“I set the prices."

“Why are you doing this?”

"Do you blame me?" The old man asked.

“Yes!” Billy shouted before he could stop himself.

The only sound in the room came from Billy’s chest, he felt the buttons on his shirt bouncing as his heart battered his ribs.

“Yes. I blame you, I tried hating you. It didn’t bring her back. So what?”

The old man took Billy's words with a downturned face and bore little expression. He took a breath, "$20,000 per pill. That's what we charged."

“So if you give me that money you can wash your hands of it?” Demanded Billy.

The doctor knew his proposal was indelicate, but business had calloused him, “yes,” he said.

“You think that makes up for my mother’s life?” Demanded Billy.

“Grief is an indeterminable cost, but the price of the pill is fixed—I can give you that. Perhaps it’s not enough, but it’s something. If there’s one thing I know it’s that money makes life easier.”

Billy stared vacantly for a moment, then started to laugh.

“Constantinople,” said Billy.

“I beg your pardon?”

“100 years ago, two pilots completed a trip around the globe, did you know that?..You’ve got treasures and relics from across the earth, worked your whole life to gather them, and now, as your life’s trip is coming to an end you have nothing but this empty mansion.”

“Oh Billyyyy, don’t be romantic. I’m in business. Nothing has more value than that which can delay death. The price of the drug was merely the push and pull of the market. The Catholics turns a profit promising life, why shouldn't medicine?”

Billy shook his head at the man.

“Good-bye, Doctor.”

“Won’t you read Anna’s letter before you go?" the Doctor coo'ed.

Billy paused yet again.

“Don’t say that,” said Billy.

“It's postmarked three weeks before she died," he pointed to a letter on his desk, ”By the time it got to me it.. well…”

Billy stared at the letter.

“You can read it, but you have to take the money." The doctor pleaded. For the first time, Billy saw the humanity in the old man who he hated. His eyes bore an ocean blue wetness, as did Billy’s.

“Please, Billy."

"Why?"

"I wish to repay every widow and orphan who lost someone due to Rodenerodeneroderol. Per the dose the dead should’ve received. $20,000 bi-weekly, for the rest of your life. If you'd like we can set up a bank transfer henceforth, and avoid the theatrics, unless you’d like to see more of Zed.”

Please, no, Billy thought.

“And the library?” Billy said.

“And the library.. Your mother loved books too.” said Dr. Charles Yentessy.

“You knew her?” Said Billy, in disbelief.

“I did, indeed. 1965, at University, I was a teacher's assistant, she was studying microbiology, a star student, one of few women in the class, she was steadfast in her studies, but--for a time--she took to me, too, and I her. We fell in deep, real love. Here.”

The doctor handed Billy an old photograph, there was his mother with a Janis Joplin t-shirt underneath her lab coat, looking up at a beaming Yentessy.

"And then I was drafted into the Army, while I was away, your mother promised to write me, but she never did. For 16 months I pulled myself through mud and blood and filth, she was my north star—my purpose was to get back to her. But she abandoned me."

"Why?" Asked Billy.

“I've wondered that most of my life. My malcontent festered in the jungle, surrounded by death I became consumed with an idea. If I could develop something that would sustain life, not take it, I could make the world measurably better. Medicine was my new calling. Love was a waste. When I look at the lives I’ve helped save I think, all in all, I’ve done more good than bad, but I’ll never shoulder a burden more heavy than my regret for losing her.”

The old man's hands were shaking.

“Make it free.” said Billy.

“Sorry?”

“Make Rodenerodeneroderol free, and we’re even.”

“You know I can’t do that,” said Yentessy.

“Make it free or I’ll tell the press—my cousin is a journalist, I can do this— I’ll tell people you’re abandoning the library, it’s a historic building you know—I’ll tell the world that you’re trying to bribe people so you can sleep better at night. It’ll be a huge story—you’ll be blacklisted, people will stop going to your stores, hospitals will stop using your drugs—you said my mother was your north star? This is what she would want. Do this, and we’re square. You’ll be a hero, and you’ll still be rich. Do it, do it!”

The old man sat down into his chair, shocked at Billy's outburst, after a long deliberation, and emotional support from Zed, the old man agreed, knowing it would cost him his fortune.

--

When Billy arrived home, he emptied his bag full of money onto the table, amongst it was a black, Moleskine notebook. Inside was a note from Dr. Yentessy.

—

Dear Billy,

Learn from my mistakes. Everything I have is yours.

Your father,

Charles

—

“Jesus Christ,” said Billy, “don’t say that.”

—

Billy later received his mother’s letters to the doctor, the letters had been stuck in an American outpost in Cambodia until years after the war. The doctor never saw them.

Ain’t that something?