Gathering Storm

by Sherilyn Decter

  “Well, that’s a good thing. What kind of trouble?”

  “I don’t want to go into it over the telephone.” Edith looks at Leroy at the kitchen table, peeling potatoes. She walks back around the corner. “Look this line is terrible. Why don’t you come out on Sunday? I’ll tell you all about it. I have an idea I need your help with.”

  “I’ll come Saturday night and you can let me bunk over. I’ll give you a hand in that joint of yours. The weekend crowd must be heavy.”

  Edith closes her eyes and shrugs. “The crowd isn’t that big, which is part of the trouble. Come Sunday. Bring olives.”

  “You got it, doll. I’ll see…” The line goes dead.

  “These darn storms. The stupid telephone lines are down more often than they’re up. I didn’t even get a chance to tell her I bought a boat.”

  Leroy looks up from his game of Solitaire. “Come play cards with me.”

  “I don’t feel like it, Leroy. I’m thinking about something. I’ll play later.”

  “Please? Please? Please?” Leroy goes over and tries to pull her back to the table.

  “No, I said. And stop tugging on my arm.”

  “You always say that. You’re always too busy.”

  “I am busy. It takes a lot of work to keep this place running. In fact, you’ll need to clean up the beach tomorrow after things calm down. There’ll be lots of branches and debris from the storm.”

  “I don’t wanna.”

  “Too bad. I want you to.”

  “Too bad,” he mimics. “You’re not the boss of me.”

  “Actually, I am. And your boss says tomorrow morning you clean up the beach.”

  With a red face, Leroy sweeps the cards onto the floor. “Now you have a mess to clean up.” He stomps toward the front door.

  “Leroy. You come back here and clean this up. Right now. And it’s still storming outside. You stay here.”

  “No, and you can’t make me.” He wrenches open the front door and a gust of wind blows in. “I’m going down to the Rex. I bet Darwin will play cards with me. He likes me.” He pulls the door shut and the room is suddenly quiet again.

  “Where did that attitude come from?” Edith starts picking up the cards. “Ten-year-olds. Not what I was thinking having a boy around would be like at all.”

  She finishes with the cards, and begins sweeping up the leaves that blew in. “Of course, Darwin has all time in the world. He’s not running Gator’s. Go play with your new best friend. I’d like to see you play cards since they’re all here.” She wrinkles her nose. “After all I’ve done for you, and suddenly I’m the bad guy for trying to get a bit of work done around here.”

  By early afternoon, the storm has blown itself out and Edith heads to town to pick up groceries and mail. She walks past the church on her way to the S&P Mercantile, lost in thought about the items she’ll need to pick up and a cake she wants to bake for Leroy.

  “Mavis, look. It’s that woman.” Agnes digs her elbow into Mavis’ side. The two ladies are strolling toward the church for choir practice.

  Edith is wrenched back to reality.

  “My goodness. Doesn’t she look like a regular hussy? Can you see how tight her dress is?”

  “It leaves nothing to the imagination. Shameful.” They make sure that Edith can hear them as she passes.

  “Jealous?” Edith says, smiling sweetly, and tilting her chin as if she’s sniffing pies in heaven. She saunters by with a slight wiggle.

  “Well, I never.” Mavis huffs.

  Edith turns and addresses them. “That’s probably true. You never, and likely wished you did. Afternoon, ladies.”

  * * * *

  Red faced, they storm into the church, puffing down the aisle like little steam engines. “Brother Silas—” Mavis says. “That jezebel—” Agnes says.

  Brother Silas turns as they approach, his face stern. The other choir members crane to catch the commotion.

  “Sister Mavis, Sister Agnes. You are late. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Tardiness shows disrespect to your fellow choir members who have made the effort to be on time.”

  Mavis and Agnes bow their heads and offer murmured apologies.

  Brother Silas turns back to the choir. “We will be working through ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’. I want you to sing for joy in the Lord, ladies. Proclaim good tidings of his salvation.” He raises his arms high and nods to the woman perched in front of the old piano. “Sister Dorothy, if you could begin again.”

  “We will come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.” The choir voices sing, ending slightly off key.

