Warm Wuinter's Garden

by Neil Hetzner

  The conspiracies of kindness had been offset by those of cruelty. Many of the more cruel plots were hatched within her body. Monday’s strength would disappear on Tuesday, return on Wednesday, then be gone for several days. Her body’s need for sustenance was often undermined by her mind’s inability to conjure up an appetizing sight, or, more commonly, smell. There had been several occasions when Bett’s stomach, like a stray at the door, had growled loudly, but her mind had refused entry to any kind of food. Sudden swellings, muscle aches deeper than any bruise, diarrhea, and rogue waves of nausea were but a few of the traitorous plots that her body had hatched against her.

  The unexpected, unsought kindnesses of the people around her conspired with the cruelties of the cells within her to make Bett different. She could feel herself being divorced. People, even in the midst of their reaching out, were severing themselves from her. It was not so much a separation of distance as it was one of expectations. She was no longer expected to be the familiar Bett. And, if she was herself, people were shocked and, sometimes it even seemed, disappointed. As others pulled themselves back from her, Bett found herself experiencing a desire to become divorced from whom she had always been. Enough of competence and caring. Enough of forgiveness and understanding. Enough of faith and fealty. Enough of fortitude. Enough.

  Try as she might to keep her customary level of interest in her husband, children, grandchildren, people in the surrounding community and in the world beyond, Bett found it hard to ignore the disease’s insistence on her attention. The cancer cells, whether in fact or from fear, demanded that she ignore those outside. Those ghostly cells, which might be drifting through her lymph system or, maybe, setting up shop on the edge of an organ, were more tyrannical than any colicky baby had ever been.

  As she looked inward, as she focused her attention on the errant forces at work inside her skin, Bett could feel herself grow smaller. Fear grew, she shrank. Her arms became too short to reach those around her. Her eyes became too small to see across a room. Her brain became too tiny to think beyond itself. She was shrinking and so was her life. The centripetal force of her disease pulled her into herself as a centrifugal force spun the world away. Each day friends became a little more distant. With each phone call, each covered dish, each proffered book, the giver stepped back another pace. Bett was going someplace where they were not prepared to follow. As Bett went where her disease demanded; her friends followed the paths of their lives, and the gulf between grew greater.

  Already with some longtime friends the distance had grown so great that it seemed unbridgeable. They were left to brief wavings from afar. With others, the chasm wasn’t quite so wide. It might be leapt. One would look across to the other to steel his courage before the leap. Occasionally, it was Bett herself, who made a leap back to the living world’s side, where there were interests and concerns beyond the metabolic. Other times, it was the friend who jumped over to Bett’s anarchical world. The friend would hold Bett’s hands and Bett’s gaze and her own tongue and experience the giddy fear of standing close to the antinomy of neoplasmic fission and the heady thoughts of the consequences of the body’s self-destruction. They would bear an awe-filled witness to a destruction as inexplicable as schools of pilot whales beaching themselves on Cape Cod’s sands or lemmings racing over a cliff. Other times—this had happened most often with Neil—each would gather strength for the leap. The courage would come, the leap would be made. She would land on his side prepared to talk of life while he would be stranded just where Bett had been, ready to talk of disease, and death and fear. In their desire for courtesy and kindness and communication, they kept missing each other.

  After a silent dinner, they took to sitting in separate chairs rather than, as had long been their habit, sitting together on the sofa. For most of the frantic burning of a log, its flames dancing a dervish dance from the downdraft of a warm southerly wind, she and Neil had watched in silence. Without looking away from the fire, Neil finally said, “Crazy weather. Warmest fall I can remember.”

  “Did you see the article on the jet stream? It’s shifted south, so it’s not pulling any cold air down from Canada.”

  “We’ve really only had that one frost. Even that wasn’t really a killing frost. I noticed the azaleas have come into bloom at the library. Your fennel’s as green as I’ve ever seen it. I didn’t know it was so hardy. It’s so wispy, you’d think any cold would kill it.”

