(Read Luke
17:22-37.)
Bobby’s back was killing him. He had to plow out one more terrace and then
he could go home. The sun was already
down and he had turned on the tractor lights.
The evening brought some relief to the oppressive heat of late Kansas
summer—but not enough. Here, in the
middle of God’s nowhere, there was just him and the roar of the engine. His left hand held the wheel as he turned and
kept his eye on the plow. He forced
himself to concentrate, to make the turns just right, to adjust the depth with
the handle that operated the hydraulic lift.
His mind decompressed when the last pass was completed and he could plow
his way to the corner where his pickup sat.
He set his water jug in the tattered
pickup seat and started her up. He was
on his way home. It was really a rough
looking old truck, a ’79 Dodge he had picked up for a thousand. Nothing like the brand-new Ram he had been
driving only six months before. The
brakes squealed when he slowed at the turn onto the highway.
Just as he was turning, he saw Roger
coming to the same intersection from the opposite side of the highway. No way to mistake Roger in that big, blue
four-wheel drive Ford pickup. He gave
him a “beep” and wave. No use to stop
and talk. There would have been a day
when they would have pulled alongside each other and have talked for thirty
minutes about their day—what each had gotten done, who each had seen, equipment
problems. Two brothers who had farmed
beside each other for ten years had interests that were twisted together like
weeds caught up in a hay baler.
But that was before The Venture had
come along. Now everything was different
for these two brothers. Roger passed him
on the highway and gave him an absent-minded wave. His pickup easily had hit highway speed and
beyond. Bobby was poking along about
forty-five. Shortly, as he came out of
the last curve before town, he saw Roger’s pickup already parked in his driveway. The driveway led to a fine, yellow-brick
ranch home. The lawn was manicured to
perfection by Linda, whom Roger was proud to have as his wife. The 30 MPH zone began just past Roger’s
house, and just past that sign, on the opposite side of the highway, was a
red-brick Tudor home. Bobby hardly
glanced at it. He knew the Townsends had
repaved the driveway since they had bought it from him this spring.
At the blinking red light that
announced the Courthouse square, Bobby turned right and drove out past the old
hotel that needed to be torn down, the Co-op wheat elevator, and the Case farm
implement dealership. He made a left on
a small dirt road and pulled up in front of the little frame house. He wearily made his way inside, flipped on a
light, and headed for the refrigerator.
He made himself a couple of hamburger patties and threw them in a
skillet.
As his meat cooked, he went to the
mailbox and pulled out a handful of mail.
There were circulars and bills, all of which he ignored. He studied the return address of the large,
clasp-closed envelope: “Venture
Enterprises, P. O. Box 200000, Topeka, KS.”
His fingers trembled as he fought to get the thing opened. He pulled the pages out. The top sheet was addressed to him.
“We have enclosed our latest plans
for our Venture. However, we do need
assurances that you are as poised for action as we are. Your Certificates of Deposit are sufficient
to make you a Venture partner. However,
we need assurance of liquidity. Transfer
of funds from CD’s would be too cumbersome when the time comes for the Venture
to be executed. We request that you take
the following actions:
“1.
Transfer all funds to a regular checking account in one bank.
“2.
Authorize our company to draft your account for the agreed-upon amount
upon execution of the Venture.
“3.
Send us proof of these actions with the next ten (10) days.”
Bobby flipped his hamburgers. He skimmed the other pages in the
communication. Mostly, they were plans
he had already anticipated: buyout of
several feedlots, foreclosure on loans that had been bought from various mortgage
houses, and other such plans. The
overall plan was a complex scheme that had been put together by a financial
genius. Bobby promised himself that he
would look over these latest plans carefully later that night. He had not been careless about this whole
deal. He had run down every detail. But right now, his mind was on the latest
instructions. He was in this thing now. Details of the plan were important. But more important was following these
instructions.
He had gone to great lengths to
become a part of The Venture. The farm
had been sold. The house went next. That was when Rhonda left him. She was not going to give up a house for this
Venture. The divorce had hurt. But Bobby was sold out to the Venture. Roger thought he was crazy. But Roger had troubles of his own. He had mortgaged his half-section of land to
buy into a trucking firm. Now, the
trucking business was experiencing equipment failures. He had to borrow more money to keep the thing
afloat long enough for him to back out of the deal.
But Bobby had to act fast. He knew old Fred, his boss he had hired out
to after he sold his own farm, would never let him off to go to the bank for
any length of time. He would have to do
it on his lunch time. After his
hamburgers, he called Jack Chrisman, the banker. Jack and he worked out an arrangement: Jack would get all the paperwork ready and
Bobby would come in on his lunch hour and sign all the necessary papers. Switching from CD to checking was going to
cost him some interest, Jack warned.
Bobby did not hesitate—got to do it.
He fell in bed after the
shower. He had forgotten to read the
rest of the papers enclosed with the instruction letter. Perhaps he should have, though one could not
blame him. There were dozens of details. One little detail probably would have been
missed by him—The Venture planned to “execute its foreclosure options” on loans
previously owned by Seattle and Topeka Mortgage Company. That happened to be the company which owned
the mortgage on Roger’s farm.
Three days later, Roger and Bobby
met at the intersection with the highway again.
This time, for no particular reason, they did stop to chat.
“This is the hottest__________summer
we’ve had in a while,” Roger growled.
“Yeah, it’s that all right,” Bobby
said with little enthusiasm.
“And if I don’t get some rain on my
feed, it’s gone,” Roger moaned, staring between the spokes of the steering
wheel. “I guess you know Jennifer is
getting married.”
“Well, I figured,” Bobby
answered. He had a moment of pity for
his brother. “That wedding is going to
set you back, I suppose.”
