The Summer Garden

by Paullina Simons

  “Please tell me you got a job washing floors. Please—please don’t tell me you got a job as a nurse.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  Letting go of her hands, he shook his head and stood up. “No.”

  Tatiana started fretting again, shifting her eyes. “It’s only three days a week. Darling, please. We need it.”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  He looked at her grimly. “If you think we need money so badly, why didn’t you get yourself a job at a restaurant in Scottsdale?”

  “You want me to be a waitress? You want me to serve food to men?”

  “Don’t twist things to make this about me, Tania.”

  “Please don’t be upset. I’m just trying to help our family.”

  “Help our family by staying home.”

  “We’re so broke,” she whispered.

  “I’ll make enough.”

  “I know. Shura, what, you don’t think I know? You work harder than anybody. But it’s not steady. We’re still broke.”

  “You’re saying I can’t make enough for us to get by?”

  Her hands opened to him. “Please. I’m not saying that. This is just for a little while. It’s a regular job, and it pays okay. This way you don’t have to take the first stupid thing that comes along just to buy food. You can choose wisely, look around, see what’s out there that’s good for you, that’s right for you. And then when we’re both working, we’ll be able to save money. We can get on our feet so much faster.”

  Alexander was still standing, looking at her. Anthony opened the door. “Can I come out now?” he asked.

  “No!” they both yelled.

  Anthony slammed the door.

  “Let’s sell ten acres of our land,” said Alexander, sitting back down. “I’d rather sell the land and live close to other people than have you work.”

  Tatiana looked at him aghast. “Shura, you don’t mean that.”

  “With all my heart.” He stared into her face. “Remember Coconut Grove?” he asked, bringing her to sit on his lap. He was still so messy, and she in her light dress was so perfect. “You stayed on the boat, and brought me lunch at the marina, and put mayonnaise in your hair, and when I came home from work, you were happy, excited, rested. Anthony was fed and clean and played with. You were so eagerly waiting for me, serving me your . . . plantains. Wasn’t it beautiful?”

  “It was,” she whispered. “We just lived it. You can’t already be feeling nostalgic for it.”

  “I am, though,” he said. “That’s what I want here. That’s all I need. I want to hunt and gather, and you to stay home. I don’t want you to work. Certainly, certainly,” Alexander said, “not in a fucking hospital!”

  “Shh!” They both glanced at Anthony’s closed door.

  He lowered his voice. “It’ll suck the soul right out of you.”

  “It won’t. You’ll see.”

  “There’ll be nothing left for me.”

  “That’ll never be true.”

  “Do you see me dragging you to Huachuca? I can get an active reserve post there any time. Do you want that to be my work?”

  “But then we won’t be here, in our own little house, on our land,” she whispered.

  “That’s not my point.”

  “You don’t want to go back into that life.”

  “Then why do you?”

  “I don’t. I just want to help our family—and,” she said, “it’s the only thing I know how to do. Perhaps I can find a weapons factory, make tanks, like at Kirov? I know how to do that, too.”

  “Tania, I thought the whole point of Phoenix was that we were going to try to do something we don’t know how to do,” Alexander said. “Which is live regular. Because would you like me to remind you of all the things I can do? I know you don’t want me doing them. Richter, though, would love to have me with him in Korea doing them.”

  “Alexander,” she said, “it’s hardly the same thing, now is it? I work three days a week in a peacetime hospital, and I’m home in bed with you every night. We go to Korea, and men who want to kill you throw very big things that explode right into your bunker. You do see a small difference, no?”

  “That’s exactly my point,” said Alexander. “We’re trying to build a new life here. New being the operative word. What is it with you? You haven’t seen enough bloodshed?”

  “It’s going to be okay,” she said beseechingly. “Really? There are shootings, stabbings, assaults, bar fights, murders, car accidents, heart attacks. Death. What the hell do you want to surround yourself with that for?” He broke off, backing slightly away from her, still sitting in his lap. Her eyes were contrite and pleading, her mouth was agitating. And suddenly he understood. As he carried himself wherever he went, she carried herself wherever she went. How could he stop her from being what she was? The only thing he said after that, in great resignation, was, “Hasn’t anything I’ve gone through shown you that if you live oxen, you dream oxen?”

