Fensetter Falls

By Jack Young

On a snowy Thanksgiving Eve, the Fensetters are gathering in the failing New Hampshire town that bears their name. The family's fortunes have declined, and the Fensetter heirs, Harlan and Emmett, are stunned to learn they will somehow have to scrape by with barely a million dollars each. 

Harlan is not a man to allow his supply of fine liquor, hot women, or flashy cars to be cut off, so he does what any self-respecting heir would do under the circumstances: he hires a hit man to take out his younger brother Emmett so he can get a larger piece of the inheritance pie. The pious but cowardly Emmett is Harlan's polar opposite in everything but his desire for more money.

Left to their own devices, the brothers will likely take each other down—and the town right along with them. But they are up against a wily spinster who loves Fensetter Falls with all her heart. She will do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of her town ... and the brothers' downfall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mountebank Press
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386954569

Book preview

CHAPTER I

Snowflakes, heavy, wet, and easily the size of quarters, whipped wildly through the stabbing high beams of the overmatched Corvette. The slick, secondary New Hampshire road, with its high crown and endless curves, its precipitous pitches and narrow shoulders, was not at all what the engineers had planned for this vehicle. It swayed alarmingly, even on straightaways, every ascent a challenge, and every downhill slide a nightmare. Harlan Fensetter hunched forward, peering hard into the white madness, his plump fingers glued tight on the wheel, his fleshy lips forming a cantata of obscenities.

The woman in the seat beside him stared sleepily out at the scene, feet curled up under her sable coat, long, brick-red hair cascading down around her dream-rapt face. At first glance she was stunning, but closer inspection would reveal a pitted complexion and eyes that never quite focused on any single object. It’s so beautiful, Harlan, she said with a sigh. Sort of like a freaking greeting card or like that.

Harlan ignored her, his attention divided between the menace of the late November squall and the even less agreeable prospect of three days with his family. Only his mother’s vague reference to the money had spurred him to make the trek up from Boston. But her chirpy little voice had carried a message of peril, something perhaps amiss in the status of the Fensetter fortune. With alimony already being doled out on three marital disasters, a fiancée, and a lifestyle he was not about to abandon, any concern about the money supply must be met head on. Then his companion started singing.

Over the river and through the woods...

Geez, will you knock it off! growled Harlan.

Myrna Framm sighed mightily. You’re such a shit tonight, Harl. Really. If we hadn’t been engaged for, like, three weeks already, I’d really be wondering about you.

Harlan sucked air, giving the wheel a half spin as he coaxed the Corvette out of yet another sickening skid. He should never have brought this newest woman along. She was obviously blasted on something. Mother would be distressed, and Dad would be trying to get his hands on her. But the thought of three nights in the smothering clutch of that stifling mansion was too much to be borne without the comfort of someone like Myrna.

FENSETTER FALLS

The sign appeared out of the swirling snow along the roadside with no warning. He slowed down, passing through the little borough in less than two minutes, then one last curving left, spinning and clawing up the final grade, until he was easing into the last space in front of the carriage house.

Harlan’s heavy features grew darker at the sight of his brother’s black Volvo station wagon. Emmett was four years younger than Harlan, with age being the least of their differences. Harlan was of medium height, plump, and, at forty-five, bearing signs of dissipation far beyond his years. Emmett was tall, stooped, ascetic, and scholarly. And where Harlan proudly wore the scarlet sash of the dedicated lecher, Emmett viewed the world from under a self-woven hood of self-righteousness. They shared in common only a last name, considerable wealth, and a bloated sense of their individual qualities.

Hands still on the wheel, Harlan took a deep, shuddering breath, letting it go noisily between his thick lips. My Doctor of Divinity shithead brother, Emmett, is here. Don’t even look at him. He’s a pompous asshole, and I can’t stand him. My mother is a flea brain, possibly demented, and my father is a whoremonger. He craned his neck to see better through the swirling snow Oh, shit, even old Bitgood is here. This must be bad. Hey, listen Myrna, after I introduce you, I want you to say you’ve got a headache and go to bed. I don’t want you mixed up in our family business.

Bullshit, Harlan. You just think I’ll say something stupid and make you look bad.

That, too. Now let’s go in and get this shit over with.

Lydia Fensetter peeked through the side of the heavy drape. Harlan’s here! she chirped, then gave a little groan. Oh, dear. I do believe he has one of those awful women with him.

That bit of news brought Fenton Fensetter snorting out of his chair, giving up his cigar while his liver-spotted hands slicked back the memories of his hair. Please, Fenton, his wife hissed, almost reflexively, do try to avoid making a fool of yourself. And Emmett, dear, for me, please be pleasant to your brother. We could have such a lovely Thanksgiving.

