Backyard (17 page)

“Fee!” the others cried.

“Yes, what was it, Nan, $150?”

“Something like that,” Nan said. “And, yes, we're dissatisfied customers who have no intention of paying. I doubt she'll have the nerve to send us a bill or come by to collect.”

“That's the scandal,” Juanita said. “Actually charging for a performance like that.”

The last few stragglers were leaving now. Several came over to say their good-byes to Nan and George, neglecting to offer any commentary on what had just transpired other than to make a few oblique remarks, such as “Quite a party,” and “Interesting afternoon,” and “Really enjoyed your gardens this time.”

Once Hans and Robin Jerlick slurped down the remnants of their root beer floats and dropped the empty cups unapologetically on the grass as they strode off toward Payne Avenue, the Fremonts were left with a clot of bitter enders, their very best friends.

“Now that we've gotten all the rabble out of the way, how about if I break out some real drinks for the important people,” George said.

16

The Good Life . . . and the Bad

O
ut came the Bombay Sapphire gin and Canada Dry tonic, the 2005 Sagelands merlot, and some chilled white wine George and Nan kept in the refrigerator for the McCandlesses, those poor, lost souls who didn't know what they were doing.

Then came the toasts. Those were mostly raised to friendship, conviviality, and life given over to joyful languor, although that's not how it was always phrased. Before they could clink glasses, Nan motioned to Steve and George to go easy on the first toast; last time, they had gotten so enthusiastic about a salute they proposed to a couple of cranberry-breasted purple finches that were visiting the feeder that they shattered their wineglasses.

These were times the Fremonts cherished more than any others, except maybe those occasions when they were so lost in admiration for their gardens as to be struck dumb. It was at impromptu gatherings such as these where they rehashed special old times, planned their children's' futures, and extolled the glories of the present. They did not broach sobering, unpleasant topics such as making ends meet or the decline of the silver maple—that lofty old patriarch—in the front yard. Occasionally, the McCandlesses and the Winthrops playfully tried to coax the Fremonts into traveling with them. The Winthrops planned to drive out to Oregon next summer. The McCandlesses fell in love with Banff; they wanted to go back. It was all in vain. Everyone knew that. The Fremonts could not be pried loose from their backyard and unhurried lifestyle.

“How about Fitchburg?” Juanita said. “Couldn't we lure you down to Fitchburg to do some biking? Great bike trail. Great bed and breakfasts. Antique shops coming out the wazoo, Nan. It'll be in October. The trees will be all blazing color. What else will you have to do here anyway?”

“Our own maples will be flaming,” George said. “The ashes will be a brilliant yellow. The mums and sedum will be blooming. I really want to see what those mums look like this fall. We'll be having our last opportunities for grilling. The Muskies will be in the playoffs. . . .” That prompted a few chuckles and guffaws.

“What, you don't think so?”

“The Muskies are going nowhere this year,” Steve said.

“They have a shot.”

“No way. They're ten games out. How can you say that?”

What followed was what always followed when these three sets of friends got together. It started with the three males, who engaged in what seemed to the women to be an interminable and painstakingly detailed breakdown of the Muskies, in which every player's statistics and strengths and weaknesses were recited, and every minor leaguer with a chance to move up to the bigs was vetted. Then would come the breakdown of the other teams in the division, the other teams in the league, and even a few teams in the other league, especially if they had players of trade value to the Muskies.

The women at first listened politely, offering a few observations and posing some general questions. Then, they turned to their own topics: flowers, children, and the latest gossip relating to neighbors and friends. The Jensens were divorcing, Juanita said to gasps of surprise. Amy and Brad Phillips's eighteen-year-old son, Kurt, recently had a run-in with the cops, though Jane didn't think it was anything serious.

“Curfew violation right before graduation,” she said. “He and a couple of buddies got caught tp'ing somebody's front yard. And gadzooks did they make a mess. It was the Bishops' place. You know the Bishops. Their daughter, Stacey, was in show choir last season.”

In the meantime, George had gone inside to fetch the old portable radio that was now booming the voices of the Muskies, Milo Weavermill and Bernie “Bad Dog” Simpson. Third inning. Score knotted 2–2. Muskies up to bat. Bud Nichols at the plate.

“Automatic out!” Alex cried.

“No way,” George said. “He's better in the clutch than most people realize.”

