Backyard (4 page)

Adjoining the finch-feeding station was a red, bell-shaped hummingbird feeder loaded with nectar water and hanging from a curved and hooked planter pole stuck into the ground.

Farther away, at the east end of the property, was a tray of orange slices and jelly suspended from a similar pole placed next to the variegated dogwoods. This was meant to attract finicky Baltimore orioles, who always seemed to be finding tastier fare elsewhere.

The Fremonts counted thirty-two species of birds they had positively identified in their backyard and adjoining woods. Most recently, a rufous-sided towhee had made a brief inspection of the main feeder just as George was looking out at it through the kitchen window. His ejaculation of joy brought Nan to the window. Nan then plucked the
Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds
from its perch on the windowsill, made a positive identification, and duly noted it in their bird sightings log.

The Fremonts lived on the corner lot, intersection of Payne Avenue and Sumac Street, north-central one-sixth section of Livia. Livia was a large suburb of the much larger city of St. Anthony, fifteen miles to the north. It marked the northern reaches of the Big Turkey River Valley, which divided it from its more populous and affluent neighbor—Macomber—to the south.

Their lot was on a hill that sloped steeply down to Sumac, and much more gradually to Payne. Beyond Sumac, the land dropped down farther to Bluegill Pond, which was actually a lake of considerable size.

Their house had been constructed haphazardly over the decades. There was a central portion built in 1955 over the ruins of an old two-story farmhouse, then two additions were thrown on in 1962 and 1974, respectively. About an eighth of the lot on its north side constituted the strip of woods. At various points along the periphery of the lot and adjacent to the house were silver maples, ashes, a spruce, two sugar maples, which were the pride of the neighborhood when they flamed orange and a rich burgundy in the autumn, and two huge locusts.

Their children were aged twenty (Ellis), eighteen (Cullen), and seventeen (Sis, or Sister, known officially and when in trouble as Mary). The Fremonts voted their conscience, paid their taxes, and rooted lustily for the major league St. Anthony Muskies. They attended the Please-Redeem-Me Lutheran Church, which represented a breakaway sect of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America that thought the Triune God should include four more parts—earth, wind, water, and agricultural commodities. They complained about the weather, just like everyone else in this part of the country.

They had thrown themselves with much enthusiasm into the college search for Ellis, who had just finished his first year at a good Lutheran school, Augustus-of-the-Prairies, in a bordering state, and Cullen, who was headed to Dartmouth, and encouraged sis's pronounced musical proclivities (she was “allstate” trombonist two years in a row).

All of this was important. What threatened to eclipse all other things, though, was their gem, their precious possession, their fourth child, assuming a purportedly inanimate object can be thought of in such a way: their backyard. They would never have actually
said
such a thing. They would hardly have allowed themselves to think it, though in moments of pure self-illumination they figured it loomed so large in their lives as a way of preparing them for the coming loss of all their children to distant colleges.

“It's going to be our legacy, really,” said George that lazy late Saturday afternoon in early June, as they relaxed in their patio chairs under a cobalt sky.

“And they're so happy with what we've done,” Nan said. “Just look at their lustrous color, how they assert themselves. We've given them the confidence to grow. It's a sort of self-esteem that comes through a positive vibration of how we've treated them. Give them the proper care and love and that gives them the inner strength to be what they were meant to be. We've empowered them, George!”

“Hmm,” said George, who thought this was all pretty much balderdash, but figured it didn't take that much of a sacrifice on his part to humor his wife in this regard. “I get what you mean . . . yeah.”

“I'm going to start working on my Zen. I think it's good for the plants to be in a Zen-like state when you approach them, especially when you have to prune or deadhead. You should probably do that, too. Be at peace with yourself. You tend to be kind of herky-jerky and enthusiastic when you approach them with anything sharp. They could get the sense that you enjoy it and have a destructive impulse coursing through you. Don't want that! Serenity is what they want to feel. They want you to emanate serenity.”

“I'll work on my serenity,” said George. “Maybe I'm not drinking enough.”

“Do you think they can hear us talking?”

“Uh, sure, I suppose they could.”

“Of all our plants, which do you think are the most sensate?”

“The most what?”

“Sensate. Being able to have a physical sensation.”

“Jeez,” George mumbled. “How do I know? Uh, how about the roses?”

“You're right! Very good, George!”

A warm breeze straight out of the west whooshed through the leaves and gently tousled Nan's graying hair. She clinked the ice in her glass and took a healthy sip of gin and tonic, which had been broken out and mixed weakly to supplement the wine. She silently appreciated the added lime juice George had squirted into the drink. And, oh, there was the rock-like cold of the ice cubes and that fizzing freshness of the tonic water. Only real men could mix a drink like that, she reflected joyfully.

She looked around, gathering in the subtle and showy manifestations of her gardening skills, and smiled.

