Everyone in town knew that Josh was gay. Yet none of us teased Danny about his crush on Josh, as we would have if he had loved a girl in his senior class. No one ever asked him, “Are you gay?” I suspected that not even Josh dared ask Danny the question that would force a changed set of rules.
It was as though each of us wanted to leave the options open for Danny, allowing him to make his own decisions, letting him breathe the spark of life into his choice when he felt ready to say whatever words were his right words. But if Danny was given the space to discover his own route, there was a different aura around Cynthia. No one seemed to want to acknowledge that she might be seeing Chip. It wasn’t because he was eight years older. In this town, nineteen-year-olds like Cynthia were often quickly married. Nor was it a skepticism that a worldly person like Chip would truly be interested in a high school senior. And it wasn’t because they were afraid to somehow tip off Red. It was as though they just couldn’t see it as a possibility.
Henry Van Elkind slumped back in his chair, staring morosely at his half-eaten apple brown betty. The scoop of vanilla ice cream, completely melted, had congealed into a turgid sea surrounding brown-bedecked apple glaciers. He listlessly moved his spoon through the mess.
Ever since Kip’s public attempt at suicide by burning, Van Elkind had become more of a loner when he appeared in the restaurant. Today, he ordered a steak and a bottle of a good merlot. Although he didn’t eat much of the steak, he drank most of the wine. I had already called Stephen at the camp because Van Elkind wasn’t in any shape for a ten-mile drive on a narrow road through the dark woods.
“Wally, get over here,” Van Elkind commanded. “You know what I want? Not this old pie. I’m sick of it. I’d like a good dessert wine. Keep me from facing reality.”
“It might be better if you have some coffee,” I suggested.
He waved off my suggestion. “Don’t patronize me. You still got some bottles of that late harvest wine from Chateau St. Jean? Open one of those for me. I need something sweet, but with a kick.”
“I don’t think you need any kick, Henry,” I felt compelled to say.
“Aw, fuck, just get me one of those god damn bottles. Bring over two of those tiny little glasses. What do you call them? Cordial glasses, yeah. You can help me drink the bottle.”
Stephen was already on his way into town to drive the man home, I reasoned, and the Chateau St. Jean Select Late Harvest Johannesburg Riesling tasted great and it did have a nice markup. I brought over the small bottle and small glasses. I removed the cork and passed it over to let Van Elkind sniff the incredibly rich, thick, sweet raisiny smell of this American version of an eiswein. “Smells damn good,” he said, “sit down and have a glass with me.
“Hell of a world, isn’t it.” He raised his glass to clink it against mine. He then gulped the highly alcoholic wine in a single swallow. I sipped mine to enjoy it more fully. He had already refilled his small glass.
“I had to put my time in at the Emerson Hospital again today. If this continues, they’ll consider me a patron so they can put the screws to me for donations.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mother Rabinowicz had a stroke last night. Stephen found her on the floor early this morning. She had tried to reach the bell to call him, but she only made it to the floor. The ambulance took her to Emerson because they say it’s a better hospital than the one in Timberton. It has that big endowment left from a friend of some old president. The place still looks third-rate to me. But she’s there now in intensive care. Doesn’t look good. The doctors say she could live a day, or she could live a month. But she’ll never be the same.
“I always thought seeing the end of that old woman would make me happy. And I don’t know why it doesn’t. Maybe it’s because Kip took the news so hard. I guess he loves that old woman more than any of us knew.
“And that old woman loves him. I wish I could say that I do. So now he’s back in the same hospital where he was mended after the incident, only this time he’s watching over her, instead of her over him.
“It’s kind of ironic when you think about it. If Mother Rabinowicz’s condition had the least bit of hope, we’d have her transported to the best hospital in Chicago. If your busboy and Frozen Bear hadn’t been so quick at rolling my son, he’d still be in that place, or shipped back to a Chicago hospital burn center.
“So Regina and Kip are together in the Emerson hospital, where they can both stay as far as I’m concerned. And I feel like shit because I wish it were Rita’s mother surviving, instead of my own son. What kind of father could feel that way?” He downed another glass of the riesling. “You sure you don’t want more?” he asked.
