Recessional: A Novel by James A. Michener

he did not intend trading in his two-door; he liked its compact convenience.
    He had met his wife, Esther, whom everyone at the Palms called Es, when she was working as a teller at his bank’s Sheboygan branch, and after watching her masterly way with customers, he found numerous excuses for inspecting the Sheboygan facility. At the end of one protracted visit she had said: “Mr. Mallory, if you intend proposing to me ultimately, why not do it now and get our family started?” He replied as if she had asked for a loan: “I think that might be eminently sensible,” but he did not formally propose until some time later, for he believed that bankers should never take precipitate action on any proposal. Many years later, when he watched the debacle into which Savings and Loan managers had plunged the country because they acted incautiously, he growled: “They should be horsewhipped.”
    Both the Mallorys acknowledged that his subsequent success in putting together a banking empire was attributable in large part to Mrs. Mallory’s instinct for bold business moves. She loved to gamble on new ventures with whatever excess funds they had at the close of any business year. Her acumen regarding new developments in national finance plus his country-boy prudence in assessing specific situations had made them a formidable team whose fortunes grew not spectacularly but with absolute certainty. Among the numerous well-to-do couples at the Palms, they were unquestionably the wealthiest, the best dancers, the freest with their money and the best hosts.
    They had been happily married for sixty-one years, and when they reached their late seventies Mrs. Mallory, tired of maintaining a large house in a harsh climate, said: “Let’s get out of these hellish Wisconsin winters and have some enjoyment in life.” Es Mallory had launched a search committee of her business friends, who recommended the west coast of Florida. When Es and her husband saw the architectural layout of the Palms, they grabbed the largest apartment on the topmost floor of the peninsula wing.
    From their balcony, to which they led their visitors when the tour of the rooms was completed, Zorn could see to his right the smaller waterway called the river, and to his left the area where it widened and became a spacious body called the channel, which was protected on the west by a chain of small islands on which handsome, low houses had been built. “When a storm blows in from the Gulf of Mexico,” Mr. Mallory said, “those islands take a real beating. Water three feet up in the houses. But with us, hiding behind the islands, it’s never too bad.”
    Mrs. Mallory, who loved the natural features of their site, pointed across the river to a tangle of trees growing in the water, scraggly bushes, vines and muddy flats: “That’s our cypress swamp, a marvelous place for birds. Paths run through it, but so do mosquitoes and snakes. Stay clear.”
    As she spoke, Zorn moved around to the eastern edge of their balcony: “What’s the name of those extraordinary trees I saw coming in? Can they be palms, as the sign says?”
    “They’re palms,” Mr. Mallory said, “that’s for sure, but they are queer. What you must do is ask Laura Oliphant, the do-good lady on the first floor. She knows everything about nature and loves to share her knowledge.”
    So on the walk through the corridors to the Assisted Living and Extended Care wing of the building, Krenek stopped at another telephone and asked Ms. Oliphant if he could bring the new director in to ask about the curious palms that lined the two walks, and she agreed. Zorn wondered where the second walk might be.
    Before they reached her door, Krenek whispered: “She occupies our most inexpensive apartment, doesn’t have much money, but she’s one of the most valuable residents we have. People call her “our do-gooder,” because she has a fantastic moral conscience. Her role in life has always been to make things better