Practically Perfect - 5. V. A Soupçon of Hope

V. Act Two – Gardening

Scene 2: A Soupçon of Hope

"… Now, where is Admiral Boom with his booming rooftop cannon when you need him…?"

The movie reference strikes Bruce as a funny one. Being an aficionado of the film as he is, he knows the Banks' Cherry Tree Lane neighbor is an eccentric, who along with his partner, Mr. Binnacle, sound the cardinal points of the clock with cannon fire from his roof. The punctuality of which causes all hands on deck in the Banks' household to hold chinaware, pictures and furniture from roaming around via the vibrations.

The creaky sound of a metal door interrupts Naomi's thoughts. Fink and the electricians have finished their adjustments and close the circuit breaker box.

Fink's mind is thick with concern, only part of which is work-related. Mary's comments from only a few days ago again conjure feelings he'd thought were buried. Is it fair of her to make him think of his son?

The Display Department boss glances nervously at the multiple sets of eyes trained on him. The crowd is hushed with almost crushing expectation.

He moves to the platform, and Mary joins him. Fink gestures for Bruce to come as well.

Grabbing Naomi's arm, they go to the dais.

All minds are thinking the same unified thought.

The moment's here.

Bruce picks up the controller and tries to hand it to Fink.

"Oh, no." his boss says. "If this doesn't work, it's not going to be my fault."

Mary Poppins, in her indefectible way, tut-tuts Jerahmeel. "Why, Mr. Fink, are we forgetting our liberation and growth so soon?"

Distracted as he is by his own pounding heart, Bruce puzzles at the odd chastisement. He recalls his boss mentioned he and Mary 'had soup,' but wonders what else went on; Fink acted differently for a time after the encounter, whatever transpired.

"Come on, Bruce. We don’t have all day." Fink taps his watch, clearly deflecting his gut-reaction.

So, with a reassuring glance from Naomi, Bruce holds the controller at abdomen level, takes a deep breath, and a split second before flipping the toggle, wonders if his birthday wish should have been different.

Click.

Nothing.

Click; click. Nothing.

"See."

Bruce looks into the crushing smugness coming from Fink. The young man feels the weight of failure descend upon his shoulders, and he cannot understand how and why his boss is the way he is.

˚˚˚˚˚

Mary Poppins strolled casually by Jerahmeel Fink's side. Open in her hands was one of the store's guides. "Departments from Adding Machines to Zippers; very impressive, I must say."[1]

She refolded the olive-green cover and slipped the directory into her omnipresent carpetbag.

They were on the Seventh Floor, heading to the gourmet food section. It was decided – mainly by Mary – that Miss Poppins should be 'round-about and visible in the store before the holidays to generate buzz. It was working, as everywhere Fink took her, folks stopped chatting and stood aside to let them pass with silent-but-open mouths.

Fink told her with pride, "As the flagship store, downtown Famous occupies more than a dozen full showroom floors, and several levels of this building for administrative offices alone. In addition, we have an annex across Olive Street with more selling space; we've more departments than you can count, and refrain from boasting the obvious – we're one of the biggest retailers anywhere in the world. But, by next week it will all be changed."

"Oh?" Mary did not hide her surprise.

Fink grinned. "By Friday morning of next week it will all be transformed. Me and my department will work through the night, and by the time the store opens Saturday morning, each floor will be dressed in this year's Edwardian Christmas attire."

"Ah. I'm sure it will be delightful. Your team and you have talent and dedication on your side, especially with that young man, Bruce Achitoff."

Fink was grudgingly put on guard. Why was Poppins bringing him up?

They walked on, making their way through the small appliances display. A few curious housewives, intent on pursuing the pre-holiday blender and juicer models for husbands' gift lists, glanced towards Mary and blinked in wide-eyed wonder.

The department head thought he knew why; although her umbrella and odd little hat were back in the studio, Mary still had her bag and outer coat in place. Her 'uniform' and the old-style, buttoned-up quality made her stand out. Jerahmeel chuckled.

She's almost as much of a sore thumb as Bruce.

Mary caught him having his private moment. He stiffened in response, and tweaked his lower back pain.

