Estelle Wyss
Estelle and Karl Wyss. Estelle was a friend of Sara’s: from church. You entered a deal with the Wysses using their land as collateral. When things went bad they took the loss. They still live in the back of the Il Pascolo subdivision. I’m sure you remember where that is.
It had been many years—he couldn’t remember how many exactly, but more than a decade—since Kier had driven through Il Pascolo, Italian for “the pasture.” The name of the development was Estelle Wyss’s idea. Estelle Zito Wyss was second-generation Italian, though she never actually set foot on terra Italiana until her late twenties when she was on her honeymoon. It was everything she had fantasized. She never wanted to leave the country and forever afterward referred to herself as a “displaced” Italian. From then on she and her husband, Karl, spent most of their summers in Genoa or near Lake Como or sometimes south along the Windex blue waters of the Amalfi coast.
The pretentious development was designed to evoke the Italian countryside; its entrance was marked by a gargantuan round stone from an authentic olive press (from California, not Italy) and an Italian fresco painted on the entrance’s stucco wall, flanked on both sides by grapevine-covered trellises.
Under Kier’s direction the homes had been marketed as villas—overpriced, stucco-slathered homes built on lots barely large enough to accommodate them. The streets all had Italian names: Via Masaccio, Santa Maria del Fiore, Giuseppe Garibaldi, Via Di Sera, Bagno a Ripoli; names difficult to pronounce and even harder to spell, forevermore the bane of every homeowner who moved to the subdivision.
Three blocks from the entrance, at the furthest end of the development, was a house that didn’t fit in with the others. It was a small red-brick ranch that looked more like it belonged in Tulsa than Tuscany. The only thing Italian about the home was the faded tricolor flag that hung from the garage and a sign in the driveway that read, PARKING FOR ITALIANS ONLY. It was ironic that the only house that didn’t look indigenous to the development was the only one that was. It was the Wysses’ original home and at one time all sixty-four acres of Il Pascolo had belonged to them.
The first time Kier saw the Wysses’ property it was an operating dairy with more than a hundred black and white Holsteins contentedly roaming the grounds. Estelle Wyss had told Sara that she and Karl were getting too old to run the dairy and, unable to compete with the larger, more high-tech dairy operations, were looking at selling or developing the land. Unlike her husband, Karl, a Swiss immigrant, Estelle had never liked the dairy life (too many flies and cow pies, she told Sara) and looked forward to finally fulfilling her dream of retiring to the northern Italian countryside. It was because of Kier that her dream never came true.
Kier recognized the underdeveloped land in the middle of an established suburb as a rarity and, a gold mine. Kier convinced the trusting couple that rather than selling their property outright, they would make money faster by leveraging their property against the development. Spurred by greed, Kier rushed the construction, wagering with the Wysses’ property. Kier built more than two dozen spec homes and waited for them to sell; the venture couldn’t have been more poorly timed. As the homes were nearing completion, the local real estate market took a sudden plunge and the homes sat, overpriced and unsold. When the construction loans came due, the Wysses lost everything except their own home and three quarter-acre lots they had excluded from the deal near the back of the development. Also lost was Sara and Estelle’s friendship.
As Kier sat in his car rehearsing his speech, he glanced at himself in the car’s rearview mirror. It had been a decade since he’d seen the Wysses and they were unlikely to recognize him even without his black eyes and bandage. He took a deep breath, climbed out of his car, and hobbled up to the house. Blue grains of ice melt had been scattered the length of the shoveled walk, like seeds sown into the packed ice. Above the door was a painted plaster sign: La Vita è Bella.
Kier knocked and a woman’s voice sang out, “Just a minute.” A moment later an elderly woman dressed in a colorful knit sweater and blue jeans opened the door. Kier recognized her immediately. Estelle Wyss’s hair had turned gray, and she had new wrinkles, but the bright eyes and smile were the same. She looked at the bandaged man suspiciously but still managed to smile warmly. “May I help you?”
“Mrs. Wyss, you probably don’t recognize me with the bandage.”
