Chapter 10.

"The Letter to Emily"

Chapter 10. The Candy Kitchen.

Pete Banting walked in and was surprised at the number of breakfast customers around the tables. The aroma of coffee and savory buttered toast momentarily distracted him, and he looked toward the counter where several cheerful waitresses busily took orders and cleared away plates.

In vain, he searched for familiar faces.

At a table near the wall in the back of the New Bedford Candy Kitchen, he caught the glint from lenses shining above a grin. The face of a teammate. The thick lenses. The amused look. Eddie’s grin.

“Didn’t wake you or anything?” Eddie said, glancing theatrically at his wristwatch, in that incongruous Carolina drawl. So far north. River Falls was damn-near halfway to the Canadian border from Albany.

Reb!

In school, they’d called him Reb. Even the parents would still called him The Rebel, not Ed. And there he was, Eddie Smithson, right on time.

“Hey, Ed,” Banting offered with an easy grace as he took a place across the table.

“Well?”

“No, Eddie, not at all. In fact, I was up early enough today to take a spin over near the airport. Experimental Aircraft Association Fly-in today, you know,” said Banning unabashedly pleased to see his old wrestling chum. Team captain, in fact.

“Whoa,” replied Eddie. “Whoa, now. A whaaat?”

“A fly-in. You know, experimental aircraft association, home builders from the region at the county airport. I’ve taken up restoring old airplanes as a hobby,” said Banning.

“Ohhh yeah,” replied Eddie Reb. “Heard about it on the radio.We coulda gone up there for breakfast.”

“Yeah: maybe go over for a drive after we eat. Unless you want to go now,” suggested Banting.

His friend had that old mischievous smile in his eyes.

“Hold on, man. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Eddie’s little mystery. That old puckish twinkle of goodnaturedness.

“Sure, Ed,” Pete agreed. Surprise? Ed looked around expectantly, his thick, strong hands folded patiently on the table. Not yet.

“Know who I saw on the way over this morning?”

“No. Who, Ed?”

“It was Greg. Greg Bourdeau. He had a bag over his shoulder,” said Eddie, as if there were more.

From the back of the restaurant, a short, grinning man strutted up, trying to look taller than his pride. Muscular, biceps, a grappler.

‘Who-olly shit,” he blurted out the pure white teeth lighting up the dark olive face. Banting had forgotten his old buddy’s looks, the gleaming sparkle of his teeth and jet-black hair. As he talked, he couldn’t get over the still jet black hair, without the grey highlights creeping in on Eddie and himself.

It was George. George Forrest. Next weigh class up in high school. Father still cooked in the back of the New Bedford Candy Kitchen, the cozy breakfast shop he had owned for years in downtown River Falls.

“My father said you were in the Candy Kitchen last week, and you still haven’t been up to Warrentown to see me. Told me you drove up several times and didn’t stop,” complained George good-naturedly, for want of anything better to say after twenty-seven years.

“Fuck you, Forrest,” was the expected answer, and that formality over with, the conversation among old teammates, starters on the champion wrestling team of their senior year, could resume.

At 17, they had been damn good, too.

“How many years has it been, Pete?”

Eddie watched from the sidelines, enjoying his little homecoming surprise. He piped in from where he sat just grinning, after the initial pleasantries, watching for a break in the banter and remembering George, given the chance, would offer none. The stuff champions were made of.

“Been high school, George,” Eddie threw in.

“High school?” said an open mouth George. “What are you doing? Where have you been?”

Banting was being comically interrogated. Of course, his was a ridiculous story, all twenty-seven years. The colleges, the jobs. The travels. But the point that stopped the two of them, now nodding in the commiseration of teammates who, after the lean years, had ended as starters on that championship team, was that they were still winners.

Lawyers. It was the lawyers that were to be avoided. At all costs. George shuddered as he related his story, and Banting could not have agreed more.

“George, I have not slept a full night’ sleep in months. If we press suit, it could take years to settle. It will kill me,” said Banting ruefully.

“Careful,” advised Eddie Reb. “You could lose everything.’

“Twenty thousand,” George said emphatically. “It was twenty thousand profit. Clear! I had the sale of the house lined up and my partner was against it. Know what happened?”

“I could venture a guess,” replied Banting quietly, seeing other customers begin to take notice of George’s agitation and flying hand gestures.

“That’s right. There was a problem about the deed. My lawyer didn’t even show up on the court date,” said George growing exasperated all over again at its mere mention. “Anyway, my partner went bankrupt and you know what I got? Right, I got squat!”

“Know who I saw?” asked Eddie jumped in again, hoping to slow George down a little.

“Greg Bordeau,” Eddie said finally, and that name alone was enough to silence George’s tirade.

George looked at him, speechless.

Eddie prodded him. “You should know. You bought the house.” At this prompt, George’s jaw dropped. He looked to the table, and his tone became suddenly serious. Dead serious.

