Warm Wuinter's Garden

by Neil Hetzner

  Kenyon took his time deciding whether he was angry that Neil had done an end run on him or grateful.

  “If I’d listened then, we could have saved our ass. The bank wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Me neither.”

  From the look on his face it was obvious that Kenyon didn’t understand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “My daughter Lise’s boyfriend, Brad, remember me telling you about him, he got me thinking about things. The more I thought about it, the more dangerous the situation seemed. I imagine you’re no different than I am. I can remember my parents talking about the problems in the Depression when the banks failed. It started to look like we were getting ourselves in the same situation. The only difference around here was that the speculation was on land rather than stocks. I know so many of the bankers around the state. That didn’t give me much comfort. You and I talked a couple of times about RISDIC. You said everything was going to be okay. I had a hard time believing that, but I didn’t want to be disloyal.”

  Kenyon drummed the tip of his pen into his hand.

  “You were right. I was wrong. I already said that. We’re got a lot to do. What’s your point?”

  “With Bett being sick, as you might imagine, we’ve had some unusual expenses. She says she’s been good lately, but I’m not so sure. I’d like to believe that she’ll be fine, but I’ve trained myself to be conservative. I have to think about the bad things that could happen and be prepared for them.”

  “Fine, Neil, that’s fine, but what’s it got to do with anything? C’mon. We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Kenyon, you may not want me to be the one doing it.”

  Kenyon started to say something, but Neil kept going.

  “I took a bunch, almost all of my money out of here. Last week. Just after you left.”

  Kenyon laughed.

  “Good for you, Neil. You’re smarter than your boss. I may be living on my credit cards for awhile. You were worried that I’d be mad because you took money out, because you were disloyal to my bank? Don’t be foolish. Don’t even think about it.”

  Kenyon laughed again.

  Neil said, “I was worried about that when I did it. I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, and I didn’t like the feeling that I was sneaking around after you were gone.”

  “Well, it’s okay.”

  “Now, I’m worried about something else. The papers and, from what I’ve been told, the radio talk shows have had a lot of discussion about insiders using their connections and information to get their money out before RISDIC failed. I’m afraid that if the word gets out about my withdrawals people will think that that’s what I did. My reputation and the bank’s both could be harmed.”

  Kenyon thought for a moment before he responded.

  “I can see your point, but I don’t think you’ll have much of a problem.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, mainly, because my money stayed in the bank. I’m much more of an insider than you are. Hell, you’re not even native. Who’s going to do you a favor? At first glance, it might look strange, but a minute’s reflection would have to lead anyone half-way in the know to the conclusion that your withdrawals were coincidental.”

  Neil nodded trying to reassure himself that Kenyon was right. He wanted to ask Kenyon whether anyone would be calm enough to take that minute for reflection, but he decided he was better off just assuming that Kenyon was right.

  “Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. Let me make a few phone calls and then I’ll be down to help with that application. If we really push and use every chit we’ve ever earned we might be able to get a quick answer from FDIC and get this operation going again. Two hundred years and as far as I know, this is the first time we’ve closed. My ancestors will be shooting lightning bolts at my ass pretty soon if we don’t get this resolved. That I don’t need. Not with Cammie sitting down in West Palm loading up because I abandoned her to come back here.”

  “Brad told me that in the past, in bad situations, the FDIC has worked hard to expedite applications.”

  “Good. Let’s hit it. Let’s get the damn doors open again. The sooner we do, the sooner I can get my hands on some money and the less apt I’ll be to have to have my hand out for some of yours.”

  Kenyon Hall laughed. Neil tried to join him, but only a smile would come. The sound was stuck at the bottom of his throat.

  Chapter 16

  “Petey Sweetie, come here, come see what your president’s done.”

  With his head sticking through the half-open door, Raoul motioned Peter to join him in the waiter’s dressing room. Peter gave a final stir to the last of the sauces in the steam-table before limping toward the end of the kitchen.

  The Retreat’s owner wished that he was somewhere else. The dining room was almost empty. The first two weeks of January had been the slowest that he could ever remember.

  The swinging door was pushed open and Raoul poked his head outside for a second time.

  “Petey, sweetie, ppwease huwwy,” he said in an exaggerated lisp.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Your president. Bush the tall tush. Cap’n. Wimp. Look. He’s bombing Sodom Insane.”

  “What?”

  “Look. Live from Baghdad.”

  Peter’s stomach dropped so fast that he freefell to the nearest of the scarred benches that lined the graffiti-friezed walls of the staff room. White lights, like strands of pearls, skittered across the small screen of the staff television. Raoul swept his arm toward the TV as if he were offering a good table to a favored customer.

  “Your tax dollars hard at work.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Same prayer, well, maybe substitute Allah, they’re probably saying there.”

  “Bob, please, be quiet.”

  Raoul went to the set and turned up the volume then returned to stand next to Peter. He wanted to say something apologetic to Peter, but he felt too embarrassed to do so. When monumental events occurred, good or bad—learning that a friend had received a large Jackson Pollock/Lee Krassner grant, being told that a former lover had been diagnosed with AIDs—Raoul always responded with very quick, very cynical humor. Fast and funny. That’s what he tried to be. But, sometimes he knew he went too fast. In the excitement of the news of the American invasion of Iraq, Raoul had forgotten Peter and Viet Nam. He wondered what was going on in Peter’s head as he stared so fixedly at the strings of lights which danced behind the head of a very attractive reporter.

