Dreams of a Robot Dancing Bee (12 page)

“He died three years ago.”

Before placing on the shelf, a few hard shakes . . .

Florence and Shirley are having tea on the front porch. I've never seen two more serene faces. They don't need me. The lizard has retreated. No sign of a mess anywhere. Their world is
temporarily ordered. Recipes, children, the operations of mutual friends, fabrics, fall chores, local politics. They don't even look my way when I slam the side door.

They don't care that I have gargled dirt since this day began.

T
here was a great deal of anticipation surrounding the arrival of the new junior high teacher, Olivia Gibbs, first, because she was new and from the East, which automatically lent her cultural superiority in the eyes of Mosly's self-effacing citizenry; and, secondly, because, from her resumé, it was clear Miss Gibbs had traveled widely and would bring a fresh perspective to the lives of those she touched. Her predecessor, Miss Evralena Sledge, had not had a new thought in fifty years when she keeled over during the Pledge of Allegiance one morning. Her students could barely suppress their desire to applaud as it was the quickest they had ever seen her move.

“I suppose she'll think we're a bunch of backwater simpletons and mental defectives from the dark ages,” Emily McCormick was saying to the principal, Travis Skelton. “I hope we won't embarrass ourselves into scaring her away right off.”

“Well, she must have seen something she liked in us or Mosly or both, because she's already bought herself a house.” Mr. Skelton, being the principal of the Junior High, took some pride in the place and didn't plan on cringing before his newly hired teacher no matter where she'd gone to school or grown up. “She'll fit in in no time, you wait and see, Emily. Don't bother yourself so.”

“I'm not bothered, Travis, I just want her to like Mosly. I think
we should plan a little get-together to welcome her before classes start.”

Mr. Skelton did like to savor every last minute of the summer, but he knew Emily was right. They should plan something.

“Why don't you take charge of it, Emily. Maybe ask Beth and Lorene if they will help you. See if Lorene will make one of her gooseberry pies.”

Several of the teachers gathered at the party claimed they had seen Olivia Gibbs running errands around town during the summer, but none had actually spoken with her or met her face to face.

“She has such a sense of purpose,” Lorene said. “I saw her at the bank, very dignified, but not off-putting. I watched her when she was taking out her mortgage loan. Old Billy Laminack was impressed.”

“I can imagine,” said Emily. “Of course, Billy Laminack was impressed when I introduced him to my cousin's goldfish, if you know what I mean.”

Just then Olivia knocked on the screen door. “Hello everyone. Sorry if I'm late.”

Emily took it upon herself to provide introductions. A dozen of the faculty had been rounded-up.

She really was attractive, tall, nicely dressed, and, best of all, she smiled comfortably, naturally, to each new colleague.

“I've had quite a week, let me tell you. I've been on the phone trying to get some honest answers from three of the agrichemical companies around here.” Conversations stopped and heads turned toward Olivia. “You won't believe the level of emissions
at Diamond Shamrock. I'm surprised half the town hasn't got bone and reproductive cancer. Well, you'll be glad to know I've called the EPA, called them ten times this week already, and they've promised some action. I'll settle for nothing short of closing down the plant. Until then, none of us are safe.”

There was absolute silence in the room.

“Welcome to Mosly,” Woody Weaver, the shop teacher, chimed.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Olivia recouped her sense of occasion. “What an impression I must be making on you. Please forgive me. It really is lovely to meet all of you. I'm very pleased to be here, really I am.”

“My father and brother and all of my uncles work for Diamond Shamrock,” Beth said.

Woody lit a cigarette and chuckled.

“Where is your new house located?” Travis inquired.

“It's at the end of Old Mill Trace,” Olivia replied. “Very quiet and shady. I want to have you over as soon as I'm fully settled. I've made arrangements to have bottled water delivered every week. I had an analysis done of the local water, and you wouldn't believe it: benzene, clordane, heptador, endrin, dioxin, you name it. I'm definitely not going to cook with it, and only reluctantly will I bathe in it.”

“I've never really given it a thought,” Travis said. “I grew up here, never lived anywhere else, except when I was in the service. I guess we natives are immune or something. Have you tried the cheese dip, can I get you some?”

“No thanks,” Olivia said.

Woody Weaver pulled a small silver flask from his sports jacket and poured a dash of whiskey into his cup of punch. Miss Gibbs obviously amused him, and he was not above pursuing a little mischief. “Care for a dollop, Olivia?”

She knew a trap when she saw one, and surprised Woody by accepting the offer. “Why not?” But then she couldn't resist striking back. “Do you know, Mr. Weaver, that if I put one drop of pure nicotine on the tip of your tongue you would drop dead in less than three seconds?”

“Then I hope you won't do it,” Woody said, and all those within ear-shot roared.

Emily was afraid things weren't going well. Olivia Gibbs was different from them, but surely there must be some common ground. They were, after all, all teachers. And, also, personally speaking, they were both women.

“You're not married are you, Olivia? I don't mean to . . .”

“Oh, that's all right. No, I am not married, never have been, never intend to. I like to make my personal choices, and from what I've observed, marriage is a constant compromise. I have a lot of friends . . .”

“I'll bet you do,” Woody interjected.

Emily looked across the room at Beth, beseeching help, but Beth just laughed and shook her head.

“Is it true what I read that Mosly students have the lowest reading skills in the state?” Olivia asked Travis.

“Oh you read that, did you?” Travis replied, then turned and joined Woody in the corner.