  Bett stared harder at the glowing coals. She didn’t want to hear about the tenacity of plants. She didn’t want to think about the unexpected survivors of a meager frost. She didn’t want to consider the life of things beyond their season. Without turning her head from the maddened yellow flames lashing up from the red coals, Bett said, “I wish it would get cold. I want winter.”

  “It’s hard to believe that Christmas is just over two weeks away and violets are blooming along the lane. What do you want to do?”

  “About?”

  “Christmas.”

  “Oh, Neil.”

  “Honey.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I know it’s hard.”

  “I don’t know what I want to do. It’s hard to imagine not having Christmas. It’s always been my favorite time of year. But, it’s equally hard to imagine the house filled with people in two weeks. I keep thinking about what I want to do, but it changes by the minute. I know that I don’t want to repeat Thanksgiving. All the sighs and moping and tiptoeing. All the offered nursing. Dilly just wore me out. I felt terrible, looked terrible and acted worse.”

  “Bett, you were exhausted.”

  “And angry.”

  “Angry is fine. You’ve got lots to be angry about. The kids were angry, too, at what’s been happening to you. You’ve always been so healthy that the weight you’ve lost and the weakness scared them. I think we were all scared and angry.”

  “Scared and angry doesn’t sound like a good recipe for Christmas.”

  “True, but we don’t have to duplicate Thanksgiving. You seem to be stronger lately. Is that my imagination? Are you feeling better?”

  “It’s funny hearing you ask that. You know, I don’t know. I don’t know how to gauge that anymore. You, I—those pronouns denote some kind of unity, a oneness. My body just doesn’t feel that integrated anymore. If I have more patches of raw skin, but they don’t feel as hot, if my nausea is less often but more intense severe, am I feeling better? I don’t know, Neil. I’m feeling different. Just different.”

  Bett had tried to keep a hard edge from her voice, but, even to herself, the last sentences sounded bitter. She swallowed to relax her facial muscles before she tried again.

  “I just feel very different.”

  The bitterness sounded as if it had been replaced by an awful loneliness. Bett thought to try again so that the sentence conveyed nothing more than the factual information that she was unlike she had been before. But, before she could figure out how to do that fine filtering, Neil began, “Bett, we can do whatever you want. Something little, something big, or nothing. Whatever you want to do, the kids will understand. You know that.”

  “It’s hard when it’s this warm. Even if I weren’t sick, I don’t think I’d be as enthusiastic as usual. I’ve never been able to imagine the smell of cinnamon and allspice and clove filling a kitchen in a Florida bungalow. Wrapping presents in red and green and gold paper, with palm fronds waving and oranges dropping on the emerald green grass, just doesn’t seem like the right staging. It’s just been too warm for Christmas.

  “If I knew it would be cold, if the wind would blow, if it would snow, if it would be cold and white, then, I think it would be wonderful to have everyone here. But if it’s warm and brown, or gray, or feels like April, I don’t think I could find the strength. Is that too silly, Neil? Too strange? Too selfish?”

  “Of course, it isn’t.”

  The words came too easily from his mouth. Bett thought he must have rehearsed them. Another conspiracy. After the awful
scene that she had made with Dilly, she could imagine him working on a set of words that would indicate his gracious acceptance that there wouldn’t be, didn’t need to be a family Christmas celebration at Clarke’s Cove. From the moment during Thanksgiving dinner when she had cried out in rage after Dilly’s tenth or twentieth or fortieth suggestion in twenty-four hours at what she should do and how she should eat to triumph over the cancer, Neil would have known that Christmas was in jeopardy. She had never been that angry, nor so lost at what to do.

