DANDELIONS: ‘Buttercup’

Reba didn’t trust John Schatz. Did anyone? But she trusted his judgment.

“Reba!” he cried, answering the phone. “How wonderful to hear from you.” Schatz added, with his usual intimacy, “You never call me. I always call you.”

“Yes John. I need something.”

“I’ll be right over.”

“No no. That’s not necessary. I want to know if I should display at the Houston Home and Garden show.”

“You’re going to Houston?”

“What can you tell me about it.”

“Hmm.” John Schatz was thinking. You could hear him thinking. “The weather will be nice…”

“You’re not listening, John. I didn’t say I was going to Houston. I’m wondering if I should send a place setting or pitchers. Some artists are renting tables.”

John Schatz gave her his best advice. First, it’s Houston. The real action is Dallas. But that’s Texas. Texas might as well be South Dakota. She would be better off at one of the East Coast shows. Or Miami. That one’s in May. In any case, artists aren’t treated well at any trade show. It’s perceived as vanity. In addition, booths are expensive.

“They did want me to kick in $300,” Reba said.

“I see.” John paused again. “Your best bet is to send a few pieces to one of the big furniture companies. They will put them on a credenza or bow chest. For free.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Décor sells furniture.”

“But how does it help me?”

“They’ll tag your work.” Schatz said. “Why don’t I call Bayside? They do moderné. It’s a good match.”

“I don’t know.”

“Or Keith Burton. He’ll take some vases. And I owe him one.”

I’ll bet you do, Reba thought. “Let me see what I have.”

“I’ll bring lunch. We can decide together.”

“That’s okay, John. Thank you.”

Schatz hung up, not at all disappointed. It felt good to hear his phone ring. To be in the loop. He had not thought he would miss the tangle and jangle of phones. But he did. He missed it terribly.

At one time calls poured in. Lois answered the phones in his downtown office. That’s all she did. Schatz didn’t believe in voice messages, pressing buttons, voice menus. “Every call gets answered,” he told her. Lois was old school. She understood immediately. Others, not so much.

“It’s like we’re back in the ‘Fifties,” Seth Anderson complained. Seth was Lock and Key’s president. “Why don’t we at least get hold music?”

“If they have to wait, sing to them.”

There were memorable calls. A call from the governor of Wisconsin, congratulating him on a store opening. Calls from overseas, IKEA, the Middle East, an appliance conglomerate in Singapore. One day an investment banker in Manhattan phoned at 9:30 am. That’s early for a banker. The partner, immensely wealthy, met Schatz’s direct manner. “We’ll cash you out today,” he said. “For thirty-seven million dollars.”

“We grossed that last year,” Schatz lied. “Do you know what you’re talking about?”

“Hey Sweetheart, I haven’t seen your books.”

“And you won’t.”

Schatz almost hung up, but hesitated. He liked the man’s moxie. And the Long Island accent. They ended up speaking for half an hour, a sort of verbal speed chess in which each gave the appearance of candor, while revealing little.

One or the other called every two weeks or so. Schatz bought some of the bank’s shares, largely as a gesture, and to stay in touch. He considered a variety of funding options, but they could never agree on rates.

He had dozens of these friends, executives, investors, retailing consultants from Los Angeles, Philadelphia. Lois sent calls through. It’s Tom Radin in Memphis, she would say. He took up the phone. “Hello, Buttercup.”

They wanted to shoot the breeze. Schatz knew furniture. He knew advertising, price points, the Midwest, although these were pretexts. They teased each other, had fun. You never knew when you might learn something, or get an insider tidbit.

“Don’t repeat that, Buttercup,” John would say, smiling into the receiver. He could be sure they would.

Buttercup, Sweetheart, Buddyboy, Tiger, Killer. It was important to be warm, even foolish. It showed dexterity. A willingness to play. Anything less was met with suspicion. What did you want? What did they want?

Everything. Nothing. Women were another issue.

The top executives were invariably shrewd, battle-hardened, having fought their way through the ranks. They were wary, a step ahead. They had seen too much.

No one joked. Flirtation was deadly serious. A reputation is at stake. “I’m having trouble with Sarah Zimmerman,” he told Catherine Baker, standing in her open door. A large Peter Mack hung behind her desk, imposing and colorful, framing her pretty face.

“What kind of trouble?”

“She won’t guarantee inventory.”

“Pull the line.”

“I was hoping for something a little less dramatic.”

Catherine smiled. Her cardplayer smile. “I meant it as a threat.”

“I don’t do threats.”

No, Catherine thought, a little sadly. No John, you don’t.

She looked out her window, the floor-to-ceiling glass with a sweeping view of the affluent western suburbs. The sunsets could be brutal. And beautiful. Drumming fat but shapely fingers on her glass desk, the nails lacquered white, she was perhaps looking ahead. Ahead to the day when calls did not come in for John Schatz. The confident, confidential voices cooing Buttercup, Buddyboy…

“I’ll call her.”

“See what you can do,” Schatz said. “And don’t mention me.”

“I won’t.”

Catherine Baker picked up her phone. She told her assistant to get Sarah Zimmerman. Pronto.

Was Schatz getting old? She could hear him down at Shorenstein’s office, laughing at something the man said. His instincts were still sound. Lock and Key was opening a another store in Chicago. Others told him not to, he would cannibalize the Lincoln Park store. Cannibalize. A curious word. She flew down every week to check on construction, and to get away and stay at The Langham, where she could indulge herself. If this involved a little illicit activity with a married attorney for Brahman Builders, so be it…

Schatz never got away. He loved his wife. Life must seem in every way purposeful, even artistic. Clouds were forming, but like the great prairie thunderstorms nothing was hinted, not at first. Just the broad, overheated sky, gravel roads and a ribbon of dust tailing a single car, a flock of birds taking wing from an aspen, all at once, not a leaf turning in the still air.