Emmett sniffed, stiffening his thin shoulders. Harlan is a wastrel and a libertine. I despise him, Mother, and nothing can alter that. I’m afraid I can make no promises.

Lydia shook her head in mild frustration. She was still an attractive woman, well dressed, trim, and poised. Her glaring flaw was one common among mothers—an unwillingness to accept her family for the writhing wasp nest it was. And far from being noble, subtle, and effective, her efforts to bring harmony were selfish, clumsy, and wasted. She would gladly have accepted the mere appearance of tranquility. But even that was beyond her reach. Far beyond.

With a stamping of feet to kick off the wet snow, and a feeble chorus of comments on the nasty weather, the Fensetters gathered. Old Fenton made no move to greet his son, but skillfully positioned himself to help Harlan’s woman with her coat and maybe reach around in front and get his thumb up against that big, ripe breast. His watery eyes were bulging in anticipation. This one was something! And he managed it, moving in close behind her, pushing his belly up firmly on her curving hip and laying that talented thumb right on the side of his target!

And the old bastard with his hands all over you is my father. Father, this is Myrna, my fiancée, and she already has a headache.

Ah! A headache! Fenton’s pudgy hands were behind her neck, thumbs and fingers probing longingly into the supple flesh. I can give you a little massage, my dear, that will cure that in no time!

Mmm, crooned Myrna, rolling her head, eyes closed tightly. That really does feel good!

But Harlan was alert. That’s it, Myrna. I’ll show you to our room. You need some rest. He pried her loose from his father’s now sweating hands, then guided her up the wide staircase. Fenton followed with bulging eyes, his lips still working the cigar, his fingers flexing in a lewd parody of the treatment. And he was still staring up the staircase when Harlan came back down...without Myrna. They faced one another for a brief moment, this father and son, saying nothing, yet managing to convey a strong mutual dislike with their eyes alone.

Lydia broke the spell. Well, now that you boys are here, there are some...family matters that really should be discussed. Attorney Bitgood and his secretary are already in the study. We’d best get it over with quickly so that we can all enjoy our holiday. I’m going to leave it to Attorney Bitgood and your father to explain, because they understand these matters much better than I ever could. That was not quite true, but no one objected. She offered her cheek for each of the sons to peck, but merely wiggled her fingers at her husband. In his current state, he might well make a lunge for her. Age had brought no lessening of his lust and sapped far too little of his ability to perform. Lydia’s nights were not always peaceful.

In my study, rumbled Fenton, sliding a heavy-lidded glance after his departing wife, perhaps speculating on a later possibility. Then he plodded into the study where he settled himself with a perfunctory nod to the legal pair. Elwood Bitgood was old, pompous, and fusty. Doris Pilkerson, once Bitgood’s secretary, had been recently admitted to the bar. She was in her forties, a bit the taller of the pair, bland and unexceptional...save for owning the best mind in the room.

Fenton swiveled in the chair behind the massive desk and poured himself a hefty jolt of brandy. Harlan followed suit, splashing liberally, while Emmett sniffed in disapproval and shook his head. The legal team showed no reaction.

Sit down, suggested Fenton, and the sons sat, as far away from each other and their father, as the room would allow. Next came the cigar, a fresh one for the occasion, with much spitting, rolling, and puffing, and vast, dense clouds swelling up like thunderheads. Harlan lit a cigarette. Emmett fanned the air in front of his face and coughed. Bitgood and Doris remained dispassionate spectators.

I think I’ll start with a bit of family history, intoned Fenton, comfortable behind the desk, smug with the power of information not yet shared. You both know it, but it’s important that you get all of it. So listen...and don’t interrupt. A great mushroom of smoke came next, as if to usher in the ghosts of the past. My grandfather, Gideon Fensetter, started the first mill, as I’m sure you’re aware, and built the first village. He was a young seafaring man. Crippled his leg aboard ship and came here with next to nothing. Began with himself and two others, then hired on some local women to work the looms. Textiles were cotton and wool then, and there were a lot of mills springing up. Those were the days, I’ll bet, hey Elwood?

Bitgood gave a silent nod of agreement.

"But Grandfather Gideon was hard. He drove those women without mercy, and before long he was making money at it. Good money. Then, and by God you’ve got to give him credit, he swindled his two partners out of every dime they had, and the mill was his. He was a mean-living, mean-spirited little bastard, and you look at that portrait of him up there and you can see that craftiness in his face.’

The legal people turned in unison, studied the portrait dutifully, and looked back.

Anyway, he married the real homely daughter of a banker from Burlington and pumped all her capital straight into the mill. Then along came World War I, and Gideon was making uniforms for the army...the profits were huge. He overcharged, he cut corners, he short-shipped, and nobody raised hell because it was wartime, and the army needed uniforms. Of course, he greased a few palms along the way. No question, he was a brilliant, brilliant man.

