Warm Wuinter's Garden (26 page)

“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
things, 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?”

“You’re too much.”

“Well, don’t forget, I’m just a poor fag. I
don’t know about these things except what I hear at the salon.
Forgive me. I thought women always came back to their ex’s for more
money.”

“She didn’t want money.”

“Then, what?”

“I don’t know. To say hello. To see you.”

“Oh, yes, correctimundo, that must be it. To
see me. Her old and most dear ami. Get real, sweet eyes.”

“She always liked you, Bob.”

“Well, I always liked her until she trundled
off with the soul of my master and those ingenuous monsters he
calls his sons.”

“She did what she thought she had to do.”

“You know, if I knew more about the hours,
the wages and the fringes, I might suggest you go into the
canonization business. Although, with Sodom Insane and all the
little Sodomites, the business may be going to hell. Too many
martyrs in queue to get your case heard. It’s unbelievable to me
that a man who gasses thousands of his own people, invades a
neighboring country, or, more aptly in this instance, country club,
and who lobs missiles at a neutral country can sell himself,
successfully, as a saint.”

“The media.”

“You’re probably right. They pitch the ball
however they want. But, they’re such cute boys. Walking around in
their little bush jackets, like they think they’re on safari. I
think they watched too many movies on Saturday TV. Sooo cute. And
sooo earnest. My God, are they earnest. And, seemingly,
regrettably, not very bright. Plus, when and how do they have time
to do any reporting? They have to jump in front of a camera at any
second. Plus what percent do you think speak Arabic? Try zero. They
can’t even listen in on a conversation on the street, but sooo
insightful. And, sooooo cute. So cute that they’ve distracted me
from canonization. ‘We have a position open. Will you apply? You
have all the qualities we’re seeking. Quiet, gracious, somewhat
attractive suffering. A just cause. A distracted kind of humility.
And most important, an incapacity, an inability, an absolute
unwillingness to avoid one’s fate.’

“Now, I see your head start to wobble.
Attends, un moment. Don’t decide just yet. Think about it. Sleep on
it. You could end up the patron saint of troubled resort
restaurateurs. Imagine your face, touched up a tad and air-brushed,
of course, appearing on one of those little holy day cards with
your beatitude batting stats on the back. Imagine little saintlets
in the halls and on the playgrounds of parochial schools around the
world. ‘Hey, Vinnie, I’ll trade you a Francis of Assisi and two
Veronica’s for a St. Peter of the Perennial Retreat.”

“Why do you think she was here?”

“Lumpkin, limpkin, is this deja-vu or,
better, déjà entendu? Not too many minutes ago I’m sure I heard
myself ask the same question. Dearie, it wasn’t rhetorical. I don’t
know. Despite the encroaching paunch, and fussy know-it-all-ism,
I’m not Miss Marple. All I know is that she was here for a reason.
Her being here means something. What, I don’t know. We didn’t talk.
We only chatted. What did she talk about with you?”

“Nothing, really.”

“Oh, yes, of course. And it’s just that same
nothing that makes you avert your eyes. It’s all right. I’ve become
used to it. All you hets, with your strange, little, secretive
subculture, do it. I understand. You fear the light of day. You
fear our rejection. You don’t want to be outed.

“Oh, God, this is positively the last little
bit of green I’m ever eating. I swear it. I hate spinach. I hate
the work it takes to be beautiful. I’m off to chez moi to become
old and ugly; who’s going to the bank?”

“I’ll go.”

“Tra-la, lovie. Pleasant dreams of you know
who and I know what.”

“Good night, Bob.”

“Pou.”

“What a surprise.”

“Ellen, I should’ve called.”

“Don’t be silly, Bett. You’re always welcome.
Come in. How are you? It’s been too long. How were the
holidays?”

As Bett followed Ellen down a dark blue and
rich red oriental runner into a parlor with brown and gold-colored
upholstered Windsor back chairs and pie crust tables she said, “The
holidays were fine. At least until this banking crisis began. How
have you been?”