“We need more lilac bushes. And I'm going to get Jerry to build me another trellis right over there and plant a couple more rosebushes.”

Nan pointed her drink to a sunny corner of the lot, where woods met lawn, and which had been turned into the compost pile. That was a sore point between Nan, who hated its ugliness, and George, who lived and breathed the need for compost.

“And then, our little Oriental garden will go over there.” The drink hand swerved unsteadily to indicate that part of the backyard that was between the back of the house and the shed that housed the lawn mower, trimmer, and any number of tools, fertilizers, bikes, and sleds.

“That costs money, you know,” George said. “I'm getting just a little worried about the money situation here, Nan-bee.”

“We can do a lot of it ourselves. I've seen books that show you how to do it.”

“Okeydokey, consider it done, Nan-bee.”

George pushed back his chair, stood up, and clinked the ice cubes around in a drink already in desperate need of freshening. Nan held out her own. Amazing how quickly those damned ice cubes melted, diluting the drink! A stiff breeze kicked up. Partially blocked by the house, the front of which bore the full brunt of any big wind, snowstorm, and downpour, the blunted wind got here by swirling at them from over the roof and around the sides. Nowhere in the world, they both thought simultaneously, was the wind so frisky as in their backyard.

“Can we get moving on that refill?” said Nan, as a cloud, tendrils flying, thrust its purpling base across the sun, covering her briefly in startling shade.

5

Among the Weeds

B
ringing Marta back into the fold as her special confederate would take all the diplomatic skill Dr. Sproot could muster. That would be quite a challenge since she had no such skill. Her gifts were more in the area of bullying, tongue-lashing, brittle sarcasm, and other forms of overt intimidation. Had Dr. Sproot been the seigneur of a fourteenth-century feudal fiefdom, peasants who missed a single bimonthly tithe would have been boiled by inches in oil and offending courtiers fed in very small pieces of hacked-off flesh to the pack of household wolfhounds.

Seeing as how this was twenty-first-century Livia, Dr. Sproot had to settle for being the local gardening community's token douche bag.

But how to deal with Marta?

At first, she tried to call her. One message after another went unanswered. Seven attempts left Dr. Sproot furious and itching to sputter insults into Marta's answering machine. She had never been treated by her so-called friend in such an off-hand manner. Clearly, she'd have to try a new strategy.

So, it came to this: Dr. Sproot would have to drive over to Marta's house and apologize for something for which she was utterly blameless. She steeled herself for the ten-minute drive and what she hoped wouldn't be an exercise in groveling. Still, grovel she would if she had to; Marta was too important to be allowed to slip away. She would even drink her stupid tea if that was what it took. Tea, thought Dr. Sproot as she strangled the steering wheel, was for lazybones wimps.

It was from Marta that Dr. Sproot would have to pry loose all the details about the big gardening contest on the horizon and the inside dope on those gardening parvenus, the Fremonts. No one else would do. That's because, feared and respected as she was, Dr. Sproot was also disliked, which didn't exactly invite the confidences of her fellow gardeners. And it was Marta, who either because she was too scared to resist or couldn't break the tenuous but long-lasting bonds of their friendship, could once again be brought in thrall to her and compelled to do her bidding. But some delicacy was required here, Marta being the skittish and sensitive type.

“How could you do that to me?” said Marta, pouring them both tea after motioning for Dr. Sproot to sit down with her on the living room sofa.

Dr. Sproot fought back the urge to sneer at the prissy little scalloped teacups and saucers, which were decorated with stupid little pansies.

“Hmmmmm?” said Marta, who then noisily slurped at her tea in an annoying manner Dr. Sproot judged to be intended as a penance foisted upon her. “How could you just leave me there knocked almost senseless with a big knot on my head, two miles from home, and no way to get there?”

She gingerly placed her teacup back on its saucer, sputtered something incomprehensible, and began to cry. Dr. Sproot took Marta's hand in hers and petted it gently.

“It was an accident, darling,” she said. “You didn't see the tumble I took. It knocked me out of my senses. I think I also inhaled some fumes from those poisonous plants. Remember those? Those angel's trumpets. Remember how I saved you from inhaling them, but then I got a snootful myself? That left me acting somewhat strangely, disoriented. I do apologize, Marta; I really do.”

Marta's wet eyes flickered. She picked up her teacup by its dainty porcelain handle and took a slow-motion sip from it as her pinkie pointed rigidly toward the ceiling in the most irritating fashion. Dr. Sproot couldn't help but sense that Marta was flipping her the bird in a secret way that only Marta and her fellow gardening nincompoops would understand.

Dr. Sproot smiled and reached gingerly for her teacup. She touched it to her lips, and lifted the cup quickly to pour a big slug of molten lava into her mouth.

