Front Yard (9 page)

She wouldn't do that, thought Marta. No, she wouldn't dare do that. But then she saw Dr. Sproot aim the BB gun at her and heard a soft, distant poof.

“Ouch!” A BB grazed her wrist. Dr. Sproot worked the BB gun's lever and aimed it again. This time, Marta didn't wait to be shot. She turned and ran. As she turned the corner of the house, opened the door to the fence, and raced to her car, she could hear Dr. Sproot's demonic cackle. Afraid that Dr. Sproot would run through the house to the front and start taking potshots at her windshield, Marta turned on the ignition and peeled out without even putting on her seat belt or looking back.

11

S
hirelle was in the office of Dr. Brockheimer, who was her faculty adviser, delivering her final internship oral report, which was also her senior project final report. She clutched her portfolio close to her body. She was making her report right on deadline. To be precise, thirty-five minutes
before
deadline. What was bad about that was Dr. Brockheimer had already listened to about thirty similar reports and was sick and tired of hearing them. In fact, she wasn't even pretending to listen. It looked like she was about a million miles away.

Still, Shirelle made her presentation with swagger and verve. She was certain the magnificent results she, Mary, and Mr. and Mrs. Fremont had achieved would win her plaudits, and assure her graduation with magna cum laude honors.

Dr. Brockheimer stared, glassy-eyed, past Shirelle and into a future that had already doomed her to insignificance. When would this interminable report ever end? What was this chirpy and rather rustic and unsophisticated student droning on about? Dr. Brockheimer toyed with the notion of telling her she had wasted a lot of time in college, that she had no future, and that she should go back to the farm out in Hicksville and specialize in cleaning out the chicken coops. That last thought struck Dr. Brockheimer as especially funny. She laughed. Shirelle stopped talking.

“Go on, please, go on,” said Dr. Brockheimer, waving a hand at Shirelle dismissively. “I just had a silly thought about something I ate last night, that's all.”

All Dr. Brockheimer could think about now was the research she could be doing and the fame and position she would attain if only she could secure the funds for a couple of her pet projects. Even that grew tiresome as Shirelle droned on. Dr. Brockheimer made no effort to stifle a yawn.

“Am I keeping you awake, Dr. Brockheimer?” Shirelle barked. The tone and volume startled Dr. Brockheimer out of her somnolence. What was that she'd said? Why, the very effrontery! She'd never had a student speak to her in such a manner.

“Earth to Dr. Brockheimer,” Shirelle said, snorting derisively.

“What did you say to me, Ms. Ediston?” said Dr. Brockheimer, suddenly alert and focused.

Shirelle fought the urge to squirm. She was not going to be intimidated by this uninspired loser of a teacher and alleged flower expert.

“That's Ms.
Eadkins,
Dr. Brockheimer. I said, ‘Am I keeping you awake?' Here I am making my report, and you seem to be lost in a daydream or something. How can I get your attention?”

Dr. Brockheimer smiled indulgently. Her thoughts drifted toward her dream research project—tomatoes so frost-resistant that they could be planted outdoors and harvested in January! Why, only the seedlings would need water! Wasn't that amazing! Then, there was her idea of cultivating a type of sugar maple that flamed fuchsia, lavender, battleship gray, and honey gold in the fall, and—

“Dr. Brockheimer? Dr. Brockheimer?”

Dr. Brockheimer snapped to attention once more and sneered at Shirelle.

“Yes, well, Ms. Eadkins,” she said, taking a long look at her wristwatch. “You've got about seven minutes left, so let's make it snappy.”

Shirelle started over again, condensing what it had taken fifteen minutes to recite into a shorthand version of how she and Mary had worked with the Fremonts last summer, and now again this spring, to create a new paradise on earth. