Backyard (30 page)

“Maybe all the other contestants suffered damage, too,” Juanita said. Nan and George forced wan, unbelieving smiles.

“What's worst is it's like losing your friends,” said Nan, a tear sparkling in each eye. “This was such an animated place. Now it's so quiet. Even the ones that are still living aren't talking. They're hurting too much. And to think that we had really just gotten to know them. Listen.” The McCandlesses and Winthrops earnestly pretended to listen.

“Hear that?”

“Mmm-hmm,” said Juanita.

“I hear something,” Steve said.

“No you don't!” retorted Nan sharply. “Don't patronize me. There's nothing. What you hear is the sound of silence. What can something say if it's dead?”

Juanita and Jane hugged Nan, while Steve and Alex nodded sadly.

“Well, I guess it's about time to call Jerry and get him and his chain saw over here,” said George after the Winthrops and McCandlesses made their slow, somber way down the steps, stopping and swiveling their heads halfway down as if not believing the damage they had witnessed and having to check again to prove it to themselves. Nan noticed appreciatively that, as always, they managed to negotiate the steps without disturbing any of her pea gravel.

Another visitor was climbing up the steps toward them, stopping halfway to the patio to pivot and survey the carnage spread out before her with a long sigh. Short of stature and middle-aged, she carried herself with the familiarity and confidence of someone the Fremonts figured they should know. She stopped directly in front of them, smiled meekly, and offered her hand.

“I just wanted to tell you how much I feel your pain,” the woman said softly. “I'm just distraught at what happened here. Well, you don't really know me, but I've been a big admirer of your gardening skills for a long time. I wanted to offer you the solace of someone who cares a lot more than you might realize.”

The Fremonts looked on, puzzled, but accepted the woman's proffered friendship. Her tiny hand had the firm, purposeful feel of someone who meant what she said.

“I'm sorry,” Nan said. “But your name is . . . ?”

“Marta.”

“Marta what?”

“Just Marta's enough.”

“Sounds familiar. Don't we know you?”

“I don't think so. But, as I said, I know
you
.”

“Wait a minute!” said George, snapping his fingers. “That voice. I know that voice. I
know
who you are.”

Marta winced and held her breath, hoping that she wouldn't start hyperventilating.

“You're the voice of Kurt's Karamel Kandies! On the radio. Between innings during the Muskies games! The one that does the Kurt's Alerts, then finds somebody at the ballpark eating your caramels and gives him a year's supply if he can eat ten at one time. ‘Eat Kurt's Till It Hurts.' I love that promotion. I never mistake a voice. That's you, isn't it?”

Marta almost fainted with relief.

“No, not me. Sorry.”

“Dang,” George said. “That's the first time I've mistaken a voice.”

“Well,” said Marta, “I won't waste any more of your time. I did want to tell you that I know what happened to you and may be able to make it right.”

“You
what?
” Nan said.

“That's all I can say for now,” said Marta, who had turned and was about to make her way back down the steps. “I'll do whatever I can to help you. Be patient.”

“Hang on, there, Mrs. . . . Poppendauber.” Marta stopped dead in her tracks. “A little bird told us that you might have had something to do with all the trouble we've been having.”

“And that little bird would be correct,” said Marta, wringing her hands. “But I didn't want to. I was weak and Doc Phil . . . ah . . . Dr. Sproot had been my best friend for many years. She had helped me so much to become the gardener I am now, not as good as she is, of course, or you. But I
did
break loose eventually. I am my own woman now, and I have actually already helped you.”

“The woman in the robes!” George cried. “The spy!”

“Correct again,” Marta said. “But I never did any damage other than snipping off a few of your monarda.”

“And that's what you call
help?
” said Nan. “Strange definition of the word, if you ask me.”

“Hang on!” George said. “You're the angel-monk with the cross that night. The one that vanquished the zom . . . uh . . . Dr. Sproot! You
did
help us.”

“Oh, jeez,” Nan moaned.

Marta sighed.

