Beloved Evangeline (3 page)

The problem with that philosophy tonight is my natural instinct is to help those in need, especially kids. But I have to remind myself that this, of course, is all wrong. Going out of one’s way to help anyone, believe it or not, eventually leads to people wanting to be friends, or other sorts of nosing about. Not an appealing idea for me. So, despite the pain in my heart for those boys and the swift justice Bruce Vaughn so achingly deserved, I planned to sit on my couch stubbornly, listen to my music, and soak up this admittedly less than exquisite, now guilt-tinged and sad excuse for relaxation, no matter what.

I went to close the window, all the better to shut out the rest of the world, when I heard it, the final nail in my coffin. “Wow, you little creeps really have no idea how to garden, do you?” Mr. Vaughn laughed wickedly. He was usually at his most vicious when talking to kids. I had a feeling because they were the least likely to stand up to him—or maybe it just bothered me more when he was bullying kids. Though admittedly I never spent much time dwelling on the subject—I’d always kind of assumed I’d be a mother by the time I was 34. I must now accept it’ll never happen.

“
Ah, boys,” Mr. Vaughn boasted, “This is really going to be a very long night.”

So much for relaxation. I gulped down the rest of my tea and went to change clothes again.

“
I don’t care how late you are for your wittle
sup-per
,” I heard him exaggerating the word patronizingly, “you’re not going anywhere until my border has been resurrected, so start fluffin’, kid.”

Mr. Vaughn was just pulling out his lawn chair when I walked out my front door.

“
Oh no. No, NO,
NO
,” Mr. Vaughn apparently caught sight of me as soon as I stepped off my porch. A little sooner than I’d intended, but no matter.

“
NOT today. Every time I try to teach these little creeps a lesson you
magicall
y appear with some ridiculous excuse. Well, I’m not putting up with any of your nonsense today. So let me just stop you right there.” He put one hand to his temple and feigned a look of concentration. “Because I already know what you’re going to say.”

I braced myself for his wrath, determined, as always, not to betray even the faintest flicker of fear.
Here we go
.

“
Let me guess… did their mothers just happen to call you again about needing to take them to
mandatory
Lord of the Flies survival lessons? Maybe they
both
forgot their perishable science projects made of pigs feet again? Or, my personal favorite, maybe they need to help poor old grandma find her dentures because she dropped them skydiving?
Maybe
you need help because that stupid dog of yours swallowed an iPod again and is playing
What’s Love Got to Do With It
every time his tail wags, is that it? Wait, I have it... you need help locating personal items from all of the neighbors to make dolls for your suburban voodoo class again? Am I getting warmer?? How ‘bout it, Little Miss Johnson?” His voice seared with deadly sarcasm.

I stared back at him, unflinching. “I can’t help that the neighborhood trusts me to take care of its
problems
.”

Mr. Vaughn pulled a wicked grin, apparently ready for whatever I might throw at him tonight.

“
Right now, though, I’m just going to the grocery store. You know, the sort of thing that us regular folks have to do from time to time?” (What can I say? It’s in my nature to defy expectations.)

I lifted my eyebrows and arranged my expression into the most innocent-looking possible before getting into my car and backing out into the street.

Stopping the car in front of Bruce Vaughn, I rolled down my window.

“
My dog Rocky died six months ago, but thanks for bringing him up every time I see you,” I said dryly before I started driving away.

The two boys looked at me through drowning eyes. Mr. Vaughn plopped himself down in his lawn chair, looking smug and satisfied. His look suggested a belief that, possibly for the first time ever, he’d gotten the best of me.

I stopped mid window-roll, in the street, maybe a little too theatrically, and turned my attention once again to Mr. Bruce Vaughn. “I
did
promise their mothers I’d take them shopping for tomorrow’s Friends of Angry Technophobes bake sale, though, so... better hop in boys,” I called with a quick jerk of my thumb towards the back seat.

The boys did not wait for any witty banter from Mr. Vaughn. They had hopped in my beat up old Jeep, and the three of us were speeding away before old Bruce could even get out of his chair. I couldn’t help smiling as I saw him in the rearview mirror, stumbling and shouting obscenities at us from the middle of the street... in his bathrobe.

“
Come on, kids,” I scolded as I drove the few short blocks toward Billy’s house, “Tromping around in Mr. Vaughn’s garden?
Really
? If you’re going to torture him, at least be a little more creative and discrete about it next time. Think
outside
the box. Walking on his lawn is wearing thin. I’m thinking—and this is totally off the top of my head with absolutely
no
prior planning—you know how he hates cats? You could hide one of those horrible cat noisemakers in my front yard.” I paused, smiling at the thought of Vaughn frantically combing his precious garden, horrified that a cat may be about to give birth. I could actually hear him yelling, “Wipe that smirk off your face, Ms. Johnson. I know you’ve got a cat around here just to piss me off. When I find it—and believe me, I will find it—you’ll find you’re in a hole far too deep to talk your way out of.”

The boys we’re anxiously awaiting more. “What was I saying? Oh yes, he also hates
people.
So maybe we could organize a neighborhood block party in the street in front of his house. Just an idea.
Or
, if all you want is to stomp around in someone’s yard, you’re welcome to stomp around mine any time you like.

