Front Yard (6 page)

Nimwell smiled and scampered over to make his first sale—a bullet-dented canteen that had once belonged to a major who served on the staff of Major General Lew Wallace at the battle of Shiloh.

 

Ten miles away, slumped over the walnut desk that served as the centerpiece of her cloistered office in the venerable Eamons Hall, Dr. Hilda Brockheimer stared at the foot-high pile of paper stacked in front of her and sighed. It was the sigh of great ambitions thwarted.

God, how she hated teaching! Research, that was what she was born to do, and here she was with no major research grants to her name and a bunch of her students' final papers and internship reports gathering dust and daring her to touch them, to read them, perchance to grade them.

The year was almost over and she would have to deal with these sooner rather than later. Dr. Richlin, the department chair, had just reminded her in no uncertain terms that she was to wrap up her final grades immediately.

“What seems to be the problem, Hilda?” he said. “We have got to get these kids' grades completed. They're leaving in a couple of days. Everyone else has their grades in. So, what's your story?”

“Research,” said Dr. Brockheimer severely. “I've got important research to wrap up.”

Dr. Richlin rolled his eyes, then smiled condescendingly. He'd heard this before from Dr. Brockheimer, and knew it to be either an exaggeration to hide her distaste for the requirements of teaching, or the futile exercise of a professor who hadn't been responsible for a single bit of important research in at least six years. She was cruising on her reputation, that's what she was doing.

“Okay, Hilda,” he said, employing the diplomatic tone he trotted out for stubborn incompetents and malcontents. “Research is important. We all know that. Everyone here does it. But you must teach here to be a professor of horticulture. That is a basic requirement at this institution.”

His point made, Dr. Richlin modified his smile to reflect a more pleasant, avuncular persona. He removed his glasses, and leaned toward Dr. Brockheimer, who stood before him as rigid as a post.

“You have been a great credit to this institution, Hilda,” Dr. Richlin said. “We all know and respect this. But, quite frankly, you've been coasting on your reputation for quite a while. All of us here have other duties to perform, and that includes you. Will you please make my job easier by getting your grades in by Friday noon at the latest?”

Dr. Brockheimer was one of the top floriculturists in the St. Anthony metro area and, one could argue, the entire state. Dr. Phil Goudette, at Headwaters State University, in Sap City, was really the only one who could give her a run for her money. They had quite an impressive department up there at Headwaters that they coupled successfully with a landscape design division.

Dr. Brockheimer burned with jealousy after reading Dr. Goudette's research paper on the use of bogs to develop exotic new flora that could then be transferred to semi-moist soils without the benefit of intermittent flooding. It had been groundbreaking—and it had been her idea, too. They just hadn't given her the time to work on it, a fact she pointed out when she thundered into Dr. Richlin's office with the news.

The importance of that paper would have been evident to even the most callow of undergraduates, but Dr. Richlin had just brushed it off as if it had been a middling senior thesis, instead of seeing it for the threat it was. Now, Headwaters was going to be getting the research dollars, not them. Didn't the fool see that? Instead of sloughing it all off, he should be freeing her from her teaching responsibilities and giving her carte blanche to do whatever research she saw fit to do.

But that's the way it is around here, thought Dr. Brockheimer. The faculty gravitated toward sloth and the undemanding status quo once they were tenured. They tended to pad their résumés with meaningless journal articles and insignificant board positions, and rest on the laurels of whatever token research they'd accomplished in their younger years. They'd pile up bogus honors while teaching a few classes and serving as consultants to large companies and wealthy homeowners who figured a PhD added to a title had a lot better ring to it than just a plain old bachelor's degree in landscape design.

Dr. Brockheimer was not so inclined. At the age of thirty-nine, she felt she was just hitting her stride as a researcher of national repute. She had been stuck in her associate professorship for five years, watching as other less-talented colleagues vaulted ahead of her. That included that no-brain Dr. Felicia Wellbeng, whose papers on sphagnum peat moss had made her the laughingstock of the discipline, worldwide. And Dr. Powell Pucker, who managed to churn out forty or so scholarly articles a year, all basically saying the same thing. Why couldn't that old fart of a department head see that?

It was Dr. Richlin who made sure the big research money got funneled to his tennis-playing cronies and their inane and spurious projects instead of her own more meaningful and potentially revolutionary initiatives.

