CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Benedict

" H ello, Benedict. What's the problem?"

I swallowed hard at my father's lack of emotion, considering our relationship. I was his only child, after all. "Nice to hear from you too," I said, understanding he'd always been this way. "And I prefer you call me Ben," I added.

"You can prefer whatever you want, but that is your given name. The same name as your father and your grandfather."

"True, but neither of you has ever treated me like family, so why bother?" I argued, wondering why I'd troubled to call this heartless example of a parent.

"What is the purpose of this call?" he asked, letting out an exhausted sigh. "Out of money so soon?"

I pulled a sheet of paper toward me and glanced at the numbers again. Agnes had given me the repair cost estimates for the theater and a proposed budget for this year's suggested play the theater group wanted to put on.

"I'd like a donation from mother's trust for the town's theater," I began. "Mother was a past supporter, and she would've approved."

"Your mother is dead, Benedict, and as things turn out, my desire to continue supporting that cause has died as well."

"I want the funds because I'm considering naming the theater after her," I said. "The naming and donation are a nice gesture and will go a long way to showing our commitment to Plentywood," I added, doing my best to sell the idea.

My father paused, but not before making an odd sound under his breath. The pause itself was worrisome, but his strange inhale seemed like he was about to deliver more bad news.

I was correct. "About that commitment, young man," he began.

I uncrossed my legs under the antique desk I was sitting at above the clinic. I'd begun to get used to being surrounded by old furnishings and had even found some pieces charming.

"Go on," I said, bracing for news that I might not like. "But let me remind you it was Grandmother, your mother, who started the theater when she and Grandfather lived in Plentywood."

"Things change," he stated. "After you leave, when you've completed your year, the Hawthorne family will be done with Plentywood."

I sat up straight in my chair. "Done?"

"That is correct. Your grandfather, grandmother, and your mother are all gone, Benedict. I'm sure as hell never going back, and you're the end of the line. A homosexual end-of-the-line, I might add. As in no heirs."

I was stunned by his news and didn't respond to his jibe at my sexuality. Surely I didn't want to live here either, but what did done mean exactly? "What about the clinic, Father?"

"We'll be pulling the plug on that as well as selling the ten thousand acres of land the family owns there."

I glanced at a mirror on the wall to measure how wide my eyes had just expanded. "Hold on a second!" I exclaimed. "The clinic is funded by Hawthorne Industries," I reminded him. "And when the fuck were you going to let me know about ten thousand acres of land?"

"The clinic and that aging town are costing us a small fortune," he stated. "How many millions of your inheritance are you willing to give away?"

"You can't do that!" I insisted. "The clinic was Grandmother's gift to Plentywood. Your own mother's gift. Jesus! How can you do that?" I asked.

"Are you willing to plant roots in Plentywood, Benedict? Do you want to manage that much land and pay for free health care for people who cannot afford to pay their own bills?" he asked, his indigence heavily coating his words. "Because the last time I saw you, you were complaining about spending one single day in that town. And why were you complaining about having to go there?" he asked. I said nothing, so he continued. "Let me remind you. It was because of losing thirty million dollars if you didn't."

"Well, I'm not…"

I paused, and he breathed. A stalemate before he spoke up. "So, ‘ No ' is what I'm hearing. As I figured," he stated.

His words stung, but he was correct. I couldn't stay in this town, even if my leaving risked the clinic. I'd called him to get a few thousand dollars to help with a theater. Now he was telling me we owned a shitload of land, and that he intended to rip the clinic right out from underneath a town full of people who depended on our family's philanthropy.

"I'm not sure about this, Father," I said, quietly thinking about the elderly patients I'd seen over the past month. The single mothers. The government dependent folks with chronic diseases like diabetes. "This sounds heartless."

He was unflinching in his stance. "Heartless?" he mocked. "So says the man who didn't even want to go there. So says the man who would only commit a year because of a trust fund? Cry me a river, Benedict. This is business."

"Your own mother will roll over in her grave, Father. Even Mother would never allow this to happen if she was here," I pointed out.

"Dead, and dead," he stated. "Any other questions?"

"What has happened to you?" I asked.

"More like, what has happened to you, Benedict?" he shot back. "Where does this altruistic bullshit come from? You're out of there in less than a year, so who cares, right? Aren't those your exact words?"

"But what abo…" I began.

He quickly interrupted my question. "I'm busy here running an empire that you will one day inherit, young man. Do you have anything else before I hang up?"

"I just think this is a mistake," I muttered, imagining the people who lived here not having the lifeline that the Hawthorne clinic provided. "It seems… well… unkind."

"Are you planning on staying in Plentywood?" he asked.

"Well, of course not."

"Then there you have it," he stated. "No money for the theater, either. Is that all?"

I must have taken too long to respond. The phone went dead. I pulled my cell phone away from my ear, turning the face of the iPhone toward me. My father had hung up. No goodbye. No call again soon or see you at Christmas. Not even a fuck you.

The room was as quiet as I was as I looked around the perfectly restored space. The walls were adorned in wallpaper from the period of its construction. Newish, but still reflective of the late 1800s era. The antiques that I'd originally scoffed at had grown on me over time. The past month had found me thinking about my family's history and our place in this small town.

Standing and moving to a window that overlooked the town, I felt sick to my stomach suddenly. How could I tell my patients what late next spring held for them? Where would they go for their care? What about Agnes? She was older. She'd be fine. But the welfare of the townsfolk had me concerned.

You're out of here in eleven months, Ben. "Yeah," I mumbled, staring out the window as Mr. Insley trimmed a hedge near his sidewalk. His neighbor, Mrs. Klonter, was swinging on her front porch, moving her hands here and there as she yelled toward Mr. Insley. She was probably adding her two-cents worth to the levelness of his hedge. I imagined they'd had this routine for many years every time he trimmed what I thought were boxwoods.

I turned and faced the office I occupied, crossing my arms and sighing deeply, thinking about Hunt. "He already hates you because you're leaving in less than a year," I whispered. " Now what are you going to tell him?"

I heard a honk from a vehicle outside and turned back to the window in time to see the Sheriff drive by, his hand waving out the window of his SUV as he drove by the two elderly people to his right.

I wouldn't rush to tell him just yet. My heart betrayed my better sense while my mind mulled over the prospect of revealing the news to a town of people who had been nothing but kind to me since my arrival four weeks ago.

"What to do? What to do?" I muttered.