Mulch Ado About Nothing (3 page)

“I was hoping more of you would come," he said, flashing a handsome smile. "The article in the local paper about Ms. Jackson's accident must have made a lot of the sign-ups think the class was canceled. What did you do to your foot?"

“I tripped on a curb, " Jane said.

“Oh," the man replied. "I'm Stefan Eckert. I'm the director of the Arts and Crafts part of the community project."

“You're teaching the class?" Shelley asked.

“Oh, no! I'm not remotely qualified. But I've got a substitute. A very interesting man who just happened to be in town this week. I'm just here to catch people and assure them the class will go on. And sit in on as much of it as I can.”

Jane introduced herself and Shelley and asked, "Do you know anything about Ms. Jackson's condition?”

Stefan Eckert shrugged. "I'm not family and the hospital won't tell me a thing.”

The older man sitting at the back of the room was reading a copy of
Modern Maturity.
He closed the magazine and looked up at the others. "Hello. Glad to see other people here. I've really been looking forward to this class.”

There was a faintly clanging noise in the hall and a fourth student arrived. A slightly heavy woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, draped in layers of clattering beads, carrying a number of bags, and wearing clothes she must have had since the early seventies. Her neck and head were swathed in tie-dyed scarves. Pierced earrings made of a variety of feathers flapped at her ears. Copper bracelets banged against beaded bracelets and something looking like an old-fashioned charm bracelet. She carried a huge purse slung over her shoulder, a pack tied around her waist, and a violently colored canvas bag.

“Hello, Hello! Oh!" she bellowed as she spotted Jane and rushed over. "You poor darling! What have you done to yourself? A cast and everything. Are you in pain? Here, let me help you sit down and get the weight off that foot."

“No, no. I'm fine. Really. It doesn't hurt very much at all," Jane said, alarmed by the attention.

But her protestations did her no good. The woman dropped her purse and canvas bag on a chair, both of which instantly spilled out paperback books, most of which seemed to have the word "conspiracy" in the title, pamphlets, paper napkins, three matchbooks, several flower seed packets, half a dozen colored pens, a sketchbook, more odd jewelry, prescription blanks, receipts, nail files, one very dirty gardening glove, a small wrench, a computer cord, a small box of Q-tips, and what looked like an adult-sized version of a child's sippy cup half-full of a purple liquid.

Ignoring the mess around her feet, she said, "Here, darling. Sit down. I'll get you a chair to put your foot up and you'll tell me how you did this to yourself. Ursula Appledorn at your service.”

Jane was somewhat roughly thrust into a folding chair and Ursula grabbed her leg andplopped it on another chair, and pulled up yet another chair facing Jane and flung herself into it and leaned forward.

“So?" she said.

“I tripped over a curbing," Jane said, thoroughly cowed.

Ursula shook her head. "No, darling. There has to be more to the story. And if there isn't, there should be. These things happen for a reason, you know. Everything is part of a vast chain of events that weaves us all together. Nice casting job, but a bit tight around the toes," she said, looking at Jane's foot as she started gathering up her belongings from the floor.

Jane cast a helpless look at Shelley, who just grinned and said, "I was with her and it was sheer clumsiness."

“But even so, there was a reason," Ursula insisted. "I was a nurse in 'Nam," she added, as if this explained everything. "And I can tell you there's a LOT the government is concealing. Why, the Denver airport alone—”

Fortunately, two more people came into the room, and Ursula turned her attention to them, though less enthusiastically than when she'd spotted Jane.

The first was a small, slim, precise woman with permed gray hair and a very upright carriage in a trim navy blue and white polka-dot dress. She glanced around at the small group, instinctively identified Stefan as the person in charge and said, "Is the class to take place?" in a tone that sug- gested that a simple, straightforward answer was required. "I'm Martha Winstead," she said to those assembled. "Miss Martha Winstead and I'm signed up.”

Stefan knew his place and when he'd met his match. "Yes, Miss Winstead. We've met before," he said obediently.

Miss Winstead said, "Of course we have." She nodded curtly and sat down primly in the front, folding her small, somewhat knobby hands neatly over her handbag. Her exposed forearms were tan, but the hands were white. Apparently a gardener who always wore gloves.

