Juliet in August (15 page)

“Don't tell me about the damned kids,” Willard says.

“I guess I know what I'm doing this morning,” Hank says. He sticks his head in the kitchen door to tell Lynn where he's going, but then he has to get out of the way because she's coming back through with a fresh pot of coffee. He can see she doesn't want to stop and talk, so he leaves without saying anything more. She'll know he's gone to work.

Just as Hank's leaving the restaurant, Dale Patterson pulls in off the highway and gets out of his truck. Hank sees that Dale has his arm in a sling and wonders what he did to it.

“Good luck in there,” Hank says as they meet in the parking lot. “The wife's on a bit of a tear.”

Lynn detests Dale Patterson. If her restaurant weren't considered a public place, she'd bar him from ever crossing its threshold. “Karla Norman needs to wake up and give her head a shake,” is what Lynn said to Hank about her engagement to Dale, or rather engagements. Hank understands Lynn's point of view—if he were a woman he'd steer clear of Dale Patterson, too—but there's been more than one time that Dale's had Hank busting a gut. True, the laugh is usually at the expense of someone else, like the banker, Norval Birch—Dale calls him Birchbark, which always cracks Hank up—but Hank figures if the butt of the joke isn't present, no harm done.

Dale takes his cell phone out of his back pocket and struggles to punch in a number with his good hand.

“What happened to you, anyway?” Hank asks.

“Nothing happened to me, for about the twentieth time this morning,” Dale says.

“I guess that sling's a decoration, then,” Hank says.

Dale gives him a look to kill.

Hank decides to beat it, leave Dale and Lynn to each other and good luck to the both of them. The yellow flyers that were dumped from the bus are still blowing around in the hot breeze. Hank notices that several of them have plastered themselves against the wire fence that surrounds the parking lot, making it look like a fairground after the carnival has packed up and gone.

“I've got calves to gather,” Hank says, starting toward his truck. “No sense asking you for help with that gimpy arm, whatever you did to it.”

“Why is everybody so interested in my damned arm?” Dale says. “It's none of your business.”

Hank tips his hat and gets in the truck and slams the door. The coffee that he'd spilled on the floor the night before is not smelling so good, and he rolls down the window before he starts the truck.

“Have a good day there, Dale,” he calls through the open window, taking the opportunity to grab the last word as Dale puts his cell phone to his ear.

Hank remembers that he was planning to drop something off for Lee Torgeson, some of Lynn's baking. He knows Lynn would send muffins or a pie—maybe even one of the key lime pies—but he decides to leave that for another day. Best to wait, he thinks—after years of experience—for whatever has put her in such a temper to pass. As it always does.

The Manager

On Norval's desk at the bank, between two decorative horse-head bookends purchased by Lila, are a half dozen historical texts on the area in which Juliet is situated. When Norval first moved to Juliet to assume the role of bank manager, he read these books in an effort to understand his new mercantile parish. He read, for example, that in the nineteenth century, before the area was opened up for settlement, it was declared to be unsuitable for crops by a geographical adviser to the British Parliament. The man's advice was not heeded, and sometimes when Norval looks out his office window and the air is the color of sand, he thinks perhaps it should have been. On such days—and today is one of them—he wonders how he ended up here, and if what had been described as a promotion had actually been a punishment for some corporate mistake he was not aware he'd committed. With the oppressive heat building already, Norval is thankful for the air conditioner installed in the window behind him even though it's noisy.

He checks his calendar and sees that his only official appointment is the late-afternoon teacher interview at the school, and his morning is free and clear for dealing with the farm loan payments coming due. He turns on his computer and generates his client list, and at the top of that list is Blaine Dolson's name.

In spite of all the ads on TV that tell you a financial institution holds your ticket to a prosperous future, Norval cannot think of any way for his bank to help Blaine Dolson get back on his feet, let alone prosper. Blaine's just gotten in too deep. He's working on the highway crew to make ends meet, and still there's barely enough money coming in to pay the interest on his remaining loans. What will happen when the new highway's done? Blaine has half a dozen kids. Norval recently saw a documentary on American TV about families living in their cars. How can that be happening in one of the most affluent countries in the world? And how will Norval live with himself if it comes to that for the Dolsons, when the same institution that pulled the rug out from under Blaine is going to provide Norval with a comfortable, if not extravagant, retirement?