  “No, not me. I put it all away.” Her lips trembled just a little. “I put it all away,” she whispered. “And in a little while, I’ll get some seniority,” she continued soothingly. “I’ll move to the obstetric ward. I’ll deliver babies.”

  “Start with delivering your own baby, then move on to other people’s, how would that be?” With a short groan, Alexander got up to wash, change. “I’m not even going to ask where in the hospital you’re going to be working,” he said as he walked away. “Because I know it’s not the baby wing. Maternity ward, yeah, sure. Babies, sweetness, happiness, God forbid. No. You’ve got that terminal-care-ward-in-Morozovo look about you. You’re either in ER or ICU.”

  “ER,” she said, o so guiltily.

  “That’s right, of course. ER,” he said, already in the bedroom, taking off his clothes.

  She came in after him.

  “It’s going to turn out badly, Tatiana,” Alexander said. “Unlike you, I have an uncanny ability to see the future.”

  “So funny. It’s just to help us, darling.”

  “Don’t try that line with me. Don’t talk to me like I don’t know you—Leningrad hospital during the blockade, terminal wings, the front-line, refugees at Ellis Island. But it’s not just about you anymore. You have a family to consider now, a husband, a son.”

  The son called from his half of the house. “Dad, can I come out now?”

  “Yes, Anthony,” Alexander called back, clothes off, walking into the bathroom and turning on the shower. “The conversation is over. Mommy’s in the terminal ward.”

  She followed him into the bathroom.

  “I don’t know why you’re so against Korea, Tania,” he said, taking off his watch. “It’ll be perfect for you. It’s just where you need to be.”

  “Please, Shura,” she whispered, throwing her arms around his waist before he got in. “It’s just for a little while, until we get things together.”

  Alexander sighed deeply, his hand on top of her head.

  “How about this?” she cooed, kissing his chest. “I’ll make you a deal. As soon as I get pregnant, I’ll quit. I promise. Okay?”

  “I’m not holding my breath,” he said, standing naked against her, squeezing her.

  “Careful. I could be pregnant already.” She smiled at him. He was more careful. But she wasn’t pregnant. She was a nurse.

  Chapter Eight

  The House that Balkman Built

  The Man with the Broken Hand

  Oh, she was good. Three days at the hospital, she told Alexander. What she didn’t tell him was that they were three twelve-hour shifts, seven to seven. She had to leave the house by six and wasn’t home until nearly eight. She had to be up at five in the morning. She didn’t go fishing in Lazarevo at five in the morning, and now she was up at five putting on her girdle and nurse’s uniform!

  But at least now that Tatiana was working her “part time,” “only three little days” hospital gig, Alexander didn’t have to take th
e first thing he found. He looked for more permanent work with the homebuilders around Scottsdale. He concentrated on custom builders only: he liked their quality and they paid better. He spent weeks trying to figure out where he would fit best. He didn’t quite know what he was looking for; he would know when he found it. Unlike his crazy wife, he was trying to get away from what he was, not rushing headlong into it.

  After receiving half a dozen offers to train to be a framer, a roofer, and an electrician’s apprentice, he finally got two job offers that interested him—from G.G. Cain Custom Homes and Balkman Custom Homes. G.G.’s business was small: five or six well-built homes a year, because that’s what suited serious, laconic G.G., who wanted a living, not an empire. But it didn’t quite suit Alexander, who thought there was not enough living there for him, too. Besides, soon Tania would have another baby and they would have to go back to living on one salary.

  That’s when he met Bill Balkman. Balkman Custom Homes was a bigger business than G.G.’s; they built ten true custom homes a year but also some moderately priced template homes and cheap homes for the college kids in Tempe.

  Balkman’s office was in his own brand new stucco spec home, built on old farmland on Camelback that he bought from “an old peasant” and subdivided into forty plots.