The man who followed her in obviously wasn't with her. He was tall, wore serious spectacles, and had a professorial stoop that went with his leather-elbow-patched jacket. "You're Eckert?"

“Yessir. You must be Dr. Eastman. We're all so glad you were able to interrupt your busy schedule to fill in for Ms. Jackson."

“While I was surprised you didn't contact me first," he said, "I've known Julie for years and couldn't refuse to fill in for her at this terrible time. I'm used to lecturing knowledgeable graduate students, however, not amateurs.”

Jane bridled at the way he said "amateurs," as if it were a slightly obscene word. Someone gave a small and very ladylike snort. Jane guessed it was Miss Martha Winstead. It wasn't nearly raucous enough to be Ursula.

Ursula herself promptly spoke up, though she hadn't been addressed. "My good sir, most of thegreat discoveries of mankind were made by amateurs, though that fact is often covered up." She waved her arm victoriously and an eyeglass repair kit fell out of her sleeve. "Intelligent amateurs can often see on overview what experts are too deeply into precious details to see. 'Amateur' is a flattering term."

“This isn't getting off to a good start," Jane whispered to Shelley.

“Probably more interesting than a 'lecture,' though," Shelley replied just as quietly. "This looks like a man who could bore us to sleep in five minutes or less.”

Another man entered the room and aborted any reply the professor might have made by asking, "Is this the botany class?" He was around forty years old and looked as if his slacks and shirt, as well as his thinning hair, had just been starched and ironed a moment ago. He had a round, shining clean face, eyeglasses that gleamed, and highly polished shoes.

Stefan Eckert said, "It is. But our scheduled instructor has been injured and we have a wonderful substitute who has graciously volunteered to fill in. Time is getting away from us, folks. I suggest we start and if anyone else joins us, they can just slip in and catch up. I want to introduce our guest speaker and then each of you will give your name and a brief explanation of why you're interested in this course.”

The well-groomed newcomer took a chair at the front of the room and found himself next to Martha Winstead. "Miss Winstead!" he exclaimed. "I never expected to find you here."

“Why is that, Mr. Jones?" she asked curtly. Jane noticed that the woman's hands tightened on the handle of her purse.

He looked confused for a moment as to how to reply, then said, "Well, your gardening is so… so haphazard… I just thought you wouldn't really be interested.”

Miss Martha Winstead gave him a smile that could have frozen over a volcano and said, "Haphazard. How very interesting."

“If you wish to take notes, I have a few spiral notebooks here that the local nursery contributed," Stefan said in a shaky voice. "And some pens from my father's office supply store," he added with desperate good cheer.

Stefan took
a
protective stance
behind
the desk ': at the front of the room and read off an introduction to the speaker. It was a long list, obviously prepared by the professor himself, of incomprehensible degrees and honors, initials of presumably high-status organizations Dr. Stewart Eastman belonged to or founded or served as president of, and awards Jane had never heard of. Stefan must have pronounced a number of them incorrectly, because every now and then Dr. Eastman, standing next to the desk, cringed ever so slightly.

When Stefan stepped aside with a little bow, Dr. Eastman took his place, saying, "Since Mr. Eckert suggested introductions, we might as well proceed with them. Tell us who you are and why you signed on for this class. You first," he said, pointing to Jane.

She gave her name and added, somewhat idiotically in her own view, "I've spent most of my adult life raising children and pets, but as a once- upon-a-time child of a member of the diplomatic corps, I lived my childhood all over the world and saw many gardens and have always thought I'd like very much to have one of my own. So far I've only taken the slightest stab at it and want to learn more.”

Shelley was next. "My adult life has been much like Jane's, but my children are growing older and more independent, giving me time to develop other interests. Gardening is high on my list of priorities. I'm Jane's next-door neighbor.”

Jane smiled to herself. This was a surprisingly meek self-description of Shelley. Shelley had finally been caught out in something she knew very little about and couldn't even fake the dominant role that normally suited and served her so very well. Shelley made a tiny shoulder movement like a shrug or shiver, as if she were reading Jane's mind.

