“No.” Ms. Bellwood was aghast.
“Yes,” insisted Skip. He knew it was true because he’d read all about it in the newspaper while eating a snack in Atlantic City. He’d been struck then by how sad that was. “He wants to stroll down into the village and shop, just live quiet, like everybody else.”
“Hear that?” put in the mayor eagerly. “He wants to shop!”
“But—” the redhaired lady began again.
A man in a suit of obviously foreign cut and astronomical cost, a board member who hadn’t spoken before — Mr. Drexel — held up a single finger, which silenced her. It silenced everybody. He held the second highest executive position in Wyndham’s single industrial business, which paid the majority of village taxes. He nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard that, about the hospital. It’s true.”
Mayor Harper grimaced at him. Deferring to others didn’t come easily to the mayor. “You’re right, sir. You’re a wonderful judge of character, as we all know. When you meet him, you won’t get over just how plain and down-to-earth Phantom really is,” continued the mayor expansively to the entire board, draping one arm over Skip’s shoulder in a brotherly fashion.
“How would you know?” asked the doctor skeptically.
“Why, Mark told me. True?” he asked Skip.
“Oh, true,” said Skip. He smiled again. His cheeks were beginning to ache.
“Well, great, but you can’t hide him here forever. People’ll recognize him. Word’ll get out,” said the doctor.
“If you don’t think you can do it...” Skip shrugged doubtfully.
“Now, hang on. You know what? We won’t wait for people to find out, we’ll tell them.” The mayor leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “We’ll get the whole village in on it. He promises to spend his money here — well, we’ll promise to keep his presence to ourselves. Totally. It’s the only humane thing to do.”
“We could adopt him,” said Ms. Bellwood, standing up in her enthusiasm. She had a kind face, thought Skip. And she was attractive for a middle-aged lady, he thought further. Nice body for a thirty-year-old.
“That’s a great idea,” declared the mayor. “Well adopt him. Phantom will be Wyndham’s Secret Son. I think people’ll like thinking about him that way. He needs us to help him rest and recuperate. We’ll make sure he gets his slightest wish fulfilled. Well make his life here... a joy. An absolute joy.”
“And he’ll pay for it,” said the doctor.
The mayor eyed him suspiciously, but the doctor seemed agreeable. Then again, Mayor Harper thought, doctors usually were agreeable about money. As were mayors, sighed Mayor Harper truthfully to himself, but only to himself.
A short man with white hair lifted a timorous hand as he rose from his seat and began making his way to the front. “You’ll be wanting to talk with me, young man.”
The mayor said, “Ah yes. May I introduce Horace Arsdale — our banker, Mark.”
After more discussion, endless questions which Skip answered patiently, and then handshaking and introductions all around, he left with Mr. Arsdale clinging to his arm.
Skip’s facial muscles twitched all night in his sleep from strain, but he was at Mr. Arsdale’s bank early the next day, regardless.
Mr. Arsdale beamed as brightly as the spring sun when he retrieved Skip’s check for forty-five thousand dollars from his desk, with Skip’s parting words ringing majestically in his ears: “This’s just a small token to open the account until the boss transfers building funds, and of course his living funds, from his regular bank.”
Mr. Arsdale had been positively thrilled to approve Phantom’s unsecured loan for a private residence. Everybody knew Phantom. In his mind, Mr. Arsdale feasted on the future delights of a friendship with this international celebrity. Horace M. Arsdale — banker to the stars. Harry and Phantom — pals.
To save time, Skip took Ernie Block, a local builder he’d hired on Mayor Harper’s recommendation, with him when his realty agent, Conrad Harder, Jr. (beloved only son of Mr. Harder the trustee), drove him to see the first piece of property. Since the property didn’t border Long Island Sound, Skip rejected it immediately.
“I did think I’d mentioned it last night to your dad, Conrad. That we want to be on the water, you know?”
“Ah, you’re right, sir, you did, sir.” Since Conrad was at least twice Skip’s age, Skip had to conceal a grimace at the “sir.”
At the next location, Skip got out of the car. Conrad was practically quivering with excitement... not an attractive sight in an older man, thought Skip. Obviously, here was land Conrad ached to sell him.
A grassy twenty foot cliff overlooked a stretch of pristine beach and a view that could soothe the most ragged of nerves. Beyond the beach stretched the vast sound, disguising the distant Connecticut shore as a misty Camelot. On this side, the waves hushed and sighed serenely against the sand. The property was vacant except for a large deck made of age-silvered cedar that jutted out over the cliff’s edge and trailed ramshackle steps down to the beach — perfect for al fresco anything. From the vantage point of this deck, Skip turned his back on the water and scanned the perimeter of the property. Wide and deep, bordered on the east and west with wooded hills — was this lot within the price range outlined to Mr. Harder, Sr.?
Conrad confirmed it. He admitted it’d been on the market for years... the recession, he explained with embarrassment. Well, Skip could certainly understand tough financial times. They shook hands, and Conrad raced back to the office to begin the paperwork, leaving Skip and his builder pacing outlines in the grass.
That afternoon, checks for earnest money to the builder and the realtor were exchanged for special permission from the absent owners to begin building right away, to accommodate Phantom’s pressing schedule. The transaction might have been unconventional, but no one minded.
On the day the bulldozers arrived to start digging the foundation, a tall, thin figure, silhouetted against the morning sun, appeared on a hill to the east of the property. Wrapped in black robes whipped by the breeze, he, or she, stood gazing down on the proceedings.
Eyeing the dark figure uneasily, Skip asked the builder who this could be. Ernie, an easygoing older man with a pot belly, possessed a shrewd intelligence that Skip had quickly learned to trust. He and Ernie had felt at ease with each other’s good sense right from the start.
Ernie grinned at Skip’s nervousness. “Just our local witch. Mrs. Risk. She’ll be your neighbor come the end of sixty days when we get this house finished.”
“A real witch?” Skip gave Ernie a sideways glance to see if he was being ragged.
Ernie removed his Giants cap and scratched at his thinning hair. “Well, that’s what some say. She does seem to know things nobody else’d even guess at.
“Nice woman, I think, although some’ll tell you different. The thing is, the ones who disagree are those I wouldn’t trust with a bent nail.” Ernie shot a glance at his young employer. “It’s been said that if people get into trouble — which just about anybody alive does, y’gotta admit — she’s awful good at doing what needs to be done.”
Skip gave a short laugh. “For them, or to them?”
Ernie wagged his head side to side. “She is an odd bird.” He grinned at Skip, then picked up his sheets of plans. “Got a sharp tongue on her, too,” he added as if in admiration. “I got the idea that a long time ago, when someone first called her ‘witch,’ they were thinking the word started with b. Some just can’t stand a woman smarter than they are who doesn’t hesitate to tell them unpleasant truths.” He chuckled to himself, then concentrated on his layouts.