The Summer Garden (43 page)

“Don’t know yet.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Of course you are!” Balkman boomed with another hearty slap on Alexander’s back. “I won’t take no for an answer. When can you start? Because we’re breaking ground tomorrow just around the block, and I might as well baptize you by fire.”

Alexander made note of the attempts at military analogies.

“Stevie, Alexander was in the army, like you.”

Alexander took a long look at Steve.

“Steve was stationed in England,” Balkman said proudly. “He was wounded in the leg, not seriously, thank God, and came home because of it. Only saw action for four months.”

“Pop,” said Steve, “I was wounded in friendly fire, behind the lines. Some guy got careless with his weapon. I never saw any action. What about you, Alexander? See any action?”

“Here and there,” Alexander said.

“Ever wounded?”

“Nothing serious,” he said, the words themselves forming a neurotransmitter electrical connection that shot across the billions of synapses of his brain, down the spine, firing pain right into the closed fist of a hole in his lower back. One question, instant memory, and this in Phoenix!

Balkman suggested that Alexander might want to take a few courses in structural or civil engineering at Arizona State College in Tempe. “A degree in architecture is very useful in this business. My Stevie is thinking of going, too, now that the war is over. Aren’t you, Stevie?”

Alexander wanted to point out that the war had been over for four years.

And Steve said in a tired voice, “I’m thinking about it, Pop.”

“I think college is a very good idea,” said Alexander, taking out his cigarettes. Balkman flicked on the light for him. “My father wanted me to become an architect.”

“You see!” a beaming Balkman exclaimed to Steve.

“Where’s your old man now?” asked Steve.

“He’s not around anymore,” said Alexander, without a flicker even in his cigarette.

“By the way,” Balkman said to his son, sounding
much
less friendly, “the building inspector called me this afternoon, all worked up because he waited for you for an hour and you never showed. He had to leave for another appointment. Where were you?”

“I was there, Pop. I thought our meeting was at two, not one.”

“It clearly said one o’clock in the appointment book.”

“My book said two. Sorry, Pop. I’ll meet him tomorrow.”

“See, the problem is, he can’t tomorrow. He can’t till next week. It’s going to delay the ground breaking and cost us two hundred bucks to smooth it over with the plumbing and the cement crew who were ready to start. They gave up other work, and now I have to explain it to the homeowners…” He shook his head. “Ah, forget it. I’ll have Alexander meet with the building inspector. I’ll give him this project to work. Alexander, so you think you can start tomorrow?”

Alexander took the job. Words of engineering and architecture courses, of responsibility, of learning the house building business from the ground up, images of Bill Balkman congenially patting his back whirled in his head.

A thought flowed through that perhaps he should’ve talked to Tania first, but he was certain of her approval from twenty miles away.

Steve asked him to go for a quick drink. At Rocky’s down on Stetson in Scottsdale, they sat behind the bar and ordered beers, and Steve said, “Boy, Pop must really like you. He
never
hires the married ones.”

Alexander looked at him puzzled. “How many single men can he find after the war?” he said. “I’d guess not many.”

“Well, I’m single,” said Steve, grinning, “and it’s after the war.” He sighed. “I got engaged last year.”

Alexander was pleased that Steve had no interest in discussing the war with him; made it easier not to have to lie. “So what’d you get engaged for if you’re sighing?”

Steve had a good laugh over that one. “I did it because all I heard was when, when, when,” he said. “So I gave her a ring, and now that keeps her quieter. Not quiet, but quieter. You know what I mean?”

Alexander took a drink of his beer and didn’t answer, drumming his fingers on the bar counter.

“I’m only twenty-four, Alexander,” said Steve. “I’m not ready to settle down yet. You know? Haven’t sowed all them wild oats yet. When did you get circled?”

“At twenty-three.”

Steve whistled. “Were you still in the army?”

“Of course.”

“Wow. Alex—can I call you Alex?—I’ll tell you, I don’t know how you did it. Married at twenty-three
and
in the army? What about the oats?”

“All sowed beforehand.” Alexander laughed, raising his eyebrows and his beer glass. “
All
sowed beforehand.”

