It was his concept. Now it was becoming our reality. The town that he once considered a hellhole would make him far wealthier than his wife’s father had ever been. The Van Elkind legacy would reign supreme over the Rabinowicz.
The group was getting restless. Frozen Bear was still missing. The directors had already finished their coffee and apple turnovers, which I had made with Macintosh apples in honor of Regis McKenna. Danny and I were in the process of making a second round of pouring coffee, when the large double doors opened.
Chip Frozen Bear walked in, dressed casually and carrying a small leather satchel. With him was an elderly gentleman, who walked quite erect. Then I noticed this man had only one arm. It was Mr. Packer.
A transformed Mr. Packer. Gone was the long scraggly beard and unkempt hair. He was sporting a closely cut goatee and a traditional, neatly combed haircut. His usual tattered and smelling clothes had been exchanged for a nicely tailored three-piece, pinstriped suit. It hung on his body perfectly, accentuating the healthy trim lines of his quite elderly body. One empty sleeve was neatly pinned back. His silk tie was in a perfect Windsor knot. His good arm held onto a very large lawyer’s briefcase. His eyes were bright and he was smiling.
Van Elkind stood up. He just now realized that this elegant, lawyerly looking fellow was the usual compatriot of Bromley and Claire. “What is Mr. Packer doing here?”
Frozen Bear Smiled toward Red, but his eyes were focused on Tesla Haligent. He took no notice of Van Elkind. “Actually, I invited him, and we should begin by saying that the real name of Tom Packer is Tom Ferber.”
Jonathan Oxford jumped to his feet. His heavy jowls jiggled, and his annoyingly squeaky voice seemed stretched to the edge. “No! It can’t be. Tom Ferber died years ago. My father and aunt both adored their radical college professor named Ferber, but he hasn’t been heard of in years. What kind of sham is this!”
“On the contrary young man,” said Mr. Packer, or should it be Mr. Ferber? “Your family simply lost track of me. The years after the Depression and then the McCarthy era took so much from me. I suffered and simply disappeared. It was only through the help of Regina Rabinowicz that I survived, not only physically, but also emotionally. She helped me get settled here in Thread, so we could stay in touch when she and Casimir vacationed at the camp.”
“Now you knew Mother Regina? This is preposterous!” Henry Van Elkind was seething with indignation. Not only had he lost control of this meeting and of American Seasons, but now the town eccentric was claiming ties to his family. He looked over at Jonathan Oxford with embittered curiosity. They seemed tied together in a forgotten scandal.
Tesla Haligent stood up and lightly gaveled the table with his Mont Blanc pen. “This is all very touching, I am sure. Old families reunited. And all of that. But it has nothing to do with the purpose of this meeting. I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Frozen Bear, that you should think it acceptable not only to be late for this session, but to then disrupt it with this curious sideshow.”
Frozen Bear's expression had been non-committal, almost stoic, until this point. But now a grin escaped, and his eyes glinted with a self-satisfied amusement. “Actually, Mr. Ferber’s presence has quite a lot to do with this meeting. You see the Lattigo nation–through the agent of Lattigo Electronics–plans to tender a takeover bid for American Seasons, Inc. And I’m hoping that by the end of this meeting, all of us can be in agreement that such an acquisition is mutually acceptable and in the best of interests of each and every investor.”
Danny caught my eye and looked at me as though to ask, “What is going on?” I had no answer. Instead, I wished I had a video camera to immortalize the expressions of everyone else in the room. Cups remained suspended in air, only halfway to the lips. Jaws were dropped. Eyebrows were arched. People were sputtering. Priscilla Jouer was nervously scanning the room, ending her review focused on Haligent’s face seeking clues on what to do. Only Chip Frozen Bear and Tom Packer, or Ferber, seemed calm. No one seemed to remember that the caterers were still in the room.
The tiniest of twitches at the joint of Haligent’s jaw suggested that he was anything but a calm meeting leader. He casually dismissed Frozen Bear’s comments. “That should be simple. Quite simple. I have no doubt that we can settle this matter by the end of the meeting. In fact, we can settle it right now. Your proposition is out of the question. Lattigo Electronics couldn’t be worth more than a few millions, if that. Your firm has been in existence for less than a year, while the people in this room represent decades of business experience and billions in investment resources. Why would we suborn our interests in a major opportunity to some new-on-the scene entity like Lattigo Electronics? We might as well give it away to the caterers.”