“Jesus, you’re not going to believe this story,” began George. “I went into this bar and I saw Greg. Just went up to him, and saw he was with Ray Snider.”

“Jay.”

“Jay, what?” responded George to the interruption.

“Jay Snider. His name was Jay,” Pete continued.

“Naw,” George grimaced derisively.

“Wait, George. Peter’s right,” added Eddie quietly. George looked to Eddie, then back to Pete.

“Okay, Jay. Whatever,” George continued. “Caroline and I were looking for a place to live here in River Falls. And the lady told us about this one. Said, ‘Well, you may not like it. It’s a fixer-upper.’”

“I saw Greg on the way over this morning,” repeated Eddie at the pause din George’s volcanic narrative.

“It was awful,” George said with mouth drooping in disgust. “Dog-shit on the floors. Holes in every wall.”

Banting sipped reflectively at his coffee cup. George could tell a story. Always could. Oral tradition among the Lebanese.

“It was Bordeau’s house.”

Eddie’s voice filled the ensuing silence.

“I saw him this morning. I almost stopped and told him to come along. He was carrying a sack filled with cans.”

“You knew Greg,” George reminded him.

“Ricky, the younger brother, was in my sister’s class, wasn’t he?” Banning recalled perfectly.

“Your sister,” George became agitated again. “Your sister! You know what your sister said to me the last day of school?”

“Wait, George, what about Greg?” Banting stopped him.

“Well, Greg was Ricky’s older brother. Ray Snider’s best friend.”

“Jay.”

“Right, Jay. Anyway, I walked into this bar, grabbed Greg by his shoulder and said ‘How the hell are you,’ just like that. And so, he just looked at me and behind him I could see the look on Ray’s face, just shaking his head quietly, like, no.”

His two teammates waited politely for George to continue.

“Yeah, Snider just shaking his head slowly. Greg looked up at me and I never seen such an evil look as the one of Greg’s face. I didn’t know what was going on, and Ray just just waved me off. I left wondering what the hell…”

There was more.

“They say he was like that when he got out of the service.”

Eddie swirled the last of the coffee in his cup and tipped it up. “Yeah, I saw him on the other side of the road when I drove over, a bag of old cans over his shoulder.”

“Lives off in the woods now, by himself,” added George.

“Yeah,” nodded Eddie. “Up near French Mountain.”

“Hey Reb,” asked Banting in a serious tone. “We have any classmates in ‘Nam?”

“None I know of.”

George stopped to gnaw a crust of toast. He didn’t look much older than his slender son, nor did he look old enough to be paired with the poised woman with pale blue eyes waiting at the counter.

A woman with features, Banting realized later, identical to his sister Ellsie. Blue eyes. Same blue. The same type of hair.

“You meet my wife, Peter?” George offered, large hands extended as if signaling her presence at that moment. She took her cue with a fetching smile and nod. The son joined them.

Banting’s eyes perked up.

“How did such a wonderful lady…” Banting groped for wards, catching himself at the last moment. “George, she’s an attractive lady. Very pretty.”

His eyes followed her movements as she walked down the hall, shouldering her purse. Very pretty, he thought, his lips suddenly dry.

“Your sister gave me such a hard time,” the sound of George’s voice brought him back to the breakfast table. “It was the last day of high school and I went up to her. You know what she said? Do you?”

“Why, no,” admitted Banting, although anyone could see what came next with George.

“Your sister told me off, said I was the most arrogant bullshitter. I can’t believe she’d say that,’ complained George, all those twenty-two years later.

Banting slipped Eddie a wry, conspiratorial look when George focused on his coffee cup for an instant.

Banting thought George was nuts, remembering something like that. As if it mattered. He hadn’t even known they knew each other. Ellsie never said a word about George to him and they were on the same wrestling team, sweating weight before all their matches and charging out on the mats at the same away matches.

He took a hard look at George. Time had been good to him. He had always had a boyishly attractive confidence and face, somewhat out of keeping with a physique that made him one of the strongest men in his weight class in all of upstate New York.

Hamilton, the actor. That’s who George Forrest looked like. A short George Hamilton with biceps.

“So listen. Listen. Greg’s mother moved up north and left Greg in charge of the house. Greg never went out. Never. Finally, one of their old neighbors took over ordering groceries for him. Some lady who knew him since he was a kid,” said George.

It wasn’t until much later, that Banting saw George’s story for what it was.

Guilt, pure and simple. Greg living off in the woods. House sold cheap.

“What happened?”

“Who knows?” George said with returning agitation. “You hear all those stories from Viet Nam of babies being shot up and villages tortured…”

There was no judgment in his tone, just sadness recounting the tale.

Here in George Senior’s new Bedford Candy Kitchen in the small Upstate city of River Falls, they all came and went, and George Senior would step out of his kitchen in his apron, spatula in hand, and tell them all about George, and his little brother Dave. Wrestlers, both.

George sat back, the wind of his story expended. In a moment of reflection, he perked up again.