“You wouldn't happen to have any of that wine of yours handy, would you?” she said. “I'm afraid you haven't heard the whole story of what has happened here. If you don't mind, I'd kind of like to fill you in.”

30

Garden Renewal for Fun and Profit

“I
don't believe a word of it,” Nan said. “Not a word. I mean, really. A witch's curse on our property? This is some kind of joke . . . isn't it, George?”

“Pretty hard to buy,” George said. “But she seemed sincere. She seemed sane. And, Nan-bee, you might have noticed that some people have been wondering about
our
sanity, what with us yakking it up with the plants and all. And you and your
sentient
flowers. I mean, if this was Salem, Mass, circa 1690, you'd be toast. Besides, she's as old as we are, maybe older. When you come right down to it, how many people our age get their jollies telling people lies about spells being cast on them? Huh? There must be something to it. And it's the same story Dr. Sproot was trying to tell us.”

“That's hardly a reliable source,” Nan said acidly, peeved that George would stoop so law as to connect her proven techniques of cross-cultural contact with such a dark, superstitious absurdity as witchcraft. “And sane? This Marta Poppendauber is the same woman who's been dressing up like a monk to spy on us. I'd say she's got a side to her that's certifiably wacko.

“Let's say it's true, which it is not for one thing, and for two, it would be blaspheming. But just for argument's sake, let's say there's something to all this hokum. Okay? Here goes: ‘Edith. Edith Merton. I know you can hear me with your witch powers. Edith, please call up one of your good spells and plunk down a check right here in front of us to cover the damages. A check for, um, $100,000 or so would work quite nicely as a starter, thank you.' Okay, where's the puff of smoke and the check? Nowhere, of course. You know, it really burns me up that I haven't heard that Marta Poppendauber or anyone else stepping forward to offer
that
kind of restorative justice.”

“She said be patient.”

Nan snorted.

“Well, I've had it up to here with patience,” she said.

George and Nan were sipping diet Cokes as evening rolled around, wine and gin not really seeming appropriate considering what they had been through. They gazed abstractedly into the meaningless jumble of torn, knocked-down plants that was their backyard. A light breeze wafted their way, carrying with it the scent of charcoal and lighter fluid.

“Somebody's firing up the grill,” said George unenthusiastically.

“The Cadawalladers,” said Nan. “Whatever it is they're cooking, they'll vaporize it. We'll be smelling carbon and ash soon.”

George smiled joylessly.

“I guess it's about time we figured out whether we have misspent the last six years of our lives indulging in a fruitless, unproductive hobby at the expense of our livelihood,” said Nan. “We need to get off our hindquarters and start looking for jobs, full time and permanent. That means we start pounding the pavement tomorrow. Time for you to freshen up the old résumé, bud.”

“Freshen it up with what?”

“Good point.”

 

A week later, after their first unsuccessful rounds of job interviews, George and Nan settled in on the patio, pinching pennies by reluctantly tolerating the cheapest merlot they could find.

“Damn if this rotgut doesn't work fast,” Nan said, puckering her lips. “You sure someone didn't bottle one hundred percent grain alcohol in here and just add a little sour grape juice for flavoring?”

Just after they had waved halfheartedly to the Boozers, who waved back and said something inaudible, a black BMW pulled up on the side of the road, leaving enough room between it and the leper Duster to avoid any chance of contamination. Out stepped a serious-looking man wearing a dark suit and carrying a plain but tasteful briefcase.

“Uh-oh, another jerk realtor,” growled George. “It's okay. One more glass of this stuff and screw propriety; we'll just keep insulting him till he leaves.”

“Now, dear, be civil. We
are
the Fremonts, after all.”

The man walked briskly up the steps, making a good impression on Nan by not mussing up her pea gravel and disarming George with a serious mien that didn't even hint of phony neighborliness.

“Mr. and Mrs. Fremont?” George and Nan nodded. “I am Jasper Burdick, owner of Burdick's PlantWorld as well as any number of other enterprises with which I won't bore you this evening. You may have heard of me and I am quite certain you've heard of our big contest. The results were announced Tuesday, you know.”