And Steve laughed right back, clinking with him. “Well, at least we understand each other. Man, the girls are everywhere, aren’t they? Restaurants, clubs, hospitals—I met one the other week at the hospital—you’ve never seen
anything
like her.”

“Speaking of hospitals,” said Alexander, “how’d you bust your arm?”

“Oh, I was an idiot. Tripped on a ladder at one of the houses and fell.”

Steve’s shoes and clothes didn’t look like he’d been up any ladders. Maybe that was why he fell.

“I keep telling Pop I’m not cut out for this business,” Steve said merrily, “but he doesn’t want to hear it.” He alternated swigging his beer and smoking his cigarette. “Which is why I am so flipping glad you came along. You’re taking a lot of pressure off me, frankly.”

“Well, always glad to help out,” Alexander said, shaking Steve’s hand, and getting up to go. He couldn’t wait to tell Tatiana.

They celebrated that night with a late dinner and champagne after Anthony had gone to bed. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you first about it,” he said, “but it just felt so right. What kind of feeling are you getting about them?”

“What, from twenty miles away?” They smiled. “If you’re happy, I’m happy, Shura.” She was lying in the crook of his arm, but looking at him thoughtfully. “What did you say the name of the company was again?”

“Balkman Custom Homes.”

“Balkman, huh,” she intoned. “Must be a common name around here. I’ve heard the name before.” She frowned.

Alexander was flying high, wired and excited. He told her about going to college starting January. “I’m going to get Richter to help me get a GI loan to pay for the tuition. Yes, yes, I know it’s a loan, but it’s Richter, it’s for my degree, and it’s worth it. What do you think?”

“It’s wonderful,” Tatiana said, kissing his chest scar under her mouth.

“And after I figure out what I’m doing, I’ll build a house for you.” He put his palms on her. “With these bare hands. So start thinking about what you want your dream house to look like.”

“I’m still thinking about what I want my promised potato countertop to look like,” she said, pressed into him.

The next morning Alexander left home at six thirty. He spent all day with Balkman. He met with the building inspectors and city construction supervisors, he met with the two architects, with the plumbers, foundation layers, electricians, roofers, plaster and brick and stucco guys, painters and cabinet makers, the crown molding guys and the door crew. He sat in on a meeting in Balkman’s office with prospective home buyers, he smoked three packs of cigarettes, he barely ate, and he came home at nine in the evening, starved and too tired to speak.

But at home he fell into the kitchen chair and Tatiana served him chicken stew in red chili wine sauce over onion rice, with warm bread; she lit his cigarettes and poured his drink and then sat with him on the quiet couch and caressed his head until he fell asleep and she had to wake him to come to bed.

She told him that on the three days she also worked late, Francesca gladly agreed to take Anthony home with her after school in return for a little money and Tatiana teaching her English.

“You teaching
her
English?” said Alexander. “You don’t see the ironies there?”

“I see ironies everywhere,” said Tatiana.

On Friday Steve asked Alexander out for a drink with another foreman, Jeff, who worked on middle-income houses in Glendale, and Alexander went and didn’t get home until eleven. Saturday he worked all day into the evening. Balkman asked him to come in for a few hours on Sunday, but Alexander said no. “I don’t work Sundays, Bill.” On Monday, Bill asked him to stay late to sit in on a meeting with prospective clients. On Tuesday, he had an early morning meeting, a lunch meeting, and another late meeting. The painter quit over a pay dispute, so Alexander had to finish painting one of the houses himself.

Leaving home early, coming home late, he was exhausted but exhilarated. And he liked Steve and Jeff. When they got a few drinks in, they turned into Lewis and Martin. Balkman trained Alexander himself, donning dungarees and going on the construction sites. One day over lunch, Balkman mentioned the training seminars where they learned about new construction materials, techniques, developments in air conditioning and roofing. “A few times a year, we go to these various conventions, builders’ shows. In Las Vegas.” Balkman paused significantly, his smile broad. “The foremen learn a tremendous amount, and the boys play a bit after a hard day’s work.”

“I’m sure they do.” Alexander smiled back.

“One’s coming up in two weeks.”

Alexander put down his fork. “Bill, I won’t be able to go.”

Balkman nodded sympathetically. “I know—married men have a harder time getting away. Have to smooth it over with the missus? I understand. Tell her it’s just for a weekend.”