Emily's welcoming party was turning into a tense and altogether
unpleasant affair, and she only wished she had never had the idea at all. Perhaps they would have all gotten along together just fine if they had met their new colleague on the first day of classes. Maybe it would have taken years to discover their basic differences.

Olivia Gibbs stood there by herself in the middle of the room holding the drink from which she dared not sip. She felt that she had scored several important points already. Mosly was just a stepping-stone for her, she wanted to leave her mark, even on this putrid swamp, because that's how she did things.

O
ne of the editors at
The Sunday Magazine
asked Sam D'Amico if he would write an article for them on the subject of Hedges. As co-owner of Barton's Nursery & Landscape, he was flattered and felt he must accept the challenge, even though he had never written anything more than a letter home to his parents from camp when he was a child.

“Hell,” he told his wife Millie with his usual self-confidence, “I know everything there is to know on the subject, so what's the problem?” And that's when the problem began.

He told his partner, Ted, and all the other employees at the nursery, and they were suitably impressed. Sam even noticed a change in the way they addressed him or responded to his orders. And he liked this new respect. He dressed a little better than usual. Millie noticed this with interest and ribbed him gently about it. “You going to church?” she'd tease. He didn't mind because sometimes he needed her advice on coordinating outfits. He even took her with him when he decided to buy some new shirts and trousers. The new clothes were a little bolder, more colorful, than he was willing to wear previously.

The changes in his new style were introduced slowly at the nursery. Most of the workers didn't really notice. He carried himself with such quiet dignity now that they assumed it had always
been so, that he was a man of distinction who occasionally dabbled in arts and letters. Only Ted saw the transformation, and he was glad for Sam, as he had been aware of Sam's recent depression. No big deal, Ted thought to himself, we all go through those periods when we're not sure of ourselves. when we question our worth. Now Sam's got something going for himself. Good for him.

“You know, Ted, I'm going to have to take a few days off to work on the article. Can you get by without me?”

“Hey, I understand, pal. No sweat. It's free advertising for the nursery. What could be better? Enjoy yourself.”

They had covered for one another many times over the years. Ted's fishing trips, Sam's visits to his in-laws.

“You're a sport, Ted. Hey, wish me luck on this thing.”

“You're the best, Sam, just remember that.”

At home, Sam converted the guestroom into a study of sorts. He made a big desk out of a door he found in the cellar and a couple of saw-horses. He brought in one of the straight-backed chairs from the dining room. He placed a lamp on the desk and arranged a large yellow pad of paper and half-a-dozen freshly sharpened pencils next to the paper. He was rather proud of this improvised workroom.

“What do you think?” he asked Millie with a big smile on his face; what am I, the Ernest Hemingway of hedges, or what?”

“It's very nice, really. But wouldn't you be more comfortable in one of the stuffed chairs, I mean, for your back?”

“Hey, I'm not on vacation, baby.
This
is work. Your husband, the writer, star of
The Sunday Magazine
, on the fine science of hedges.”

“Well, you better get to it. Ted was very nice to give you these three days.” And with that remark she left the house to run some errands.

When she returned three hours later, she was surprised to find Sam sprawled on the couch watching an “All in the Family” rerun. He didn't even take his eyes off the set when she walked in front of him with two armloads of groceries. She set them on the kitchen counter and came back into the living room.

“Hey, what's with you, Señor Hemingway, all finished?”

He didn't like her joke. “It's too hot, I can't think straight.”

“Well, did you get started at least?”

He made a face to indicate that she was annoying him. Finally he said, “How the hell do you know where to start? I mean, you know I know all this stuff, but how do I begin? ‘Hi, my name's Sam D'Amico and here are a few tips on choosing your hedge, and here are a few pointers on planting your hedge.' That's not what those
Sunday Magazine
articles sound like.”

She could see he was exasperated, but he had taken such pride in the invitation to write the article, she saw now she was going to have to build him up. That wasn't Sam's problem, usually.

“You're being silly. You can do it. I know you can. You're the expert, just think of it that way.”

He was acting like a hurt child. Everything Sam did he did well, and this was the source of his whole identity. One year he even went out and bought a bunch of sex manuals just to be sure
he was doing it like the experts said it should be done. He was insufferable. Millie counted the days until he would move on to some new project that didn't involve her.

“It's supposed to be 5,000 words, how can anyone
write
5,000 words, for God's sake. How did I get into this? Millie, you've got to help me.”

“I don't know the first thing about hedges. Now stop whining like a child. I've got an appointment at the hairdresser tomorrow morning so you'll have the house to yourself. In the afternoon I'm having lunch with Ruth okay? You'll have a nice quiet day to think and write and you'll see, it will come to you.”

But Sam's day was not at all peaceful. First, he cleaned the basement cleaner than it had been in fifteen years. He threw out old paint cans and boxes. He made a trip to the dump and disposed of an ancient aquarium that had not seen a live fish in at least ten years. He threw away some wooden skis that he had bought at a tag sale years ago and never used. On his way back from the dump he stopped at the Tobacco Shop and bought himself a pack of cigarettes, his first since he was in the Navy.

In the study, he pulled the chair over to the window that looked out on Evelyn Turner's house. She was in the kitchen baking something. He had always wanted to see her in a swimsuit or less. But this was okay for now.

D
o you want to make love?” Wayne asked his wife, Evie.

“Here?” They were walking a trail on the bluff above the river. “But what if somebody comes along?”

“They won't. Besides, give them a little show. So what.”

Evie looked down at the waterskiers below, and the families out boating on this sunny Sunday.