Chapter 3 –
Things get confusing
The next three days went by like a blur. I can’t remember the last time I was so happy writing history. Twenty three pages becomes a hundred. I have lots of local stories about the Jolliet kids, two diaries from the girls, several mentions in older histories, all stacked up around my office as I type away with a smile. Is a hundred pages about childhood too many? Maybe, but I would let a future copy editor make that case. I was enjoying every paragraph. I liked these kids, I liked how they were raised, and I liked thinking about them and not about the current troubles. So I wrote and wrote and words scrolled up the screen.
I still broke for lunch in the middle of the day. In fact I tried to go exactly at noon, kind of a reflection on the duties of the Jolliet kids. I didn’t buy a sextant, but I did have fun sitting at my table at the golf course looking at the shadows from the salt shaker, and trying to align the straw in my lemonade. It was silly, but fun, so I was especially annoyed one day when a shadow fell over my table and stayed there. David Starr. He had approached me from behind and now stood right behind my chair. Had he been watching while I played with items on my table? Did I care?
“We should talk some place more private.” As he spoke, I turned around to see him, only to be blinded by the sun coming right over his shoulder.
“I like it here,” I replied. “I’ll buy you lunch.”
“Humor me. This needs a little privacy.” He moved back a step, leaving room for me to get up and follow. I decided not to fight it. I put a few francs on the table, apologized to the waiter as I left, and followed Starr out to the parking lot. He walked straight to a blaringly red Ford that stood out like a lion among sheep. He got behind the wheel and motioned for me to go to the passenger side. This was private? We might as well have been sitting on a stage.
“You haven’t called the senator’s office,” he said the minute I was in the car. I noticed the interior was red too. Leather. Who colors leather red? Was he now a pimp? I just shrugged my shoulders.
“I have been busy. I am behind on a book.”
“I think you owe the Senator something. At least basic courtesy. You will recall there was plenty of help for you in New Orleans when you needed it.”
“He sent the Marines?”
“He told the consulate to watch out for you.”
“Okay. So he is a good guy and I owe him. I will call.” I reached for the door handle. The car was hot and the leather really uncomfortable.
“Take this first.” He handed me a large while envelope that felt like it had a booklet inside.
“Okay.” I put it in a pocket and reached for the door again.”
“You should count it first. And I need you to sign a receipt.” What was he talking about? I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and opened it. Money fell out onto my lap. Hundred dollar bills.
“What’s this for?” I pushed the bills back into the envelope.
“If you would call the senator, you would find out. Now let me finish my job. Count the bills and sign this receipt.”
“I don’t want this.” I handed him the envelope. He handed it right back.
“After you talk with the senator, you can always mail it back if you wish. Now let’s get this done.” I sat and stared at him. What was the money for? Did I keep arguing with him? The car was hot and he was adamant. It seemed easier to just do as he asked and leave. So, finally, I counted the bills. Fifty. He was giving me five thousand dollars. Why? I would find out. When I had counted the last bill, he gave me a piece of paper that said “I receive…” and I signed it. I put the envelope back in my pocket. Somehow it seemed bigger now.
“He is waiting for your call.”
“Okay, I will do it yet this afternoon.” And I was out of that hot red car. The air felt so much fresher, but I was sweating like I had just run a marathon. What the hell was going on? I walked straight back to my office, closed the door, and pulled out my phone.
And here’s where it gets really weird. I called the number, but all I got was an answering machine. The good senator was very pleased to get my call, but he was serving the public right now and would get back to me as soon as possible. So said the machine to me, and probably to fifty people an hour. For this I had rush back and make a call? I put the phone down and got out the money. Who carries around this amount of cash other than drug dealers? What was I supposed to do with it? I put it back in my pocket, but it didn’t feel comfortable. It was too thick, too big, too something. Maybe too wrong. There was no reason for the senator to give me money. It’s not like he wanted me to buy some souvenirs of Green Bay to bring back to Philadelphia on my next visit. This just didn’t add up.