Viewed from afar, the gathering around the patio table in the Fremonts' backyard would be judged accurately by most to be a joyful affair, graced with animated conversation, smiles that were genuinely worn and the true appreciation of alcoholic beverages as bright, yet measured, contributors to all of the above. As twilight gathered in the western sky, the friends chattered away and the game ebbed and flowed in its unrushed way into the seventh inning (Muskies 6, Brickbats 4). George and Nan reflected separately, but with a telepathic current linking them, that what they had here was the ideal life; there could be no better.

“We'll think about Fitchburg this year, Juanita,” said Nan as things began to wind down, and spouses started patting each others' hands in the mutually recognized signal that it was time to go.

A few minutes after those dawdlers Alex and Jane left, Nan and George watched as a short, mysteriously clad figure ambled down Payne, stopping occasionally to stare into their yard. She was still wearing her sunglasses, which was odd enough at this hour of day, the sun having just set, and a bulky, hooded thing, which made her look like a monk or one of those bit-player aliens from
Star Wars.
How strange to be walking around in such a getup when it was 82 degrees, and so many others were clad in shorts and short-sleeve shirts. They waved at her, but she didn't seem to notice, apparently lost in thought and gazing down at the pavement as she was now. They waved a second time. Still, no response.

“Hi!” they both yelled. The woman finally looked up at them, then turned away quickly and double-timed it down the block, almost colliding with Ellis's Duster, and having to grope her way around it.

“Who the hell
is
that?” George said. “Pretty dang uncivil, if you ask me. Is she blind? I don't see a cane. And what the hell is she up to? Isn't that the same woman we saw running out of our yard just last week? She's got a camera. See it?”

“She's not blind,” Nan said. “Otherwise she'd be crashing into a lot more things than just that car no matter how heightened her other senses might be. Secret agent. Probably that Dr. Sprout woman Earlene was talking about checking out the grounds.”

“Sproot.”

“That's right. Sproot.”

“How can she check out anybody's grounds if she's wearing sunglasses at this hour of the day? I mean, really.” George chuckled. “Ten to one it was that cowled person Cullen and Ellis have seen wandering around in the yard recently. They thought it was the meter reader. Hmm. Dr. Sproot. Ha-ha . . . uh-oh. Look what's coming.”

Jim Graybill trudged up the slope toward them carrying something heavy and metallic connected to a long rod with a spherical base that looked as if it were attached to his arm. He was wearing headphones.

“Hey, guys, how 'bout if I do that sweep now?” Jim shouted from a distance. George looked at Nan, who shrugged.

“I told him he could,” she said. “What's the harm?”

“Then, of course, he'll be returning whatever he finds, like loose change that spilled out of people's pockets, to whomever the rightful owners are, correct?”

Nan nodded unconvincingly.

“I think he's looking for something bigger than that,” she said.

Jim was now standing in front of them, proudly flaunting what he called his “Treasure Trove XB 255.”

“Check this baby out,” he said, swinging the rounded metal base toward them. “That's a ten-inch search coil. They say it can go down four-to-six feet for the big stuff. I could find a nickel buried a foot-and-a-half-feet deep. This here's my control panel. Look how it's right in front of me so I can take readings without having to look too hard.”

“And if you find something?” said Nan.

“It beeps as you move the coil. I've got headphones, but you guys probably want to hear when it beeps 'cause it will signal some pretty exciting news that there's something down there.”

Nan and George sipped their wine and smiled in a noncommittal way.

“Glass of wine?” George said.

“Good Lord, no!” cried Jim. “Not while I'm treasure hunting. I need all my faculties operating at the highest pitch of performance.”

“But of course. Silly me . . . Well, just to make sure, Jim, you need to bring any stray things of value over here so we can figure out who it belongs to. We just had a bunch of people over here—sorry you yourself couldn't make it—and they might have dropped some things. Anything valuable gets returned to the owner, okay? Just so we're clear on that. I guess if you're lucky you might find a few stray nuts and bolts.”

“What?” Jim said. “You think I'm over here bothering you folks just to pick up the odd little worthless metallic object and some spare change? Wrong! I'm going big-time, looking for the bigger stuff!”

“There is no bigger stuff,” Nan said.

“So don't be thinking about digging up our backyard,” added George.

