Front Yard (13 page)

George shrugged.

“And there's our idiot mayor. What's he doing here? Slumming among the middle-class voters, I suppose. George, please go tell them to kindly get off the hosta. Or we won't vote for them in November. Ha-ha!”

George, fortified by another root beer float, strode off to take on Livia's political machine while Nan took in the rest of the scene.

There must have been a hundred and fifty people in the backyard now. The crowd took up almost every square inch of lawn, which was probably why some were standing in the hosta beds. Here came another procession of visitors up the steps toward Nan. The Goodriches offered their customary cold, formal greetings. The Buckwalds were perfunctory. The Hoo-senfoots and Mitchells were absolutely gaga over how the gardens looked this year. All moved on quickly to the feeding stations. Then came Marta Poppendauber, all by herself and smiling in the subtle, unself-conscious way that suggested she was basking in the glories of the Fremont gardens. Nan and Marta hugged unabashedly.

“Marta!” gushed Nan. “How nice of you to come!”

“I must say I felt like I'd be intruding,” Marta said. “Especially after what happened last year. I was even reluctant to bring over Dr. Sproot last month to do her penance. But she
insisted
on having a chaperone. Ha! Imagine that.”

“If we thought you'd be an intruder we wouldn't have sent you an invitation,” said Nan, ignoring the reference to Dr. Sproot. “You're always welcome here, Marta, and so is . . . oh, my . . . what is your husband's name?”

Marta smiled. “It's Hamilton, but I call him Ham,” she said, giggling. “He really is not very interested in gardening and things like that. Just kind of leaves it to me to tell him what to do and where to put things. It must be nice to have a husband like George, who takes such an active interest in gardening.”

“Ah, yes,” said Nan. She cast her gaze over to where George was lost in conversation with the politicians, who were still standing on the hosta. “Uh, George needs to be told things sometimes, too, but he's picked up a lot over the last seven years. You know, Marta, Ham doesn't have to talk about gardening when he comes over. George is always looking for someone to talk Muskie baseball with.”

“Ham is a huge fan,” Marta said. “I'll tell him that. My gosh, Nan, your front yard is divine. I went over to look at it before coming back here. I know most of what's there, but not everything. Will you tell me?”

“Of course I will,” Nan said. “Anything you want to know. There are no gardening secrets here.”

“Maybe not,” Marta said admiringly. “But there is gardening talent that puts all the rest of us to shame . . . Uh, Nan?”

“Yes?”

“This might be nothing. It might be nothing at all. In fact, I almost hesitate to bring it up.”

“Yes?”

“Dr. Sproot might be back on the warpath again.”

Nan gulped down a cold lump of ice cream that almost choked her, suffered through a brief bout of constricted esophagus pain, then forced out a brittle, defiant laugh.

“What!”

“She's changed back into her old self.”

“What's that to us? She can gag on all her spite and hatred for all we care.”

“She seems to be out to extract some vengeance. We're all on the lookout. No one feels safe.”

“After almost going to prison last year for all the havoc she wreaked?”

“Yes. She's really out of her mind.”

“Marta,” Nan said. “You can tell that woman, if you are still on speaking terms with her, that if she comes over and threatens our property the way she did last year, I will call the police and press charges. Or, if I'm mad enough, take George's baseball bat and smash her little pea brain in.”

Nan stared at Marta, then spooned another glob of ice cream into her mouth and worked it slowly around.

Marta smiled, remembering how brave the Fremonts were last year, George with his baseball bat and Nan with her butcher knife triumphing during that terrible storm.

“I don't talk to her anymore, Nan,” she said with a sigh. “I've given up on rehabilitating Dr. Sproot. I really hope she doesn't mean us harm.”

“That stupid old harpy!” cried Nan. “Let her just show her face around here. And she can have her dumb old fairy house back, for that matter. It's just sitting over there taking up space and acting as an unfortunate conversation piece for our friends, who somehow equate my horticultural communications with a belief in fairies. Oh, Marta, you wouldn't believe it!”