  “The template houses have the highest profit margin,” Balkman said. “I build them cheap and sell them high.” But he was looking for a new custom home foreman as his previous one had suddenly quit for reasons Balkman didn’t go into. What he did go into, with a big wide smile, was how perfect he thought Alexander would be for the job.

  Balkman was a talker, a toucher, a hand-shaker, a laugher. He took to Alexander like he was a prodigal son come home. G.G. had been markedly more reserved. Balkman offered Alexander a promise for growth as well as a good salary. When Alexander told him he had no experience as a foreman, Balkman slapped him on the back and said, “Did you say you were in the army? Well, then, you can do anything.”

  “Yes, if it involves shooting people.”

  Balkman liked that. He was in his early fifties, and had a funny drooping moustache, a well-pressed suit and an easy going manner. Coming around the desk in his panelled, well-appointed office, he shook Alexander’s hand again. “I think we’re going to get along fine, just fine,” he said. “Come down the street with me. I want you to meet my son. He’s my other custom foreman. I think you two will get along splendidly.”

  As they stood up to leave, Alexander glanced at Balkman’s wall display of framed degrees and letters from satisfied customers. Next to them a large color postcard of a topless woman was pinned to the panelling. “Viva Las Vegas!” the postcard said.

  Alexander said nothing as his neutral gaze met Bill’s. “By the way,” Balkman said, smiling, “I forgot to ask. Are you married?”

  “I am,” replied Alexander.

  Balkman slapped him on the back again. “Oh well,” he said, “no one’s perfect. But don’t worry—we’re willing to overlook that.”

  “I’m not willing to overlook that,” said Alexander.

  The builder laughed. “Just kidding. You’ll see. We kid big around here.”

  They walked four unpaved blocks to the construction site where his son was working. Balkman was telling Alexander that to be a foreman, one had to be an architect, mixed with a bit of an engineer, a plumber, an electrician, a manager, a hand-holder, and a psychologist. He smiled. “Think you can handle that?”

  Alexander didn’t think he’d be a very good hand-holder. Maybe Tania should be a foreman. “Absolutely,” he said.

  “And we work hard around here, Alexander,” said Balkman, “but we also play hard.”

  Alexander agreed that work and play were both important.

  Steve Balkman looked remarkably clean for someone who was supervising a construction site, as if he spent the whole time watching the men from his spit-polished car. Steve was young and well-groomed— spit-polished. The hair was in place, the face was fresh shaven, he was wearing cologne, his fingers looked manicured—well, the fingers on his left hand, anyway, with which he awkwardly shook Alexander’s hand. Steve’s right arm was in a cast from his elbow to the tips of his fingers. Aside from his busted arm, he was a pretty boy, a dandy, all fine and confident and smooth and smiling. Casual, friendly, open like his father. “Good to meet you,” said Steve. “You going to be working for us?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Of course you are!” Balkman boomed with another hearty slap on Alexander’s back. “I won’t take no for an answer. When can you start? Because we’re breaking ground tomorrow just around the block, and I might as well baptize you by fire.”

  Alexander made note of the attempts at military analogies.

  “Stevie, Alexander was in the army, like you.”

  Alexander took a long look at Steve.

  “Steve was stationed in England,” Balkman said proudly. “He was wounded in the leg, not seriously, thank God, and came home because of it. Only saw action for four months.”

  “Pop,” said Steve, “I was wounded in friendly fire, behind the lines. Some guy got careless with his weapon. I never saw any action. What about you, Alexander? See any action?”

  “Here and there,” Alexander said.

  “Ever wounded?”

  “Nothing serious,” he said, the words themselves forming a neuro-transmitter electrical connection that shot across the billions of synapses of his brain, down the spine, firing pain right into the closed fist of a hole in his lower back. One question, instant memory, and this in Phoenix!

  Balkman suggested that Alexander might want to take a few courses in structural or civil engineering at Arizona State College in Tempe. “A degree in architecture is very useful in this business. My Stevie is thinking of going, too, now that the war is over. Aren’t you, Stevie?”