The epicurean food section was replete with dark paneling, and an old-word glass and walnut display counter nearly thirty feet long. Above it ran a paneled soffit to house downlights and brass chains for leaded domes with pale panes of yellow glass. The amber and softened light lent an undeniably appealing aspect to the rich delicacies in the case – like tins of saffron from Spain, candy-flecked amaretto cookies from Italy, silver trays with wood shavings to pillow black truffles from the woods of Oregon, and the even more-tender laces of fiddlehead ferns from the depths of the unspoiled Ozarks.

On top sat artful mounds and pyramids of imported jars of preserves, jams, jellies, not to mention the store's ration of Jacob's Cream Crackers and Dutch rusks to pick up and enjoy with the blessings of the adjacent cheese counter.

Mary and Fink came strolling in, but were drawn to and inspected one of the central table in the middle of the department. A marble-top antique with massive legs in the height of French rococo taste, its four by six-foot top held an impressive array of displays. They were grouped by type, and was each backed by bold graphic displays behind it to inform the buyer what was on offer.

Mary's hand reached out to a grouping of sealed crocks. All were uniformly the size of small baking dishes with lids and handles. Terrine de foie-gras de Strasbourg – $25.00, a discreet placard announced. A brave stack of glass jars next to it contained the bright-hued rounds of entire orange slices – Confiture Duchesse de Bourgogne, the sign before them said. To their right were tall-shoulder silver cans with blue printing right on the tin – R&R Tripes de Caen, they boasted. Lower-profile goodies crowded the front of the 'French' table as well – gaily-wrapped bundles of dried lavender from Provence, jars of Dijon mustard, porcelain dishes to cook snails. In fact, everything a person would need for an escargot feast was to hand, including immaculate shells in mesh bags to serve them, the silver tongs to lift said shells from the dish when cooked, and even the thick hockey-puck-sized cans full of the spiral treats themselves.

"My, my," admired Mary. "Messrs. Harrod, Fortnum and Mason could learn a thing or two." Her eyes wandered to the companion table – an exact match for the broad-shouldered behemoth – only the oaken twin was loaded with Spanish morsels, like membrillo, fig cakes, and rice for paella.[2]

Fink picked up a jar of Spanish olives. "These are the last of the goodies from the Under 3 Flags Festival."

"Under…?"

"Yes. Been an exciting year 'round here, both for the store and the City of Saint Louis. It's her birthday. Place founded two hundred years ago by Frenchman, Pierre Laclede. To throw a party, we staged a two-week festival celebrating French, Spanish and American culture."

"Oh. Spanish too?"

"Yes. See, they had administrative control. The French lost the French and Indian War and had to turn over military rule of New France west of the Mississippi to Spain. It worked out all right. At least here, as the two groups got along, and business – the reason this city was founded in the first place – flourished."

"And the three flags component?"

"It's not hogwash; it marks a ritual. On the 9th of March, 1804, the Spanish flag was lowered and the French Tricolore raised. The next morning, the Louisiana Purchase was officially handed over to the People of the United States, and the Stars and Stripes raised once and for all."

"Oh, how appropriate to commemorate that momentous event."

Fink smiled. "I'm glad you agree."[3]

In a moment of feeling that he could trust this stranger, who appeared without agenda, Fink let slip, "I look around this store, this city, this nation, and can't help thinking it just doesn't get any better."

In a soothing tone, Mary told him, "None of it has happened by accident. In terms of this store, you and your associates have worked very hard to achieve what we see and feel. You should be proud. You should also realize you're not shouldering the burden by yourself."

Jerahmeel was again struck by the woman's flawless British accent. She could give elocution lessons to the Queen.

"Young Master Achitoff showed me a small portfolio of your work, including the ninety-foot-high tree on the corner of the building."

"Oh, did he?"

"Yes. He admires your creativity; he admires you, Mr. Fink."

The man felt odd to have his underling revealed to him in this way. Fink halted, sensing his glance had fallen away from her completely.

Mary was simply observing him the way a proud parent might. "Wonderful achievement, Mr. Fink. Truly wonderful."

The sound of diminutive shoe leather in the adjacent aisle interrupted their thoughts.