  “Stay here, Peter. I’ll just check the dining room. Do you want anything?”

  From Bob’s inflection Peter knew that he had been asked a question; however he had no idea what it was.

  “Sure, whatever you think.”

  After the maitre d’ came back to report that a table of six had just been seated, Peter moved the television into the kitchen. As he cooked, he watched. Later, at home, he watched through the night. In the morning, on his way to the restaurant, he made a detour to buy a six-inch rechargeable color television. He installed it on the shelf over the stoves. When he went to his office to do ordering, scheduling and the books, he took the television with him.

  In the days that followed the American invasion, as first heated and, then, enthusiastic discussions about the war took place among the waiters, dishwasher, and prep cooks, Peter made no comments. When asked his opinion of SCUD missiles landing in Israel, or B-2 bombing raids on the Republican Guard, or the strategic importance of the oil spills, or the wide-spread display of yellow ribbons in support of the troops, or whether he had ever been under friendly fire, or whether tanks were much used in Viet Nam, or whether an all-volunteer army made sense, he would shrug his shoulders. His blank look and frequent shrugs made it seem as if he could no longer understand the war language—long familiar to him—that was being so eagerly acquired and used by all the civilians around him. He would shrug and turn his eyes back to the screen. When a seventeen yea
r old dishwasher asked Peter if he could put a large yellow bow on the front door of The Retreat, Peter remained motionless for a long time before nodding his head yes.

  * * *

  “Hey, meu amigo, como vai?”

  At the sound Peter drew himself deeper inside his skin. When he turned from the stove he avoided looking into Gaby’s eyes.

  “Hi. You startled me. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that voice in here.”

  “Long, long time.”

  “You okay?”

  “Sure. I’m fine.”

  Gaby leaned over the counter and began to sniff at each of the battered stainless steel sauce containers sitting in the bain-marie.

  “Smells good.”

  “Just the same old stuff.”

  “It was always pretty good stuff.”

  “Fewer people seem to think that.”

  “It’s tough all over. It really has been terrible.”

  As he usually did with someone when he didn’t know what else to do, Peter asked, “Are you hungry?”

  Gaby laughed and Peter was forced to look away from, to him, her startling warmth and beauty. Since she had left him, the days had felt so unending that he was surprised all the hours of enduring hadn’t diminished his feelings for her.

  “Well, it’s not been that terrible. Food and shelter are still doable. Thanks, in part, to you. I can guess how hard it’s been. I’m very grateful about how good you’ve been with the boys’ support.”

  Peter’s intended a rueful smile but guessed that it looked like a grimace.

  “Can you imagine if I missed a payment and Dilly or Nita found out?”

  “I think that even if Dilly and Nita weren’t around you’d still be good about it.”

  “Mom’s always said, ‘First things first.’”

  “Yeah? Well, lots of guys must have had different kinds of moms. I can’t believe how many of my friends get stiffed by their ex’s.”

  “Duty.”

  “Yeah, duty. We’ve been hearing a lot about that.”

  Gaby gestured toward the television set that was playing behind Pete’s head. Peter turned toward the screen and then back to Gaby without saying anything.

  “The boys say that you’ve been watching that a lot.”

  Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  “Me along with a couple of hundred million other people.”

  “What d’ya think? Is the ground war close?”

  “Are the boys okay?”

  “Yeah, they’re fine. They’re home. I came up to see Dina and I just thought I’d drop by.”

  “It’s nice to see you. How has work been?”

  “It’s been bad. But enough. I mean I think we’ll hang on. You can only put off car repairs for so long. And as poor as people get, most of them can’t really do much more for themselves than change their oil.”

  “That’s me.”

  “Me, too, although I’m getting where I can talk a good game. It’s funny. People call and tell me what their car is doing and I’m getting now so that I can kind of diagnose it over the phone. ‘Sounds like a timing chain, Mr. Petri. Better bring it in right away.’ Now, I don’t know what a timing chain does or where one goes, but I know the symptoms of a bad one, know what the box of a new one looks like, what it costs, and how long it should take to put it in.”

  Peter aimed a small smile to a neutral zone just off to the right side of Gaby’s face.

  “You should get them to change your title.”

  “From scheduler to what?”

  “Automotive consultant.”

  “Knowing without doing.”

  “That’s the business.”

  “Not like restaurants.”

  Peter grunted, “Doing without knowing.”

  “Not you. I didn’t mean that. But lots of others. A dentist or a lawyer likes steak so he figures he’s qualified to open a restaurant.”

  “You’d think that someone with a grad school education would be brighter than that.”

  You might think that. I wouldn’t. I see what they know about cars.”

  “Well, if bright guys don’t know enough to stay clear of restaurants, what hope does that leave for the rest of us?”

  “Is it really that bad? You used to love being here.”

