Rules of Lying (Jane Dough Series) (13 page)

I didn’t speak my thought but the truth was, I was feeling a little indignant. I’d been doing my share of the work, but my share hadn’t required any skill. My share consisted of throwing vines and twigs and weeds onto the tarp, dragging the tarp to the sidewalk, and dumping the cuttings. Why should Hank get to do the work that required skill just because he already knew how to do it? I was capable of learning, wasn’t I? Hell yes, I was.

I marched over to Hank and grabbed the weed-wacker. He relinquished it to me and it promptly crashed to the ground. Hank’s quasi-smile turned into a real one.

“What? I didn’t know it was so heavy, is all. You could have warned me.”

“It’s heavy,” he said.

Damned tooting.
I hoisted it up and lugged it over to the weeds. I held it off the ground at about the same distance Hank had been holding it and felt around for the power switch. Nothing.

I set the wacker back down and looked it over. “Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“The power switch. All I see is this little button here and nothing happens when I push it.”

“That’s the primer. There isn’t a power switch. Do you see a power cord connected?”

I looked around. “No.”

“You’re not very observant, are you?” he asked.

I wanted to make a sharp retort to match the sharp pain I was already feeling between my shoulder blades from hoisting the trimmer up, but Hank spoke the truth. I wasn’t very observant when it came to
things.
People were another matter. I was damned observant when it came to people. I was so observant I could tell what most people were thinking just from the look in their eyes, and I was only wrong half the time. I gazed into Hank’s eyes, expecting to see a superior look, but all I saw was curious interest. At least that’s what it looked like to me.

“You gotta yank on that string there to start the motor,” he said.

I held the trimmer up in the air with my left arm.
Jeez.
It wasn’t exactly easy to hold one-handed. My arm trembled; I hoped Hank couldn’t tell.

“You’re too unstable holding it like that. You need to do it this way,” he said. He took the trimmer from me and squatted, holding it horizontal to the ground, with the motor end resting steady and the cutting end several inches up in the air. I squatted down beside him and moved Hank’s hand out of the way.

“You need to—”

I gave him a death glare. I didn’t know why I was so determined to prove I could do this without Hank’s help, especially when I probably couldn’t.

“I know how to yank,” I said. Yanking was something I knew from way back. Nicole had enjoyed yanking my hair when we were toddlers, and I had learned to yank in return. I’d become pretty good at yanking over the years.

I yanked on the string, but nothing happened. I did it again and again. My elbow ached and sweat ran down my face and chest. I couldn’t decide whether to cry or scream.

“You have to prime it first,” Hank said. “Like this.” He leaned in close and pushed the button a few times. “Why don’t you let me start it for you? Startin’ takes a bit of strength.”

I let him have it since I had no choice. He tugged gently on the string and the motor roared to life.

“Keep it a couple of inches off the ground,” he shouted as he handed off the puttering, juddering, gas-powered vibrator that was only pretending to be a garden tool. “And use the throttle to give it gas.”

I lurched my way to the overgrown area, doing my best to keep the wacker far enough away from me that it wouldn’t whack off my legs. As soon as the string hit the weeds, the motor died.

“Now what?” I screamed.

“The weeds got tangled up in the string. Usually happens if you run the motor too fast or don’t have the cutting string close enough to the base of the weeds. Here, let me fix it.”

He took back the trimmer. While I stood there wishing I were dead, he untangled the tangle, started the motor, and passed the stupid thing back. I huffed and he smiled.

It only took me two hours to do what Hank could have done in one. Less than one. Less than half of one. While I struggled through the weeds, trying to prove I could do anything Hank could do (when all I really proved was that I had a stubborn streak a mile wide), Hank cut up the wax myrtle, finished everything else in the yard, and dragged all the trimmings to the street.

Through it all, Hank kept cutting his gaze back to me, checking me out. I couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes even when I was close enough to see it. Was something troubling him or was he in fantasy land? Maybe he was just keeping an eye on me because he figured I’d slice off my legs.

When I killed the motor for the last time, I said, “What?”

“What what?” he said.

“Why do you keep giving me that look?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t know I was doin’ it. You remind me of someone I used to know. If anyone told her she couldn’t do somethin’, then look out, because she would prove them wrong.”

“So what’s wrong with that?”