There was general laughter in the room. I guess we weren’t forgotten.
Frozen Bear’s smile grew larger. “Because if you don’t agree, American Seasons will never be built. Your significant investments already made will be worthless. Because the Lattigo are the true owners of the majority of the land you plan to use. You have bought worthless titles.”
Red was outraged. “You’re full of shit. I own every piece of land I’ve sold to this corporation. Any title search will prove that.”
Oxford was quick to agree. “And I’m equally confident that will be the case with my properties. All of this land originally belonged to my great-grandfather as part of his huge lumber holdings.” All the while Oxford spoke, he kept his eyes on Tom Packer, as though he recognized some power this man might have. Oxford’s pupils nervously flitted to and fro.
“Don’t bet on it,” said Mr. Packer. “The land belongs to the Lattigo tribe as part of their treaty of 1854 with the Federal Government. The Oxford company never obtained clear title to any of the land, and Barney Oxford knew it.”
“My great-grandfather may have cut corners. But that treaty was nearly one hundred and fifty years ago. Land sales have been made since then without dispute. The land titles are legitimate.” Even as he spoke, Jonathan Oxford seemed to lose conviction in his own argument.
Haligent was having none of it. “It’s ridiculous discussing this. There’s no proof the Oxfords obtained this land illegitimately a century ago and even if they did, too much time has passed to reopen the issue. No court would agree to return the land to the Lattigo. Let’s just drop this childish dream of yours Mr. Frozen Bear, and return to the purpose of the meeting.”
Mr. Packer walked over slowly to the large glass table and set his heavy case on it. The weight reverberated through the glass, jiggling coffee cups on saucers around the rectangle. He opened the case’s lid and began removing old, yellowed papers. Many, many old and yellowed papers.
Frozen Bear spoke, “I must admit that I had no idea myself about the true situation. It is thanks to Mr. Ferber, or Mr. Packer if you prefer, that we Lattigo became aware of our own heritage. The original treaty was signed with President Franklin Pierce, when our reservation was formed. And a second, signed with President U.S. Grant when he visited our lands and acknowledged the great bald eagle we had provided to the Civil War battalion. We only had a copy of the first treaty. The latter was apparently forgotten or deemed ceremonial at some point in our past. But it was the second that granted broad ownership of additional lands, which we all knew we once had. What we didn’t know is that that particular treaty prohibited the sale of those lands. We could only grant mineral, timber, and other specific rights of usage. The land itself had to remain with the tribe in a perpetual trust.
“Therefore, Mr. Oxford only bought lumbering rights from us in the 1880s. We did not sell him the mineral rights, and under these Federal agreements, we could not have sold him the land. But over time, and because of the loss of certain papers and memories, Mr. Oxford was able to present his sale documents as proof of land purchase, not simply as timber leases. He never had a right to resell the land. He never even had the mineral rights that were so effectively used to frighten some townsfolk into the recent resale of land
s.
“Mr. Ferber knew some of this because as a younger man he had reviewed Mr. Oxford’s papers. Oxford’s daughter, Jonathan’s grandmother, had at one time considered authorizing the writing of a biography. As some of you may know, Mr. Ferber is not prone to throwing things away. He kept some of those key papers.”
“This is a lie. My grandmother never knew this man.”
Frozen Bear cut him off. “Please, Mr. Oxford. There is no doubt that Mr. Ferber is the person he claims to be. These past two weeks, he has been in Madison and then in Washington researching both the state’s archives and the Federal archives at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. The documents his briefcase contains are quite convincing. The land belongs to us, the Lattigo. You know, I’ve been told that our tribal name means ‘small whip’ in Spanish. You are about to feel the sting of the lattigo.”
“I’m sorry, Red,” Mr. Packer said to his fellow townsman, “but I couldn’t let this area be destroyed after all the ways it has helped me. Seeing Regina Rabinowicz in her coffin is what convinced me. I had to do something.”
