Front Yard (11 page)

“This is a wonderful tree,” she cooed. “Wonderful. But it has to go now, doesn't it? Its time has finally come.”

“Wonderful?” said George. “Yes, I suppose. We've just never paid that much attention to this corner of the lot. It's shady over here and close to the woods.... What the
heck
happened to this tree?”

“No kidding!” said Nan. “Sheesh! Look at it!”

The white oak had apparently suffered a traumatic injury of some sort. Its leaves were crinkled and brown. In fact, dozens of them were falling, sprinkling the ground around them with detritus. The tree itself looked suddenly decayed and wilting.

“How can that be?” said Nan. “There was no sign of anything wrong. And, now all of a sudden . . .”

“I was just sitting out here yesterday in the arbor, looking at it, and it looked fine,” said George. “And, yes, someone did tell us it could be at least 150 years old. Now, it's just a blot on our beautiful backyard. We're going to have to call the tree guys to cut it down. How could this happen?”

“Lightning,” said Nan, walking around to the other side of the tree.

“Huh?” said George.

“Here's a huge scar running down the back of the tree. Crown to roots, it looks like. Lightning must have killed it . . . but instantly?”

“Impossible,” said George. “The other problem with that theory is we haven't had a thunderstorm in weeks. And that last one was a weeny one. Hardly any thunder or lightning at all.”

“Maybe its time has just come,” Miss Price said. “Maybe it has to die to make way for something better. This tree must come down.”

Nan and George stared at Miss Price.

“What are you talking about, Miss Price?” Nan asked.

“What I mean is that maybe this is a sign that it is time to cut down the tree and to search further.”

“For what?” wondered George.

“It's making it easy for us,” Miss Price said, appearing to be in the clutches of a rapture. “It's saying, ‘Cut me down to learn what you should learn.' ”

“Okay,” said George. “I think it's time to go now. Nan and I have a lot to do, and I'm sure you've seen quite enough, Miss Price.” Nan gently took hold of Miss Price's arm.

“We must talk some more,” said Miss Price as Nan led her gently down the steps. “Please, let's talk some more. Don't cut that tree down until you talk to me. Don't do it! Please! Something awful may happen if you do!”

“And a good day to you, Miss Price,” said Nan with a sarcastic wave as Miss Price got into her car. “No need to talk anymore, I'm sure.” Nan was shaking her head as she climbed back up the steps to the patio.

“What could that weirdo have possibly meant?” she said as George met her at the top of the steps with a glass of Sagelands.

“No more than what she meant that day at the Historical Society,” George said. “She's got a screw loose somewhere.”

“But you must admit that some very strange things have happened around here. What is
with
this place?”

“Here, drink this,” said George, handing Nan her refilled wineglass. The real magic was how a glass of Sagelands 2007 merlot could disperse even the most unsettling thoughts and premonitions. By the time Nan had drained her last drop, Miss Price had been reduced to the status of a fleeting whimsy.

“George?”

“Nan-bee?”

“Heard the one about the aphid and the Ukrainian vegetable gardener?”

15

T
he combination of the new gardens and the Burdick's sign that still stood on the corner of Sumac and Payne attracted a steady stream of gawkers and visitors through June.

One Saturday morning, from eight thirty a.m. until noon, George counted twenty-three cars either slowing down to a crawl or flat-out stopping at the sign. These cars often disgorged drivers and passengers who would read the sign, then move a few steps toward the gardens for a better view. Sometimes they'd take pictures and wave to the Fremonts, if they happened to be either sitting on the front stoop or puttering around among the new flowers, which were in full, fresh, show-off mode.

The grass, for a change, was thick and green. Plus, it was now being regularly mowed by their yard-care reinforcements, sons Cullen and Ellis having meandered their way home from college several weeks earlier. Neither of them demonstrated the slightest interest in any gardening that went beyond the rudiments of operating the new self-propelled whiz of a Toro wide-swathed lawn mower. Both landed summer jobs in the ready-made-food-preparation-and-delivery field.

“I'm sick of planting flowers,” said Ellis, even as George and Nan pointed out that he had never had to plant one. “My dream is to own a chain of fast-food outlets specializing in some kind of upscale confection. I haven't decided which one yet.”

George and Nan, being supportive parents, encouraged Ellis in his ambition, and made sure to patronize Yukkum's Creamery, where he worked scooping out thirty-seven flavors of hand-churned ice cream.

“I'm going to start my own fresh-veggie delivery business at Dartmouth,” said Cullen. “I can make a mint, especially around exam time. What better way to serve an apprenticeship than by making pizzas at Curbside?”

Nan and George had to concede that the logic of that decision was hard to dispute. Plus, they especially liked the “veggie blaster” thin-crust pizzas Curbside made, and looked forward to the discounts Cullen could presumably now get for them.