Another eruption of gray smoke, perhaps offered in tribute to Gideon Fensetter...captain of industry...and patriot.

My father, Jeremiah, was born well after that war, but Gideon wasn’t there to guide his son into the business. No sir. One of his partners from the old days, man named Biston, I believe, got to brooding about his family being swindled and about falling on pretty hard times himself. This Biston came back from the war with one leg and one arm missing, dragged himself into Grandfather’s bank, pulled out a pistol, and blew the old man’s head off.

More smoke mushroomed up.

Hard to figure what gets into people. So Gideon’s wife ran the business until Jeremiah, my father, took over at the age of fifteen. And from what I can gather, he was a demon. Compared to my daddy, old Gideon was a flower child. Totally ruthless! Seventy-hour work weeks, child labor, hired goons to beat up troublemakers, loans to his employees at usurious rates. I’ll tell you, the man was a first-rate executive. And just to show you, after a few years, when his mother objected to the hard way he ran the mills, why, he hired two doctors to declare her incompetent and slapped her into an asylum. How do you like that for moxie? His own mother!

Fenton applied strong suction to his cigar, bringing a new glow to the fading coal. The brothers waited cautiously, knowing there must be some point to this old fool’s recounting of a familiar history. My father drove himself and everybody around him for forty years, amassing a huge fortune, until one day he just decided he’d done enough. Something snapped. Turned the whole operation over to a management team and went wild. Started drinking, traveling, and chasing women. The man was sixty-four-years old! Anyway, he was in New York when he met a juicy little nightclub doxy; not sure exactly what she did, but he married her for some reason and brought her here.

Fenton paused to chuckle and shake his head in admiration. Caused quite a stir as you can imagine. And one year later, I was born. They say Dad took one look at me and had a stroke, and within months that little tramp had him off to a sanitarium where he drooled away until he died. She grabbed a decent chunk of cash and just took off. I never heard what happened to her. Never cared. The trouble is...that woman had a powerful set of genes...because I got them. The estate hired two nannies to raise me. So I had it all: best schools, travel, ease, and comfort, and all those wonderful things that only real money can bring to a man. And, as you both know, I’ve never worked a day in my life. I’ve indulged myself shamelessly, and I’m proud of it. I’ve a taste for fine liquors, quality cigars, and a wide variety of women. Hell, I’ve had more affairs than I can remember. And when I married your mother, it was only because she was the most sought-after debutante in the state.

Emmett could contain himself no longer. Then shame on you, Father. At seventy-two, and, I hasten to remind you, perilously close to your day of final accounting, and...and...you practically brag of a life of indolence and selfishness and open debauchery! You might at least show some respect for Mother!

Your mother is a twit. She knew what she was getting. The Fensetter name, the power, the soft life. That’s what she opted for. And the same can be said for both of you. You’ve had all the privileges. Private schools, Ivy League colleges, two years in England to give you some polish, and unlimited access to the Fensetter fortune. He raised a pudgy hand as Emmett started to protest. And you’ve both carried on in the new tradition I established, because, just like me, neither of you has done a tap of work in your entire lives.

I wrote a book! Emmett objected, stung by the indictment.

You wrote shit, cut in Harlan. You had to buy a publishing house to get the trash in print.

That was an investment, Harlan!

Who cares. Nobody reads your crap, Harlan slurred.

Old Fenton let his bulging, half-lidded eyes slide from one son to the other, measuring, as he often did, the uselessness of the pair. Harlan, plump, dissipated, and lecherous, was a clone of himself and, therefore, worthless. Emmett was quite another matter. He was a prig and an intellectual dilettante, and he showed a nasty tendency toward moralizing. And where Harlan was undoubtedly the fruit of his father’s active loins, Emmett was a different species. Certainly he had no trace of Fensetter breeding, and in no way displayed the elegant features of his mother. Whispers persisted about Emmett’s strong resemblance to the local, saintly, spectral Reverend Dorn and about Lydia’s active role in church functions. A vile taste rose in Fenton’s throat, as it always did when this thought invaded, and he leveled his malevolent gaze at Emmett’s long, thin head.

Enough, enough, he mumbled, shoving the murky details of Emmett’s conception to the back of his mind. You’ll have ample opportunity to argue shortly. There’s a more important issue to consider. It has to do with money. And, suddenly, his heavy lips were curving into an unpleasant smile. Attorney Bitgood, though a valued friend, is with us tonight in a professional role.  As you know, he oversees the Fensetter eEstate, investments, returns, dispersals, taxes, and all that pertains. Well, it seems we’ve been doing poorly since the recent market slide. Too heavy in financials. Some such thing. And that, along with increased expenditures by all family members and the generally sluggish economy, leaves us in what he called a...what was that term, Elwood?

