by Neil Hetzner
The silence between father and daughter lengthened until it grew into accusation and that indictment compelled Nita to do what she had wanted to do as she lay in bed thinking.
“Mom says you’ve had a hard time sleeping lately.”
“Did she? Once in awhile I find myself down here keeping the watch.”
“Know why?”
Neil smiled a tight smile at his daughter.
“Fifth amendment. Self-incrimination.”
“Am I doing a Dilly?”
“Maybe a pale one. I’m not sleeping because I’m wide awake. Is that too pat? Is there always an answer for why we do something?”
“The law demands it.”
“I don’t. I’m up because I’m up. Dilly would look at my diet and guess gas. Lise might guess the phase of the moon or a change in my circadian rhythms. A plumber might hazard a gurgle in the pipes is doing it. An allergist might guess that it’s Queenie or too many wool blankets or winter’s closed windows. Kenyon might guess that he’s the cause. And most of the people of this glorious state might guess that it’s guilt from my crime that keeps me sleepless.”
The last was said bitterly and, for Nita, it was a strange tone to hear coming from her father.
“How is work?”
“It’s good to be open again, but there are a lot of bad loans out there. Because we have always been so conservative, we’ve got a lot less than almost any other bank, but we still have more than we want. I just started the foreclosure papers on a fellow I’ve known since we moved to Rhode Island. We have helped him to grow two good businesses. He came to us for a big loan on a house. We didn’t know it then, but it looks now as though the house was supposed to be the glue to hold together his marriage. It’s a huge house. A new Victorian. Porches and turrets and twelve foot tin ceilings. Sometime in the middle of construction his marriage blew up. Both businesses went soft. Not bad. Just soft. He’s carrying so much debt on the house that in a month he won’t have any equity left in it. We’re going to end up owning it and it’s not even finished. There is four hundred thousand in it and it will take another hundred to finish it. We’ll have to eat part of the loan. What’s worse is that when times turn around, he won’t come back to us to expand his business. Too much pride. We swallow a bad house loan and then lose a good commercial client.”
“Is there anything you can do for him?”
“We’ve already done it. We actually have given him more time to sell it than we should have. I figure housing prices are dropping at least a percent a month. Most owners can’t believe that so they price themselves too high and then follow the curve down, but they’re always just higher than what the market price is. They get the pain of the loss, the expense of the carrying costs and the depression of the no sale. We’ve allowed him almost a year more than we probably should have. Twelve percent of a half million is sixty thousand. That’s a lot of good will.”
Without looking at her father, Nita asked again, “How’s work? With you? The money thing?”
Neil didn’t answer.
“Dad, it might help to talk.”
Neil shook his head.
“Not now.”
“Okay. That’s okay. I can understand. I just want you to know I love you and admire you and know you didn’t do anything wrong.
“Thanks, Nita. There are times I have my doubts.”
“Don’t. Just remember it can be tough being a good banker and a good person.”
“Tougher than being a good lawyer and a good person?”
Nita’s laugh was forced, “That’s not always easy.”
“I know. Just being a good person can be a brutal job.”
“Lots of doubts and indecisions.”
Neil caught Nita’s eyes and held his stare. In a soft tired voice he said, “And sleepless nights.”
Each knew they had reached the point which had drawn them from their beds. Each waited for the other to begin. After a moment of silence broken only by the hum of the space heater and the distant rattle of Queenie’s tags as she turned in her sleep, Nita lifted her glass and waggled it. She yawned loudly.
“Not so sleepless now.”
Neil added his yawn to hers.
They waited quietly for another minute before Neil reached down to turn off the heater.
“It’s late.”
Back in their respective beds both father and daughter lay awake for a considerable time reworking their conversation to obtain a more satisfactory ending. In the morning neither alluded to their meeting.
* * *
Most of the rest of her visit Nita spent alone with Bett. Neil had to go in to work for several hours on both Saturday and Sunday. Mother and daughter puttered around the house, worked in the plant room, took a long drive each day and spent time at the beach, either walking very slowly along the hard-packed sand at the water’s edge, or else just staring at the froth line of the never-ending waves while being warmed by the dry heat of the car. The talking between the two of them was as careful to skirt danger as the brightly-suited winter surfers they watched. Each night news of the progress of the civil uprisings in the north and south of Iraq was a welcome respite. The war’s aftermath helped to fill in the empty spots between those conversations built on memories and the others built on speculation about other family members. It was only in the plant room that their talk seemed to have any merit in and of itself rather than as a substitute for more painful issues. In that room the talk was of plants, of flowers and vegetables, display and cutting gardens.
Nita found herself using thoughts of the orderly miracles taking place in the nursery as an antidote for the feelings of fear and disgust which brushed against her like an insistent cat throughout the day and bound up her thinking like a winding cloth during the unending hours of the night. The relief the plants brought encouraged her to bring the conversation back and back again to gardening. Talk of gardening felt safe.
“Mom, what’s the best part of gardening for you?”