She squinted. “I’m sorry, my eyesight is a little fuzzy today. Sometimes my diabetes will do that. Are you the new fellow from the congregation?”
“I’m James Kier.”
She repeated slowly, “James . . . Kier . . .” Her smile faltered. “Mr. Kier. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if we could talk.”
“I was just about to take my afternoon nap.”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I won’t take much of your time, just a few minutes. Please.”
She hovered over a decision, then exhaled as she acquiesced. “All right. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
He stepped inside the house; it smelled of linen and baked bread. Even with the passing of so many years he remembered his visits to the home and how warmly he’d been received. Like the home’s exterior, nothing much had changed. The heavy oak kitchen table was still there, the one they had all sat around that evening, eating chocolate and anise pizzelles, as Kier explained his plans, the Wysses holding hands and listening eagerly. There had been excitement back then, and smiles and laughter. Now the memories turned on him. He felt like he was returning to a crime scene.
Estelle Wyss motioned to the living room. “Please, have a seat.”
Her cordial welcome was not what he expected, especially after his experience with Grimes. “Thank you.” He sat down in a floral upholstered armchair.
Estelle sat down across from him, her arms folded. “How is Sara?”
“Not well. She has pancreatic cancer.”
She looked genuinely sorrowful. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure you’re taking good care of her.”
Kier didn’t answer.
“I’d like to talk to her. It’s been so long. Too long.”
“I know she’d like that. She was very upset about what happened . . .”
Mrs. Wyss did not react to his reference to the past. “So what can I do for you?”
“Is your husband here?”
“Karl passed away four years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I. He was a good husband and a good man.” She gazed at Kier expectantly. “What do you need from me, Mr. Kier?”
“Mrs. Wyss, I came to apologize.”
“For?”
The question surprised him. “For what I did.”
“And what would that be?”
She seemed genuinely unaware; the thought crossed his mind that she’d actually forgotten his part in the loss of her property and it might be better to not answer her inquiry. Then again, maybe she just wanted to hear him say it. “For losing your land.”
“Oh, that.”
“The thing is . . .” As much as he had rehearsed his speech in his head, he was suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at her awkwardly. “The thing is, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“No, I suppose you didn’t. But more importantly, you didn’t mean not to.”
The words stung. Neither spoke. Then Estelle asked, “Are you dying?”
“No.” He shook his head. “No, I’m not.”
“So what is your intent, Mr. Kier? Are you seeking my forgiveness? Are you looking to make amends?”
“Yes. Both.”
She nodded. “Well, I’ve already forgiven you. Years ago. You see, I don’t hold on to the wrongs done to me; they’re just ballast for the soul. Jesus admonished us to forgive all men, seventy times seven. Not just the penitent ones.
Her voice lowered. “It was more difficult for Karl to forgive you, but in his last year I think he found peace as well. And as far as amends, I don’t see that there is anything you can do.”
Kier swallowed. “There must be something.”
“Even if it were in your power to return our land, it would be of no use to me. I wouldn’t know what to do with it. That time has passed.”
“How about your dream of living in Italy? I could make that happen.”
“With someone else’s loss? No, I couldn’t do that.”
“No, no—I have . . . legitimate profits. I could pay for it.”
She smiled sadly. “There was a time when I might have taken you up on your offer, Mr. Kier, but not now. I’m too old and the doctors have me too well tethered to the local medical establishment. And without Karl, the dream wouldn’t be the same anyway.
“So you see, Mr. Kier, you can’t make amends. You can’t give me back my land. You can’t give me back my health. You can’t give me back my husband and you can’t give me back my dreams. You certainly can’t give me back my innocence.”
Her words washed over him like a wave, leaving him floundering. “Is there anything I can give you back?”
She smiled at him sadly. “Yes, Mr. Kier. My afternoon.”
“Of course.” He stood. “I’m very sorry.”
“I know.”
He walked back to his car and climbed inside. His visit to Eddie Grimes had been less painful.