A badly weakened position, the gray attorney piped up. That was my term.

Fenton hunched his shoulders, drawing hard on the dying cigar, then gave up and laid it in the tray. What he was telling me, in his own precise and straightforward way, is that the Fensetter fortune, for all practical purposes, is shot to hell.

Harlan swore, clapping both hands to the top of his balding head. Emmett froze. Old Fenton leaned back, folding his arms over his belly. The legal team, seated some distance from the desk, remained impassive. The scene was almost worth the price.

I know you’re both worried about what will happen to your mother and me, Fenton intoned with heavy sarcasm, but rest assured, we’ll be taken care of. More than enough cash has been set aside to see us through many years of a thoroughly comfortable retirement. You may recall that we have holdings in New York City and Bimini, and another very pleasant little villa on the ocean in Italy. So... he swiveled his chair smugly from side to side, ...we’ll manage. Attorney Bitgood will spell it out in a bit more detail.

And what the hell happens to us? bellowed Harlan, his trembling hands pouring a noisy few ounces of brandy in his glass while Emmett remained rigidly silent, though his thin lips moved in silent prayer.

Well, let’s see, intoned Bitgood, opening an impressive folder. A mere prop. The old man knew every word of it. What’s left, that is cash after total liquidation, will be...where does it cover that...will be about eight hundred thousand dollars each. Or, roughly, what each of you has been spending every two years. Quite a tidy sum, actually, when one thinks about it.

Eight hundred thousand dollars! Emmett increased the intensity of his prayer to sniffles of controlled despair.

Harlan was on his feet, red-faced, and sweating. Some mistake here, old man! The Fensetter fortune is...is legendary! It doesn’t just dry up! I demand proof!

Bitgood was speaking then, unfazed. Suit yourself, Mr. Fensetter. We can talk more later, if you wish. I should tell you I have total control of what little is left. Since I’m retiring, feel free to have your legal people contact Attorney Pilkerson. I suggest doing it soon, sir. Legal fees are costly. Perhaps one to represent both...

Harlan’s rage mounted. No way! I’ll get to the bottom of this bullshit! Because it seems to me that everyone will still have the good life, while I go down the chute! Dammit, parents are supposed to sacrifice for their children! And, don’t forget, Bitgood, I am the firstborn!

A quaint tradition from another age, I fear. And your lack of residency here will not further your cause, Bitgood added.

A sepulchral voice rose from across the desk. We’ve been smited by the hand of God. ‘For the sins of the fathers will be visited on their children.’

A bit out of my area, I fear, Bitgood said, smiling.  And, on that point, I should add that this property will revert to the Fensetter holdings—what’s left of them—to be treated as an asset. It’s yours as long as you reside in it. No problem there. Lydia insisted that Emmett should have the house in town because it’s so near the church. She wanted to make certain Emmett would be encouraged in his work; therefore, he will inherit the Merton House and the former bank building. Only fair, when you think about it. Should he vacate this property, it will be sold at auction along with nine point seven acres surrounding. Proceeds, if any, will be divided equally between the sons. The property, given its age, condition, and location, will net very little. In such an event, I advise the seller to take any offer made. Aside from that stipulation, you’ll each receive a stipend of nine hundred thousand dollars, one time only, to do with as you see fit. A handsome sum in today’s world.

I’m paying alimony to three wives, you old fool, and engaged to another real winner! I’ll be broke in a year! Harlan was pouring again.

My ministry cannot function without serious capital! whined Emmett.

Bitgood broke in. Attorneys are seldom people of abiding faith. I suggest another discussion, perhaps with any Realtor who’s interested. Attorney Pilkerson and I only ventured out on such a night as a gesture of courtesy to a longstanding client. He rose with an alacrity surprising for his years, pulling on a gray topcoat. Doris Pilkerson, for her part, had never removed her tweed coat. She clearly craved the unpolluted air beyond the mansion.

With the most perfunctory and barely audible adieus, the legal duo was gone.

Fenton waved at the closing door. Actually, your mother and I felt you might want to make your permanent home here, where you’ve had so many joyful childhood memories. And he was unable to restrain a very nasty chuckle. Maybe you could rebuild the Fensetter fortune together. He rose with deliberate speed from the chair, sighing deeply. Well, it’s been an exhausting day, and we elderly types tire easily. So I’ll just bid you both a good evening and look forward to a happy Thanksgiving feast tomorrow. Maybe I’ll peek in on your mother and give her something to be thankful for.

Emmett shot