Fire alarm! Dr. Sproot waved her free hand in furious agitation as her face went crimson. The other hand flung the offending teacup to shatter against its saucer on Marta's coffee table. Flapping both hands like a pair of stunted wings on a flightless bird, Dr. Sproot managed to spew the scalding brew in a shotgun spray onto the coffee table, the sofa, the carpeting, and even Marta herself.

“Aaarrrgh!” she shrieked, shaking her head now and gulping in pain. “Marta! Marta! Get me some water! Some water, Marta! Why did you make that shitpissin' tea so hot!”

“My goodness!” cried Marta, looking down at her dress, which was blotched with brown spat-out tea. “My goodness! Oh! Oh! Oh!”

“Get me some water, Marta!” croaked Dr. Sproot. “Or milk. Get milk. Hurry, Marta; my mouth's on fire! Or honey! Marta, get me some honey! I'm burned!” Tears of pain and wounded dignity trickled down Dr. Sproot's rouge-caked cheeks as she quivered and sucked in heavy drafts of cooling air, then moaned in pain. Marta jumped up from the sofa and disappeared into her kitchen. About five minutes later, after Dr. Sproot's searing pain had diminished to more of a lingering irritation, Marta reappeared holding a large glass of milk with some light caramel coloring at the bottom.

“It's about time!” Dr. Sproot said. “What did you do, fix yourself a meal while I, a burn victim needing first aid, was sitting out here helpless and suffering?”

“It's laced with honey,” said Marta, handing the glass to Dr. Sproot. “Just the thing for a sore throat. I had a hard time finding the honey. You know Ham. He likes to put things back in weird places. The honey was actually sitting next to a couple of rolls of toilet paper in the bathroom. Tee-hee-hee . . . now drink it all the way down. Get all that honey at the bottom.”

“It's not a sore throat, you idiot!” said Dr. Sproot, her voice broken into a cracked hoarseness. “It's a damaged one! You damaged my throat, Marta. People get sued for damaging people's throats.”

“But you didn't swallow it, did you? It looks to me like all the tea wound up on the rug, and on the coffee table, and on my dress, which I just got back from the dry cleaners.”

“Yes, I did, you brutish woman. I swallowed enough of it to damage my throat and my vocal cords and my esophagus, which means I might have to restrict my diet to yogurt and applesauce in the future.... I don't know if I can even drive home.”

“Should I call 911, Dr. Sproot?”

“No, I'll drive myself to urgent care. Then, they'll refer me to a specialist. Then, God knows what will happen. Surgery? Therapy? How could you do this to me, Marta?”

“But the tea wasn't
that
hot, Dr. Sproot. It's how I always make it.”

“It doesn't matter what
you
like!” said Dr. Sproot, her ramrod frame rocked into lankiness with explosive sobs. “It matters what
I
can stand. And through your unforgiveable thoughtlessness, I've been damaged, maybe permanently.”

Actually, the honey milk was doing good service. It had soothed Dr. Sproot's mouth, which had not been burned at all. Her throat was fine; not a single drop of the hot tea had touched it. Inspired by a solution to her dilemma, which had just been handed to her on a saucer, Dr. Sproot chose to ignore these developments.

“I might never sing again,” she moaned.

“Sing?” Marta said. “I've never heard you sing before.”

“Well, I do. It's only recently that someone told me I had talent of the vocal sort. You wouldn't understand, Marta, not being artistically inclined. Now, I'll never know. One day, who knows, I could have sung at the Met, or maybe even La Scala. Not one of the principal singers, of course, but someone in the chorus. Now . . .” Dr. Sproot noisily stifled a sob she had managed to manufacture with considerable skill. Marta, by now bewildered and scared, stared down at her tea-blotched carpeting.

“We might have been friends for many years, Marta Poppendauber, but you have brought me to harm through your own simpleton's carelessness. I might have to sue you. I'm sure my mouth's blistering right now with third-degree burns. I'd better be getting over to urgent care. If I stick around here any longer, heaven knows what else might happen. I might get killed.”

Dr. Sproot rose up from the sofa to tower over Marta, and loomed there, five-foot-eleven-and-a-half inches of calculating imperial rectitude gazing down with implacable contempt upon her miserable friend.

“Please don't sue us, Dr. Sproot,” Marta moaned. “Please don't sue us. I swear I didn't think the tea was that hot. I swear it! Please don't sue us, Dr. Sproot. What can I do to make this right, Dr. Sproot? What can I do?”

“Well, now that you mention it, there is a matter in which I could use your assistance, Marta. It's a gardening matter, which I'm sure you will enjoy.” She sat back down on the sofa and folded her hands primly across her lap. She smiled benignly at the miserable Marta. “In fact, it's a matter with which you are already quite familiar.”

“But . . . but . . . don't you have to run over to urgent care?”

“Urgent care can wait. We've got more pressing matters to deal with.”