Then Norval feels a little flash of anger on his own behalf as he thinks about how
hard
this job is, and how he agonizes over clients like the Dolsons and is not just sitting in here playing solitaire. He spends a good portion of every day worrying about families who have fallen on hard times, and what will happen to them, and what will happen to the whole town if the farm economy plummets again, or tanks completely. He cares about these things. If it were up to him, he would bail Blaine Dolson out in a minute, open up the safe and hand over a bag full of money, but that's not the way it works. Well, there is one thing he can do. It's not much, but he decides to ignore Blaine's name and take it off his priority list, for a few days at least.

He turns his attention to the Pattersons. They are not in a dire state, but there's a quarterly payment due and he hasn't heard from them. The senior Patterson, Andy, is a reasonable man to deal with, but the son is an unpredictable hothead. Norval is not sure what will happen when Andy decides to retire and let Dale take over. Norval just hopes that Andy keeps himself in the picture for a while. At least he's willing to listen when Norval presents the bank's perspective on his options.

He clicks to open the file, picks up the phone, and punches in Andy's phone number. No one answers, but after three rings a man's voice—it sounds like Dale's—asks the caller to leave a message, and so Norval does.
Just wondering if Andy is available to come in to the bank as soon as possible; hope things are well with yourself and the wife; hope to hear from you soon
. A pleasant-sounding good-bye, and Norval hangs up. Then he double-checks the phone numbers and realizes that he's accidentally called Dale's cell phone. He calls again, Andy's number this time, and leaves the same message.

At this point, Marsha—Norval's jack-of-all-trades bank employee—brings him a dozen letters to sign, and he gets himself a cup of instant coffee before settling back behind his desk to check them over. He sets his mug down next to a framed photograph of Rachelle in her graduation cap and gown, which he'd installed to remind himself that she'd at least completed her grade twelve before she carelessly tossed away her future. In the photograph she looks poised and mature, ready for a career as a teacher or a journalist or an engineer; anything was possible just a few months ago. He sighs audibly, then turns to the letters.

Before he's finished reading the first one, he hears a pounding on the front door of the bank, which is not yet open to the public, and when Marsha unlocks the door, Norval hears the younger Patterson's angry voice. Norval listens, regretting now the mistake of the phone numbers.

“I want to see that Norval Birch,” Dale says.

“The bank's not open for another ten minutes, Dale,” Norval hears Marsha say. “Do you have to see him right now?”

“Right this damn minute,” Dale says, and then Norval hears Dale's angry boots stomping across the insubstantial floor—he can almost feel the floor giving under Dale's weight—and there he is, in Norval's office doorway, with his left arm in a sling.

“Sorry, Norval,” Marsha says from behind Dale.

“You might as well come in, Dale. I can see you've got something pressing on your mind.”

“I'll just keep the door open, shall I?” Marsha says, and leaves, although Norval is pretty sure she's going to stay close enough to hear what's going on. All of ninety-five pounds, and she doesn't seem to be the least rattled by the Dale Pattersons of the world. Maybe
she
should be the bank manager.

Dale enters the office and, instead of taking the chair placed across the desk from Norval, he pushes it out of the way with his good arm and leans over Norval to better make his point. But before Dale can speak, he grimaces and straightens up, obviously in agony, and as he does so his good arm knocks a bookend and a couple of Norval's books to the floor. The remaining books teeter, and then they fall, too, leaving only one flat-sided plaster horse head behind. Dale ignores the books, takes a moment to recover from the pain, and then picks up the photograph of Rachelle. Norval can see beads of sweat on Dale's forehead.

“Maybe you should sit down,” Norval says.

“I wonder,” says Dale, ignoring the invitation to sit, still staring at the picture, “if you called to give me a personal invitation to your daughter's wedding.” Then he looks at Norval, waiting for a response, and Norval actually thinks he might be serious.