Bett pushed three more snapdragon seeds into their homes before she spoke.
“I think the best part is that I’m not very good at it.”
“What a strange thing to say. What do you mean?”
“Just that.”
“You’ve always had wonderful gardens. I can’t think of you without thinking of bushels of vegetables and baskets of flowers. You’ve always grown beautiful things.”
“That has been more the plants’ choice than anything I’ve done. I kind of bumble along. I try to help a little. I spread a little manure and pinch and prune, but I’m really not much of a gardener. Opa, now he was a gardener. He could look at a piece of ground, a meadow or a corner of a yard, and see what it could be. I can remember walking The Chimneys with him and he would describe what was there and why and what he would plant and why if he were to choose to cultivate it. Most people know something about planting. They know impatiens like shade and sunflowers like sun. They know grass likes sweet soil so each spring they spread a couple of bags of lime. If they’re more interested, they learn the differences among the varieties of a flower, dahlias, glads or, especially, roses. If they want more than that they learn to consider the relationships among color and height and timing and sunlight and water and type of soil. Your grandfather could do all that, but somehow he could do much more. He could envision a garden two years from where it was. He could see that the comfrey was going to crowd the bee balm. He knew the gray of the comfrey leaf looked wonderful with its purple flower, but later, when it had gone by and there was nothing but big gray, fuzzy leaves, he knew that that was going to clash with the delicate wisps of the bee balm blossoms. Me, I learn after the fact and have to move the bee balm. He would know what things were going to look like before anything was even planted. He could take a glance and understand the flow of the spring rains on a piece of land. He’d look at the weeds and be able to say that this spot was loamy and that spot over there sandy. Sweet here. Sour there.
“I can remem
ber one time we spent most of an afternoon moving wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of mint plants. Do you remember the old stone steps that led down the embankment to the river?”
“Yes.”
“The slopes on both sides of those steps used to be filled with mint. Being close to the house someone was always running down there to get a handful for iced tea or to steam with fresh peas or put in carrot salad.
“That day we took out masses of mint, making sure that we checker-boarded our shovelfuls so there’d be no erosion. We filled up the wheelbarrow three or four times, pushed it up the hill. Remember how steep it was? When I was little, even later, I used to roll down that hill in the summer after it was mown until I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand. Covered in sweet grass and stained with green and absolutely dotty. We pushed the wheelbarrow up the hill and across the yard, down to the end of the fence, along the road to the lane, then down the lane, past the vegetable gardens to a spot where the lane met a spit of uncleared land. That spit was on the left. There was a field, usually in timothy, to the right and a small field straight ahead where Opa let a crazy neighbor, Carl Feiderspier, keep some horses. No one ever rode those horses. They drank from a stream at the back of the field, ate the weeds and volunteer timothy, and, occasionally someone, probably Opa, would give them a new salt lick. They must have been good horses at one time because they’d always come up to the fence when anyone showed up.”
Bett stopped picking through a small pile of seeds trying to find the fattest ones.
“Do you remember where that was?”
“No, not really. We weren’t there that many times. Maybe vaguely.”
“Well, off to the left, on the uncleared part, the woods thinned out and where there was enough light there were patches of wild strawberries.”
“Now, I remember. You took us there and we picked those little berries.”
“Well, that’s where we hauled all that mint. We planted mint in a big border around the berries and put some in between the patches and also along the fence where the horses were.
“When I asked Opa why we were moving all that mint he said that it was an experiment. He had noticed there weren’t so many flies around when we drank iced tea. He had thought maybe it had something to do with the mint. He had started drinking lemonade with mint. Nothing draws more flies than real lemonade. And he thought putting the mint in the lemonade worked.”
“That’s why we always drink lemonade with mint?”
“Yes.”
“We’re the only people I’ve ever seen do it.”
“We hold the patent. What’s the phrase?”
“Intellectual property?”
“Yes. One of Opa’s many legacies.”
“But why in the field?”
“He, we, all of us loved wild strawberries. The most wonderful perfume in the world. But tedious picking. Down on your hands and knees. Remember? It takes forever to pick a quart. That’s if you don’t eat any—which is very hard to do. The flies from the horses would soon find us and then it would become a battle of speed and will. Did the flies want us more than we wanted the strawberries? Were our hands faster than their wings?”
“Did the mint work?”
“Yes, it did. You could pick until your knees gave out. Opa was very observant. He saw things and remembered them. He saw the vegetables and what was necessary to nurture them, but he also saw the other pieces of the puzzle—the weeds and pests, molds and rust and what was necessary to support those things, too. In Indiana they used to say that a weed was anything that grew easily and a crop was anything that didn’t. Opa didn’t believe that. He saw everything struggling. Some he helped and some he tried to hinder. He was an amazing man.”
“Who taught an amazing woman.”
“Not much. Not enough.”
“It seems like more than enough.”