Two children ran up. A little boy and girl stood and stared at Mary with a finger in the mouth and awe written across their face.

Poppins gave Fink a knowing look before turning her attention to the young ones. "Why, halloo. And who do we have here?"

The mother appeared with a pair of shopping bags loading her down. A briefly flustered sigh, no doubt related to her runaway brood, dissolved as she too succumbed to saucer-eyes. "Why…. You're – "

"Mary Poppins. Pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Mom pulled little hands away from little mouths. "Say hello."

"Hello," they chimed with growing smiles.

"And what's your name, young man?"

"William."

"And you, young lady?"

"Nancy."

"William and Nancy, perfectly charmed, I'm sure."

"But," stammered the mother, "what are you doing, here…?"

Mary lowered her voice; cast some cautionary glances left and right. "I may or may not be considering this fine retail establishment to unpack some of my holiday magic this year. Mum's the word." A judicious finger landed on the side of her nose with a nod.

The woman was back to round-eyed amazement, but she managed a nod herself.

Fink had every confidence word of Mary's 'mum' would spread like wildfire to all of the woman's friends via telephone calls this afternoon; in fact, he'd bet the farm on it. Mary was doing fantastically well at her assignment of stirring up interest.

"Now, let's see…." Poppins placed her carpetbag securely in Fink's hands and opened it up with intent. Her noisome rootling and tootling was accompanied by murmurs: "I know it's in here somewhere…next to the syrup…or perhaps by the carpet sweeper…. Ah, yes! Here."

She spun around and let the tail end of a measuring tape fall to the floor. "Now, William, stand up straight – yes, there we go."

The boy giggled and did a fair straight-arrow impression. Mary held the tape by his side. She pinched the spot matching the boy's height and brought it close to read.

"Rather as I expected. William – courteous, brave, and only slightly mischievous."

Mother and daughter chuckled and exchanged confirming glances.

"Now, it's your turn, young lady." Mary again held the tape and read it out. "Nancy – attentive, kind, and rather good to your brother, despite everything he does."

The kids exclaimed in unison: "Whoa!"

Mary put the measure away, and the mother set her shopping bags down to dig in her handbag. She pulled out a camera. "May I?"

"Certainly!" cried Mary.

The children dutifully followed their mother's excited hand gestures to take up positions on either side of the Edwardian-garbed lady. Fink tried to step aside, but Mary only smiled and pulled the man into shot.

"Say cheese!"

"CHEESE!"

Click.

All seemed right with the world, and even Fink's heart managed to stretch its confines a tiny bit and smile.

Mary's good for people; she's good for me too.

"Thank you. Children, thank the nice people."

"Thank you."

After that, bags were gathered and the little family went their excited way among the wonders of the Seventh Floor.

When Fink looked, Mary had already begun strolling to the next department – Fine Wines.

Watching Mary move about the racks, an idle hand of hers reaching out and stroking labels as they slid by, Fink thought how in balance the woman was. In addition to her equilibrium as neither young nor old, tall nor short, there lived more to it than that. She was a fine combination of optimism and practicality.

She told him, "More glorious signs of the 3 Flags – fine French vintages, and cheeky Spanish reds."

"Yes, and some Missouri Rieslings to boot."

"Ah! So I see!"

She picked up a top-shelf example from the verdant slopes of the Missouri River. "Young wine, like young men, have a passion to impress. Don’t you agree?"

He had a sneaking suspicion the topic had returned to his employee. "I suppose so, but mature vintages are the ones regarded as the most important."

"True, but the untamed and untested of today must eventually be the mellow old paragon in time, if, it's ever given a chance to settle."

Fink felt a bit of heat around his collar. He did not like to continually think about Bruce Achitoff – it caused him discomfort – and yet it seemed to be the woman's favorite topic.

"I'm afraid I see it differently. Today's youth are different. They don’t know beans, and don’t show an interesting in learning, so will they ever mature? Don't bet the mortgage payment on it."

