American Boy - Larry Watson [41]
“You didn’t like my choice last time? Too many memories of parking there with Debbie?”
“We should go someplace where she would be more comfortable. Where she’d relax.” I might have broken Glen Van Dine’s arm for his crude remarks about Louisa Lindahl, but that didn’t mean I didn’t believe them.
“I know just the place,” said Johnny.
“Where?”
“You’ll see. It’ll be a surprise. For both of you.” Johnny put the Chrysler in gear and accelerated slowly away from the loading dock.
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it under fifty this time.”
“Don’t worry,” Johnny said with a smile. “That was just a phase I was going through.”
Northland’s owner, Stanley Wine, still lived in Willow Falls. And every year he promised the town that the factory would soon increase production and add shifts again. But it never happened. And in this regard, too, the factory reminded me of my father. He had often told me about what we were going to do together—fish, hunt, bowl, what have you—and when I was young the fact that we never actually did any of these things only added luster to his promises. He’ll teach me, I thought, and then I’ll be able to cast a line to exactly where the biggest fish drifted.... And together we would, we would ... But when it came right down to it, we never did any of those things.
Johnny wheeled the big car back onto the highway, leaving Northland Screens and its high brick walls, blind windows, and motionless assembly line where no fathers were working.
12.
I WAS NEEDED FOR THE BANQUET, all right. In fact, so many people showed up to celebrate the Angletons’ anniversary that Phil Palmer could have hired an extra ten people that night and still been shorthanded. His biggest mistake was allowing guests to order off the menu rather than simply giving everyone a slab of prime rib or a few pieces of baked chicken. The cooks, waitresses, and busboys hustled to keep up, and only the bartender’s speed and generous pours (on Mr. Palmer’s orders) kept the guests from noticing, or at least complaining about, how long it was taking for their orders to be taken, their water glasses to be refilled, their meals to be delivered, or their tables to be cleared. The night was cold, but because Mr. Angleton’s circulation was poor, the heat had to be turned up, and we were all sweating as if it were the Fourth of July.
By ten thirty everyone had been fed, and the help had cleared out of the dining area so the testimonials to the Angletons’ long marriage could begin. The smells of cooked meat—steaks, chops, chicken, and fish—were replaced with the smoky odor of cigarettes, cigars, and pipe tobacco. The clink and scrape of knives, forks, and china plates fell silent. A podium and microphone were set up in a corner, and the various speakers trooped up, first to tell a few jokes about the miseries of married life and then to drone on about what inspiring examples the Angletons were.
By this time I’d hung up my apron and stuck my clipon bow tie in my pocket. Another busboy and I were standing by the open kitchen door, cooling off and sneaking a smoke, when Phil Palmer burst in.
“Matthew, go help Mrs. Knurr with her husband. He’s outside the men’s room and he’s hurt his back or something.”
Phil Palmer was not an unreasonably demanding or bad-tempered employer, but it generally was wise to obey his orders—and immediately. I flicked my cigarette out into the snow and hurried off.
Mr. Knurr, a Willow Falls attorney, was right where Phil Palmer said he’d be, leaning against the wall outside the men’s room. His wife Beverly was holding onto him, bracing her weight against him in an attempt to keep her husband from sliding to the floor.
“Mr. Palmer said you could use some help,” I offered.
“You’re Esther Garth’s boy?” asked Mrs. Knurr.
I wondered briefly why my identity mattered under the circumstances. Her grasp on her husband’s suit coat seemed so desperate, temporary, and uncertain that she was in no position to refuse any offer of assistance. “Yes ma’am.”
Mr. Knurr