“Yes, Bill. But in two weeks, I have to go to Tucson for the weekend. I’m a commissioned reservist for the United States Army. I give them two days a month.”

Bill also put down his fork. “A reservist? Oh, that’s going to be awkward. On the weekends?”

“Two days a month. Weekends seem easier.”

“Saturdays are our busiest day, Alexander, you know that.”

Alexander didn’t point out that Bill wanted him to be in Las Vegas on a Saturday. “I know. I’ll make up the work. I’m not going to let you down. But I have to go.”

“Is this going to be an ongoing thing?”

Alexander squinted. “As opposed to what? The ongoing Las Vegas commitments?”

“But a commission means you can resign after a certain time, can’t you?”

“
Resign
my commission?”

“Just think about it, is all I’m asking. You’re going to be very valuable to my business, Alexander. I want to give you every opportunity to succeed.”

Anthony ran to him at the door. Tatiana walked up with less than her full smile, a wooden spoon in her hand. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He kissed her.

“You smell like beer,” she said.

“I went out for a drink with Stevie,” he said, sinking down at the table.

“Oh. How was it?” She turned to the stove. “Ant, time for bed, like we agreed.”

“But Mom—!”

“Now, Anthony,” said Alexander.

Grumpily Anthony got up to go. As he was walking away, Alexander circled his little wrist. “Ant,” he said, “when your mother tells you to do something, you just do it. No need for grumpy. Got it?”

After the boy left the room, Alexander watched Tatiana’s back to him as she focused on the stove. She was making chicken molé enchiladas and cilantro lime rice. Tania was teaching Francesca English, and Francesca was teaching Tania Mexican food. It was a fine barter of services.

“Are you upset because I went out for a drink?” he asked at last. “I’m just trying to be friendly.”

Coming to him with a plateful of food, leaning over and kissing his head, she said, “I’m not upset with you, darling. Though I wouldn’t mind if you called to tell me when you’d be coming home so I know when to make dinner ready for you.” She gave him more rice, bread, filled his glass, then stood quietly by him, pressing her body against his. His hand automatically went around her and under her skirt to touch her nylon stockings. Tracing up the seam, he stopped on the space of bare flesh suspended just under her open girdle. He loved that space. “I know it’s been crazy,” he said. “It’s not going to be that way forever. I won’t let it be that way. I’ll—I’ll take care of it. But what else is wrong?”

She sighed.

“Oh, sighs are so unpromising.”

Anthony ran out to tell them what was on the radio, and Alexander took his hand away from Tatiana and said, “Not radio. Bed, Anthony. Now.”

But after Anthony disappeared inside his bedroom, Alexander sighed himself. Telling Tatiana he’d be right back, he went into Anthony’s room, where the boy was silently putting on his pajamas. Alexander watched him for a few moments, then helped him turn the top right way out, took him to the bathroom, helped him with his teeth and face, brought him back, settled him under the covers, and sat on the bed.

“What’s up, bud?” Alexander asked. “Everything okay? School okay? Sergio okay? Mommy okay? What are you glum for?”

“I’m tired,” Anthony said, turning on his side, away from Alexander. “I got school tomorrow.”

Turning off the light, Alexander bent over the bed, his arms flanking the boy. “Your dad’s working too much,” he said quietly. “I know. No one’s used to it anymore.” They barely worked the last two years they had been traveling, just enough to get by. “But remember when you were three, and I was on the lobster boat? I left the house at four in the morning, and came back at five in the evening? That was a long day.”

“I don’t remember,” said Anthony. “But in that place with the long-necked birds and the canals you didn’t work at all, not even picking apples. We just kept trying to catch that fish. What was it called?”

“Prehistoric sturgeon. Didn’t do such a great job, did we, Antman?”

“Should have stayed there longer,” said Anthony. “We would’ve caught him. Mommy said he swam all the way from that river where you got married so you could catch him.”

“Your mommy is very funny.” Alexander pressed his lips to Anthony’s head. “You played me nice songs on your guitar on the deck of that canal,” he whispered. “This Sunday, you’re going to help me finish our front deck. I’m going to need your help, bud, okay?”

“Okay, Dad.” And the boy’s arm went around his neck.