"Mr. Fink – "

"No, we kids at the start of The Depression, we had to scrimp and beg to get a foot in the door doing any old menial thing for practically nothing. We had it tough! Then the old guys in charge were incompetent bullies. For them the 'old ways' were the only ways. But don’t get me wrong; I knew the score. Truth was, they were scared. They had been young and ambitious once, and saw their seniors pushed out of a job in the age before the social safety net. They saw how those 'replaced' men died quickly because of complete poverty. They were hell-bent on keeping my generation 'in place.' And worst of all, they were ornery as junkyard dogs."

An inscrutable expression had settled on Mary's face.

"What?" Fink asked.

"Do times really change? Have you ever considered how Bruce looks at you?"

Silence.

Mary finally said, "I suppose you will tell me it's none of my concern, and I will not be able to fault that logic."

"Their entire generation is soft and spoiled – any nanny worth her salt can see that, I'm sure."

"Spoiled usually shows itself as tantrums, Mr. Fink. That, and petulant behavior – every nanny knows at least that much."

He almost felt like laughing; she was correct, and he had been soundly chastised without her really needing any special effort.

"I might close my mouth, Mr. Fink. We are not a fly catcher, at least as far as I can see."

His response of further silence led Mary to inhale and set the bottle back in position. Her stern visage turned soft. "Shall we have some luncheon, Mr. Fink?"

Surprised into the new topic, he nevertheless said, "Yes, I know just the place."

˚˚˚˚˚

A corner of the Second Floor had been carved out.

Red tent poles with spiky gold finials supported a striped awning. Under it, a timeless French country kitchen featured a stove on the right, and racks with cookware on the left. The enormous black range was an antique; a hood of copper boldly capped it. Pans hung on the wall for immediate use, while the same shiny glints of red-orange metal carried over effortlessly to the shelves as well. Here fancy moulds for everything from jellies to ice cream 'bombs' displayed centuries of French gastronomic pride.

In front of the awning, an outdoor-like seating area was arranged with little marble-top tables and bentwood chairs. Tall boxes on casters, painted to look like planters, 'grew' preserved boxwood branches to separate the eating space from the streams of interested shopper moving by on the other side.

From where they sat, Mary and Mr. Fink noticed other lunchtime diners occasionally turning curious heads, but none were rude enough to disturb their meal.

They each had a salade Niçoise, and Fink savored the luscious black olives and egg wedges. A basket housed slices of French bread under a spotless linen napkin, while ramekins of butter awaited use.

Mary speared some lettuce and carried it to her mouth with pleasing sounds of approval.

"It's good, isn't it?" asked Jerahmeel. "Our Austrian Chef Zettl has just been awarded best in the state for his salads."

"It's delicious – just perfect."

Fink popped open the napkin. "Bread?"

"Why, yes. Thank you." Mary seemed surprised after she reached in and took a slice.

"What is it?"

"It's delightfully warm – and – it's a proper baguette." She manipulated the crust a moment, producing a delectable crunching sound. "Nice and small, and crisp on the outside."

"Oh yes, it's the real thing. Our bakers, Monsieurs Dupureur and Bernier have also been awarded makers of the region's best in the category of 'French breads and rolls.'"[4]

"Well, the baguette, the salade, the atmosphere, it's a delightful little bistro."

"Saint Louisans think you're barking up the right tree. Soupçon was supposed to be temporary, just part of the 3 Flags festival, but it's gotten so many awards, and people can't get enough of it, it's now a permanent addition to Famous."

"Good sense and good food always win the day."

Mary's logic proved once more to be beyond reproach.

"Yes, this year has been special. We wanted to make it memorable and now the pressure's on to ensure Christmas '64 is a real celebration, considering how sad last season was."

"Oh…?"

"Yes. The president had been assassinated third week of November, and President Johnson called for a thirty-day mourning period: no lights, no celebration. It was miserable, and now folks want to honor Kennedy by showing life goes on, despite the senselessness of violence."

Mary shook her head in commiseration. "Everything's moving so fast these days."

"I feel every one of my fifty years. Times are changing way too fast for my tastes."

"You're hardly outdated, Mr. Fink."

"Nah, don’t try to sugarcoat it. I look around and don’t get it. First Elvis with his gyrating hips, and now the Beatles with English Civil War haircuts…? I don't know what's happened."