“Yes, I would,” Marta said. “But I think you should keep the fairy house, Nan. You never know when it might come in handy. Well, I'll leave you to your other guests.” With that, she slipped away into the crowd.

Nan shivered with a strange, murderous impulse. Tremors of unfamiliar rage shot out through her extremities, threatening her balance and forcing her to clasp her root beer float with both hands. How dare that awful woman so much as think about coming back here to do harm! She began to entertain images of Dr. Sproot entwined and constricted to death by the clematis, or torn to shreds by serrated saws whose teeth were made of hybrid tea rose thorns.

“Nan-bee.” George was back, having failed to move the politicians off the hosta bed. “Look who's here.” It was Shirelle and a guest. Shirelle beamed. Her guest stretched her curled, sneering lips into a faint smile.

“Mrs. Fremont, I'd like you to meet Dr. Brockheimer, from the horticultural department at the university. She's my academic adviser and one of my teachers.”

Nan thrust out a shaking hand, as her float sloshed wildly in the other.

“Excuse my shakes,” she said as George and Shirelle jerked back, startled, from the spilling root beer froth. “I've just had a bit of a shock. Nothing serious.”

“I've heard so much about you, Nan,” said Dr. Brockheimer, grasping her proffered hand firmly. “And your husband, too. May I call you Nan? Shirelle speaks so highly of you.”

George smiled. “Shirelle's our secret weapon,” he said. “She really helped us design our front yard this year.”

“That's true,” said Nan, becalmed to the point of displaying only an occasional facial tic. “Without Shirelle, we would have been hopeless trying to figure out a new design.”

“I really doubt that,” Shirelle said, blushing. “Anyone who's taken the right classes can design a garden. It takes true genius to make what's on paper come alive the way you have. The front yard is unbelievable. I never dreamed even you guys could make it so good. And the backyard? Same old story. Amazing!”

“Shirelle's being too humble,” Nan said. “She and our daughter, Mary, actually did most of the front yard work.”

Dr. Brockheimer smiled in a way Nan interpreted as patronizing.

“They do look good,” she said. “There are some things I would change, but, yes, not bad for neighborhood gardeners.”

Nan blinked rapidly, and swallowed back a rude remark before it could get past her gullet.

“We have sandwiches, chips, and root beer floats over there, Dr. Brockheimer, if you'd care to avail yourself.” Dr. Brockheimer stared at Nan with eyes intent on shrinking her down to plant size.

“No, thank you, Nan; I ate a big lunch. I'm here because Shirelle tells me you talk to plants. I'd like to learn more about it.”

Nan shook her head, then smiled.

“This is not something easily explained to strangers,” she said. “I consider it a form of cross-cultural communication.”

Dr. Brockheimer tilted her head in a quizzically condescending manner.

“But you can probably imagine why it's so hard to talk about. To our friends, yes. But even they're skeptical and think we're off our rockers. We aren't off our rockers, are we, George?”

“Certainly not,” said George, having tossed back the remnants of his float with a massive and, Nan thought, rather indelicate, sigh. “But two floats from now, I certainly might be.”

“Well,” Dr. Brockheimer said. “It sounds like I'd better sample one of these concoctions. Then, Nan, can we talk some more about your efforts at ‘cross-cultural communication'?”

Nan didn't like this Dr. Brockheimer's attitude or tone, but figured maybe after a root beer float worked its magic on her they could have a nice little off-the-record chat about what it was like to be a plant whisperer.

By this time, most of the visitors had settled into their little clots of conversation, broken only by return visits to the food and beverage tables. Here and there, and where the crowds would allow, individuals or groups of two or three walked the entire backyard inspecting the Fremonts' new summer bounty.

A respectable number had even wandered around the north and south ends of the house to the front yard. A few strangers attracted by the Burdick's sign had parked their cars right there in the intersection and walked up the slope to take photos. Nan and George briefly worried that the front yard gardens might be in danger from all these visitors, either through malevolence or unintended carelessness. Cullen, Ellis, and a few of their friends were out front, but a fat lot of good they would do. At least, Mary, Shirelle, and that Dr. Brockheimer were out there. Weren't they?