“We know,” Nan said with a hiccup. “So, you're here to tell us we didn't win? We know that already. Just look around. We know Marta Poppendauber won first place and our heartfelt congratulations go out to her.”

Mr. Burdick chuckled.

“Glass of budget merlot?” George said halfheartedly, motioning for their unexpected guest to seat himself.

“No,” Mr. Burdick said. “I want to get down strictly to business here. And I think you will find my visit to be quite a pleasant surprise.”

“How might that be?” Nan said.

Mr. Burdick cleared his throat.

“How that might be is that we've awarded you first place in the Burdick's Best Yard Contest. Your first-place sign will be delivered to you later this week. I, however, am here to personally deliver to you your official certificate of congratulations and a check for $200,000.”

For a minute, the earth stood still. No bird twittered. No tree rustled. No plant photosynthesized.

“I'm sure this comes as something of a shock,” said Mr. Burdick as George and Nan stared vacantly at him. “A good shock, I would think, but I can see you're flummoxed.”

George grabbed one of the bottles of merlot, which came from a small town in Utah, and not too far from a big uranium mine, and squinted at the label.

“I don't see anything here that would unduly speed up brain cell mutation,” he said. “But it sure is very bad wine. Could you repeat what you said, Mr. Burdick? My wife, as you can see, has gone apocalyptic . . . I mean, ha-ha,
apoplectic
on us.”

“I said I have a check here for $200,000—tax-free, I might add, since we prepay the taxes on the total amount—for winning the first-place prize in the Burdick's Best Yard Contest.”

“But how can that be?” cried Nan, suddenly alert and feisty. “These gardens were destroyed two days before your judges came by. And when they did come by they looked for five minutes and we told them what happened. They said, ‘Sorry, tough tequila,' and they left. Poof.
C'est la vie.
Et cetera. Et cetera. Besides, Myrtle Pupildinger won anyway.”

“No, Mrs. Poppendauber did not win.”

“Mr. Burdick, I know this must be fun for you playing your little joke here and taking advantage of a couple of folks who're on the verge of getting shit-faced, but could you please explain what exactly is going on? Nan and I are on our third bottle of very, very cheap merlot and our senses—well, Nan's especially—are a little scrambled. At this stage of the evening and considering the extent of our alcohol intake, we confuse easily.”

Mr. Burdick chuckled again with what seemed to the Fremonts to be genuine mirth.

“Okay, then. I'll tell you the whole story. Marta Poppendauber did indeed win first place, but when I paid her a visit to deliver the news, she explained everything to me. A sad story, certainly. And I was indignant to hear that unscrupulous persons would stoop so low as to sabotage one of our contestants and stain our competition with corruption. But when you've got $200,000 at stake, well, you know how people are.

“At any rate, Mrs. Poppendauber insisted that we give first prize to you, not just because your efforts had been so cruelly undermined, but also because you so richly deserved it.”

“A little of our wonderful vintage wine, Mr. B?” said George, shakily dangling a half-empty wine bottle in front of him. Mr. Burdick waved it away with a smile.

“Not now, thank you, Mr. Fremont. I'll just finish my story. So, as it turned out, Mrs. Poppendauber had hundreds—yes, hundreds!—of photographs of your gardens. Not only that, but she had made schematic drawings of your grounds, down to the tiniest little flower. I must say, no landscape designer we employ could have done better. Well, I took the matter under careful consideration. The judges were consulted and yesterday the decision was made: You get first place! You know, of course, that Dr. Phyllis Sproot's gardens were also destroyed.”

“No!” said Nan.

“How?” said George.

“Oh, didn't you know? Well, that's for someone else to say. All I can say is any prize she would have won would have been nullified posthaste. Though the initial thought was to disqualify Mrs. Poppendauber from any prize at all, she did get points for her honesty and forthrightness and mostly for her willingness to forfeit her first prize. With all that in mind, the judges decided that awarding her the second-place prize would be quite reasonable. Plus, we offered her a job as special gardening and landscaping consultant to Burdick's.”