“So Banting, what’s all this about the airport?”

“I told Eddie before you arrived. Just a new interest of mine, building old aircraft. You hang-glide, don’t you, George?” asked Banting.

“It’s a big part of my life. We were in the business, got the army interested in a motorized glider, but the design didn’t work out. Did some writing for the trade magazines,” related George.

‘Hear about the E. A. A. Fly-in today at County Airport?”

“Oh yeah, they phoned me last night. Waited until the last minute to call us bout bringing down our gliders. Last night, I’m telling you!” complained George.

“Short notice?”

“I would have loved to, but well…maybe we can do it next year. Anyway, so what are you, doing that full time now?” George pushed the issue.

“No, just a hobby,” Banting responded noncommittally.

“Really, what are you doing? You back for good?” asked George with enough force to make Banting laugh.

“No George,” Banting explained wearily with exasperated patience. “Just went through the song and dance with Eddie. You know, college, grad school. Worked at Yale five years, then became a genetics professor at Alabama. Then two years cancer research sabbatical overseas in Heidelberg, and the last two in Oyster Bay, Long Island. I think that covers it.”

“So, how long are you here?”

“As long as it takes, George. You know lawyers. I’ve had no damn peace in seven months.”

“Why do you have to be here?”

He shrugged and the waitress came by to clear the dishes.

Banning asked, “George, you father tells me you own a used car lot in Warrentown now. Have you seen my car? How much is it worth?”

Eddie finished the last of his scrambled eggs and watched carefully through his lenses.

George’s demeanor changed from a long-lost teammate to car salesman, as if confronted with a car he didn’t want.

“Well, it might not be worth as much to me as it is to you,” he said mechanically with a trace of annoyance as if his friend was about to ask a large favor.

Banting snickered, as if the car were for sale. At any price. George was supposed to be an expert at used cars, that’s all.

“What’s Harvard like? I mean, can you get a good education there?”

“Yale, George.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. What’s it like? I always wondered what those places were like. Can a kid get a god education there?” asked George, not realizing he was looking at his son.

The boy turned to Banting.

“You were at Yale?” the boy asked, eyes wide.

“Yeah. I was a Fellow there for five years.”

“Well?”

“Well George, it was not exactly what I expected. But then, I was a Postdoctoral Fellow, not an undergraduate student,” Banting relied wearily.

The subtleties were lost on the former wrestlers at the table.

Banting continued. “You may know of the problems in New Haven with street crime.”

“Well,” George grumbled as if that didn’t count.

Banting went on.

“It was like anything else. Competitive. Professors building empires while students bear the weight. Car business is just like that in its own way, too, I’ll bet.”

“To a certain extent,” admitted George.

“And Eddie. How about it? The cleaning business is like that, too?”

“Yes, sure, but I never worry about the competition.”

Never did, either, thought Banting. That’s why Eddie was captain of the team.

“So what are you doing?” George persisted.

“The legal situation is coming to a head. There will be some money, a settlement. Lots,” stated Banting flatly.

“I tell you, I’ve had it with lawyers,” George offered vehemently. “Twenty thousand profit and I never saw a dime.”

“I know what you mean, George,” Pete replied. “If this doesn’t come to terms soon, I have to sue. There was another similar case of research fraud that settled for 1.6 million but we’re no where near that.”

“You could lose everything,” reminded Eddie who had quietly been taking it all in.

He couldn’t just let it go. Old teammates would understand.

“So, they took the data for a patent submission, and now they want sole rights. Offer some money, ‘a considerable sum’ was the way their legal people put it, and I’m supposed to be happy about it,” Banting heard himself say. “Look, I’d love the money, but the work was important to me. I don’t like being told to take a hike.”

“Take a hike?” asked Eddie, and George jumped in.

“Why did they want to cut you out, I mean, if you were doing something worthwhile…”

“Hold on, George,” Banting’s eyes flashed. “It has to do with power. And money. Considerable money. A big pharma outfit comes in and buys them out for a million dollars.”

His disgust was obvious enough to make Eddie cringe. He had tried to lay it out for his old teammates, champions all three of them, but it was just too complex, too painful.

On the way out after breakfast at the New Bedford Candy Kitchen, Banting passed someone his father’s age on the sidewalk, and cringed again.

Lawyer.

He shivered with renewed dislike for that asshole father of the school valedictorian. Mr. Superior. Fuck that, he told himself trying not to look at the old man as he lectured himself.

The father of the one that Eddie had said was gay.

In the bright summer sunshine, circled on the sidewalk before a sign that read New Bedford Candy Kitchen, the three champions stood regarding each other with a mix of wiliness and grudging acknowledgement. Thirty years it had been. George and Banting watched Eddie Simpson walk to his car.

“Look at that, George. That walk. Still swaggers like he was walking out to the center circle before a match, doesn’t he?” he remarked, and George just folded his bulky arms and shook his grinning head with approval.

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