“Don't worry,” said Jim as he positioned the metal detector so the search coil hovered on the same plane as the ground and a couple of inches above it. “I'll be sure to get your permission before I rent the bulldozer.”

Twilight segued into dusk. There had been some beeping, and each time there was, Jim smiled and gave a thumbs-up to George and Nan, who responded with perfunctorily raised wineglasses. An hour after he began, Jim strode confidently over to the patio, where Nan and George were draining their last drops of merlot, and hefted the metal detector high in the air in a sign of victory.

“Strong,” Nan said. “You been lifting weights?”

“Good news!” he said.

“Can't wait,” said George. Jim chuckled.

“George, your humor is so understated. So dry. Isn't it, Nan?”

“You wouldn't believe it,” said Nan in her most affected monotone. Jim laughed, then turned suddenly serious.

“Well, the good news is this: There are some hot spots in your backyard.”

“Do tell,” Nan said. Jim laughed some more.

“I've got more good news,” George said. “Muskies win eight to six. Dawson got rocked, but Meredith picked up the save. Homer and triple for Nichols. I'll have to rub Alex's face in that. ‘Automatic out' indeed!”

Jim ignored him.

“From what I can tell, they are big ones. Doozies. Might be, say, a chest down there . . . filled with . . . with . . . who knows?”

“I suppose it could also be just a big chunk of metal,” George said.

“Maybe a pan,” Nan said. “Or an iron skillet from 1900 at best.”

“Well, I'm not adept enough at translating the information, I gotta admit,” Jim said. “But I do know people who could. And then, if we've got something, we can dig!”

“No digging!” Nan said. “How many times do we have to tell you, Jim? There is nothing of any value buried beneath our property. And we have gardens to keep up, and a contest to keep in mind. We're not going to go messing up our backyard just because there might be a chunk of metal down there somewhere!”

Nan stopped abruptly, aware that she had gone too far. Jim looked as though he had just been slapped.

“Actually, Jim,” said Nan, conciliation dripping from her now-honeyed tone. “Could you prepare a full report on where those hot spots are? Then, we'll get a better idea how to proceed next.”

“Yeah, Jim,” said George. “Put something down in writing for us.”

“You don't mean it,” Jim croaked. “You think this is all just a waste of time. Well, I won't be bothering you anymore.”

With that, Jim tucked the metal detector under his arm, and stalked off into the gloaming. Nan and George watched, bemused, as the streetlight flickered on, illuminating a slumped, shaking form who dragged his curved metal detector behind him, allowing its base to bump and scrape noisily against the pavement.

 

Shortly after the Fremonts went inside, a dim figure appeared from behind one of the silver maples and moved stealthily toward the heart of the gardens. In the gathering darkness, Marta Poppendauber made a quiet beeline for some ornamental grasses she hadn't recorded yet and snapped their pictures with her silent and surprisingly unobtrusive flash providing the light. She was headed toward the back to shoot the paper birches and crab apples when a door hinge squealed and a screen door slammed shut. Marta froze, her arms thrust outward in the manner of a small tree. She was looking straight at the back patio, where someone stood illuminated by the glare of the motion-detector light. One of the Fremont kids!

“Hey! Who are you? What are you doing here and why are you trying to look like a tree?”

Marta took off like a shot, hurdled over the split-rail fence, and plunged into the nearby woods, careening off trees and small saplings. She emerged scratched, bruised, and panting for breath onto Jeri and Tom Fletcher's driveway on the other side. On went a motion-detector light. Within seconds the front door opened, revealing a gauzy, formidable figure standing on the front stoop.

“Can I help you?” It was Jeri Fletcher's booming voice coming from the top step of the cement stairway leading up to their front door. “Who are you and why do you look like a monk? Are you a monk? Do you listen to confessions? I haven't been to confession in at least twenty-three years.”

Marta tore off down the driveway, across Sumac, and down the slope that lead to the shores of Bluegill Pond. Tripping over an exposed cottonwood root, she found herself lying faceup on the spongy ground at the edge of a cattail marsh and not particularly wanting to get up. She wondered whether that was because she'd suffered a debilitating injury from her fall. She gazed at the evening star, shining brightly above her. That must be Venus, she thought, then reflected sadly on how a cold-weather lover such as calendula could never flourish on that hothouse planet.