Page 36 of Home Body
Mamie nodded, Rose waved, and they went on their merry way. Dalia crossed the street and entered the bank, an old-time brick building she adored. She loved Farmdale, a quintessential small farm town that had cropped up during the Victorian era. The wide street was lined on each side with a building no more than three stories high, each storefront displaying its ownunique architectural details. Dalia had long had a charming, colorful design in mind for the front and interior of Mama Mamie’s Bakery. She wiped the imaginary images from her mind as she opened the old brass door of the bank, which sat on the corner, the door being at an angle to both cross streets.
“Hi, Vilma.” Dalia knew the teller well from her frequent visits depositing cash into her account.
The teller stood at the marble-topped counter that spanned the length of the room, cutting it in half. A black iron grill, the kind seen in banks in old western movies, ran the entire length of the counter. Four open spaces in the grill indicated teller stations but, on this day, Vilma was the only bank employee in sight.
“Well, hello, Dalia. How are you today? And how is that adorable little girl of yours? And your mother?”
“We’re all doing fine, thank you.”
“I saw you down the street a bit ago coming out of the gymnastics studio. I take it Rose is going to take lessons.”
“Yes, she’s thrilled.”
“Oh my, that’s nice. You know, that gymnastics teacher got divorced last year and I hear she’s already in love with some guy from the university.”
“Well, good for her. I hope she’s happy.” Usually Dalia enjoyed gossiping with Vilma but not today. Anxious to do what she had to do, she said, “Listen Vilma, is Mr. Van Natter available by chance? I need to speak to him for a minute and then I need to get down to the drugstore. My mom and Rose are waiting for me.”
“Sure thing. Let me check.” Vilma punched a number on the speaker box at her side, her boss answered, and Dalia was invited right up. Vilma went to the wooden half-door at the end of the counter and pushed it open. “Go on up.” She motioned forDalia to step in and go through the door that would take her to the stairs in the back. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks so much, Vilma.” Dalia headed for the narrow stairs she’d taken before.
Mr. Van Natter would have known someone was coming, she mused, from a mile away, what with the clunking noise footsteps made on the old wooden stairsteps, echoing throughout the enclosed space.
“Come in, come in!” he said, his voice booming jovially, as usual. The rotund man in his late fifties stood in the small vestibule outside his office. Always professionally dressed, he wore a summer suit, button-down shirt, tie, and breast pocket handkerchief. A brass plate with gold embossed letters on the office’s heavy wood door announced who he was, which amused Dalia, as if he might be the one to forget his name.
“Hello, Mr. Van Natter. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”
“Of course.” He ushered her inside and pointed to the leather wing-back chair that sat at the side of his desk, the one she’d sat in before when they’d made the arrangement for the bakery. He sat down behind his desk and said, “Dalia, like I said before, please feel free to call me Vic. You’re a grown woman now. ‘Mr. Van Natter’ sounds so stuffy.”
“Okay. I’ll try.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. Van, I mean Mr. Vic…”
“You’re never going to call me plain Vic, are you?”
“No. Probably not. Anyway, Mr. Vic, this is difficult for me, so I’ll come right out with it. I’m not going to be able to pay for the bakery. I know you offered us a great deal, and I know you’ve been keeping it off the market for us. I’m so, so sorry. It isn’t going to work out.”
His brow furrowed as he looked away without speaking. It caught her off guard when he stood up and went to a window that looked out on Main Street.
“Dalia, come here a minute. Look down there.” His tone was gentle, even forgiving.
She did as he bid.
“I can see everything from here. I saw you come out of the studio down the street…” he pointed “…and saw you come in here while Mamie and Rose went down to the drugstore. Chocolate malts?”
“Why, yes.”
He chuckled. “That’s always been one of Mamie’s favorites.”
“I suppose you know most everything about folks in this town.”
He looked at her with his eyebrows raised. “I know enough. But I don’t know what you were doing to earn that money. You drove toward the city five days a week. The sheriff told me that. Mamie’s story about you working in an upscale restaurant and making great money in tips is a fine story, but I fear it isn’t true.”
She opened her mouth to speak with no idea what to say but he held up a hand to stop her. He pointed back at her chair, and they sat down again.
Leaning in on his elbows, he said, “Dalia, I’m going to tell you a story. I’d prefer you not repeat this story to anyone. Can you do that?”
She nodded despite her surprise.
“You don’t have to tell your mom because she already knows. Without words being spoken, she knows. Let me start at the beginning. I met Mamie when she was fifteen years old. I was seventeen. It was 1952. We each liked wandering around down by the Huron River outside of town. It’s where we found solitude. Well, we kept running into each other and eventually started talking. Mind you, whites and blacks didn’t mingle inthose days, so we were very careful not to be seen. I thought her the most intelligent, most beautiful, most compassionate girl I’d ever met. Do you understand me, Dalia?”