What do you do when the world doesn’t make sense? Call dad. He picked up on the second ring.
“Shawn, how are you doing?” I love caller ID. The conversation moves along so much quicker when you already know who you are talking to before you say the first word.
“Well, I am spending the summer working on my book series, but I just had an odd visit. Have you been talking to Senator Dodson?”
“I attended one of his constituent breakfasts a month or so ago, and we spoke for a few minutes, but not about anything substantial. He is up for re-election next year, so I think he is just pressing the flesh until he needs to raise some more cash.”
“Well, he seems to have plenty. He just gave me $5000.”
“What? Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea. I tried to call him, but his line is busy, so all I got was an answering machine. And here is where it gets really odd – the five thousand was all in cash – hundred dollar bills.”
“This doesn’t smell right, Shawn.”
“I’m with you there. What makes it worse is the money was given to me by a man from the New Orleans consulate named David Starr. As near as I can tell, he is some kind of agent. Why he would come all the way up to Green Bay to give me cash is a complete mystery to me.”
“And he said the money was from Dodson?”
“Yes. He insisted I call Dodson to find out why he was giving me this cash, but now I can’t reach Dodson and I am sitting on a pile of cash as if I were a drug dealer or something.”
“I don’t like this. I will try to reach Dodson, but that kind of money seems dirty. If he hasn’t called you back by tomorrow, or if I can’t get through to him, I would get rid of the money. Find a charity. If this turns out to be legitimate, we can always make up the loss.”
“Good idea. Thanks, Dad.” I felt somewhat better already, but the envelope seemed to get heavier and heavier in my pocket. Did I really want to keep it until tomorrow? I had this weird image of getting hit by a car crossing the street and the wad of cash flying out and raining hundreds from the sky. I wanted the money gone now. So I locked my office, walked out to my car, and headed downtown.
The Bank of Philadelphia had a branch on Nicolet Drive, and I knew they could do currency exchange. The teller looked a bit surprised when I handed him the envelope, but he kept his comments to himself. He needed to go into a back room to get more francs, but he finally counted out a huge pile of them. As he was finishing, one of the bank officers that I often work with strolled over to say “hi.” He pretended not to notice the pile of cash as he asked how I was doing, but finally he couldn’t help himself. “That’s not very safe, Shawn. I know some workmen prefer to be paid in cash, but even in Green Bay, crime sometimes happens.”
“I won’t have it long. In fact, maybe you could help. What’s your favorite charity?”
“There’s a food pantry across the river where some of us volunteer.”
“Perfect.” He gave me directions and I was out the door practically at a run. Given the exchange rate, my fifty hundred dollar bills had become several hundred large franc notes, and they barely fit in my pocket. I wanted them gone.
You would
think getting rid of money would be easy, but it wasn’t. First, I got lost. We live on the east side – the fashionable side – of Green Bay. While I have driven over to the west side on occasion, I haven’t gone over often enough to really know where I am going. My car does have GPS, but it is French GPS, so… Eventually I got to the food place, only to find my problems just beginning. I was met by a very sympathetic older man who clearly wanted to help me without embarrassing me, but then I confused him by offering to make a donation. He immediately called a superior, an older woman, who told me how pleased she was and wanted to know my life story while she told me hers, only to stop mid-sentence when I reached into my pocket and put the wad of francs on her counter.
“I just wanted to make this donation.” I then took a step back and tuned to leave only to see looks of anguish on their faces.
“Wait. We need to give you a receipt.” The man even reached out to grab my arm.
“That’s okay.” And I took another step backwards. Now they were even more upset.