"Some things never change, I can assure you. Take for example the character of a person, or people; the important things do not alter, despite what they listen to on the wireless."

"I suppose so." The department boss chuckled. "I guess I remember what the 'old timers' had to say about Chick Webb and Benny Goodman. 'The Devil's Music!' our parents warned us. But we were kids; we just wanted to dance."

Mary cleared her throat in a barely perceivable way, and bowed her head towards her rising napkin.

Fink got it. The message was the kids of today just want to dance too. He could accept that, at least privately; he took a slice of baguette and buttered it well.

"Sometimes 'maturity' means being blessed with both the luxury of experience and a free heart," the woman suggested.

"I'm not free, Mary…." He set his knife down softly. "Time has not been my friend, not in the twelve years since – since my son was killed."

"Oh, Mr. Fink – "

"Those kids, the generation of boys growing up right after World War II, they got it bad. Hollywood bombarded them with the 'glory' of war, with the fantasy that bloodshed is good and righteous when done without emotions, without connection to the act itself. My son – my boy – was anxious to get in there when Korea came along and show us old men they could fight too. I tried. I did try to tell him that it was not like John Wayne portrayed, that he was going for a cause which may have been more political than righteous, but he would not listen; he acted hurt that I would question his bravery – so, he showed me, and he showed them all, and died."

"Mr. Fink – "

"I lived through The War, and through The Depression, so I know 'manly' is not letting yourself become cannon fodder for somebody else's agenda. I hope Korea taught this country its lesson."

"A suppression of feelings alone does not qualify one for manhood."

Jerahmeel Fink blinked at her statement. He realized what he had said; the weight of what he'd just confessed to this stranger settled disquietly on his shoulders. He shook his head slowly, not letting the moment pass. "To cope with the senseless, meaningless loss of my son, I threw myself into my work. I also – the poor woman…. I also couldn't stand the sight of endless mourning on my wife's face. Am I a mean man?"

"No. You are a hurt one."

"I don't know if I believe that."

"If you ask for my opinion, I will tell you you've been stuck. I believe, Mr. Fink, your malaise is due to a position you hold onto for comfort, but one that will not let you move onto acceptance. Depression needs to come to an end, for only with the final stage is there true relief. I hope you hear my words, Jerahmeel – if not now then I wish for them to plant themselves in your heart until ready to germinate."

The man was again lost in the perfection of Mary's agelessness; perhaps she was the ideal generation bridge. He felt those musings segue into softer, but still firm, thoughts of Bruce.

As if reading his mind, Mary came back to the theme of the young man. "He has great talent, you know, your Mr. Achitoff."'

This time Fink did not feel any jealousy.

"I admit to being half-tempted to recommend the boy go out to Hollywood and work with Walt. It might be easier too, if he wants to date that lovely Ms. Tyson."

Mary sternly assured him, "Bruce and Naomi are just friends. It's like my chimney-sweep companion, Bert, and myself – " She made a telltale gesture with her head to indicate there was more to the story than that. "Just dear, close, friends."

Fink was still musing on the original topic. "But if he does move out to work as one of Disney's Imagineers he'd have to buckle down and pull his weight. No more 'funny business' with his clothing, and sometimes I feel I'm too soft on him. He needs to toughen up."

Mary settled back on her seat. "Pish…. Posh…" she slowly sputtered.

Fink felt thoroughly scolded.

She continued with schoolmarm-sternness. "You look at Bruce – a nice, respectful, hardworking fellow who is bright, engaged and kind – and think you should mistrust him simply because he's not like you."

Jerahmeel was silent, lost in the digestion of her words.

"But, Mr. Fink, can you imagine how he looks at you?"

The Display Department Manager shifted uncomfortably, his bum knee aching dully. He dreaded confirmation of what he already suspected; but shook his head.

"He looks at you and is confused. He cannot understand the crustiness of your generation in general, or the total lack of warmth you have specifically for him."

"You think so…?"

"I know he believes you are broken, Mr. Fink." Her head bowed; her napkin elevated in slow motion to her lips for a second time. "And so do I."