  Following choir practice, the ladies gather around the coffee urn for fellowship. Truth be told, it’s the reason they come to practice. No one knows the town better than the members of Brother Silas’ choir.

  “And her dress, she must have been poured into it,” Agnes whispers to the woman next to her.

  “My husband said that he was going to check out that place she’s running, but I put my foot down. Sodom and Gomorrah. Bad enough Tucker and others are selling liquor, but a woman? Tsk.”

  “Lord only knows what’s really going on over there,” Mavis says smugly as she sips her coffee.

  “You can be sure the Lord does know. Like attracts like, sisters.” Brother Silas lurks behind them. “The men frequenting that den of iniquity have a thirst for more than drink. It is your duty to ensure that they don’t stray from the path of the Lord.”

  The gaggle of women around the coffee urn murmur “Amen” and “Praise the Lord”.

  * * * *

  The last of the ladies follow the sidewalk away from the church as Brother Silas closes the door behind them. He tugs off his clerical collar and unbuttons the top button of his shirt.

  “Screeching magpies. They would try the patience of a saint.” He lets himself out the back door and walks across the yard to the small rectory.

  Brother Silas opens a cupboard in the kitchen and retrieves a bottle of Chivas scotch whiskey and a glass. Taking them through to the living room, he sits down at the desk and sips. “The boys did well when they nabbed this off that Norwegian ship. A good blended scotch is hard to find these days.”

  He pulls an album toward him and begins to page through it. Arranged on the black pages are bright, colorful stamps, sorted by country.

  “I’d love to go to Australia. Kangaroos and koala bears. Such marvels of nature.” He turns the page.

  “Mmmm, Italia. What did Robert Browning say? ‘Open my heart and you will see engraved inside of it, Italy’. Perfect. The history of that country. And the food? Delizioso.” He glances into the trash, at the postcard with the gondola. “I hope you enjoyed your honeymoon, Maggie.”

  Brother Silas turns the page again. “If nothing else, my parents gave me the urge to see the world. Too bad they weren’t much good for anything else.”

  He looks up from the black pages in the album, no longer seeing the stamps. “You can be sure, dear parents, that I look after my family far better than you ever did yours. I keep them safe and make sure they’re successful. Abandoning me to my grandmother, that harpy. Well, she got what she deserved.” His grip tightens around his glass of whiskey.

  A lonely boy. A frightened boy. The belt. ‘I’ll whip the devil out of you’.

  The smooth liquor slides down smoothly and warms his gut. “Women are a corrupt vessel, Lord. My grandmother was wicked and willful, may she rot in Hell. And the wanton ways of that housekeeper I had, Cissy. Her lust evident by the swollen belly she carried before her like some kind of trophy. Now, this Jezebel, with her adulterous and sexually immoral manner, is flaunting herself in our community, leading men astray.”

  Another sip and he turns the album page automatically, seeing not the stamps but images from his childhood.

  “The Bible tells us of the wickedness of women. They lead Solomon astray, gossiping and slandering. They betray Samson—greedy, rebellious—and order the killing of John the Baptist. Women
are un-submissive, and this latest Jezebel, assaulting me on the street as if I were a common jackass. The disrespect she showed to me was disrespect for you too, Lord. I shall have retribution for us both. As your servant, I am but the agent of your wrath bringing God’s punishment down on the wrongdoer.”

  Brother Silas, skin flushed, licks to clear the spittle building at the corners of his mouth. He trembles, remembering another time he lost control: the screams, the flames. Needing to calm himself, he picks up his glass of scotch and it splashes from the quiver in his hand. He moves the precious stamp album aside, breathing deeply, and drains the glass to ease the dryness of his mouth. He licks his lips and, after a moment, raises his empty glass in a toast.

  “I was taught to obey the commandments. They were beaten into me. To honor my father and mother. How did God want me to ‘honor’ you, dear parents? The message of love you took to the heathens a blasphemy on your lips. Where was my love? Children are supposedly a gift from God. And you spurned his gift. Tossing me aside, worthless.”

