Warm Wuinter's Garden (22 page)

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.

“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.

“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?”

“I don’t know what I think or feel right now
except relief. Relief the radiation is over, and I have some energy
again. I think it’s too soon to feel anything else. I don’t know
what I’m going to feel next. But one thing I think, and it’s
something I’ve always thought, although I haven’t always remembered
it as well as I should, something Opa taught me, is that life is
good. It’s worth living. I know that must sound so simple. But, for
me, it is. Whatever happens, life is good. It’s not to be missed. I
think too many times people want to sort through it, to pick and
choose like they’re at a buffet. But I don’t think we really have
that chance. We either live it as it is, or we miss it.

“Nita, it’s always seemed to me that when you
were going through the worst of times, when we didn’t know what to
do, when the doctors didn’t know, when you had so much pain, when
the threat of you getting cancer was always in the room with us,
that you knew that. You didn’t hunker down. You plunged in. You
lived—despite the pain and despite the fears—you went to college,
you finished law school. Don’t you think that’s true?”

“Actually, Mom, I don’t think I knew that I
had a choice.”

“Oh, Nita. I think you knew. I think you
chose. And I think you made the right choice. Honey, if you only
knew how much strength I’ve gotten during the last four months from
thinking of you, of how you went through all that you went through.
I’ve used those memories of you and your courage and your will and,
especially, your acceptance of what had to be done. Almost every
day as I drove up to get zapped, I’d think of you.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I felt so much then,
that I numbed my nerves. I don’t know. What do you think, Mom? Am I
going to end up living my life with just me?”

“Honey, I don’t think you’re numb. I think
what you’re doing right here, right now, proves that. If you were
numbed to intimacy, you wouldn’t be doing this. And you certainly
wouldn’t have been doing all of this with your coat still on.”

“I think I’ve needed to talk to you. I’ve
wanted to, but I’ve been waiting until you were feeling
better.”

Give me another hug, let’s have some tea, and
keep talking before everyone piles in.”

* * *

“Mother, Mother, where’s the nutmeg?”

“Over the stove. Bottom shelf.”

“I’m looking. It’s not here.”

“Pimiento jar. White top.”

“Mother, Mother.”

“On the right, near the back.”

“It’s a great system.”

“A small jar.”

“I’ve got it. I got it. It’s not even
labeled.”

“Well, Dilly, nutmegs don’t look like
anything else. I label things that look alike. Basil, tarragon,
thyme, oregano, chervil. Not nutmeg.”

Bett coughed from the strain of yelling to
Dilly.

“You need a spice rack. I told myself at
Thanksgiving that I was going to have the kids get you a spice rack
for Christmas. Some way I forgot.”

Bett looked around the living room at the
rest of her family and smiled before continuing her long distance
conversation with Dilly.

“Honey, I’m sixty-four. Thanks to your
father, we’ve never been poor. If I had wanted a spice rack, I
would have one. I don’t like them. I like my jars and bottles.”

From thirty feet away, amid the sounds of
doors and drawers being yanked opening and slammed close, Dilly
held up her end of the conversation.

“But why? God, it’s such a mess in these
cupboards.”

“I never have a problem. I like having a jar
match the contents. I use a coffee can for rosemary because I use
so much rosemary. When I bake focaccia I like to reach in for a
whole handful. You can’t do that with a little spice jar. I’d be
filling it every time I bake. I don’t use much fenugreek anymore so
I like to keep it in a tiny jar. The less air, the more slowly it
gets tired. Honey, there might be a better way, but I find what I
need.”

“Well, where’s the nutmeg grater?”

“Do you want me to come out, dear?”

“No, Mother, just tell me where the grater
is.”

“In the second drawer to the right of the
sink.”

“Mom, whatever happened to that grater that
had the little hinged top where you could keep a nutmeg?”

“I don’t know, Lise. It probably wore
out.”

“That’s because Dilly didn’t ever give you a
special grater cover.”

“Wrong, Nita. Too many Christmases. Too much
eggmenog.”

“Hold it right there.”

Both Nita and Lise looked to their father who
rearranging the pile of kindling.

“There’s no such thing as too much eggmenog.
Not the way I mix it.”

“Dad, don’t let Dilly hear you say that.”

Neil nodded conspiratorially at Lise.

Six year old Kate, dressed in a red corduroy
jumper with a Christmas tree appliqué which Dilly had decorated
with sequins, beads and gold rickrack, leaned toward her
grandfather and whispered, “How come we even get to have eggmenog.
Isn’t it wicked bad for us?”

“Wicked, wicked bad, Kate. But, don’t you
worry, I love you soooo much that I’ll drink all of yours so you’ll
be safe.”

Neil leered at his granddaughter. Kate looked
around the living room to see what she should do.

Jessica nodded at her younger sister. “I’ll
help, too.”

“Me, too,” said Lise.

Kate walked over to Nita and asked, “Won’t
Popper get sick?” Nita took her niece’s hands and kissed their
backs.

“He certainly will if he drinks yours and
his. Have you ever heard of the golden mean?”

“I don’t think so.”

Kate’s words were said so that they sounded
like the musical signature of a 1950’s radio station. Ba da boop
ba.

“Well, you will sometime. So when you do,
you’ll already know about it. The golden mean is a rule. It’s like,
‘Early to bed, early to rise.’ You’ve heard your mommy say that,
haven’t you?”

“Ba da boop ba.”

“Well, the golden mean is a rule for living.
It’s the same as saying moderation in all things. Do you know what
moderation means?’