“Oh, that woman! She went over to Wichita last week, and her
and Jennie were picking out bride’s maid’s dresses. You know what one of them—I mean just one of
them—costs?”
“No telling.”
“A hundred and seventy-five
dollars. I tell you, Bobby, if she
doesn’t spend it on the house, it’s on the kids.”
There was silence. Bobby started to talk about The Venture. “I got another notice about the Venture,
Rog. You sure you don’t want in?”
Roger spat tobacco juice into the
darkness. “You and that Venture. I got stuff to do and think about. What do I care about that thing?”
Silence again. “Well, I got to go,” Bobby said softly.
“Yeah, see ya.”
Bobby let Roger pull onto the
highway first, then he followed the rocket trail of his older brother’s
taillights. Each of them went to their
separate houses. Each slept soundly
after a long, hard day in the fields.
Each ate breakfast before dawn and entered the fields for a long, hard
day of breaking the baked crust of the soil.
The sun climbed mightily into the
sky and evoked sweat from their brows.
The long, dusty afternoon was like ten thousand other such afternoons of
crawling around the fields, following the curves of terraces, checking the fuel
level, staring across the dusty expanse of stubble left from the harvest of
wheat in early summer.
The heat created shimmering mirages
on the margin of the field, but one mirage was broken by a cloud of dust on the
county road. Bobby knew someone was
driving mighty fast. But then the
vehicle stopped, and he could see a person exit a car and give a wave. The wave seemed more than friendly. It was a desperate wave intended to attract
attention. Bobby stopped the
tractor. Something told him that this
was it. He climbed down and walked
toward the still-waving figure. It was a
peculiar wave. It was more than just an
arm: it started at the waist and swung
torso and shoulders and head and arm all in a great semicircle. Bobby’s high-topped shoes broke the clods of
the plowed field. He could hear the
tractor idling, but he did not look back.
It took him ten minutes to cross the wide expanse of field. He reached a point that he could recognize
Jack Chrisman from the bank. Now he knew
something was up. Jack had stopped
trying to wave. He knew Bobby was
coming.
Finally, Bobby was within speaking
range. “Howdy, Jack.”
“Bobby, I thought you would want to
know: They executed the draft on your
account. Don’t write any checks. It’s all gone.”
“OK.”
“I hope you know what you’re
doing. That’s a lot of money.”
Bobby gave no indication that Jack
was even there anymore. He climbed into
his pickup. He had not brought his water
jug. He did not go back to get it. He drove to town. He stopped by old Fred’s house. Fred was mad that Bobby quit him like
that. He grudgingly offered to pay him
for the two days he owed him for that week.
Bobby didn’t even stay to pick up the check. He just climbed back in his beat up old
pickup and drove toward Topeka.
He made Topeka about three the next
morning. He sat in a diner, sipping
coffee until daybreak. Then, he drove
over to the address he had on The Venture.
It was an old two-story frame house on the edge of downtown. When Bobby got there, lights were in the
windows, and eight or ten vehicles were crowded around the front entrance. Bobby knocked.
He recognized Sidney Westerman. Sid smiled and invited Bobby into the room
that had once been a parlor. Now, it
contained two desks and three kitchen chairs with torn vinyl backs and stuffing
spilling out. Bobby knew a few of the
people crowded in the room. Everyone was
talking excitedly. Sid spoke into
Bobby’s ear as he gripped his bicep.
“This is it, Bobby! We’re moving like mad. I think we’ll have everything done by
mid-afternoon.”
“Anything I can do to help?” Bobby saw this as a family operation.
“We may need someone on an adding
machine in the other room there.” Sid
said appreciatively.
Bobby was given instructions and was
put to work. He hardly looked up the
rest of the day. By three that
afternoon, his work was largely done. At
four-thirty, John O’Brien, the President, called a meeting of the investors.
Mr. O’Brien was consulting
hand-written notes. His secretary was at
his elbow rifling through files and whispering to him details. O’Brien carefully outlined the events of the
last few days. In that brief period, The
Venture had struck with lightning speed around the region and had become the
most powerful and wealthiest financial institution in the area—possibly in the
country. The fifty-five investors who
had come through with their assets now held immense wealth and means to wealth.
Bobby was flush with
excitement. There was a great
celebration after the briefing by O’Brien.
Everyone stayed until midnight enjoying the party.
It was about midnight that Roger
unlocked his gun case and loaded his thirty-eight revolver. Bobby had heard the details from Linda. The day had been just too much to bear. The afternoon before he had heard from Jack
Chrisman that Bobby had cleaned out all of his cash. That seemed strange. Then, old Fred called and cussed him out
because his no-good brother had quit on him.
Rhonda called and said she had heard Bobby had left town. It all seemed strange to Roger. But he and Linda had a big dinner party that
night. He found the guests to be fun and
stimulating. He was enjoying being a big
flirt—Linda could see that. The party
buzzed about Bobby’s leaving town, and Linda told Bobby how Roger got lit and
began to turn it into a joke: “Maybe he
went to drag race his pickup!”
The next morning, he needed to get
to the field, but he told Linda his head hurt big time from his hangover. Linda took a call—it was from the mortgage
company. She passed it on to Roger, who
was in no mood to talk to them.
Linda listened in on the other
phone, so she told Bobby how it went:
“It was a Janet Kroner from the Mortgage Division of The Venture
Enterprises. She told Roger we were two
payments behind on our mortgage. They
were foreclosing—immediately.”
Linda went on: “Then, in the afternoon there was this lawyer
showed up. He had a briefcase full of
papers. We lost the house and the farm. He told Roger he could stay on and work for
the Farm Division of The Venture Enterprises.
About midnight, Roger got the gun out and shot himself. He’s dead, Bobby.”
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