Just to be sure, and with her third root beer float in hand, Nan marched off to the front yard. Clearing the northwest corner of the house, she was amazed to see thirty to forty people—most of them, strangers—scattered around, and, Lord help her, a couple of children rolling around in the Walker's Low catmint. Nan was just about to spring into action when a figure emerged as a running blur out of her peripheral vision. This figure, now identifiable as a slender and youngish woman, carefully picked its way through the catmint and its bordering lilies, grabbed the offending children firmly, and guided them out of the flower beds.

“Whose offspring are these?” barked Dr. Brockheimer. A young couple who had been taking pictures of the hybrid teas responded to the summons, and stood before her at meek attention.

“These brats have been ruining these beautiful flowers,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “Either keep them under control or
get out!
”

The couple quickly herded their children back down the slope toward their parked car as Dr. Brockheimer watched them go, her chest heaving and her face reddened with ire.

Nan walked over to Dr. Brockheimer, who, with her arms akimbo, still seemed poised for confrontation. Gazing down across the expanse of the catmint, Nan couldn't see much to worry about. A few plants beaten down; they'd probably bounce back within a day. No real damage done.

“Well, Dr. Brockheimer.”

Dr. Brockheimer wheeled around to face this new threat.

“Thanks for helping us police our gardens. I'm sure the children meant no harm. I doubt there'll be any lasting damage.”

Dr. Brockheimer huffed.

“Nan, you must take more care of your gardens if you want them to truly flourish. For a gathering such as this, I would have posted a guard.”

“That's usually not necessary for FremontFest.”

“With children running around it is. And Shirelle has told me all about what happened last year. I'd have thought you'd have learned a lesson as a result.”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Brockheimer, but we can't afford a guard. Neither would we want one. FremontFest is open to all comers. We haven't really had any problems before. Besides, this an open and welcoming event, not a museum tour. Still, we do appreciate you protecting our flower beds. We might even need you to help out with the hosta in the backyard. Those politicians just don't seem to think about where they're standing. And George . . .”

“He's pretty worthless, isn't he?”

“I beg your pardon!”

“He's not much help with the gardening, is he? I can tell. Just another feckless male. I know. I'm married to one. Soon to be my ex, I might add. Ha-ha!” Nan felt her jaw tighten and the hand clutching the root beer float cup quiver.

“How dare you talk about my husband in that manner!” she said. “George has been my true partner for seven years of hard gardening toil, much more actual work than you've ever done, Miss-Fancy-Pants PhD. I've dealt with people like you before, Dr. Brockheimer, and one thing I've discovered is that you don't know what the hell you're talking about and you've got corncobs shoved so far up your rear ends that no implement or machine yet invented could extract them. If you don't like George, or me, or what we're doing here, then either shut up about it, or take your little snot-nosed gardening high falutin' rectitude and get off my . . .
our
. . . property!”

Nan chugged the dregs of her root beer float and threw the plastic cup at Dr. Brockheimer's feet.

“If you don't mind, Dr. Brockheimer, could you please pick that up and throw it away for us. The garbage is in the back, right next to the patio.”

Both women were shaking as Nan stalked off in a rage, ignoring first a greeting from the Hausers, and then the Mar-tensens. Another root beer float was exactly what she needed now, she thought, her head held high as triumph and regret mingled together and vied for dominance of her emotions. As she plopped a couple of scoops of the softening ice cream into a new cup, a disquieting thought suddenly intruded itself upon the welcome return of her equanimity.

Oh, my gosh, she thought, I hope this doesn't damage Shirelle's academic standing!

At the nearby float stand, George scooped himself out three giant hunks of coffee/vanilla ice cream, then kept lathering them with root beer until the foam started cascading over the side of his cup. He opted for the Honey Calm flavor in the hopes it would ease his troubled mind. What was especially troubling George lately were the latest tuition hike notices from both Cullen's and Ellis's expensive colleges. Then, there were the credit card bills, the prohibitive cost of insurance, and the small matter of keeping the family fed and clothed.