So, despite the widespread acknowledgment that she had done revolutionary research in the area of winter-hardy herbaceous perennials' survivability in semi-permafrost conditions and growing southern magnolias on Virginia creeper–like vines in an upper Midwest climate, she was stuck on a middle rung of the ladder that lead to full professorship. That meant making a measly $67,000 a year.

What irked her even more was that her estranged husband, the archaeologist Dr. Ferdinand Lick, had been named a full professor six years ago, despite the fact that he had never unearthed anything more significant than a few crumbling chipping tools.

Dr. Lick's particular ambition was to prove that European explorers had made their way up the Mississippi River to the current site of St. Anthony and environs as long ago as three hundred years prior to Columbus. They might have been Vikings, or Gascons, or wanderlusting Celtic and Anglo-Saxon monks populating the British Isles. Dr. Lick had spent much of the past dozen years researching the subject at the expense of smaller projects that at least would have borne some fruit.

As a result of all this, and despite his rise through the ranks of his department, Ferdinand Lick had virtually no influence in his field, and hadn't published a single book or scholarly article in years. That utter academic fecklessness had been a major contributor to the breakup of their marriage.

And speaking of idiocy, here was Dr. Brockheimer having to put up with this mound of ersatz research from her Nean-derthalish undergraduates. What a waste of time! Things had gotten even worse this year when two sections of freshmen were foisted on her! Thank God classes, exams, and all the rest of this malarkey that passed for a college education were ending for the summer.

Dr. Brockheimer took a deep breath, stared malevolently at her stack of unfinished work, and pushed a reluctant hand slowly toward the pile.

8

G
eorge and Nan leaned over a large sheet of vellum drafting paper spread out on the backyard patio table. Shirelle's design, drawn to scale and displaying the accurate contours of the land, was punctuated with measurements, dimensions, and comments. It laid out for them a front yard the sheer majesty of which garden-by-the-gut naturals such as George and Nan could never have conceived. They silently studied the plan, their eyes open wide and darting across the paper, then narrowing into thin slits as they bowed their heads closer to the paper to try to make out Shirelle's handwriting and draftsman-like renderings of shrubs, bushes, and flowers.

“I can tell you what things are if you're having a hard time reading my notations,” said Shirelle. She watched nervously as the Fremonts' expressions veered dangerously toward the quizzical.

What if they hated her plan? She would just die! But if they loved it? A hint of a smile creased Nan's face. Shirelle's heart leaped. Then, Her Munificence, the Grand Goddess of Gardening, spoke.

“My goodness, Shirelle, you've even got the contour lines on here,” she said. “And there they are bunched together to show our slope. Wow!” Shirelle flushed with pride.

“For my floriculture degree, I had to take courses in architectural drawing and basic cartography,” she said, trying to sound secure in her knowledge without being boastful. “If you don't have the scale right, or the topography, or the correct location of things, you can really mess up your design, and it won't turn out right.”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Nan, who went back to her silent study of Shirelle's drawing. What does that “mmm-hmm” mean? wondered Shirelle. It sounded kind of noncommittal. She wondered if Nan had just brought up the contour lines to disguise her intense dislike of everything else. Damning with faint praise. Shirelle could feel her face drooping.

“Shirelle,” said Nan. “This is . . . this is . . . amazing.”

What was that?

“Why, Shirelle, I don't know what to say. My goodness, this is just amazing, isn't it, George?” George nodded and smiled at Shirelle. “We had been having a tough time figuring out what to do in the front yard, and you've just solved our problem. It's beautiful, Shirelle. Just beautiful. How can we thank you?”

Oh, joy! thought Shirelle. Oh, rapture. I will never, ever, ever have a moment like this. I must capture it, revel in it, take a mental snapshot of this so it will live on forever.

“I told you it was good, didn't I?” said Mary.

“Yes, dear,” Nan said. “But I didn't know it was going to be
this
good.”

Shirelle had taken a gamble by introducing some flowers and patterns the Fremonts had not used in their backyard gardens. While those gardens were truly magnificent, why just clone them for the front yard? Shirelle thought the Fremonts might want to shift gears a little.

“I recognize a couple of names here,” said George. “A bunch of others I don't. We've never planted these flowers. We'll want to see photos, of course.”

“No problem, Mr. Fremont; got them right here on my laptop.”

“These are all sun worshippers, right, Shirelle?” asked Nan. “That's mighty sunny territory out there, not a mix like the backyard.”

“You can almost see all these flowers wearing sunglasses and putting on the sunscreen; that's how much they like sun,” said Shirelle, with a giggle.

“When do we start?”

“We can go to Burdick's this afternoon,” Mary said. “We'll have to order what they don't have.”

“Knowing Burdick's, I'm not worried,” Shirelle said. “It's got to be the most well-supplied gardening store in the state, maybe even the region.”

“Okay,” George said. “Get to it. Give me the bill when you get back and I'll reimburse you. . . . Uh, how much do you think all this will cost?”

 

Work on the new front yard gardens began in earnest the next day, with multiple trips to Burdick's and a pop-up thunderstorm having eaten up most of the afternoon.

What Shirelle had mapped out for the Fremonts was nothing short of regal.

She had an entire bed, eighteen feet by six feet, given over to roses. The backyard certainly had its roses, but they were of the climbing variety, smothering two big whitewashed trellises. The front yard bed would have stand-alone hybrid tea roses, lined up at the top of the slope and picked especially for their varied and vivid colors. And Shirelle had some real show-offs in mind. There'd be buttery-white Full Sail roses, lavender Blue Girls, dreamy red Chrysler Imperials, and apricot Bronze Stars.

“I'm still looking for one or two more,” said Shirelle during a backyard patio break from the soil preparation work. “But this will give you quite a showcase for folks driving by on Sumac or walking along the lake. The backyard was kind of hidden away, you know. A hidden gem. You had to come up into the yard to really see what was going on. Everybody will see this. With hybrid teas, you'll have to make sure to protect them from the cold. They're finicky, too. We can talk about that more before I leave, around Labor Day.”

“Oh, Shirelle, it's so hard to think about you leaving. Isn't it, George?” George nodded a bit too noncommittally for Nan's taste. “You've been so helpful to us, and I almost think of you as one of the family here. You're almost like a sister to Mary.”

“Mom!” cried Mary. Shirelle blushed.

“Well, Miss Mary, you've had to grow up with two older boys, which hasn't always been easy. You would have loved to have had a sister like Shirelle when you were little. Anyway, you must move on in the gardening world, I suppose. Of course, we'll be very attentive to your instructions. I have always wanted a hybrid tea rose bed. And just the right place for it, isn't it?”

“It sure is, Mrs. Fremont,” said Shirelle, poking a work-gloved finger decisively at her plan. “They'll get nothing but sun here, and the soil is sandy, which means good drainage. I bet you have to water a lot here, though, for the grass and all.”

George leaned forward toward Shirelle, a disturbing shade of concern painted across his otherwise blank canvas of a face.

“I hate to be the reality-check guy here, but how much do you figure these beautiful roses will cost, Shirelle?”

Shirelle felt herself draw back involuntarily in shock. The thought of the Fremonts actually being cost-conscious about what they planted had never occurred to her. Since when did garden royalty ever concern itself with such trivialities as pricing? Just as she felt her jaw drop in dismay, Nan came to the rescue.

“Oh, George, this is not really the time, is it? We've got this beautiful plan here that Shirelle prepared for us, and why spoil its magnificence with our petty little money concerns? You go ahead with the hybrid teas, Shirelle, and we'll reimburse you for every penny. Now, walk us through the rest of your wonderful schematic here.”

Covering much of the slope would be beds of Walker's Low catmint, with stands of Happy Returns and Rosy Returns daylilies anchoring the left and right flanks. Spotted around the yard, often where some vertical edging was called for, were Magic Fountain delphinium of pink, blue, purple, and white. Shirelle was still working on placement of the ornamental grasses—Karl Foerster and prairie dropseed.

“I'm toying with a couple more ground covers and maybe even a tree or two. I
love
paper birches!”

“I love paper birches, too, Shirelle!” Nan cried. “And I had just been thinking about placing one at the bottom of the slope, where it levels out, next to the intersection. Then, maybe putting a little rock garden around it.”

“That's exactly where I was thinking of putting it, Mrs. Fremont! You'll need to give it plenty of TLC, though. Lots of mulch. A rock garden? Hmmm, I don't know. You need to concentrate on moisture collection at the base of paper birches. Very nice, design-wise, though. We'll see. You know, Mrs. Fremont, this would
not
be a paper birch's favorite location. But in terms of letting it stick out in all its glory, yes!”

“Now, Shirelle,” said a suddenly stern Nan. “Your plan is wonderful and we're delighted with it. I couldn't have asked for anything better. But . . .”

But? But what? There are reservations? Shirelle felt the color drain out of her florid face.

“What I mean to say, Shirelle, is that I have one teensy-weensy concern.”

