The Wonder Garden (12 page)

“Or if I had an assistant.” Martin puts a hand to his wife's shoulder.

“You can put an ad in the paper,” she says without looking up.

By Tuesday, Martin has completed two dragonflies, two spiders, and one perfect ladybug. On Wednesday, Philomena agrees to help glue the wings to a gypsy moth, and by the weekend she is sitting with him through whole days, helping to carve new creatures from scratch. The production doubles, then triples—as Martin predicted it would—as they become more adept. Together, they fall into a kind of shared trance, bending wires and sculpting foam as the summer progresses and weeds crawl up the sides of the pink pyramid behind the house.

Slowly, they produce each species in the book. Despite her bad back and creeping arthritis, Philomena works unflagging hours, fashioning the spiky hairs on fly legs, painting the chartreuse wings of a luna moth. She works with a beatific look on her face, like a woman deep in her knitting. By September, they have made a hundred insects. Martin is reluctant to store them in boxes, where they might be damaged. Instead, they rest upon every available surface, until they crowd the studio and overflow into the breezeway.
Swarm
, Martin decides, will be the title of the piece.

When the Gregorys invite them for dinner, Martin and Philomena walk down Minuteman Road to the glittering stone wall. On foot, the house is more imposing than ever—six thousand square feet at least. Martin says nothing as his wife glances at him and presses the musical doorbell.

Bill leads the tour of the interior, pausing to highlight the artwork. The paintings tend to be oversized, lacking in nuance. The artists' names are unfamiliar. Several gallery pedestals surround the dinner table, supporting bronze blobs. Martin sits quietly beneath the vaulted ceiling as the others converse and a chef serves steak tartare.

Martin chooses not to return the dinner invitation, despite Philomena's protests. It is unwise to give his patrons a preview of the piece before it's complete, he argues, and it will be too much trouble to stow it away.

By November, a phalanx of insects occupies the kitchen. The first snow comes and lays a clean blanket upon the hill of insulation boards. Alone in the house, Martin and Philomena slide into the timeless ski-lodge feeling. With the exception of supermarket cashiers and hardware store clerks, they speak only to each other. It has been a long time since they were together like this—really together—doing something. Something about their shared concentration on the same objective spurs easy conversation. They talk about people they've known, relive their children's blunders, make each other laugh.

From time to time, there are phone calls, the ring resounding like a siren through the house, rattling Martin out of his chair. Philomena speaks to their daughter, Melinda, divorced in San Francisco, and their son, Claude, living in Nashville with their two granddaughters.

“Will we come down there for Christmas? He wants to know.”

Martin does not respond. He has resorted to fingernail scissors for fashioning the knobs of a millipede's body, and his fingers are blistered from it.

“Martin, I just spoke to you.”

“I heard you, love. I just don't know the answer yet.”

“The answer to whether you'll fly to see your son and grandchildren for Christmas?”

“That's right. I don't know the answer. I don't think they'll be too happy with my bug-making at the dinner table.” He chuckles. “I might get foam dust in the turkey.”

“What's so funny? Do you think you're funny?”

“Come on, Phil, I'm only joking. I wouldn't really bring my bugs to Nashville.” He pauses, breathes in. “But I don't think I should go. I've got too much work to do.”

His wife stares at him, her eyes stygian. He looks back at his millipede.

“You can go if you want, of course,” he adds. “I wouldn't want to stop you from going.”

“Well, you don't have to worry about that,” she says, and heaves herself up from the couch.

After that, Martin works alone. He becomes bogged down with a monarch butterfly whose colors are coming out muddy. It is important, he knows, to create a few really vibrant pieces. Among the monochromes of the insect world, there is always an occasional peacock—a spirit-lifting splash of color. He repaints the butterfly's wings, then puts them aside to dry before setting to the delicate task of adding the black veins and spots. As he holds the fine-tipped brush, Martin's fingers tremble. He commands them to steady, but they shake until he is forced to put the brush down.