Charles Jones, the terribly neat, clean, freshly pressed man, was next. He stood up like a good student and explained that he was a computer programmer and spent his leisure time in botanical pursuits and hoped they all lived close enough to form car pools and take a look at each other's gardens this week as a part of their studies.

There was a low mumble of agreement. Jane, however, was horrified. Her yard was very nearly a blank canvas. Every spring she swore she'd plant some gardens and fertilize the lawn. She never quite got around to it soon enough. She'dhave to get Mike to clean up after Willard since she hadn't been outside with the pooper-scooper lately, and she'd have to bring in a bunch of potted annuals to look as if she had actually made an attempt at gardening this year. Mike could help her plant a few things since his summer job was at a plant nursery.

“… and," Charles added, "I happen to be a next-door neighbor of Miss Winstead. I think you'd find our gardens an interesting contrast." He sounded smug and sat down neatly, tucking his trousers up at the knees to keep the knife edge.

Miss Winstead spoke in turn. She didn't stand. "I spent a great deal of my life as a professional librarian, and by a fortunate and unexpected circumstance of an inheritance from my great-aunt, was able to continue my librarian work as a volunteer and spend more time on my lifelong interest in gardening. Mr. Jones is quite correct in saying that our gardens are a contrast. I hope we adopt his suggestion." She smiled icily again at Jones.

The older man who'd been reading a magazine when Jane and Shelley arrived finally got up and spoke. "My name is Arnold Waring. My friends call me Arnie and I wish the rest of you would." He cleared his throat. "My late wife, Darlene, was a real gardener and she fixed up our house and yard just perfect. You should have seen her out in the backyard, pulling up weeds and tending her precious posies with a smile and a song.”

Jane knew she was meant to feel touched, but had the urge to laugh. There was something so Victorian — or maybe vaudevillian — about that speech. It sounded for all the world like something from a Monty Python sketch.

“She's been gone a while now," Arnie went on. "And I've tried to keep everything just like she had it as a tribute to her memory. But I'm not very good at it, so I thought…?" His voice trailed off and he sat down quickly, folding his beefy arms as if to protect himself.

“What a dear story, Arnie. And how good it was of you to share it with us," Ursula said. She stood up and said, "I'm here because I'm part of the cosmos. We're all living, breathing, nurture-seeking beings, and gardens must be part of our nature. They are nature in their finest refinement.”

Two paper clips fell from her and tinkled to the floor.

“And I'm interested, as I'm sure we all are," she added, looking around at everyone for possible early signs of disagreement, "in what part the government has in this area. They have their greedy fingers in every other aspect of our lives.”

She smiled and sat down on a fork that had fallen out of one of her bags. "Oops," she giggled, stuffing it back into her enormous purse.

Dr. Eastman looked around the room for anyone he'd missed, and Stefan said, "I'm a student, too, sir. I would have been here even if Julie hadn't—" He started over. "I want to put in a little pool in my yard and I'm confused about plantsand fish and snails and how much you have to have of each and what will live over the winter." He smiled. "I'm from the South and haven't gotten used to Chicago winters yet. Don't know that I ever will.”

There was a tap on the door and Stefan, now having drifted to the back of the room to take a seat, turned to open it. Somebody gasped. The woman who entered looked a great deal like Julie Jackson.

She glanced around, unsure of herself. "I'm Geneva Jackson. Julie Jackson's sister. I'm sorry to interrupt, but thought you might like a report on how she's doing since you might have read about her being attacked.”

To a polite chorus of yeses, she replied, "She's still in intensive care and is almost conscious part of the time. Enough to move her hands and make sounds. The doctors, including my husband, who is a neurologist, say she's making terrific progress and could make a quite good recovery, given time and luck. Or not, to be frank."

“And you've kept your own name," Ursula piped up. "I like that in a modern woman. Of course, all women's maiden names are really a man's. Their father's. In other cultures, matrilineal ones, it's different. Everyone takes the mother's name, which is far more appropriate and scientifically significant because everyone's DNA patterns follow through in the maternal line.”