“I’m a good weeder. Strong back and knees, enough songs to hum to keep content. I like the dirt. The smell and feel. I love seeing the colors come. I can be patient and wait—a year for rhubarb, a couple for asparagus, or a lifetime for wisteria or for that stubborn grapefruit that I grew from seed that likes to leaf but never flowers or fruits. I love all those things, but I’m not a natural. I learn something, or read something, and then forget. Every year I get so caught up in the fuchsias’ blooms I forget to pinch the seed pods. Then it’s July and the plant wants to call it quits. I never quite remember the sequence of births in the spring and death in the fall. Does the sumac bud before the maple? Both are late, I know that. But, which is later? Will the coral bells beat the columbine? I forget. Always have. Opa never did. One other big difference. The bugs.”
“I know you’re squeamish.”
“Certain ones I just hate. Not hate. What I hate is how I feel. They revolt me. Japanese beetles, cut worms, potato bugs, slugs and borers, earwigs—I shiver just thinking about them. Ooohhhh. Opa thought of them as just another piece of the puzzle. Something natural. Something interesting.”
“Mom, they’re not that interesting to me, either.”
“Lise is like Opa. She’s not put off. She’s wonder-filled.”
“Lise is Lise. I’m still amazed at what you know and what that knowledge leads to. I’m really enjoying being out here with you. Look at these.”
Nita splayed her hands.
“It’s been twenty years since I’ve had nails this dirty. Why are you smiling?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but it’s hard for me to think of potting soil, sand, peat and vermiculite as something dirty.”
“Give a novice a chance. I’m sure my manicurist will think it’s dirt and probably be horrified, or, maybe, in awe.”
“Nita, if you like, you should take some of these flats home with you.”
Nita laughed nervously.
“That’s a little radical, Mom. I can barely figure out how and when to feed and water myself.”
“Well, think about it. When are you going?”
“I want to be home before nine.”
“Why so early?”
“That’s a lawyer’s trick. Home in the generic sense. I need to go by the office to do a few things to get ready for the week.”
“Nita, it’s been very nice having you here. I know how hard it is for you to get away. I’m grateful you’ve taken these days.”
“Me, too, Mom. It’s been terrific having you to myself.”
“I don’t think it’s quite been me.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Each paused. Nita wanted to talk about Dan Herlick. Instead she asked, “What are you going to do with the health care forms?”
“I want to talk to Dr. Eberd to find out what could happen. After I understand all the possibilities I’ll try to figure out what I want to do. I’ve decided I’m going to use Ellen and one of her sons as my witnesses. Then, I’ll send it to you.”
“It should be pretty simple, but I’ll be happy to check it for you.”
“To you as my agent.”
“Mother, no, why?”
All the inner weight of Nita’s body began sliding toward her feet. She could feel herself hollowing out. It reminded her of the first time that she had stood in court and heard a judge take away the parental rights of an alcoholic mother whom she was representing.
“I’ve thought a lot about this, honey. I want you to be my agent. If you can do that.”
“But why me, Mom?” Why not…?”
Nita thought of her late night rendezvous with her father.
“Not your father. We’ve talked about that. It’d be too hard on him. If he had to make a decision, he’d second guess himself that he had made it for his own interest rather than mine. He’d be afraid he’d would do something because of the revulsion, and, because of that fear on his part, I’m afraid he might keep me hanging on when I should be let go.”
“This is very hard to hear. You don’t know that you’re that bad.”
“No, I don’t. But you’re the lawyer—a r
esponsible citizen gets his affairs in order. You get twenty year old parents to write out their wills. Contingencies.”
“Why not Pete?”
“He’s too soft.”
Nita’s face changed.
“Honey, I’m sorry, but you’re asking. Plus, he’s just been through so much. It’s not that you’re hard; it’s that you’re stronger. If something had to be done, I think you could do it, and, more importantly, do it and then quickly recover from the decision. Peter couldn’t. Dilly certainly couldn’t. Your father couldn’t. Lise could. In many ways, Lise would be my first choice. For the reasons we were just talking about—when I said she was like Opa. The scientist part of her would be a good reason to choose her, but her being the youngest is why I’m not. It would make it too hard for her, especially with Dilly.
“Nita, we’ve been through a lot together. In some ways, and sickness is certainly one of them, we’re closer because of that. I respect your judgment and I firmly believe you have the strength to carry out my wishes and the strength to recover if they’re painful to carry out. I hope you’ll say yes.”
* * *
Neil got home just before the early dinner, an equal effort between mother and daughter, was ready. He was hearty. He joked with Nita and caught her eye. The memory of their late night get-together did not seem to muddy up his gaze as Nita felt it did hers. She had thought there might be a moment made by one of them to get together in a hidden corner to share, in one simple declarative sentence, the weighty secret each was holding. She wanted to give up her burden, now made even heavier by her mother’s request, to her father. She thought that if he could take hers and she could shoulder his, then, in the exchange, each would be made lighter. However, despite moving about and hovering in the hallways and making several announced trips to load her car of no great amount of luggage, Nita failed to rendezvous with her father.