“My pipes are a little noisy, but other than
that things are going along pretty well. I’m scheduled to go back
in in a couple of weeks to see how well the healing has gone. If it
has made as much progress as they hope, then, they’ll set a date
for the reversal. Pull the bag. Re-stitch the bowel. Send me on my
merry way. No more gurgling. ‘In quietness and confidence shall be
your strength.’ Isaiah. Thanks you, Isaiah. Looking forward to
it.

“How’s Neil been doing?”

“He’s been wearing himself out. I’ve never
seen him work this hard, not when he was young, not even a couple
of years ago when times were so good, during the real estate boom.
I hardly see him. Besides being closed, the bank has a number of
big developers close to defaulting. He may have to pull the rug out
from under a number of old customers who had just been hanging on.
Some good loans are going bad because the people who owe them money
can’t pay, even when they have the money, because their accounts
are frozen, too. The politicians and the newspaper act as if things
will start to sort themselves out in a few weeks or, at most, in a
couple of months, but Neil thinks it could be years. He and Kenyon
have been going crazy trying to get the FDIC to look at them. He’s
sure they’ll qualify, but everything’s taking so long. I’ve never
seen him like this. It worries me.”

Ellen had been nodding her head as Bett
talked.

“I know it’s very hard, but it had to come.
With good states having trouble, you could guess that Rogue Island
would have a catastrophe. We’ve had quite a few friends who have
been caught. It’s been so hard for friends our age who’ve been
using interest to supplement pensions and Social Security.

“Do you want some tea? We could drink a cup
and listen to my plumbing.”

“Tea sounds nice.”

After realizing what she said, Bett laughed.
Ellen waggled a finger at Bett.

“You may change your mind after you hear it
steep inside me.”

Bett sat at the kitchen table while Ellen put
water on and got out several cans of tea, tea balls, a teapot, a
creamer and sugar bowl and cups and saucers.

“I love tea. It can be such ceremony. What
kind would you like? I have keemun, lapsang souchang, oolong,
jasmine, and lots of herbals, including ginger.”

“I like oolong.”

“So do I. It’s so smoky it makes me think of
campfires. It’s probably a sin. Which of course makes it nicer. A
day without sin is a day without sunshine.”

“It that your secret?”

“Bett, it’s not a secret. Everyone knows what
a pick-me-up something forbidden can be. Don’t you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“And I took you for such a sensible
girl.”

Bett laughed, Ellen joined her, and then,
continued.

“When we were little children there were all
those things people and parents and teachers told us we couldn’t
do. Then, when we were adults, as young and, then, not-so-young
parents, there were all these things we told ourselves we shouldn’t
do. And, now, as we begin our slide into home-base, there are all
these people around again telling us what we can’t do. Doctors and
nurses and AARP and our children and nutritionists and bankers and
insurance agents and God only knows who else. When I was a little
girl I was a sweet little thing. I ‘yes, ma’amed’ and ‘no sirred’
everybody with shoes, and when no one was looking I did exactly as
I pleased. I do the same thing now. The doctors tell me to eat this
and avoid that. I nod these silver curls as sweetly as when I was a
child. Then, I do exactly as I please.”

“Don’t you worry that you’ll harm
yourself?”

“Not enough to change my ways. I think
everybody is so afraid of making a mistake that they err on the
side of safety. I choose to operate outside the zone of insurance
the experts have set for themselves. When I eat a little of this
forbidden fruit and avoid a little of that recommended exercise, I
just feel better. I feel good from having made my own decisions,
better from having denied the bogeyman authority, and best, I
think, from assuming that this recalcitrant body of mine is not
such a fragile vessel. Some people would have all of us in rockers
living on bran from sixty-three onward. Moderation in all things,
Bett—especially in doing what someone thinks is good for you.”