So, the boys were left to their own devices, as long as they chipped in toward the general care of the household, which involved doing their own laundry as well as those onerous mowing duties. The real challenge lay in getting them to abandon the notion that they could blast iPod music through their headphones while mowing, special care being needed to avoid cutting off all the blooms bursting out right up to the very edges of the mow-able turf.

“The grass likes getting haircuts,” George said. “Not the flowers. Leave that to us. Pay attention when you mow; don't rock out!”

Speaking of decapitating flowers, it was time for George and Nan to start deadheading the hybrid teas. It stood to reason that haggard blooms past their prime needed to be cut off for the health and well-being of the entire plant. It was to their credit that the hybrid teas understood that. Plenty of other flowers needed the same treatment. Deadheading ensured that the energy of the plant would be redirected toward shooting out fresh new blooms, besides lengthening the lifetime of the annuals. Of course, fresh blooms in their prime could also be cut for decorative purposes, such as filling indoor vases. Roses, lilacs, and daylilies were especially good for that.

“George, it's about time to move the sprinklers,” Nan said. “Then, we need to switch over to the soaker hose for the hybrid teas.”

George, entranced by the front yard scene laid out before him in the perfect definition of a late-morning's light, looked over from the stoop at the misting yard and listened to the hypnotic snip, snip, snipping of the two sprinklers that were currently spewing their water over the lawn. The daylilies would be blooming within the next week or so, and George and Nan couldn't wait to see how the Happy Returns and Rosy Returns varieties would perform. From what they were picking up from the other flowers, both varieties would be outgoing, exuberant in their beauty, and fully cooperative in any gardening plans George and Nan might have for them.

A male oriole emerged from the hidden lower reaches of the slope, and attached itself to the shepherd's crook pole from which the oriole feeder was suspended. For an entire minute, it jerked its head one direction, then another, then darted to the feeder jar to gorge itself on grape jelly and live mealworms. Having sated itself, it perched on top of the feeder, scanned its surroundings again, then took off in a blur of orange and black. It disappeared momentarily, then reappeared on the other side of the street, and soared into the upper reaches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew on the near shore of Bluegill Pond.

“Earth to George-dear,” came a voice from out of the watery sprinkler haze. “Looks like you're getting ready for the switchover to wine, so I thought I'd better catch you now. Detach the left sprinkler and attach to the soaker hose for the hybrid teas. They really get thirsty.”

“No kiddin','” said George, who had picked up the parched-stamen vibes. “Every time you walk past them, they're letting you know. Kinda used to being the queen bees of the garden, aren't they?”

“They're not so bad,” Nan said. “They like to show off, and they need constant watering to always be at their best. Don't worry; once the daylilies bloom, they'll keep them in their place.”

George nodded. The daylilies. The enforcers of gardening discipline and equity. You could really count on those guys to keep everyone in line. But they weren't out yet, so they had to depend on the delphinium to keep order.

“Sprinkler on the right goes farther to the right, George, and a bit down the slope. We don't need to water the street, though.”

George really hoped it would rain soon: a big, long, soaking rain, because the way they were pumping out water, it was only a matter of time before they'd be lowering the water levels of a half-dozen major rivers and a good fourteen tributaries. After turning off the water and moving the sprinkler coming out of the right spigot, he turned his attention to the left one, from which a hose already snaked toward the hybrid tea roses. He connected the male end of the hose to the female end of the black soaker, manufactured from super-porous material to drip water from a thousand points along its length on to the plants among which it had been strategically placed. That was the best way to water plants, right at dirt level and down directly to the roots at slow-motion optimum soaker speed. A horn beeped from the corner.

“Hiiiii!” George heard Nan yell in her shrill long-distance-greeting voice. He looked up to see the Winthrops walking up the slope toward them.

“So, this must be the true source of the Mississippi,” said Steve Winthrop, chuckling, as the sprinklers twirled water everywhere.

“I see the Winthrops are here,” said George, coaxing his knees into slowly lifting him upright. “It must be time for alcoholic beverages.” He lifted his left wrist to look at an imaginary watch. “It's two fifteen, which means it is absolutely cocktail hour in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

“Well,” Nan said. “Let's all convene in the backyard for a little burgundy delight.”

Juanita Winthrop rubbed her hands expectantly. “Yummy, can't wait!” she cried. “Oh, and I've been meaning to ask, where do you guys get your wine . . . that . . . that . . .”

“Sagelands 2007 vintage merlot,” chirped George.

“Yes,” Juanita said. “But we can't get it any more at Lubbock's. We were only able to get it there once. Three bottles. Then, next time, poof, gone.”

“Of course,” Nan said. “Lubbock's stopped carrying it. Distributor stopped bringing it around. We had to start going to Frey's in St. Anthony, then
they
stopped carrying it. We can't understand. We tried to get Frey's to order it for us, but they said they can't get it. Now, what kind of a liquor store is that? We have to special order it now right from the company. Costs a pretty penny, I'll tell you, but worth every cent.”