“Maybe it’s for the best,” said Red quietly.
“Stop chattering this nonsense,” Haligent was livid. “Old documents mean nothing. We will fight it through the courts. There’s no way you’ll reclaim this land after a century of ownership by others.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Frozen Bear. His expression was once again his poker face. “But does it matter? During the court battles, the Lattigo would feel compelled to withdraw our support for the project. We wouldn’t want to build casinos as part of your plan. And we would quite naturally seek a court injunction preventing you from beginning construction until questions of ownership are settled.”
Haligent didn’t reply. No one said anything. Outside, a small sparrow was hopping on the window still, jumping up every other moment to hit the windowpane, as though it could fly through the clear glass. It created a strangely unnerving tapping sound. I wanted to throw my coffee pot at it. I also wanted to get out of the room. Perhaps sensing my unease, Mr. Packer caught my eye and winked.
Except for Red and Van Elkind, all of the directors were watching Haligent for signs on what to do. Fight or give in. Red sunk in the leather of his chair, looking defeated already, sensing the loss of all that his father had built up during the Depression. At the same time, it seemed as though a tension and roughness was lifting from him. Van Elkind, on the other hand, had the air of a condemned man awaiting his last meal. He had lost all interest in the proceedings. Haligent studied the face of Chip Frozen Bear, who stood impassively, watching Haligent in return. Neither said a word. No one drank a sip of coffee. No one stirred their coffee cup. No one smoked a cigarette. Two wills were in battle.
Haligent spoke first. “Let’s say, purely hypothetically, that we were interested in the Lattigo Electronics offer. How could you fund the acquisition? Speaking for the group, I am certain we consider our current holdings to have quite a significant value.”
Frozen Bear did not hesitate a moment. “I have a friend waiting in the lobby who specializes in mergers and acquisitions, particularly in the use of specialized financing. The press likes to call it junk bonds, but I think this approach would be quite easy to use to fund the acquisition to the satisfaction of everyone in this room. Perhaps you even know my friend. His name is Caleb Wheeler, and he has long ties to the area. Shall I invite the gentleman in?”
There was only a moment’s hesitation. “Yes,” said Haligent, “I’d be delighted to talk to Mr. Wheeler again.” Van Elkind groaned, but no one cared any longer how Van Elkind felt.
Loon Fest had begun. One full year had passed since the opening of my Loon Town Cafe. Four seasons had come and gone. Once more as before, the town square was bedecked with finery for the celebration. As tradition required, a large dance floor was being set up in the Square. This year, thanks to the largesse of Lattigo Enterprises, a high quality, steel-braced dance floor was erected over the beds of pansies. But to stay in tune with tradition, the eccentric musical stylings of Jerzy Jerzyinski and his Jelly Jesters would again be the headline event.
The streets surrounding the square were strung with thousands of twinkling lights, another bonus from the Lattigo. And the town was filled with more tourists than anyone could ever recall hosting. Business was good. Every table in the cafe was reserved this evening for my special Loon Fest Feast.
“Doesn’t our town look beautiful?” Cynthia said to me in a quiet interlude between servings. Indeed it did. The refurbished main street, the magical lighting, the redecorated square . . . it truly was a wonderland.
A few minutes later, as I was going to the kitchen to place an order and she was heading out with a platter of fried muskie, she said, “I’m meeting Chip after work to go dancing. We’re going to celebrate how everything has turned out. Isn’t it wonderful?”
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. Chip Frozen Bear, upon his successful grab for control of the American Seasons company, quickly redefined the resort plans. His new approach was more scaled down, focusing on a true interface with nature. He brought the Nature Conservancy and the World Wildlife Fund on board. Taking the approach of certain eco-minded countries like Costa Rica, he proposed a resort community in keeping with natural balances. In the process, he was defining a more expensive and more exclusive resort. Furthermore, the plans still involved a smaller amusement park and more casinos. I doubted that the new plans were any more in keeping with the Great Spirit than the original, but the debate had vanished. The press had already reported the victory of the Native Americans over the white men, and had moved on to new battles.