“Nothin’. I like it.”

I wasn’t sure that was all of it, but maybe the rest wasn’t my business. Of course, I didn’t usually care if something wasn’t my business, so I wondered who the girl was. Maybe she’d been his wife. My heart clenched at the possibility that Hank could have been married. Heck, for all I knew, he could be married now. Maybe he was married but separated from his wife. I didn’t like to think about that, so I stopped thinking.

We were tidying up the pile of yard trash on the sidewalk when Richard stopped by to confirm that he’d start the next night. I didn’t bother to tell him I would do most of the work myself because it had become apparent to me that I couldn’t.

When Richard walked back toward his truck, I made a point of checking out his butt. Wide and flat. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The city picked up yard trash on Mondays, so everything we’d dragged to the curb would be gone tomorrow afternoon. I felt a wash of satisfaction, but it was tempered by the knowledge that I had three lots to go and by the unhappy realization that I couldn’t handle the equipment on my own. I would be spending a lot of time with flat-butt Richard, whether I wanted to or not.

Hank and I were sweaty and dirty, and the mosquitoes were on the attack, but I forgot about everything else when Hank stuck his hand into the ice chest that I thought contained only bottles of water and pulled out two Coronas. We toasted the end of the work on lot number four and chugged our beers.

T
he next day when I got home from work, I immediately changed into yard clothes. We’d just had an afternoon rain shower, which had cooled off the temperature slightly but left the air muggy as hell. Muggy and buggy. Insects always came out after a rain.

Richard showed up thirty minutes later, knocking at my door. He’d brought with him a gas-powered shrubbery trimmer, a Weedwacker, a chainsaw, and an assortment of yard tools. I thought about asking for a lesson using the chainsaw, but my back ached so badly from the weed-wacking I’d done the day before, I could hardly stand straight. Maybe another time. Or not.

“What’s this?” Richard said with a nod at a yellow paper that was taped to my front door. I ripped it off and took a look.

“Well, how do you like that? I’m in violation of code for felling a tree without a permit. Why do I need a permit to cut down a tree that’s already split in two?”

“How did they know you cut down a tree? Do you think one of your neighbors turned you in? Or do you think it was the trash guys who picked up the tree?”

“I don’t think the trash guys would’ve done it.” They’d better not have. I’d tipped them pretty good after Christmas and if I found out they’d turned me in, I’d ask for my money back. “More likely it was Mr. Carlson, the president of the homeowners’ association. He’s probably watching me with binoculars as we speak.”

We both turned our attention to the view from the courtyard, but the only thing we could see was the landscaped fence across the street. The light breeze carried the squeaks of baby birds awaiting dinner, the faint whistle of a train, and the chatter of squirrels.

I went back to the notice. “It says I have thirty days to contest the hundred-dollar fine. That really pisses me off.” Here I was cleaning up my yard to avoid having to pay a bunch of money, and now I would have to pay money because I was cleaning up my yard.

“I think most of the permits cost seventy-five dollars anyway, so you’re only paying an extra twenty-five.”

Yeah, right, I wanted to say. Unless you consider that yesterday I wasn’t paying anything. I didn’t say it though because I didn’t want Richard to see the side of me that complained about every little thing, at least those that had to do with money. He’d see that side soon enough, and it wouldn’t be a pretty sight.

I took the paper inside so we could get started on the yard. Richard had come up with a schedule, which proved he was on top of things, or at least that he had good intentions.

After looking the schedule over, I had to admit Richard was pretty good at planning. I’d figured on going into the yard and yanking up weeds wherever we saw them, trimming bushes or removing them as needed. Richard had an actual plan, which started with getting rid of the weeds along the property line at the fence out back, and then tackling lots one, two, and three, in that order. He said he’d intentionally left the swamp lot for last in case I could save some money between now and then to buy some fill dirt. I doubted that would happen, but I decided to keep my doubts to myself.

By dusk, which was the time mosquitoes came out for dinner, we’d finished weeding a little more than half the property line of the first lot, no small task since the weeds were about two feet high and ten feet deep. We dragged the plastic tarp that held the last load of cuttings around to the front and emptied it between the sidewalk and curb. My back ached so much I could barely walk into the house, but after twenty minutes under a hot shower massage, I was doing okay. I skipped dinner, brushed my teeth, and collapsed into bed.