“I'd have to check with the wife on that,” he says. “She's got a list as long as your arm.” He wishes he hadn't said the word
arm
. He tries to look Dale in the eye and stay calm and say what he has to say. He wishes Dale had brought Andy with him.

“I meant to call your father's number, Dale,” Norval says. “It's your father I'd like to talk to, about the loan. I'd feel more comfortable if he were here.”

“I could give a rat's ass about your comfort,” says Dale.

Norval takes a deep breath. “Fair enough,” he says.

Dale begins to tap Norval's desk with Rachelle's photograph. “So, Birchbark,” he asks, “when is this fancy wedding anyway?”

Birchbark.
The disrespect is unbelievable.

“I'd prefer Norval,” he says. “October, after harvest.” He pauses, then says, “Dale, tell your father that I'd like to talk to him. There's a payment coming due at the end of—” but Dale raises his good arm, still holding the photograph and aiming it for emphasis in Norval's direction, and says, “Stop.”

“There's not necessarily a problem, I just need to know—” but again Dale says, “Stop.”

Norval stops. The two of them stare at each other, Dale aiming at Norval with the photograph of Rachelle. When it's clear that Norval is not going to try to use bankers' words or talk loan payments, Dale lowers his arm and sets the photograph down.

“You think you've got it made, don't you, Birchbark?”

“Not really,” Norval says.

“I know who that daughter of yours is marrying. We'll see how she does, eh, see how her finances look in a couple of years.”

That almost makes Norval laugh. The idea that he, a banker, would not have thought that one through. Norval clears his throat and says to Dale, “The loan is in your father's name, so he's the one I need to speak with.”

A smirk crosses Dale's face. He says, “Not for long, Birchbark. The old man's retiring. Haven't you heard? It's me you'll be dealing with from now on.”

And at that moment, Norval understands why Dale came to the bank and pounded on the door, unable to wait for an appointment or even the regular hours of operation. He'd been bursting to deliver this news and let Norval know there'll be no more Mr. Nice Guy when it comes to dealing with the Pattersons.

Dale tips his cap with his good arm and then kicks at the books on his way out of Norval's office. In the doorway he stops and says, “You'll be hearing from the lawyer about the transfer, but you talk to me from now on.
Mister Birch.
There. Does that suit you better?”

“Yes,” Norval says. “Mr. Birch is definitely an improvement.”

As soon as Dale is gone from his office, Norval realizes that his heart is pounding. He doesn't know why; he's not afraid of Dale and he's experienced at dealing with this sort of behavior. He looks at his hands, shaking like a palsied old man's. He's disgusted with himself. Maybe he just doesn't have what it takes to be a bank manager anymore. If he were a boxer or a race-car driver, he'd have to say he's lost his nerve. What if there were a real threat? What if someone—one of his several frustrated and unhappy clients—decided to walk through the front door with a shotgun and wave it in his face? It could happen; there's no shortage of guns out there.

He gives himself a talking-to. Most of his clients are dignified and ever-optimistic people who keep their frustration in check even when they have good reason to boil over. Their ancestors survived the thirties when blowing dust drifted against the doors of their houses, creating a people who believe you can survive anything if you just hang in there long enough, who believe bad times are cyclical.
Next year we'll get rain. We're due for it.
How many times has he heard that? No, if he's going to worry about danger in the bank, he should worry about robbery, which is always a possibility.

In fact, there
had
been a robbery five years ago, a real one with guns. The Mounties had caught the bank robbers in no time by following them with a helicopter through the sand hills northwest to the ferry crossing, and they'd had the operator hold the ferry on the other side of the river and there was no place for the robbers to go, nowhere to hide in such wide-open country. Norval remembers the two men with balaclavas ordering him and Marsha—the only two people in the bank at the time—to lie facedown on the floor with their arms and legs spread. He doesn't remember his hands shaking then, the way they are now. If it weren't so early in the day, he'd have a drink. Noon, even, but ten o'clock—sadly, far too early.