  A time of crisis was a time for family. Nita’s periods and pain, Peter’s problems after Viet Nam and later when Gaby left, the ups and downs of Dilly’s life, and the twists at the bank had been played out with family as the supporting cast. Bett understood that it would be hard for Neil to imagine her progress to either better or worse times without the aid of family. It would be hard for him to imagine being under the hot glow of this threat’s unforgiving light with no one on the stage but him and her. But, if she wanted to be alone at Christmas, she knew that he would defer to her choice. Although he might wish with all his heart that she would choose to be with family, he wouldn’t try to change her mind. He wouldn’t want to think about it for fear that in some black magical way thinking about it might cause it to happen, but if this were to be their last Christmas together, he wouldn’t want to spend it alone with her. He would want there to be memories, good memories, which everyone could share. Bett understood Neil’s desires, but she wasn’t sure that she had the strength to make more memories.

  * * *

  She looked too small. Had she always been so small? How could the unending energy that had shaped his life and those of their children have come from someone so small? Neil wanted to stare at Bett until he understood the diminution of her presence.

  So much skin sagged from her ears down to her neck. How much weight had she lost? What cruelty that her skin would remain the same size while more vital aspects of her grew smaller. Neil grabbed the skin of his hand. What a strange thing to have happen. To separate from one’s skin. To sag inside a bag that once had been seamless with oneself. Like a winter coat which slipped from its hanger and slumped inside its plastic bag on the drive home from the dry cleaner.

  Was she better? Neil would waken in the night to listen to her breathing and measure the ease of her sleep. He would gently curl his palm around her shoulder to record her heat and draw his head up close to smell her hair. Was she better? Stare as hard as he might, he couldn’t tell. She was right. How could they tell?

  They had asked themselves the same question about Peter several nights before. Something was happening to him. In the short time that he was around at Thanksgiving, it was obvious that he was not the Peter that they had become used to seeing. He was not that Peter, nor was he the Peter of twenty years ago. Was he better? There was some part of him that seemed nearer the surface. Something that had loosened, become untied or unraveled. Or had it frayed? Was something going to break? Or be freed? It was hard to know. He had closed the Retreat for two days. That was different. He had grabbed Dilly’s wrist and held her at the table when Bett had begun to scream. He had left the room each time the news had come on the television. He had hugged him, Neil, and told him something, but it something too garbled to decipher. After a night of mulling it over, Neil and Bett had decided that Peter was becoming more demonstrative. Was that better? They didn’t know.

  What was better? Better than what? Better than when? When the story broke that thirteen million dollars had been embezzled by the owner of a small, RISDIC-insured, Mafia- linked bank, and that the owner had disappeared, Neil had gone to Kenyon determined to talk him into having Coastal apply for FDIC coverage. Kenyon said that there was no reason. The problem was over. The boil had been lanced. It could only get better. When Neil had told Brad that story Brad had laughed. He said he’d once seen a pig dancing on one toe. It had done it, but not for long. RISDIC’s reserves weren’t that large. It wouldn’t take that much to bring it down. If anything happened to RISDIC or its member banks, even the strong ones could be brought down. Brad had said that both in Maryland and Ohio it had taken some depositors years to get back even a small portion of their deposits. Brad told him to watch his back.

  Neil didn’t know what to think. He didn’t want to doubt Kenyon. Kenyon and his forebears had made a lot of money over ten generations by doing the conservative thing. Neil didn’t want to be disloyal, but he didn’t want to be put in the situation of jeopardizing their retirement money. Or, if something else went wrong and they needed more money for Bett. He didn’t want to make a mistake with that. But, if he tried to move any money to a safer place now, he would have to pay the penalties. Both money and Kenyon’s goodwill. What was better? He didn’t know.

  Chapter 14

  “I’m the first?” asked Nita.

  “You certainly are,” Bett whispered as she hugged her middle daughter tightly to her.

  “That’s a switch. You look great, Mom. How do you feel?”

  “Well enough to have a wonderful Christmas.”

  “Well, you deserve one, huh? Where’s Dad?”

  “He’ll be late.”

  “Whatever happened to bankers’ hours?”

  “They’ve become much longer. There has been a lot of trouble lately. Everyone is nervous. There have been a couple of scandals and runs on a couple of small banks. You know there’s nothing scarier for a banker. This economy is so weak. From what he tells me, which, of course, isn’t much because of my condition, I guess he’s had a number of loans, particularly developers’, move close to or into default.”