During all this time, George and Nan had been getting thoroughly potted. George once again waggled the wine bottle at Mr. Burdick, and, once again being waved off, flourished it at Nan, who somewhat shakily held up her glass for a refill.

“But, Misther Budwink, how would any person want to see some firsth place gardens that don't exist?” Nan hiccuped and perched her fingertips daintily on her lips.

“I've thought about that, Mrs. Fremont.”

“Nan-bee. You can call me Nan-bee, just like Georgie does.”

“Don't call me
Georgie!
Not ever again!”

“Okay, Nan-bee, I have given that some thought, and the way I see it is this: people love to see disaster and devastation. Then, they love to see the comeback, the phoenix rising triumphant from the ashes. Do you know what I mean?”

George and Nan stared at Mr. Burdick.

“Please don't be taxing our brains too much, Mr. Beatwash,” said George. “Just tell us up front what you're getting at.”

“Well, they'll want to see the devastation first, then they'll want to see the resurrection when the gardens look even better. It's what happened after Mount Saint Helens blew its top. It's what happened after forest fires ravaged Yellowstone. It's what happened to . . . Jesus.”

All three instinctively bowed their heads for a moment in respectful silence.

“Now it's time for it to happen to the Fremont gardens of Livia.”

Nan giggled. George frowned at her.

“I've even seen a vision of what will happen.” George and Nan swayed from side to side. “I've seen your future gardens being more resplendent than ever, and people making pilgrimages to your backyard and returning to their homes awestruck and inspired. I have these visions sometimes, you know.” Mr. Burdick was looking up into the sky, so, to be polite, Nan and George looked up there, too.

“I don't see nuttin',” Nan gurgled. “And it's right about at the stage when I should be starting to, whether there's sumpin' there or not.”

Mr. Burdick decided it was pointless to push the mystical element of the story any further. He lowered his eyes and adopted his most businesslike tone.

“I have to tell you that we've received certain inquiries from the press about this matter. I ordinarily disapprove of the press, but seeing as how the contest did get quite a bit of publicity that we actively sought in the first place, I'm not sure it does us any good to say no. It's up to you how you yourselves want to deal with this.”

“Bring on the goddamn newshounds!” screamed Nan.

“We agree!” shouted George. “But under one condition . . . one eentsy little condition.”

“Which is?”

“Which is to call the guy who can do the story right. His name is Roland Ready and he works for the . . . he works for the . . . whacha name of that shtupid rag downtown? . . . Oh, yesh . . . oh, yest . . . the . . . the . . .”

“I'm familiar with Mr. Ready,” Mr. Burdick interrupted gently. “And he's done a very fair job in his coverage, I must say. Not so much as a whiff of socialist bias. I will contact him at the
Inquirer
and let him know you're willing to be interviewed. I'm hoping, by the way, we can leave some of the more
sordid
elements out of this. However, Mrs. Poppendauber's confession can be an inspiration for gardeners everywhere.”

As Mr. Burdick got up to leave, George and Nan took turns hugging him four times each. Nan stumbled her way through two flower knock-knock jokes, praised the clematis for its stoicism, and insisted on introducing her pea gravel while the bemused Mr. Burdick listened politely. George got a quarter out of his pocket, grabbed Mr. Burdick's hand, and slipped it into his palm.

“Thasha tip,” he whispered into his ear. “For alla good works you do.... No . . . I inshist.”

Mr. Burdick finally managed to slip away, with the Fremonts waving good-byes like maniacs and George crying out, “Y'all come back now, heah!” six times.

 

As George and Nan strolled around the backyard on a mid-August Saturday morning, they were astonished at how quickly their gardens had shifted into full recuperation mode. The lilacs, their leaves machine-gunned by the hailstorm, had dropped their damaged leaves and generated new ones. Hostas poked their clumped, giant, asparagus-tip points through the soil. The crab apples were crowned with clouds of white and pink blossoms, unusual for August, to say the least. Everywhere were new shoots, new leaves, and new blooms that were paying no attention to what the calendar told them they shouldn't be doing.