  The scotch now burns his throat. “As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. The wrath of God is revealed from heaven against all ungodliness and unrighteousness of man. Dishonorableness. Selfishness. Indifference. Cruelty.”

  With the empty glass aloft, threatening to drop from his tremors of anger, he rages on. “Well here’s to you, my dear parents: May your heartless souls be forever tormented by fire and your bones be dug up by dogs and dragged through the streets.”

  Silas tries to sip from the empty glass. He stares at it, then rises and refills it. “Thus speaketh the Lord. Amen.”

  Chapter 47

  T he 1930s are hard on banks. They struggle with solvency and are not seen as safe places to keep money. Runs on banks by desperate depositors trying to withdraw their savings are common.

  The Florida National Bank is a different story, however. Millionaire Alfred Du Pont bought into the bank in the mid-twenties and, when times got rocky in the thirties, was able to acquire a controlling interest. Betting that the economic depression wouldn’t last forever, and believing that owning your own bank would eventually be a lucrative little business asset to have, he has put millions of his own money into the bank to stave off bank runs by customers and keep it afloat. His wife and brother-in-law are trustees on the board, making it a nice family-controlled business which happens to play a significant role in Florida’s development.

  Mr. Edwin Bell, the local manager at the Coconut Grove branch of Florida National Bank, is busy at his desk. Balding, with a thin moustache, he’s the image of prosperity stuffed into a three-piece suit, with a gold watch chain on prominent display. Through the glass partition, he can see an attractive woman dressed in a smart afternoon suit come in. He checks the day’s agenda that his clerk had left on the side of his desk.

  “Mrs. Edith Duffy, new owner of Gator Joe’s. Harrumph. A woman? At least the blind tiger business model is solid. Money to be made, Ed-my-boy,” Edwin says, rubbing his hands together.

  As his clerk shows Edith into the inner sanctum, Edwin Bell rises to meet her. “Mrs. Duffy, welcome to Coconut Grove.” She’s far too attractive to have a brain in there.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bell. It’s a lovely little town.”

  Edwin comes around to pull out the chair for Edith. How exactly do you treat a businesswoman? I know how Mrs. Bell would want me to treat her. Right out the front door.

  “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or a glass of water, Mrs. Duffy?”

  “No, thank you.”

  He pulls out his hankie and mops his brow. “It certainly is warm for March, isn’t it? Are you enjoying the weather, Mrs. Duffy?”

  “Mr. Bell, I appreciate the invitation to meet with you today. I have a few other errands to run while I’m in town. Was there something you wished to discuss, besides weather?”

  Mrs. Bell would never be so rude and disrespectful.

  “Yes, of course. Normally, we here at FNB meet new business owners at the Chamber of Commerce meeting here in town.”

  “How inconvenient for you that women cannot be members.” Catching the look that flashes in the woman’s eye, Edwin tugs on his collar.

  “But, as you’re not a member, I thought you’d be more comfortable if I extended an invitation and we met here instead. I understand you’ve bought Gator Joe’s and are doing substantial renovations. You’ll let us know here at FNB if we can help in any way.” Focus on the business, Ed, not the package it comes in.

  “The renovations are complete, and our ‘café’ has been open now for a few weeks.”

  “Yes, I understand that you’re planning on running it as a, ahem, café. Joe always ran a successful establishment; loyal customers, a good reputation around town.”

  Edith inclines her head with a smile. “I plan to carry on the tradition.”

  “Excellent. Running a café in these times can be challenging, from a business model perspective. As you’re new in town, I wanted to explain to you some of FNB’s more ‘unique’ services, shall we say, that other café owners have found advantageous.” Edwin folds his hands on his desk, all business.

  “I’m all ears, Mr. Bell.”

  “I would suggest honoring Gator Joe’s normal expenses, such as building supplies and payroll, with checks drawn on a regular business account here at FNB. Everything is on the up and up, and our bank records provide a good audit trail should one be required. We have several different kinds of accounts at various interest rates that I’m sure you will find attractive.”

  “Go on, Mr. Bell.”

