The Hungry House (21 page)

CHAPTER FOR
TY-SIX

Five years later.
As I drove toward my Victorian home in the West Hills, I was suddenly transported back to that first day, which now seemed as though it had happened to someone else, when I had struggled to make it to Frank's home on time to clean it in Mom's stead. I steered my Subaru wagon along the streets at a moderate speed and carefully watched for animals and pedestrians. As on that day so long ago, rain drizzled down onto streets already glistening with a wet sheen. That must be what reminded me, I mused. The drizzle.

Given the chance, I would not change one thing in my past that had led to the birth of Paul, Jr. whom Paul and I had started calling by his middle name of Alex to avoid confusion. He was a delightful child, with blue eyes and dark hair like me. None of his father's malevolent nature could be seen in him, and I prayed it never would. He was good-natured but full of fun. More than anyone else, I could see shades of Mom in little Alex. Like her, he had a way of standing erect and holding his head high no matter what the occasion or the circumstance, and laughter came easily to him just as it had to his grandmother. But, and every day I thanked God for my husband Paul.

In the end, Paul had not been able to accept his internship at the studio in Los Angeles. Too much rehabilitation had been required. John, who no longer worked with the studio owned by Frank's family,
had stepped in and offered an internship for Paul in production. At first assigned to clerical and errand tasks, Paul had graduated to reviewing scripts after proving to have an unfailing eye for marketable story lines. John and Paul had launched their own film production company using some of John's inherited money and Paul's indefatigable supply of youthful energy. Most of their films had done well, and profits were high.

I thought about my
new life. John had secured the best family lawyer in Portland for my paternity suit against Frank. Six months of vicious battling ensued, mostly in the form of heated and emotional depositions. Despite the best efforts of Frank's attorneys, in the end, he had paid me a $500 million lump sum in damages for emotional distress, $30,000 a month for life, and $50,000 a month for Paul upon reaching the age of 18. The monthly payments were subject to cost of living increases. All the proceedings were kept secret. Frank was afraid of being disinherited if his brother found out about my accusation of rape, for their father had left a moral's clause in his will.

Under the direction
of John's financial manager, I had invested my money wisely in an array of investment vehicles such as hedge funds and private equity instruments. I lived on the investment interest, never touching the $500 million or the monthly payments. No one was given direct access to the money, because I had heard too many well-publicized accounts of unscrupulous or incompetent financial managers who had secretly drained all of a client's money. Every month, I scrutinized my bank statements and financial records and paid an outside accounting firm to perform quarterly reviews of my investments. No one was going to steal my money--Paul, Alex, me--and too many other people to count were depending upon the solvency of my funds.

I
continued to work behind the scenes securing substantial financial contributions for the food banks in Portland and had extended my reach to improve the quality of food given out in the Los Angeles area as well. A spot on the board of directors of the Oregon Food Bank had been discretely offered to me, and I had been approached to fill the position of Executive Director. I had declined both. All along, I had stipulated that the millions I brought in for food should be listed on public documents as an anonymous contribution. My only proviso for securing the regular contributions was that I be able to make regular inspections of the food.

There would be
no more expired cans or freezer-burned packages of meat and fish. No more "mystery" hash or sausage gravy would be given out to hungry children, not as long as I could continue to secure contributions.

Along
with the rest of the country, I had watched in helpless fury as the US economy continued to plummet. Then, one day I had an idea. I knew I was by no stretch of the imagination a billionaire, but I had money and access to investors. For once in my life I could help others who were struggling as Mom and I had struggled.

I did not mind paying my
fair share of taxes. Nevertheless, it dawned on me that I could invest in charitable work and use it as a tax deduction; I would give some of the money directly to people in need, rather than to the government.

As soon as I received the figures from my
accountant as to how much I could afford to spend each year, I had my attorney set up a nonprofit organization. She would call it the Elizabeth Howell Foundation, in Mom's honor. Then, I began to search for office space. After looking at many buildings, I finally leased a floor in Northeast Portland.

People in my
hometown were suffering. Some simply needed new jobs. Many needed to be trained to work in the new economy. Memories of Mom spurred me on in my efforts. Mom:  beautiful, bright, and university educated and unable to do anything but manual labor, which had, to a great extent, contributed to the decline of her already failing health.

I
hired an experienced and recently unemployed human resources manager, named Bill Hadley. He set up the office space and hired a receptionist and a secretary.

We
met first thing on a Monday morning in my new office. I laid out my plans before him.

He listen
ed to my presentation, scrutinized my documents, and frowned. "This is a wonderful idea, and your heart's in the right place--"

"-- but
--go on. Say what you think." I said.

"Well, you're going to get every drunk and scammer off the streets of Portland
in here."

"We're going to require drug and alcohol testing to get into the program."

"Okay, but what about people with a criminal history?"

"There's a wonderful place over on Martin Luther King Junior Boulevard we can refer them to, and if they can't handle everyone we refer, I'll get investors to
give the organization more money. Next."

"What if they drink or use
drugs after they get into your program?"

"They will be sent to detoxification and referred to
substance abuse counseling but only one time. No third chance. Next."

"All right
. You've thought this through." He viewed me with what seemed to be a newfound admiration. After a successful 25 year career as the human resources manager of a national law firm, he had been laid off after a corporate buyout. Accustomed to making over $100,000 per year, he had taken a pay cut to work for me at a starting salary of $60,000. On the other hand, he had been out of work for four months and was glad to have the job. I had the feeling that he planned to stay on with me only until he could find something better. His daughter was attending university, and he needed an immediate infusion of money.