“
But getting caught stumbling around in
his
garden is just not working. And, while we’re talking about it, I would at least think about taking a different route to school. I don’t know what’s going to happen if I oversleep one of these mornings or actually get to take a nap one of these days after work,” I tried sounding stern, like a real adult, but of course I didn’t really mean it; it just seemed like the sort of grown-up thing one should say. In truth, I was proud of these boys for standing up to Mr. Vaughn, however passive-aggressively, in a way that few adults would.

I smiled at their cherubic reflections in the rearview mirror, and they shot two conspiratorial grins back.

By this time we had arrived at Billy’s house, and so the boys replied, “Thanks, Ms. Johnson,” in unison before scurrying out the door. Billy turned back and hesitated for a moment, before guiltily returning to my car.

He was definitely looking uncertain about something. Finally reaching some sort of decision, he slung his backpack off of his shoulder, and slowly said, “We got something for you. I pulled it out of Mr. Vaughn’s garden.” Billy reached into his backpack and handed me a small, somewhat squashed gardenia bush. “We wanted to plant it in your yard, but he caught us right after I pulled it up, so I had to stuff it in my backpack real quick. It’s not fair that Mr. Vaughn’s yard always looks so nice, and yours is, like, dead. We just thought your yard should be pretty, too.”

Sweet, but... apparently, even 9-year-old kids noticed my lack of gardening skills. Just the smell of the gardenia caused my broken heart to flutter a bit. I shook my head... back to the present. “Thanks, Billy, but just let me buy the plants next time, and I’ll... try...” I choked slightly from, well, I’d like to say it was the pungent gardenia fragrance, but the truth is I choked slightly on the little white lie I was about to tell, “to take care of them. Promise me you’ll be a little more careful around Mr. Vaughn from now on, though, okay?” I smiled weakly. “Better get going kiddo.”

“
You’re welcome, Ms. Johnson,” Billy replied before scampering off.

When I got back home, I noticed for the first time just how clearly my little house stands out from all the rest. I live in a historic neighborhood, where many of the homes are considered treasures, even priceless, with Vaughn’s house being possibly the grandest of all. In comparison, my home is literally a shack. The frame itself is rickety, the paint peeling. At least half the lawn is dead, and the other half has been taken back by its native jungle. In one corner of the yard is a pile of debris leftover from the roof replacement/termite fiasco. Unlike every other yard on the street, mine is utterly devoid of flowers.

Is it any wonder Vaughn always seems to have it in for me?

After the night’s adventure, I decide I don’t have the patience to devote to new music discovery. Instead, I go with the second album by one of two groups I adore (the other being Love and Rockets)—a certain modest British rock trio, who also seem to share an affinity for rebellion and the
supernatural
. The music of both bands got me through some really bad times. They reflect my spiritual yin and yang, seamlessly filling in the holes of my existence. Whenever I’m feeling down or unsure, or if I just start having the feeling of losing myself, I can count on their music to restore my soul. Though difficult to articulate, the enchanting styles of both are as close to—otherworldliness—I have ever, or will ever, encounter. It certainly transcends the common place.

Seeing as it was only Thursday, I saved the new album for the weekend. Some new misery would present itself by then, and I’m sure to need help getting through it. With this thought and the lovely music caressing my soul, I curled up on the couch and was carried away by sleep.

2.

When morning arrived, I was actually feeling pretty great. One of the local stations devotes Friday morning airtime to old wave hits from the 80's. I dare you not to feel great and forget about your problems while listening to such music. By the time a group began singing their 80’s anthem, I was even beginning to think it was possible that one does rule the world, just for the time that that song is playing. The traffic lights even seemed to succumb to my power, strengthening my case. I decided to treat myself to a store bought cup of exotic tea and slice of pumpkin bread to prolong the euphoria before arriving at the downer that was my office.

Part of that happiness was due to the actual drive in to work. Gorgeous. I live in the southern most edge of the southside of Jacksonville, Florida. Most people don’t know it’s the largest city in the country by area, so I have quite a drive to get to downtown. I love Jacksonville, my childhood home, though quite a number of people would disagree with me. Speaking strictly of natural beauty, I feel that few other cities can compare. Not only do we have beaches, we also have the unique St. Johns River, one of the few rivers in the world to flow north. What loses many people on Jacksonville is the industrial feel of many parts of town and the city’s overall lack of identity. Other cities—take San Antonio, for example—don’t have a fraction of the natural beauty of Jacksonville or a river one tenth of the width of the St. Johns. However, working with what they have, they’ve created a truly lovely river walk and bustling downtown scene, creating a city identity to match its unique heritage.

I can’t help but feel when the tourism boom passed by, moving further south to Orlando and Miami, Jacksonville planners simply threw up their hands and gave up. But in Jacksonville I can see its raw potential—and I can’t help but feel a strong kinship with the very imperfection of it.

I feel truly at home in Jacksonville, especially living in my actual childhood home, but Albuquerque, New Mexico, will always have a special place in my heart, too. I think, because my childhood was split between the two, causing me to grow up in part in both places, my soul will always be divided, torn between them. Forever doomed to be torn between the lush green, soulful beauty of northern Florida, and the hot, dry, mystifying enchantment of New Mexico. My dad used to joke that maybe I could be happy somewhere in between, like Texas, but the truth is there is something about the very extremeness of both places that calls to me. The cypress trees and Spanish moss along the river frame a view so unique and distinct that it’s heartbreaking. In stark contrast, the rolling landscape of New Mexico, with its mountains, prairies, and scrubby trees, that give way to towering pines and mountains in the high country, is about as awe inspiring as anything in this life is possible to be.