After breakfast each morning, he goes into the studio and sits alone. All around him, arthropods stare with vacant eyes. Their bodies appear flimsy and childish to him now, the work of a deluded fool. To begin work on a new creature would be to waste another scrap of his life. Whether he'd be better off wasting the same time in Nashville, cramped in his son's frilly guest room, he doesn't know. He picks up
Time
magazine and stares at the cover: a soldier poised on a hill in Afghanistan. The world is a mess. Here is a young man, younger than Claude, forsaken upon a barren land in the sights of hidden riflescopes. Martin, with his ladybugs, might be on another planet.

When Philomena startles him awake, he sees that the sun has gone down. He comes groggily to the dinner table and looks at his wife. Perhaps she sees the entreaty in his look, because the next day she comes wordlessly to the studio and helps him again.

They do not go to Nashville. Martin hasn't needed to argue the issue. He heard Philomena on the phone one evening.
You know your father,
she was saying quietly.
That's true, but still, it means a lot to him
. And finally, wearily,
Next year, I promise. But you'll still come up for Easter, I hope?

They decorate the tree to the songs of Bing Crosby, as is their tradition. Philomena, in an act of clemency that warms Martin's heart, eschews the usual angel and ties his monarch butterfly to the top.

The day before Christmas, the Gregorys surprise them at the front door with a ginger cake.

“Will you come in for tea? A cocktail?” Philomena asks, while Martin scrambles to hide insects in the broom closet.

“No, no, we're on our way to the city,” Bill says. “We just wanted to spread some cheer.” He shades his eyes and peers into the house. “The project going well?”

Yes, of course, Martin assures him. He'll be done by New Year's. Philomena glances at him.

“Wonderful,” Bill booms. “Well, don't be strangers,” he calls as they go back out into the snow and climb into their carriage, a Mercedes SUV.

By the time they finish the last insect, in April, the house is overrun. Together, Martin and Philomena joyfully hack the last lonely pink slab apart where it lies. A flattened yellow patch of grass remains while the rest turns green and Philomena's marigolds sprout their first leaves.

Martin goes on foot down Minuteman Road to report the good news. Although he's been forced to avoid the Gregorys all winter, his embarrassment evaporates as he inhales the spring air. He feels almost young as he trots up their driveway and rings the musical doorbell. And yet he finds himself out of breath when Coraline answers. He gasps, “It's finished.”

She wears a look of concern. “What's finished?”

He laughs, bending to catch his breath. “The project is ready to go. When can we start installation?”

“Come in,” she says, smiling, and calls for her husband.

They are set to begin work the week before Easter. The timing is bad, Martin admits. He wants to see the kids as much as his wife does, but the project can't be delayed any longer. He doesn't want to lose credibility. To his surprise, Philomena smiles. She calmly goes to the phone, asks Claude and Melinda if they can postpone their visits until summer. It will be better this way, Martin assures her after she hangs up the receiver. When the project is finished, they'll have time to relax together, to grill outside and go to the beach as a family.

“It's all right,” she tells him, putting a hand to his shoulder. “We're almost there.”

She is, at that moment, the woman he unveiled at the altar forty years ago, the flash of her jet eyes like a stomp to the chest.

Together, they pack insects into cardboard boxes and load the car. The Gregorys have considerately vacated their home for a fortnight, allowing the artist to work undisturbed. The house is already decked in scaffolding. Anyone passing would assume that the new neighbors are simply adding some finishing touches, a few last details to bring the preposterous house completely over the top. Martin smiles to himself. No one would guess the nature of those details. No one would imagine, in a thousand years, the kind of creative risk the Gregorys are about to embrace—the rare kind of people they really are.

It makes sense to start at the front, where the impact will be instantly felt, and so they will be sure not to run out of bugs for the facade. Martin gingerly climbs the scaffolding to the top plank of plywood. The platform feels solid enough, but when he glances at Philomena on the ground, he feels the beginnings of vertigo and clutches a pole.

“Why don't I stay up here, honey, and you can bring the insects up to me a few at a time,” he calls, keeping his gaze firmly on the bricks of the house. “Just whatever you can handle at once.”

Several moments later, he hears the heavy creaking of the scaffolding ladder, and then his wife's hand is there, offering a tarantula. He laughs. “Good place to start.”