“Sure, why not,” I said. He poured one for me and then he poured himself another glass. The bottle was nearly empty.
“Rita chartered a plane to get up here. Couldn’t wait for the morning flights. It’s probably already landed in Timberton. She would have flown into Emerson, but their little airport isn’t equipped for landing private jets at night. I should have gone to meet Rita at the airport, but I figured, ‘Let her rent a car.’ We’re going to face the music soon enough.
“If Rita’s mother dies, it’ll change everything. It puts all that money into spin. Will Rita get it? Will Kip get it? Or did that nasty old woman leave it to some charity back in the old country? We just don’t know. She’s a secretive bitch, but in the long run, I don’t think it much matters. Whatever way it turns out, I’m pretty sure that Rita’s going to realize she doesn’t need me. She cheats on me, you know. I cheat on her too. That’s just what we do. We just don’t talk about it.” Van Elkind had finished the bottle and was eying the last remnants of a swallow in my glass. Then he looked at me and asked, “What don’t you talk about?”
What did I talk about? Food and the restaurant and the town stories. But not what I really wanted, to recapture a moment of happiness, to find again what I once had. But was that to be found by returning even further in my past, to a time that had seemed more innocent?
“It’s not a secret, you know.” Van Elkind was twirling his empty glass.
“What’s not a secret?”
“That your friend Patrice was murdered during that mugging, defending you. I did my research on you before I ever involved you in American Seasons. Maybe the rest of this town doesn’t know or care why you fled back home, but we all know. And we don’t care.”
Patrice. Strong, smart Patrice. The happy Sunday mornings as we read The New York Times in our sunlit studio, the hunts through Strand Books searching out some treasured tome, the plans for a future that included both of us. Yes, I understood Toivo Lahti and his urge to visit that tombstone, trying to grasp on to one’s dreams and visions and hopes. I could understand, but I could not be that person. I had to flee to a place where no one knew Patrice and where no one ever knew what I could be with Patrice. And now this greedy man with his warped son and dying mother-in-law wanted to destroy that illusion. I couldn’t even look him in the eye.
“You got another bottle of this stuff? It’s good shit,” he said. I shook my head no, unwilling to risk speaking. Van Elkind decided to shift subjects. “All of this is bad timing, you know. We’re ready to do the public announcement of American Seasons. Once we do that, then it’s out to the market to raise more capital. We’re doing okay. We’ve finished acquiring all of the important parcels of land. There are still a few pieces here and there we would like. But if we don’t get them, it’s no big deal. We can live without them.
“Of course, that bastard Chip Frozen Bear shot an arrow in our backs when we weren’t looking. His tribe bought up some of the most important pieces. Parcels that we really wanted. He says it doesn’t make any difference because the consortium has the land it needs.
“But he’s fucking wrong. It does make a difference. Now my company doesn’t have the land under our full control and we’ll have to lease some key pieces from the Lattigo. Sure we got the agreements in place, but they still own
the land.
“Chip says it’s like the royal family of Hawaii and most of Honolulu. Do you know what the fuck he means by that?”
I shook my head to show that I didn’t. I still couldn’t speak. Van Elkind’s references to Patrice bothered me more than I wanted to acknowledge. Cynthia came over quietly to clear away the dessert dishes. Had she heard? “Would you like some coffee?” she asked tentatively.
“No,” said Van Elkind. “We got to get you more involved, Wally. It’s time for some good press. We plan a big announcement set for Madison. We lined up the governor and the senator. Tes has all the investment money nailed down. Oxford will be there. But we have to figure out how to break the news to Thread.”
Stephen walked into the restaurant. I waved him over to our table. I was barely able to say, “I called Stephen to drive you home.”
“Ready to go, sir?’ Stephen asked as he helped the unsteady man to his feet. But Stephen looked at me more closely, as though he felt I might be in more need of his help that his employer.
