The Angry Dream Read Online Free PDF Page A

came in to satisfy a mortgage he held, he’d talk ‘em into worthless or unsound stock investments and
still
hold the mortgage. Made nice contributions to the sheriff’s fund. Oh, and Prouty always got re-elected down the line. Prouty was always there to serve the papers at a foreclosure.”
    The room became quiet. I could hear Sally clanking pans in the kitchen.
    “When he did away with himself, they found everything in the bank’s name—everything but the house. They couldn’t touch that and that’s how come you got it, I guess. The depositors had a judge appoint a receiver over in Westfield. He came out, supposed to liquidate the bank’s assets.” Kirk laughed softly. “The poor guy nearly went nuts. Old Cy was qualified as an appraiser, see? So he appraised the land and farms, homes, for his own loans. This man came out and a place valued at fifteen, sixteen thousand was worth about seven or eight. Anyway, he tried to sell and couldn’t, naturally. He couldn’t interest outsiders because there wasn’t a bargain in the lot. It was a mess, Al. So finally he auctioned off the whole caboodle. Everything. Well, all the folks got together on a base bid. They bid low. He got mad as hell, but they crowded him. It was something, let me tell you. If he backed down, they would have hamstrung him. They got their farms back for practically nothing and the fellow went back to Westfield.”
    I started to get up, then sat back again.
    Kirk said, “Cy had plenty of juggling to do on those books. But the bank examiners had never questioned a thing. He was sick, Al.”
    “A wonder the house is still standing,” I said.
    “I figure it’s like a monument, something. Anyway, there it sits. Maybe they hoped you
would
come back.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Al, they’ll crucify you! They’re scared of you and fear’s the worst thing can happen in a town of this size. Right now, I bet they’re holding meetings in somebody’s barn. Maybe they want you to pay up, Al. That’s the way they think. Son shoulders the old man’s burden, all that. They’ll sure as hell believe you’ve got that money—or had it. They’ll want to believe that.”
    “So he must have spent the money and killed himself because of final conscience,” I said.
    “They say every man’s got a conscience. Nobody ever accused Cy of having one.”
    I stood up. Kirk rose.
    “I’m staying at the house,” I said.
    “Al, I haven’t told you the half of it. You’ll never be able to imagine how they felt when the bank failed. Why don’t you get while the getting’s good?”
    “Because I’ve got to stay.”
    Outside, the hound barked several times.
    “Where’d you get that dog?” Kirk said.
    “He was over at the house, that’s all I know. Why?”
    “Well, maybe he’s somebody’s dog. They’ll say you stole him.”
    He lounged along beside me, opened the door.
    “What about you?” I said. “You hate him, too?”
    “All my savings were in that bank, Al.”
    “I see.”
    “No, you don’t. You need anything, you holler. Right?”
    I went on outside, stood by the car a moment, looking up at the hills. Bunk came rousting along and climbed in the side of the car through an open window. He was covered with burdock, burrs hung in clots to his ears.
    It had been a long time since my father had worked this village to his own ways. It might have been yesterday. Kirk Hartmann was still excited about it, so what would other people be like?
    Somehow I believed Hartmann was exaggerating.
    I did not like thinking of what had happened to the people of this town. The whole business troubled me. My father had been dead long enough for me to remember some of the good things, or at least the things bad, but tempered. It would not add up correctly, not with my memories of him. He had been all Kirk called him, and more—much more than I knew about, apparently. But one thing he had never been—a secret spender. I had never known him to gamble—not