But down the decades, the glory of the old days had been dulled by a series of debilitating disasters: the War Between the States, the Depression of the 1890s, the Panic of 1907, the advent of the boll weevil. If there had been any glory left for the local aristocracy, it was tarnished by the long, bitter drought of the late 1920s and the catastrophic Crash of ’29.
While many of the old Darling families had fallen apart under the weight of these difficulties, the Johnsons, however, had flourished. They and their bank had become the most admired and respected members of the community. Oh, there had been that fracas of a few months before, when it looked as if the bank might be in serious straits and people had waited in line outside the front door to withdraw their money so they could hurry home and hide it under their mattresses. But that little problem had been smoothed over and Darling was assured that the bank and their deposits were safe. In fact, Mr. Johnson had taken out a full-page ad in the Darling Dispatch to let everyone know that whatever minor concerns there might have been, all was well. The Darling Savings and Trust was as solid as a rock.
But things had changed. People could look around and see that Mr. Johnson’s bank now owned many of the houses and businesses in town and almost all of the plantations that had once belonged to the other aristocrats. The bank was the community’s most profitable business, and George E. Pickett Johnson, almost the last aristocrat left standing, was the richest man in Darling. These extraordinary financial successes had had a certain inevitable result, however, for the more properties that were acquired by Mr. Johnson, the less respected and admired he and his bank became. The Darling Savings and Trust was regarded as an adversary, rather than an ally, and Mr. Johnson was even more hated than he was feared-although of course there was quite a bit of envy mixed in, too.
But that was neither here nor there today, for Lizzy was on a mission. She had to save her mother’s house-from the lions, as she saw it. From Mr. Johnson and his bank.
“Ah, Miss Lacy,” Mr. Johnson said, and looked up from a tidy stack of papers-foreclosure documents, no doubt-on the desk in front of him. “You wanted to speak to me about your mother’s house, I believe you said? Please. Sit down.”
Lizzy was trying hard not to be afraid, but it was difficult. Mr. Johnson was a thick-bodied, broad-shouldered man with a jutting jaw and pointed chin; a thin dark mustache over thin, colorless lips; and black, oiled hair that was parted precisely down the middle of his scalp. Behind gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were hard and glittery, like chunks of black coal, and his black eyebrows rose to a peak. He had a satanic look about him, folks in Darling said. And he had a satanic manner of dealing, too. He was not, people said, a man to be crossed.
“Thank you,” Lizzy said, seating herself. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to keep her fingers from trembling. “Mother has told me that you are about to foreclose on her house.”
Mr. Johnson scowled, rocked back in his leather-upholstered swivel chair, and twirled his pencil between his fingers like a drum major. “Let us be clear,” he said, in a voice that was like a fingernail scraped across a blackboard. It sent shivers up Lizzy’s spine. “I am not about to foreclose on her house. The bank is. The papers are being prepared as we speak.”
Lizzy swallowed. “I’ve come to ask you for a little more time, Mr. Johnson,” she said. “The holidays will soon be here and-”
Mr. Johnson cast his glance heavenward. “Time?” he asked rhetorically. “Your mother has known of her difficulties for almost a full year, Miss Lacy, ever since the Crash. The foreclosure has been pending since April. And since she herself has told me that she is quite willing to turn her house over to the bank-”
“Quite willing?” Lizzy asked blankly.
“Why, yes, of course. She has explained that she plans to live with you until you and Mr. Alexander are married, at which point you will of course go to live in the house he recently purchased.” Mr. Johnson’s smile did not quite reach his eyes. “Please accept my congratulations, by the way. I am acquainted with Mr. Alexander and find him to be an engaging-”
“But I am not being married!” Lizzy exclaimed fiercely. “I am not leaving my house. And I have no intention of allowing my mother to move in with me.” This last, she knew, was an awful heresy, for every decent daughter ought to be glad to provide her impoverished mother a home.
Mr. Johnson’s black eyebrows went up. “Well, then,” he said after a moment. “Mrs. Lacy will have to find another place to live, I suppose. I am sorry.” It was not clear whether he meant that he was sorry Lizzy was not going to marry, or sorry that she refused to take in her mother.
Lizzy leaned forward. She had been taught that a lady could always catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, but at this moment, she was in no mood to be sweet, or to be a lady, either. She was angry. She spoke with as much reasonableness as she could summon.
“Mr. Johnson, my mother did a very foolish thing, and she is paying a high price. I cannot excuse what she has done. But there is nothing to be gained by evicting her from that house. If it is occupied and maintained, the property will someday be of value to the bank. It can be sold when the real estate market turns up again, for a much better price than it could command now. If it’s empty, it will be the target of vagrants and vandals. I think you ought to allow my mother to live there and maintain your house-the bank’s house-and pay a rent. A modest rent, I’m afraid, because that’s all she can afford.” Actually, she couldn’t afford any rent, but Lizzy hadn’t thought quite that far.
Impatiently, Mr. Johnson tapped his pencil on his desk. “And why should I do this?” he asked in an arch tone.
“Because it’s the right thing to do!” Lizzy exclaimed heatedly. “And it’s the smart thing. You-the bank, that is- should be doing it with every single house you’ve foreclosed on. Empty, they are a disgrace. You should let people stay in their houses and take care of them, at least until they can be sold.”
“Come, come, Miss Lacy.” Mr. Johnson pulled down the corners of his mouth. “That’s not the way the system works. People need to learn that credit isn’t cheap. They must be obliged to take responsibility for their foolish choices. They must learn that their actions have very real consequences. That is how the system works.”
“But not everyone who has lost a house was foolish,” Lizzy burst out. “Some people have had accidents or gotten sick and some have lost jobs through no fault of their own. Don’t you see? That mean, cold-hearted, calculating attitude is exactly what makes people despise the bank and hate-” She stopped. It was true, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Mr. Johnson said it for her. “Hate me?” He leaned forward on his elbows, his brows pulled together in a deep scowl. Lizzy quailed, thinking that he looked exactly like Satan. “Miss Lacy, I am quite aware of the… esteem, shall we say, in which I am held in this town. Given the situation, that is unavoidable. People need a villain. They need someone to blame for their sad plight, and I-and the bank-will do as well as any. Better, in fact, than most. I cannot blame them, either, for they are not privileged to see the many, many instances in which the bank-and I-have given extensions and made accommodations. That is only as it should be, of course, since we must respect our clients’ privacy.”