“We’re on our way now,” Van Elkind said drunkenly. “We got a future to build. I’m counting on you. You’re my man. Don’t let me down.”
chapter EIGHTEEN
Reining in the bucking rototiller borrowed from Emil Urho, I thoroughly worked the damp and fragrant dirt behind the cafe until it became almost fluffy. I worked up quite a sweat in the hot spring sun. With my tattered plaid shirt lying on the steps to the kitchen door and with a lunchtime beer in my hand, I surveyed my handiwork. The garden plot was ready. And hard labor felt good. Moving to Thread was good. It was time to be over Patrice.
Last summer, I started too late with planting and because my garden ailed, I was forced into buying produce from locals. This summer I wanted control. I needed to have my own herbs–parsley, basil, tarragon, and dill–growing in my own garden. I wanted rows of baby lettuce, little radishes, and green onions. I wanted the best tomatoes, the best green beans. I wanted it all.
“Here you are,” said Thelma. She came out the kitchen door and down the back steps. “Had you forgotten we were going to Agnelli’s Funeral Home to pay our respects to Mrs. Rabinowicz?”
“Shit,” I said. I had forgotten.
Stephen called two days ago to let us know that Regina Rabinowicz had passed away and that the Van Elkind family would hold her funeral service in Timberton instead of Chicago. After her cremation, they planned to cast her ashes across the camp’s broad lawns. According to Stephen, Rita claimed this was to be a memorial to her mother’s love of the camp’s many roses. No one suggested it was simply the most expeditious way for Henry and Rita to get the old woman out of their lives.
“You haven’t gone and started planting anything, have you,” warned Thelma. She stood over the garden poking at the dirt as though it were one of her bread doughs. “Needs to be worked a few more times,” she said, “so there’s more air in there.”
Thelma was outfitted in a simple black dress, low heels and a small hat with a veil. My observing made her self-conscious. “It’s left over from when Fred died. Bought it just for his funeral. I thought it made me look sexy, and I hoped that if there was anything left of the real him in that box, that he could see me looking good before he went on.”
I nodded, pretending to understand about the remains of love, but I was forcing myself to think about Thelma’s garden warning. The soil looked ready for planting to me. It was loose and free of weeds. I reached down and grabbed a handful of the dirt. It clumped together, but not in a hard ball. As I opened up my fist, the ball fell apart in small chunks to land at my feet. Right texture. Right moisture. What was Thelma talking about? This soil was perfect for planting.
“Besides,” she said, “It’s way too early to start planting. Everything will come up and then die in a freeze. You know there’s bound to be a few hard freezes still. Wait at least ten days before planting anything.”
“But then the growing season will be too short for some of the vegetables I want to raise.”
“This ain’t California,” she replied. End of discussion.
We stood there quietly for a moment in the warmth of the daylight. Occasional sounds of cars from the square were muffled by the buildings between the street and us. In the distance, I could hear the muted roar of a fishing boat’s small motor racing across Big Sapphire Lake. Fishing season had opened.
“You ain’t going to the parlor like that, are you?” Thelma said. “I know it’s not like those snooty kids of hers care one bit about Regina dying, but you liked her. You should put on a dark suit. The old woman deserves at least that.”
There had been a small obituary about Regina Rabinowicz’s death in my post-office-delivered copy of The New York Times. Most of the story dealt with the fortune that had been amassed by her husband. It mentioned that she and her husband had immigrated to the United States in 1919 at the end of World War One and the beginning of the short-lived independence of her native country, Latvia. For some reason, I wondered about that. Those brief years after World War One must have seemed a time of great promise. Yet this couple had packed all their worldly belongings and moved halfway around the world. Why had they exiled themselves? And for that matter why had Rita Van Elkind exiled her mother to the solitude of our quiet Wisconsin woods?
“Gilbert’s stopping by before he leaves town,” Thelma said. “He’s about ready to set a date for the wedding. We’ve sort of talked about it being in June. I know he wants to do it soon, and so do I. I’m tired of living alone. The Sundays and Mondays he spends with me are the happiest times of my weeks. When he’s around, I feel important and young.”
“I’m happy for you.”