“Please, we have a policy. We need to give you a receipt.” What could I say? I had this vision of the man pulling on my clothing as I backed away, and the old lady chasing me out to the parking lot with her walker. So, I nodded and stood there while they counted out all the bills. Or at least they tried. His hands shook enough that whatever pile of bills he created soon toppled over, and she kept losing track of the count. Finally I moved closer to the counter and helped them. Fifteen minutes later we had an agreed upon amount, and I had a receipt with some number written on it with a very shaky hand. I had either just donated 36,000 francs, or 360,000 francs. In any event, once they had completed their paperwork, they were much happier and I was free to go. The receipt took up much less room in my pocket, so I felt much happier too.
What do you do after you have just donated either 36,000 or 360,000 francs to a food pantry? I decided to go home for an early dinner. Good move, because I found a beautiful woman waiting for me.
“Elise! You’re home.” I am master of the obvious. But she kissed me and we stood in the kitchen and just hugged each other. It had been a very long time. I tried to remember how long it had been since we had both been home early enough to make dinner together. It had been weeks. Then a weird thought occurred to me. “Have you been fired?”
”No.” That got her laughing so hard it took a minute before she could explain. “You do come up with the oddest things… But no, we were all sitting in yet another meeting saying pretty much the same things we have been saying for weeks, while staring out the windows and looking like third graders wanting recess, when the Minister took pity on us all and declared this to be – and these are his words – ‘official have dinner with your husband/wife/spouse/lover day.’”
“Remind me to send her flowers.”
“No flowers to other women until we have been married for years and years.”
“Fair enough.” I was in no mood to let her go, so we stood hugging for a good long time. I think we may have talked, but mostly it was about having my arms around her. It felt so good. Eventually I released her and we fell back into our old roles in the kitchen. I did wine and the salad, she did something beautiful with whatever happened to be in the refrigerator. We talked about this and that, but mostly we were just together sharing the space and enjoying the time together. But there was a point where the conversation got more important. Here’s how it started.
“I really love the kitchen. Everything is beautiful.” I had brought workmen in from Philadelphia to remodel the kitchen back in January while she was making friends in Arkansas. “It must have cost a lot.”
“Yes, but these materials should last forever.”
“Are you sure we can afford it? I know it is beautiful, but..”
“We have never talked about money, have we? We should. You know I get a salary from the university. But I also get money from the family business. Since I came out here as the representative to the Canadian office, I get a share of the profits. Last quarter that was seventy thousand dollars.” I saw surprise in her face when I said that. “Yes, business is very good.”
“So we have lots of money?”
“We have so much money today I gave 360,000 francs to a charity.”
“What?”
“Well, not really. Here, let me show you.” I pulled the receipt out of my pocket. “I think it is supposed to say 36,000 francs, but look at that handwriting. It really could be any amount.” I thought she would be pleased, or at least amused by the receipt, but she just looked confused. “I was given some money today – long story – and I didn’t want it, so I gave it to charity. A man at the bank suggested a food pantry on Allouez Drive, so that’s where I took the money. It turns out giving money to charity is harder than you would think, but that’s another story.”
“You gave the money away.”
“Yes, it didn’t feel right to keep it.” At this point she wrapped her arms around my neck and started crying harder than I could imagine possible. I was speechless. What was going on? Did she want the money? “Should I have kept it? Do you need it?”
“Oh Shawn, thank God you are a simple man – and an honest one.”
“Please stop crying. I am sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Every gendarme in Canada should be apologizing to you. And me too. I doubted. I was so scared it might be true. I haven’t slept in four nights.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“The government is on edge. They are afraid of what is coming. They think the Americans might help Louisiana. So they are afraid of Americans – all Americans.
“Me?”
“You have access to Uncle Claude, and to me. As a professor you also have access to young, impressionable students. They see an American agent come to see you. He gives you a secret phone number, and then lots of money. So they think…”
“I don’t care what they think. What did you think?”
“I love you – and my country.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“I am here, Shawn. I came home to be with you. That is my answer.”
“Good answer. But stop crying. My shirt is getting wet.” She started crying all over again, but she also kissed me, so I was fine with that.