  Alexander wanted to point out that the war had been over for four years.

  And Steve said in a tired voice, “I’m thinking about it, Pop.”

  “I think college is a very good idea,” said Alexander, taking out his cigarettes. Balkman flicked on the light for him. “My father wanted me to become an architect.”

  “You see!” a beaming Balkman exclaimed to Steve.

  “Where’s your old man now?” asked Steve.

  “He’s not around anymore,” said Alexander, without a flicker even in his cigarette.

  “By the way,” Balkman said to his son, sounding much less friendly, “the building inspector called me this afternoon, all worked up because he waited for you for an hour and you never showed. He had to leave for another appointment. Where were you?”

  “I was there, Pop. I thought our meeting was at two, not one.”

  “It clearly said one o’clock in the appointment book.”

  “My book said two. Sorry, Pop. I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

  “See, the problem is, he can’t tomorrow. He can’t till next week. It’s going to delay the ground breaking and cost us two hundred bucks to smooth it over with the plumbing and the cement crew who were ready to start. They gave up other work, and now I have to explain it to the homeowners....” He shook his head. “Ah, forget it. I’ll have Alexander meet with the building inspector. I’ll give him this project to work. Alexander, so you think you can start tomorrow?”

  Alexander took the job. Words of engineering and architecture courses, of responsibility, of learning the house building business from the ground up, images of Bill Balkman congenially patting his back whirled in his head.

  A thought flowed through that perhaps he should’ve talked to Tania first, but he was certain of her approval from twenty miles away.

  Steve asked him to go for a quick drink. At Rocky’s down on Stetson in Scottsdale, they sat behind the bar and ordered beers, and Steve said, “Boy, Pop must really like you. He never hires the married ones.”

  Alexander looked at him puzzled. “How many single men can he find after the war?”
he said. “I’d guess not many.”

  “Well, I’m single,” said Steve, grinning, “and it’s after the war.” He sighed. “I got engaged last year.”

  Alexander was pleased that Steve had no interest in discussing the war with him; made it easier not to have to lie. “So what’d you get engaged for if you’re sighing?”

  Steve had a good laugh over that one. “I did it because all I heard was when, when, when,” he said. “So I gave her a ring, and now that keeps her quieter. Not quiet, but quieter. You know what I mean?”

  Alexander took a drink of his beer and didn’t answer, drumming his fingers on the bar counter.

  “I’m only twenty-four, Alexander,” said Steve. “I’m not ready to settle down yet. You know? Haven’t sowed all them wild oats yet. When did you get circled?”

  “At twenty-three.”

  Steve whistled. “Were you still in the army?”

  “Of course.”

  “Wow. Alex—can I call you Alex?—I’ll tell you, I don’t know how you did it. Married at twenty-three and in the army? What about the oats?”

  “All sowed beforehand.” Alexander laughed, raising his eyebrows and his beer glass. “All sowed beforehand.”

  And Steve laughed right back, clinking with him. “Well, at least we understand each other. Man, the girls are everywhere, aren’t they? Restaurants, clubs, hospitals—I met one the other week at the hospital— you’ve never seen anything like her.”

  “Speaking of hospitals,” said Alexander, “how’d you bust your arm?”

  “Oh, I was an idiot. Tripped on a ladder at one of the houses and fell.”

  Steve’s shoes and clothes didn’t look like he’d been up any ladders. Maybe that was why he fell.

  “I keep telling Pop I’m not cut out for this business,” Steve said merrily, “but he doesn’t want to hear it.” He alternated swigging his beer and smoking his cigarette. “Which is why I am so flipping glad you came along. You’re taking a lot of pressure off me, frankly.”

  “Well, always glad to help out,” Alexander said, shaking Steve’s hand, and getting up to go. He couldn’t wait to tell Tatiana.

  They celebrated that night with a late dinner and champagne after Anthony had gone to bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first about it,” he said, “but it just felt so right. What kind of feeling are you getting about them?”