Philomena continues up and down the ladder each day of the week, and Martin uses industrial epoxy to affix the insects to the house at the painstaking rate she brings them up. It's a lot of climbing, he knows, but she does not complain. On Good Friday, she wheezes up the ladder, smiles at Martin, then dips into her bucket and presents a swallowtail. It is a splendid specimen, zigzagged with yellow. He finds a spot for it next to a welter of houseflies, where it will glow brilliantly. Philomena balances patiently at the top rung, gripping the plywood plank with one hand and using the other to unload another insect. Martin reaches down for a praying mantis at the moment her grip relaxes. He watches as her fingers release the plank slowly, gracefully, without understanding the meaning of it. Then there is a judder of scaffolding poles as her body crumples and drops to the ground.

Martin feels suspended high above the earth for an instant, saying, “Phil?,” even as he moves to scramble down the ladder. The ground is soft, still muddy from spring rain. Philomena lies on her back. Her face is pale, and she looks at him in a kind of bemused surprise. He begins to feel for her pulse, but considers the passing moments, and instead runs down Minuteman Road to their home telephone.

When the ambulance comes, he rides in the back and watches the medical men. Their huddle obscures his wife from view. He feels absent from the vehicle, as if he is still on the scaffolding platform, holding the praying mantis. He continues to feel absent at the hospital as the doctor lays a hand on his shoulder.
Sudden coronary arrest
. A main artery jammed with plaque, narrowed over the years. Martin walks away from the hospital, through the parking lot and driveway, to the edge of the street. Then he turns and looks at the building that holds his wife, built of plain white cement blocks. It looks back at him, brutally mute.

The kids stay with him after the services. Claude and his wife settle into the guest room, and their two girls use the trundle bed in Claude's old bedroom. Melinda chooses to sleep on the old brown couch. She dusts the house and vacuums, sucking up bits of foam that have found their way into the braid of the rugs. She cooks vegetarian dinners in the wok she gave them one Christmas, which they'd never used. Martin walks from room to room and sits in every chair. He cannot find a comfortable spot. Every place has Philomena in it.

The Gregorys leave a condolence card in the mailbox. Martin is glad they didn't knock. He remains in pajamas, unshowered. He sleeps long, dreamless nights and takes ugly afternoon naps. He speaks only when necessary. The grandkids grow tired of playing board games and begin to whine softly, but are chastised by their parents. One morning, Martin walks through the house—past Melinda brewing coffee in the kitchen, Claude and the girls playing outside the window—and goes into the studio. There is still a square of insulation board remaining. With the blind motions of habit, he takes a serrated knife and carves the tapered abdomen of a wasp.

An unknown period of time passes before his daughter appears in the doorway.

“What are you doing, Dad?”

“Just keeping my hands busy.”

He knows how he must look, the few tufts of dirty white hair fanning out from his head, his pajama top buttoned haphazardly.

“Would you like to help?” he asks.

“What do you mean? Help with what?” Melinda stands stolidly in a clean black sweater and jeans. There is a tone in her voice that Martin doesn't like.

“What do you think? With the project,” he answers, keeping his eyes on the bug.

There is a long pause, and then Melinda speaks with open rancor. “You have to be kidding me. You're still doing this? Don't you understand that Mom is gone?” She takes a breath. “She died, Dad. Doing your stupid project.”

Martin does not speak. Melinda turns and leaves the doorway. He takes an X-Acto knife and begins scoring the foam.

They are quiet at the dinner table. Melinda forks the salad into bowls with obvious anger, and Claude will not look at his father. At the end of the meal, Martin pushes his chair out from the table and says, “I know what you're all thinking. That I'm a selfish bastard for trying to finish this damn project.” His voice quavers, and he glances at the grandchildren whose eyes stare back roundly. “But I have a commission, and I'm expected to deliver it. I am a professional.”

He takes his empty plate to the kitchen and rinses it, then strides into the studio. A terrible draining sensation takes hold of his stomach as he stands in the room, surrounded by insects. Slowly, he fills a cardboard box with painted bodies.