  “Tell me. I can’t believe how much of my practice is becoming take-backs. I’m starting to see a lot of the same couples that I closed homes have to give back the deeds to the bank. It’s sad.”

  “It is, and it’s very scary. Your dad’s very worried. I think what’s made it worse for him is he’s been so worried about me he hasn’t really kept up with what’s been happening at the bank. He’s been there, but he really hasn’t been there.”

  “Well you must be in great shape if he’s stopped worrying about you.”

  “Either that or the bank’s in very bad shape.”

  “I’m so glad that you’re feeling better. It’s been so scary. It’s been hard knowing you’ve been so sick. Dad’s not the only one that’s had trouble keeping his mind on his business. I keep wanting to run down here to see how you’re doing. To see what I can do. Then, I realize, probably nothing.”

  “Oh, honey, you’re going to make me cry, too.”

  “Actually that sounds nice, Mom. I’ve been doing too much of it alone. Of course, for me, any at all seems like too much. Not professional.”

  Nita made a face which suggested ‘Silly me,’ before she brushed the tears from her eyes. Bett continued holding her.

  “I’ve been staying pretty dry. I’ve been trying to save my energy for getting better. Especially, after Thanksgiving.”

  “Forget it, Mom. That’s about the tenth time I’ve heard you apologize, obliquely or otherwise. You had the right. Dilly can be so thoughtless. Actually, that’s not right. It’s almost the opposite. She just fixates. She’s like a mongoose or a pit bull. When she gets her jaws on to something, she can’t let go.”

  “It was not my finest moment.”

  “I’m not sure it was supposed to be. It’s a lot of damn work to be sick and nice simultaneously.”

  “You should know. You were always the perfect patient.”

  “I know, Mom. I certainly tried. But, looking back on that time from now, I’m not sure that it was the best practice. I think I may be still paying the price.”

  Bett felt her stomach try to twist away from Nita’s words. Even after all the years she still feared the revelation of some additional side effect of the DES. She could sympathize with the drug’s manufacturers as they sat waiting for something else to go wrong and wondering if the statute of limitations to their responsibility would ever run out.
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  “What do you mean, Nita?”

  “I don’t really know. I look at myself. I’m bright. In good shape. Attractive, although that’s starting to take a little more work. Successful. But, I’m thirty-three. And I’m lonely as hell. I’m lonely and alone right now. But even when I was doing a lot of dating, even at the height of some relationship, a lot of times I would be feeling lonely. Cut off. Muted. Mom, remember the time you took us to the museum in Shelbourne and afterwards we were wandering around in that old country store? Do you remember that?”

  “I remember the museum. They have such wonderful folk art, but I don’t think I remember the store.”

  “They had apothecary jars filled with the kinds of candy only tourists buy. Horehound drops. And it was pretty dark. And a pressed tin ceiling. And ceiling fans. And Dilly bought Sen-Sens. I can remember all that. But what I really remember is the woman using one of those sticks with the metal clamp at the end to get a can of something from a high shelf. I think in all of my relationships, I’ve been reaching out with a long stick with an artificial hand at the end.”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t think you’re like that at all.”

  “I don’t know, Mom. The days are starting to fly by a lot faster than they used to, and I’m getting scared that I’m going to keep trying to grab something from where I am with those damn pincers.”

  “But, Nita, if there really is a distance, what is it? What’s so frightening?”

  “Pain, Mom, I thinks it’s the idea of more pain.”

  “Honey.”

  “Mom, don’t you get that? That feeling of being all hunched over, hunkered over, drawn in? I get it all the time. I feel that if I were to open up, to stand up and spread my arms and reach out, something so sharp and searing might happen that I wouldn’t be able to stand it. Don’t you ever get that? I know you’re feeling fine now. You know you’re doing all right. But don’t you get afraid it could all start up again?”