Nan leaned over the tabletop toward her in a conspiratorial way and began to whisper.

“I've heard through the grapevine that hybrid tea roses are stuck-up prima donnas. Real snobs. Um-hmmm. And that they will cause us nothing but grief.”

Wanting to be cooperative and conspiratorial, too, even though she had no idea what Nan was talking about, Shirelle lurched forward instead of leaning slowly, almost knocking heads with Nan. Nan cupped her hands around her mouth to whisper into Shirelle's ear, which Shirelle had obligingly tilted toward her.

“Our backyard friends,” she said. “Our flowers. They know these things.” Shirelle nodded, then slowly looked around as if to spot any hidden and unwelcome eavesdroppers. She knew Mrs. Fremont was well-versed in the arcane art of plant whispering, but this was taking it to a whole new level. She tingled with excitement.

“Ordinarily, you might chalk this up to pettiness and jealousy,” Nan said. “But this is coming from reliable sources, too. You know, the petunias. They're only here for a year. They believe they have to prove themselves during their brief existence by not only making themselves beautiful, but by ratting on the bad influences in the gardens.”

Shirelle just nodded. What could you say when someone was passing on such a remarkable confidence?

“Well, let's go ahead with them,” said Nan, pulling away from Shirelle and throwing her hands up. “I'm sure we can handle a few difficult characters in the gardens. Not everyone can have the stoicism of the clematis or the equanimity of the daylily.”

“Or the humor of the variegated dogwoods,” said George, chuckling. “They're such a hoot!”

“Yes, dear, you do have a way with the variegated dogwoods, don't you? You must have tapped into their male persona. Their female persona is too snooty by far for my taste. Well, and I did have that problem with the Dusty Miller.”

“Ah, yes,” said Shirelle. “I heard about that.”

George wrinkled his nose and frowned.

“They wouldn't grow for me, the little albino shits. They were the only ones that never responded to anything I did. All my coaxing, putting them first in line for the Miracle-Gro, singing my favorite songs to them. Lord knows, I tried everything. I'll try them again sometime, though I must have earned a pretty bad reputation, yanking them out of the soil and throwing them in the compost the way I did.”

“Massacre,” George said. “They might have been mutes. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

“That's putting it a little strong, George. Besides, they weren't wanted. I never heard any of the other plants complaining about it when I did that. It was a ‘good riddance' kind of thing.”

Shirelle smiled. Wasn't it amazing that Mrs. Fremont could actually talk to her flowers! And Mr. Fremont, too, though Shirelle couldn't help but believe that that was likely on a much more rudimentary level.

“Don't forget the Baltimore oriole feeder and the bluebird houses, Shirelle.”

“Huh? I mean, excuse me?” Shirelle placed her fingertips decorously on her lips as if she had just said something untoward and instantly regretted it.

“The oriole feeder.”

Birds. Shirelle knew nothing about birds.

“And, while we're at it, the bluebird houses. We already have them, so you don't have to worry about making them.”

Shirelle bent over her drawing, looking for the best place to put these new additions to the front yard gardens. She stroked her chin, erased something, then drew something in. Nan leaned over to try to get a peek.

“Simple,” said Shirelle. “I've got the bluebird houses at either end of the highest part of the slope, then the oriole feeder smack in the middle, among the hybrid tea roses. The symmetry should work out just fine. It's good to have a few manmade items sticking out of all the natural stuff.”

Mary, meanwhile, had gotten up and was inspecting the backyard gardens, which were poised to spring to life once the temperatures rose, now that the rains had stopped and a bright, direct May sun was shining down on them.

“Any day now,” Mary said, sitting back down at the patio. “God knows we've had plenty of rain. I can see the tips of hosta, there are buds on the creeping phlox, and the bleeding hearts are three inches tall. Hope they shoot up before getting covered by hosta leaves. Nothing wrong with the columbine. Another couple of days and they'll be bursting out. Silver maples, ash, locust, and sugar maple just starting to leaf.”

A white sedan of uncertain make, but which looked vaguely familiar, pulled into the driveway.

“Who might
that
be?” wondered George.

A lanky middle-aged woman wearing oversized sunglasses got out of the front passenger side of the car, followed by the driver, a shorter, stouter woman, also wearing sunglasses.

“My God!” cried George.

“My God?” said Nan. “What are you ‘my God-ing' about?”

“Keep looking. Because you will soon recognize Marta Poppendauber, accompanied by one Dr. Phyllis Sproot.”

“My God!” cried Nan.