“Are you?” she asked worriedly. “Are you really? Sometimes I think you don’t approve of Gilbert.”
“Whatever makes you happy,” I said. And I truly did approve. I had grown to love Thelma with as much depth of feeling as I held for my own mother. Thelma was more than a cook in my restaurant. She was my mentor and guardian angel. How could I not wish her every happiness?
There was whistling in the alley. Gilbert, sporting his always well-knotted bow tie, was strolling toward us. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?” he said. “And behold the center of beauty. How is my always lovely Thelma?”
She smiled indulgently. Thelma and Fred had had no children. But today there was something in her look that made me think of a grandmother watching over a brood of grandkids. Gilbert evoked a softness from Thelma that no other person could.
Gilbert pulled from his side pocket the shiny gold watch that he always wore. He made a great show of opening the lid and checking the time. Then he snapped the lid shut and flipped the watch in a practiced move that was meant to have it land once more in his hand so he could dramatically return it to his pocket. But the fob chain snapped and the watch went sailing through the air. It landed in a soft plop on the tilled soil. I jumped over to pick it up.
“Back to the garden, huh?” I smiled, “The watch is trying to return to its original roots from those days when Luigi owned it.”
Gilbert smiled at me halfheartedly. I turned the watch around in my hands to admire this historical artifact. The watch seemed remarkably lightweight. I had anticipated the old timepiece to have more heft. I weighed it in my hand for a moment.
“Could I have my watch back?” asked Gilbert. “I really need to be on my way. Have to get to Duluth by tonight. You know a traveling salesman’s life is travel, travel, travel. Always on the road.”
“You should ask for a smaller territory,” said Thelma.
“But if I wanted a smaller territory, then I couldn’t have Northern Wisconsin, and I would miss seeing you,” he said with a smile. He put the watch back into his pocket. “I just wanted to stop by and say goodbye once more. See you next week.” Whistling a song from Snow White, he stepped back in the alley, walking toward the highway, where he had probably parked his car.
“Wally, get dressed, so we can go,” Thelma said. “Even the dead
won’t wait forever.”
We drove north on highway 17 in Thelma’s convertible toward Timberton. With the top down, it felt more like we were going on a vacation than toward a funeral home. As we crossed the continental divide between the Mississippi River and the Great Lakes basins, we caught the expansive view of the woods marching downhill toward Lake Superior. In this soft spring light, the treetops shimmered in the wind as the lightest green of lace. On every deciduous tree, the tiny buds had broken into little leaves. Just the smallest of green shapes. But within days, they would grow larger and assume the distinctive shapes of maples and elms, of poplars and beech. But at this moment the northern highlands were a single web of the first sprouts. And even the stands of evergreen seemed somehow fresher than at any other time during the year.
Exhilaration was in the air. Not a bit of snow remained in even the darkest corners of the woods. The thick carpet of leaves in the forest was drying. Tiny wild flowers were springing forth. Tadpoles were hatching in all the small puddles and streams. Birds had returned from their wintry retreats. The air itself smelled cleaner, fresher, bigger than it had all winter long. Even in the rush of driving, the sun made us hot. As we drove into the streets of Timberton, I found the tall dilapidated houses lining the streets charming and inviting.
“Agnelli’s is two blocks off Silver Street, in one of the mansions built by an old lumber baron,” I said.
“Ain’t I lived here all my life?” said Thelma. “I know where Agnelli’s is.”
The Agnelli family had bought the house after the crash of the lumber market in the early part of the century. Originally built in 1885, the house was a fantasia of carved stone and wooden bric a brac. Three stories high, with a circular tower at one corner, it combined Romanesque and Queen Anne Victorian features in a peculiar hodge-podge of stylistic details. The Agnelli family had converted the ground floor into a funeral parlor, with multiple viewing rooms. The necessary workspace was in the basement. The upper two floors had been transformed into their home, but after sixty years, the family had abandoned it for a new tri-level on the outskirts of town. The only exterior change had been extending the wraparound veranda into a tacked-on porte-cochere to shelter mourners in bad weather.
Tales From The Loon Town Cafe Page 33