But the coverage encouraged a new wave of tourism to the town. People were discovering the pleasures of our lakes and woods.
“Cynthia sure looks happy tonight,” said Danny, his arms up to his elbows in soapsuds. The other busboy I had hired, Brent, agreed quickly. “She told me Kip Van Elkind is locked up in some nut house, which makes her pretty happy. Plus Red completely supports her dating Chip Frozen Bear. She also said Red plans to sell everything and retire. Just go fishing. Isn’t that weird? Red’s not even fifty, but she says that’s what he wants to do, and she thinks it’s wonderful.”
I agreed with it all.
“Wally,” Danny said with authority, “I’m going to be quitting too.” I looked at him with surprise. “Well, now that I’m out of high school, I have to think about what I’m going to do next. And Josh asked me to go to California with him. He said I could live in his place and go to college there, and use the time to figure out what I want to do with my life. And I’ve decided that’s the way I want to start it.
“You’re not mad at me, are you?” The old tentative Danny returned for an instant.
“How could he be mad?” Thelma said, then she quickly turned back to her broiler and flipped over five fillets of muskie. “Wally wants you to be happy, just like I do, isn’t that so Wally?”
“Yes,” I had to agree. With Danny gone, it would be a new life for Thelma and me. Who knows? Cynthia had been accepted to the University of Wisconsin in Madison and would be starting this fall. When she did come back to Thread, it would probably be to spend time with Chip Frozen Bear, who had seen in Cynthia a seriousness that most of us had missed. “I guess we’ll be starting over, huh, Thelma?” She nodded in agreement.
We swirled through the night, eager to finish with the last of the diners, eager to close the restaurant and spend the last hour or two of the Loon Fest dancing in the Square. We seemed to occupy a new world already: a restaurant full of people, a new busboy in the kitchen, a Loon Fest Parade that earlier in the day had been transformed by vigor and vitality.
The parade, of course, still included the Thread Screaming Loons Marching Band, but again thanks to the patronage of the Lattigo, the band members paraded in new uniforms that seemed to give a never-before-achieved precision in both their marching and playing. And they had not been alone. The newfound national recognition of Thread had resulted in
acceptances from every area band that had been asked to participate. Emerson. Timberton. Grosselier. Ashland. Every neighboring town was there.
And the floats were amazing. Instead of being the best of the lot, Red’s annual tractor-driven, tissue-paper-covered float, seemed the drabbest this year. Perhaps it was because there no longer was a pony-tailed Rueben Cord to drive it. But in reality, it was because of the unexpected arrival of floats sponsored by the multinational corporations hoping to be invited to participate in the Lattigo investments. The parade had become a mini-proving ground for their intents. Floats from Hilton, Hyatt, American Airlines, Carlson Travel. The list went on and on.
But at the front of the parade, as proud as ever, was our one and only Claire de Loon, marching in her purloined Nanoonkoo loon costume, highstepping to the brightened beats of the Thread band. Claire basked in the adulation of thousands, adored by more than ever before in her life. And she floated through the day.
Now as my cafe closed for the evening, I slipped out into the crowded square. The dance floor was jammed with people stepping lively to the polkas of Jerzy. As the evening went on, Jerzy had completely abandoned top forty songs to play what were in fact his true love–the polkas, waltzes and foxtrots of his youth. And in the crowded space of the wooden floor perched above the pansies, it seemed as though everyone knew how to dance.
“This must have been how it was when Thread was young,” Cynthia whispered to me as Chip Frozen Bear whisked her to the floor. In one corner of the floor, I saw Josh leading Danny in a rambunctious foot-jumping polka that would have done Warsaw proud. No, I thought, this is not how Thread was when it was young. But this is how Thread can be as it ages. And it made me happy.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Officer Campbell, in his newly provided uniform, courtesy once more of the Lattigo, approaching Thelma, a Thelma who had been adrift in depression since Gilbert’s betrayal. Campbell was so diffident in asking her to dance. But Thelma accepted, and he led her buxom form up to the floor. Soon she too was smiling and hopping and laughing her famous laugh to the four-four beat of the polka.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 38