  How to put this so that she can grasp it. I do wish we were at a Chamber meeting and it was a whiskey-sipping, cigar-smoking man in front of me. So much easier. “To put it in simple terms, Mrs. Duffy, the café’s more unique expenses such as its inventory, the associated expenses of acquiring it and keeping it, can be covered with funds drawn through New York Exchanges. These are similar to cashier’s checks and accepted by the majority of, ahem, shall we say suppliers?”

  Edith nods. “Are they widely accepted? I’ve been operating on a cash basis.”

  “By suppliers and independent contractors up and down the coast. So much more convenient than cash, and an acceptable way to avoid unexplained bank balances.”

  Mr. Bell smiles. Edith smiles. Alligator smiles.

  “Nice to know that bankers in Florida are as helpful as bankers in Philadelphia,” she says. “I imagine there is a cost for these services?”

  “We here at the bank prefer to think of it as an investment in your business rather than as an expense. Florida National Bank prides itself on being a true business partner for your enterprise, Mrs. Duffy.”

  “I appreciate the information, Mr. Bell. I’m currently doing my personal banking in Miami and don’t really see a need to change.”

  “Understandable, Mrs. Duffy. Many of our customers keep their business accounts and personal accounts separate. Wouldn’t want the little wom—.” Edwin dabs his brow again. “We here at FNB pride ourselves on meeting local business needs, Mrs. Duffy. Services your bank in Miami may not think to include in your portfolio. For example, proceeds from your sales will attract inconvenient attention from local and federal authorities, and we can help with that.”

  “I’m familiar with that kind of curiosity, Mr. Bell.”

  “I’m sure. It’s hard to avoid, especially in a community as connected as Coconut Grove. Our services can include making regular payments on your behalf to officials and other law enforcement agencies to satisfy the curiosity of these agencies. As I said, we like to think of ourselves as a solid business partner.”

  “I must say I’m impressed with how comprehensive FNB’s services are. And what would you charge for this type of thing.”

  Edwin clears his throat. Talking about money with a woman is more awkward than I’d thought. “These services are all pro-rated based on café revenues and other considerations.”

 
“I see. To put it in simple terms, Florida National Bank would like a taste of the action at Gator Joe’s.”

  Edwin clears his throat again. “We prefer to see it as a mutually beneficial partnership based on revenue, Mrs. Duffy. Shall I begin to draw up the paperwork?”

  “Thank you for your kind welcome to Coconut Grove, Mr. Bell, but I’m afraid I won’t be taking advantage of the special services you and Florida National are offering to cafés. My late husband had a deep suspicion of banks and banking and, I must say, for excellent reasons. Many of his colleagues lost everything, not to the Crash, but to Federal agencies’ interest in their bank accounts. I’m just an old-fashioned girl and will do it the old-fashioned way. The café business has always been a cash-based business, and I see no reason to change that approach now.”

  Crestfallen, Mr. Bell stands and extends his hand. “If you should change your mind in the future, Mrs. Duffy, please think of Florida National Bank first. We always have your best interests in mind.”

  “I’m sure you do. Thank you and good day, Mr. Bell.”

  * * * *

  Once in the cab of her truck, Edith bursts out laughing. “My best interests. Oh, Mickey, if you could have seen that little performance. You know as well as I do that everybody wants a taste of the profits from smuggling and bootlegging, especially these days when other businesses are folding. They all stand sanctimonious and hypocritical on the far side of the illegality, untouched by the stain of it but somehow managing to stretch their hand across the line, palm up, when there’s money to be made.”

  She glances up and down the street. Leroy had come into town with her and she’d given him a dime and told him to amuse himself for an hour. He should be back at the truck by now. Where is that boy? He knows we’ve got work to do back at Gator’s.

  She chuckles again, thinking about the meeting with Mr. Bell. I have a good bank in Miami that I’ll continue to work with. Doing business with Mr. Bell and the local bank would mean that everyone in town would know my business, from the deputy sheriff on down to the mercantile. Nope, a little mystery and separation is a good thing. As far as the Miami bank’s concerned, I’m just one of many rich widows relocating to Florida to enjoy the weather. And that’s all anyone in an official capacity ever needs to know.