“Maybe we can go in with you,” Steve said. “We love that wine, and you could maybe save on shipping. I bet the McCandlesses'll go in, too, if you can wean them off their chardonnay.”

“Sounds like a deal,” Nan said. “Though you're welcome to continue leeching off our supply. Hey, speaking of leeches, it's the McCandlesses. They look lost. Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo! Over here!”

The McCandlesses had just branched off from the driveway and were starting to head up the steps toward the backyard patio. They turned to face the familiar welcoming voice.

“We really don't know where to go anymore,” said Jane McCandless. “Now that you've got your front yard going like gangbusters and started hanging out on the front stoop there. So, we just put ourselves on automatic pilot and head where it feels familiar.”

“That's all right,” cried Nan. “We've had enough quality time with the front yard for the time being. We'll be headed over there in just a minute with the wine and some glasses. We haven't forgotten the chardonnay, since I'm guessing you're still drinking that swill.”

Alex McCandless balled a fist and shook it in triumph.

“George! George!” he cried. “Get the radio. We're headed out back. Muskies playing afternoon game today?”

“Yep,” shouted George, who was just passing out of sight around the north side of the house. “Home against the Deerticks. God-Awful pitching.”

George's voice trailed off as he continued walking around the house, mumbling doubts about Kurt Gottaufal—christened “God-Awful” by Muskie fans because of his performance to date. He stopped briefly at the edge of the arbor and gazed again with disbelief at the white oak, whose leaves were now all crinkled and brown. Many of them had broken loose and were drifting through the still air toward the ground.

“Amazing!” he muttered.

 

As the game headed into the fifth inning, the Muskies were getting walloped, 14–3. God-Awful had fully justified his moniker, giving up nine earned runs in four innings before the bullpen came in to try to stop the hemorrhaging. They were only partially successful, and the men gathered on the patio wondered aloud whether last year's run at the playoffs was just a fluke.

“Well, at least Smokestack'll hit number 500 soon,” Steve said.

“Yeah,” said Alex. “He's at, what, George, 487?”

“He just hit 491,” said George, who spent a fair amount of his indoor spring and summer time watching baseball games and poring over the game's voluminous statistics. “But he'll be coming off the bench more from now on. They're already platooning him with Goodhue. It'll be September before he notches number 500.”

The women paid a little polite attention to all this baseball gab, which the wine had heightened into a thin patina of genuine interest, then went on to talk about the subjects they were really interested in: their children, most of whom were now matriculating at various colleges and universities throughout the land; the new antique store on Robertson Drive, where Bayle's supermarket used to be; and the sudden drop-off in activity next door.

“You know, George . . . George!”

Encumbered with baseball-loving husbands, the women sometimes found it difficult to break into conversations when their spouses were locked in discussions with like-minded friends about who held the record for most wild pitches thrown, who played shortstop for the Marmots back in their inaugural season—which was 1962, for those who have to be reminded—and how many ways there are for a pitcher to commit a balk. It got even harder when “Bad Dog” Simpson launched into his customary off-key rendition of “Yonder Comes That Mud Dauber Special,” as was customary after the seventh-inning stretch. When that happened, fans throughout the St. Anthony metro—at home, in bars, or at the ballpark—sang along, usually mimicking Bad Dog's execrable delivery.

This backyard rendition, fueled by enough alcohol to make it particularly boisterous, constructed what amounted to a sound barrier as impenetrable as a cinder-block wall encased on both sides with a foot of insulation and sprayed with a film of clear soundproofing epoxy that hasn't even been invented yet.

But Nan was well versed in methods of interrupting male-bonding rites. She stuck the forefingers of both hands into her puckered mouth, and, as both Juanita and Jane covered their ears and opened their mouths to equalize the air pressure, let loose with a shrill whistle that left Livia residents as far as six blocks away scanning the clear skies for any signs of approaching tornados.

The three men jumped out of their chairs. Miraculously, they didn't spill a drop of their wine.

“Attention! Attention!” barked Nan. “George, what's going on next door? We've been so busy with our garden preparations, and spending so much time now creating the front yard, that we haven't noticed that there are no cars in the Grunions' driveway. And when was the last time you saw or heard any sign of activity over there?”

“They're old people,” said George, still stunned from the effects of Nan's aural blitzkrieg. “They don't do much. How often do we see them anyway?”

“Well, their kids and grandkids are usually over there once a month, aren't they? When was the last time you remember seeing them?”

“Come to think of it . . .”

“Maybe the old guy croaked. He wasn't faring so well, you know.”

“We heard the Grunions were in some serious financial trouble,” Juanita said. “Made those big improvements to the house, then couldn't foot the bill. We heard they carried three mortgages on their house.”

“At their age!” cried Nan.

“Gambling debts,” said Jane knowingly. “I've heard, and this is only fourth-hand, mind you, that Marva Grunion piled up hundreds of thousands of dollars in gambling debts at the Little Rabbit Casino, and that Ben loses money at the track every week.”