*****

I stopped by Town Hall on my lunch hour the next day to check about the tree-cutting fine and learned that someone had tipped them off. I demanded to know who, but they didn’t have a name.

“So that’s it? Every time you get an anonymous call about something innocuous like someone cutting down a dead tree, you go out and check it and fine the person?”

The ponytailed girl behind the counter, who might have been all of eighteen, blinked. “Yes, I guess that’s what they do.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” I said. “What was I supposed to do? Let that tree disintegrate before my eyes? Let bugs and termites move in for the kill?”

“I don’t know.” Her voice quavered, and I felt like a jerk. Luckily—or unluckily—for me, someone else who worked there heard the quaver and stepped in.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with the rules,” said some crotchety gray-haired man wearing a white shirt and red bow tie with blue suspenders holding up his polyester pants. “I’m the one who wrote up the ticket, so if you’ve got a problem with it, don’t take it out on her.”

I mumbled an apology to the girl, who was now blowing her nose into a tissue. I flashed a fake smile at the inspector, and he growled back. Then he jerked his head in the direction of an office behind the counter. He went and I followed. The name plaque outside the door said George Griffin.

“I just don’t understand what I was supposed to do,” I told him. “Here I had this dead tree, split apart by Hurricane Cindy, and I have to pay a hundred dollars because I didn’t ask if I could cut it down? I mean, it was already cut down. It was ruined by the hurricane.”

“You’re really only being fined twenty-five dollars because you cut it without asking. It would have been seventy-five no matter what.”

No, it wouldn’t have been,
I wanted to say.
It would have been zero if no one had called.

“That’s what I don’t get,” I said instead. “So you’re saying I have to ask permission to cut things on my own property? It’s my property. Why should I have to ask?”

“Because the trees benefit all of us, not just you. If everyone cut down all the trees on their properties, do you know what would happen?”

I shook my head. I had a general idea about plants giving off oxygen and trees providing shelter for wildlife, but for the most part I’d daydreamed through science.

“Well, air pollution would be worse, for one thing. And we’d have no protection that the tree roots offer against run-off into the drinking water for another. There’d be no homes for birds and beetles and squirrels, and—”

“I get it,” I said, cutting him off, glad to know I’d learned the essentials in spite of my daytime fantasies. “But this tree was dead.”

“That’s what everyone says when they want to cut down a tree. But sometimes they just want a different view or don’t want to fool with pine needles on their roof or something else. The permit means we get to check and make sure. We’re not running a free show here, so the inspector’s time—not just for the inspection, but for the paperwork and his gas and auto maintenance—all have to be covered.”

“I didn’t realize. I’ll pay the fine, but I really think you should tell me who turned me in. I’ve got plenty of problems with my property and my homeowners’ association, and I’m doing the best I can to solve them, but if someone in my neighborhood is spying on me so they can run me out, I think I have the right to know.”

The crotchety old man smiled and the lines that had etched his face into a grimace now wreathed it in smiles.

“I hear you, Ms. Jansen, and I don’t blame you one bit, but the fact is, we have no idea who placed that call.”

Ms. Jansen? He knew me as Ms. Jansen? My face heated up as I realized he’d probably seen my fat butt too. That would be enough to turn anyone’s grimace into a grin. Except mine.

“If I was you, Ms. Jansen, I’d see a lawyer. I don’t think that homeowners’ association has a leg to stand on from what I’ve read about it. Of course, I’m not a lawyer. But I think you should see one. I know you don’t have any money, but a beautiful young lady like yourself, you could work something out, couldn’t you?”

I squinted my eyes at him. Bad enough that everyone knew I didn’t have any money, but did they think I was a prostitute too? Nah, surely not. I gave his words some consideration, wondering if I knew any lawyers I could sleep with for help. Thank goodness I didn’t. Because at this point, what with my hormones working overtime on account of Hank and Bryan and the drought in my love life, if I knew a lawyer who was young and good-looking, I just might go for it.

*****

It was ninety-eight degrees and the sun was hot on our backs, but Richard and I kept at it, stopping only to chug water and wipe away sweat. We progressed according to Richard’s plan, and I was impressed. We were too busy for conversation, which suited me just fine since I wasn’t one bit interested in talking to Richard.