  “Maybe the bloom is off the rose, or roast.”

  “I used to like being in here with you when you were tearing around. You gave off so much energy.”

  “My batteries aren’t what they were.”

  “Whose are? Life uses up a lot of charge. ‘Mr. Petri, better bring it in. I think you need a new battery.’”

  “New batteries aren’t easy to come by.” Peter hoped that he didn’t sound to Gaby as wistful as he sounded to himself.

  “You really think that’s true? What about new staff, a new menu, new ingredients, remodeling?”

  “New, and many, many more customers?”

  “Pete, you know if you can hold on, they’ll be back.”

  “Gaby, it’s P-town. A lot of those people who used to come here will never be back. They’re dead.”

  “How’s Bob?”

  “He’s fine. I guess. I hope. I don’t know how he could be, given the years and the lifestyle, but he seems to be fine. Each day I get scared he’s going to tell me he’s got it, too. I’ll bet he’s had fifty friends die. “

  “I don’t doubt it. He’s always known everybody. Is he here tonight?”

  “Sure. In the dining room.”

  “It’ll be nice to see him. What about that?” Gaby gestured toward the television.

  His ex-wife’s change of topics was so abrupt that Peter didn’t understand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Battery. Is that a battery? What’s that doing? Recharging America?”

  Again, Peter shrugged his shoulders.

  Gaby mimicked him. “Nao sei.”

  Peter nodded, “Nao sei.”

  “As well as the bombing has gone, they say it could give America a new spirit. But it looks like it’s been draining yours.”

  Peter shrugged again.

  “Why did I think any different? Pete, I can’t imagine what all this stuff, this war, is stirring up in you. Things you’ve been carrying for twenty years. Other things you’ve been skittering past for twenty years. It might be a good time to talk about some of it. It’s gotta hurt to see all the yellow ribbons, to hear people be so careful to be for the troops even though they’re against the war. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt to know about all the school kids sending letters over there. To see everybody making such an effort to make the troops feel good and themselves to feel better. Feel better for what they screwed up twenty years ago. They’re making restitution, but it seems to me it’s to the wrong group of soldiers.”

  Peter bent over and lifted the lids on a couple of sauces.

  “Please, Pete, don’t go blank on me. Can’t you say anything? Everybody seems to be trying to get rid of the last of Viet Nam and you say nothing. You keep holding it in like a baby holding its breath when it’s crying. It’s scary. I keep waiting for the scream.”

  “Gaby, our lives are running down different roads.”

  “There are, or were, reasons for that. This…” Gaby lifted her shoulders high and then dropped them in a theatrical mockery of Peter’s shrug. “This is a big reason for that. You won’t ever have your future unless you get your mind off the past. I’ll leave it alone, now. I know I’ve pushed, but I can be around if you want to talk. And you don’t have to talk to me, but talk to someone. Get it behind you. That’s enough soap box. How’s Bett?”

  Peter started to shrug but caught himself.

  “She seems to be doing pretty well. She was much better at Christmas than she had been at Thanksgiving.”

  “It’s gotta be tough. I should call her.”

  “She’d like that.”

  “How’s your Dad doing with it?”

  “You know Dad. He always puts a good face on thin
gs, but I’m not too sure how he’s really doing. Do you know about the banking stuff?”

  “Not really. I’m more a timing belt person.”

  “South Coastal’s closed. Across Rhode Island more than three hundred thousand bank accounts are frozen. Locking up all that money, especially right after Christmas, has really screwed everything up. He’s had threatening calls. People are getting crazy angry. He’s going to un-list the phone. I’ll give the new number to the boys when I get it. Between all that and Mom I’d guess that he’s starting to get pretty stretched, but when we talk he’s always sounds fine.”

  “Like father like son?”

  Peter thought for a moment before he shrugged, “Maybe.”

  “I gotta get back. You closed at all?”

  “Mondays.”

  “Can I cook for you some Monday?”

  Peter shrugged.

  Gaby smiled as she shook her head.

  “You think about it. Hard. Take care of yourself. I’ll give you a call. I’m gonna say hello to Bob. Nice seeing you, Pete. Ate logo.”

  “Nice seeing you, too, Gaby.”

  She stopped by the bun warmer.

  “Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  Gaby gave Peter a sheepish smile, opened the drawer, removed a roll, sniffed it, took a big bite, and gave him a slight wave as she pushed through the swinging door into the dining room.

  At the end of the night, as Peter piled crackers with blue cheese, onion and pieces of leftover bacon and Raoul picked at a sparse spinach salad, Raoul said, “Dearie, was there a point?”

  “You mean Gaby?”

  “Mmmmm.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, so much for the oft-posited men’s intuition.”

  Peter wanted to know how long Gaby had talked to Bob and what she had said, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask.

  “She’s fading, I thought.”

  “Bob, please.”

  “Peter, puhleeeze. Carry a torch. I don’t care. But, for God’s sake, use its light. She’s still dishy if you like dark hair and flashy eyes—as we both are wont to do. But, all is not ageless. There’s a certain, je ne sais quoi, settling going on. Remember, it’s hope, not beauty, that springs eternal. Did she want money?”