"I want you to hire someone, on a contract basis if you must, who has contacts
with the State of Oregon and can set us up as a vendor for the Unemployment Office and the Department of Human Services. We will provide assistance to clients whom they refer, at no charge. They should jump at the chance."

"You're biting off too much, Ms. Howell --"

"--Vicky, please."

"--
Vicky, then. Do you know how many people are unemployed right now in Portland?"

"Yes
. Almost 90,000 this month are on unemployment."

"So, it would take millions
of dollars, perhaps billions, to help all those people, billions probably."

"Yes, but I'm not attempting to help them all
. Besides, all of them will not be candidates for my program. I'm especially interested in helping people who need training. We will teach basic computer skills onsite, and I will provide scholarships and assist our clients in gaining access to student aid, so they can be funneled into the office, computer, and trades programs at Portland Community College."

"But, aren't there centers funded by the federal government for that?"

"Yes. We will refer clients to their services." I rose from the desk in the attractive office Bill had set up for me and walked over to my tenth story window overlooking the northeast industrial area, standing with my back to him for a moment, while I thought about what she would say next.

After a moment, she turned to face him
. "Elizabeth Howell Staffing will provide something none of those other places can offer. We will provide a personal touch."

"I s
ee." He looked as if he did not at all comprehend but was making a mighty effort to do so.

"
Bill, have you ever gone to apply for food stamps?  Or gone to a food bank to pick up food? Or ventured to the federal worksource centers for training or to find a job?"

"No
. I can't say that I have."

"All the chairs face one way
. Often, you take a number, like at the Department of Motor Vehicles. And then, you sit and wait. You sit in a very uncomfortable chair, sometimes for hours, with nothing to do and nothing to read. If your children are tired and hungry, they squirm and cry in misery. My staffing center will not be like that. We have a comfortable waiting area, which you will set up for me. We will offer refreshments to everyone who comes in. We will have a play corner for the children. And, everyone will go through triage to find out how serious their situation is, and each individual will be seen accordingly. There will be no numbers."

I
walked back behind my desk and sat. "At least at first, we can help only a small number of people, but they will receive both moral support and financial assistance, until they are on their feet. Some of them will need professional counseling. Some will need medical help, others temporary housing. And, some will find that they are unable to work, and we will help them access disability benefits. We will be in this for the long haul for our clients."

Bill
looked into my eyes at that moment. "You're very determined. You might damned well succeed."

Since then, Elizabeth Howell Staffing had grown and flourished
. I spent half my day at the office and also worked from home. In addition, I had returned to school on a part time basis going for dual degrees in Business and Film. This time, I took Mom's advice and followed my interests. I had almost completed my bachelor's degrees.

I
cherished my life with Paul and Alex. When necessary, I utilized nannies majoring in Education at Portland State University. Sometimes, Alex accompanied me to the staffing office, where he had his own desk and helped serve refreshments and played with the children in the waiting area. Whenever in town, Margaret dropped by to visit. She and Alex adored each other.

Today,
I felt uncharacteristically fatigued. I had spent the morning at the staffing offices and later gone to class, while the nanny had stayed with Alex. Paul was in California on a movie shoot with John for a few more weeks. Wanting to be alert for my time with Alex I decided I needed a caffeine pick-me-up. Usually, Alex and I went for a walk to the park each day after I returned home, regardless of the weather. I parked and went into a coffee shop.

For a long time,
I had harbored an unwavering plot of revenge against Frank. I had considered the matter in great detail off and on during the day and through many a sleepless night. Finally, I let go of my desire to settle the score. This did not mean I had forgotten what I believed Frank had done. I thought about it as I waited at the pickup counter for my espresso shots. Frank had gotten away with attempted murder. He had an alibi for each of the incidents, and the police had been unable to find any large transfers of funds out of his accounts. I had spoken to Detective Mason many times about the unlimited financial resources at Frank's fingertips, all to no avail. Frank owned individual books in his collection that were worth $200,000, and such sales could be kept secret. I remained convinced that he had sold something and simply removed it from the lists he kept for insurance purposes. Or something. He had managed to juggle his finances in such a way that the transaction was invisible.

As I
waited, a familiar voice grated on my nerves. "Hey!  Vicky!"

It w
as Frank, having just walked through the door. Speak of the devil, I thought.

I forced my
self to smile. "Hey, yourself."

"
How are you, Alex, and Paul doing?"

I
wanted to accuse him of the attempted murder to his face. It was just like Frank to be able to speak blithely the name of someone whose life he had almost snuffed out.

"
We're just fine. Heading out for a walk today."

 
Thankfully my coffee came and I turned to leave.

"See you later,
" Frank said with a smile.

"Bye."

He seems very cheerful about something, almost smug, I thought to myself. I wondered what he could be up to?
Throughout all of the paternity proceedings, Frank had steadfastly denied having raped me. His story was that I had consumed too much alcohol to remember what happened but had appeared to be alert enough to consent to his advances, even eager for them. He denied his tale about chasing someone out of my room. He had told his lies so often and with such a calm demeanor that sometimes during the proceedings I had been fearful that my own attorney might be losing confidence in me. Not that it had mattered. In the end, I had been able to secure my family's future and the future of the foundation. Thankfully, Frank had not asked for visitation rights. Everything was perfect.