We’d finished weeding the back property line and by the third night were working on the scraggly weeds, the ones that had to be pulled by hand. These weeds included the ones around trees, bushes, the mailbox, the light poles, and anything else that stood up in the yard. We cut them really short, threw the weeds onto the plastic tarp as we went along, and sprayed what was left with weed killer. We finished on Thursday night.

Friday evening Richard was pulling a bag of fertilizer out of his truck when Hank stopped by.

“You’re not gonna use
that
are you?” Hank said to me.

Richard threw the bag to the ground where it landed with a
thunk.

“I guess so. Why?”

“It’s crap for the environment, that’s why. If you think you have to fertilize, then at least use somethin’ eco-friendly.”

This was a side of Hank I didn’t know. Maybe Hank was one of those environmental nuts and was trying to run people like me out of their neighborhoods one at a time. Then I remembered him saying he’d been reading up on naturescaping. People who did things naturally probably didn’t use fertilizer, at least not the kind that came in a bag.

“What do you suggest?” I asked.

“You don’t need a fertilizer with fast-releasing nitrogen. Nitrogen should be released slowly, over months. It can cause blue baby syndrome if it gets in the drinkin’ water.” He kicked the bag with the toe of his boot. “And look at the amount of phosphorous in that fertilizer. You don’t even need phosphorous. You got so many plants breakin’ down that you’re producin’ plenty of it. Phosphorous is a key cause of algae outbreaks cloggin’ the waterways. Have you seen the waterways recently?”

No, I hadn’t, but if I had, I doubted I’d have thought they were getting clogged up. I always enjoyed seeing plant life in water. Except for what was in my swamp.

“I didn’t know,” I said. And I hadn’t known, just as I hadn’t known I couldn’t cut down my own trees. I was wondering what else I didn’t know. Plenty, I was thinking.

“It’s the tropical season, and that means rain,” Hank went on. “Whatever you put on your lawn is gonna run into the drainage system and end up in our drinkin’ water. Have you thought about that?”

Well, no, I hadn’t thought about that. How many things was I supposed to be thinking about? “So what are you saying? I shouldn’t fertilize?”

“That’s what I’m sayin’. Everything is growin’ just fine in your yard. You got great soil and there’s plenty of water and you don’t need any fertilizer. But if you think you have to have it, I’ll bring you some that won’t poison everyone.”

Looked like I wouldn’t be fertilizing. I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for poisoning everyone. “What about mulch? You have a problem with mulch?”

“No, but I don’t suppose you got rubber mulch, did you? Rubber mulch is the most eco-friendly. For one thing, we use up the rubber, and for another, no trees get cut for it. And as a bonus for you, no termites will be feedin’ on it either.”

“Hunh.” I didn’t know I had to be worried about termites, but that was just a bonus for me.

“Any rubber mulch, Richard?” I asked. He shook his head.

“Well, punk tree mulch is good too,” Hank said. “Punk trees are non-native, and they’re overpopulatin’ the Everglades, takin’ over the native trees. As long as you’re not usin’ …”

Richard tossed a bag of mulch out of his truck, and it hit the ground in front of us.

“Cypress mulch,” Hank finished.

I stared at the bag of cypress mulch.

I turned to Richard. “I’m not going to fertilize,” I told him. “But go ahead and put the mulch down—thinly—in the beds where we pulled out the weeds.”

“I didn’t know,” I told Hank after Richard took the bag of mulch around to the back. “I’ll get punk tree mulch next time. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I didn’t know you didn’t know. You kept talkin’ about how you wanted to turn this place into a haven for wildlife. I just assumed you knew. It’s important.”

It
was
important and I found myself wishing once again that Hank, rather than Richard, was helping me in the yard. Working with Hank the week before had been fun, even though I’d stumbled into bed every night, aching all over, while working with Richard was simply a chore, something to get through. But Hank had only offered to help until Richard started, and now Richard had started.

In two months this will all be over,
I told myself, but that just made me groan. Two more months of working with Richard. I didn’t know why the thought was so depressing. There was nothing specifically wrong with Richard.

Well, I wasn’t going to think about Richard anymore. In a few more minutes he’d be gone, and tomorrow was another day. A good day, in fact. Tomorrow I didn’t have to work, so I was going to the hospital to visit Mark.