An Unkind turning

It was an unkind turning from Summer to Fall. It came quite suddenly, cooling and diluting the thick ripe air of summer sweetness all too soon. Leaving the residence of the city feeling robbed of some much-needed leisure. The events of the past year: the market crash, unemployment, hunger, and an overall feeling of melancholy, left many with a sense of entitlement for an “Indian summer” and an abundant Fall harvest. They longed for healthy crops, worthy of growing fat on to sustain them through what was predicted to be another hard winter. It was not to be, and so they grumbled about town, feeling betrayed by God, Mother Nature, and the powers that be. They began using words like “cursed” and “hexed”, faithless words as evidence of their diminishing hope.
The cold had blushed the maples overnight, it seemed. Streets lined with trees once lush and green, now shades of orange and red seemed a warning of winters coming cruelty. The leaves of the squash, tomatoes, and sunflowers had crisped and withered prematurely from the cool brisk wind. Farmers were forced to harvest early to avoid frost damage. As a result, crop yields were only a shadow of what they should have been and market prices were high to compensate for the loss. Food cost were too high for most to afford, and more went hungry, so less food was sold and farms were lost because profits were low; and so the spiral continued on as it does in time like those. Loss perpetuating loss.
Because the cold had come early that year, there was still much left undone to prepare for the approaching cold weather. Warm clothes to mend, Food to preserve and store and wood to chop. They bustled from block to block. All were trying to make something out of nothing, wasting away still tan from summer sun and dusty from hard field work. They dressed in clothes two years old, which now hung on their lean, angular frames. In preparation to combat winter, they were an army of tattered soldiers fresh from the battle and straight off to another without pause

Rainer Men's club (A)

It seemed the afternoon meeting at the Conservatory had moved to the Rainer House, a men’s club in downtown Seattle. Formalities of the outside world were shed at the entrance with briefcases and full-length coats. It was a place where one could enjoy a hard game of squash, a swim, or simply speak freely about business and stocks without the medaling of wives and other underlings who felt fit to speak out of turn on subjects they knew nothing of. It was the last fraternal outpost, where a man could be…a man. Membership came at a considerable cost and the working class could not afford it, which was not accidental. Cultural lines were drawn not so much by law, but by money. Permission was granted or denied by it. Money was not something everyone could come by, and for good reason; money provided access to the social tiers of society. Much of the color and passion of the Irish and Italians had amalgamized themselves into American culture a generation before. Their thuggish infiltration to government, public service, and civil duty had a top-down effect into the fabric of American culture. Both groups proved themselves as formidable pseudo-Anglos and thusly, accepted, so long as no one had an accent or made heavy mention of culture or religion publicly. Coloreds and other immigrants had housing jurisdictions in neighborhoods kept separate from whites which meant that even if any of them could afford membership, social grace would be limited to nil in tolerance of their presence within. Jews kept to their own clubs of culture and didn’t care if they were excluded or not. The Chinese had their own parts of town by the docks where one could buy fish, spices and fabrics while others could find their way into alcoves draped in a labyrinth of curtains which kept secret rooms with women and pipes filled with hypnotic smoke where a man could drift away into his dreams and never return. Andre Bane liked things this way. He believed that people found their place in the culture by a combination of breeding and hard work. Could a man work his way into social culture, in a way, but he would always have a “smell” to him.

A train whistle blew and steam puffed out the top of the smokestack as it paused in the station while passengers unloaded. A pair of snakeskin shoes stepped onto the unloading platform. A Gentleman with a thin moustache, well-manicured fingernails and a pinky ring extended his red umbrella. He whistled to the baggage boy and was quickly handed a small suitcase in the same shade as his umbrella. The train whistle blew, and the train departed from the station. From overhead the rain came down. And in a sea of black umbrellas, it was Hugh Balcrees red umbrella that could not be ignored!

The final say

The tip tap of ladies’ high heels rang through the Conservatory breezeway and the fabric of Anne's chemise dress swished behind her as she marched with stern intention. “These things take time Anne! Oh, please don’t make a stink!” James shuffled behind, flinging benign comforts to calm her. “Things are already cattywampus with your father’s estate…couldn’t you just wait a month? The money will come through! Does it really make a difference?” Anne turned on her heels with a serpentine stare, “A difference? Oh James, it makes all the difference!” Mr. Bane didn’t like people bursting into his office. James stood in front of the door, blocking her way. “The Board is in the middle of a meeting! This isn’t the best time!” “On the contrary! If the Board is present, this is the best time!” It was the first time she looked at him squarely. Her face toward his, he melted, at a loss for words. She reached behind him and thrust open the door. Presenting herself to a smokey room filled with men at a table. “Miss Hibbert! What a surprise!” There was no look of annoyance on Andre Banes face, but instead a mouthful of niceties. “Gentleman, you remember little Anne! All grown up of course!” The men looked on lugubriously as though she had interrupted something quite serious. “Anne we are sorry for your loss…truly.” His tone imposing pity. Anne brushed aside the attempt of formalities, “James tells me that the Board will not “allow” me to sell my shares! Is this correct?” Mr. Bane looked at James disapprovingly. “Well, James should mind his words, shouldn’t he?” The phrase ran through Anne’s ears like a silent whistle. “Mind his words? Well now, don’t expect that from me!” “We would appreciate your agreement to hold your shares for a months time. Provisions must be made for the board to purchase the shares.” He waved his hands over his words as if a decree had been made. Still Anne pressed, “Mr. Bane, I don’t care if the board buys it or not! I don’t want to spend months minding preferences and unnecessary formalities! I want to be in my own apartment and done with this place by the end of the week! I have already received a generous offer!” “Oh…who?” He looked around the room to the other members. Anne stood her ground a moment longer, “I don’t see that it matters, so long as conservancy and botanical preservation are paramount…” Still the silence lingered on, with a discomfort so thick that even Anne felt pressed to speak into it. “Hugh Balcree. From the San Francisco Chapter.” The room shifted. Mr. Watkins poured another drink and Bane exchanged a glance with Mr. Carlyle. James looked down, hiding his eyes from Anne’s keen stare.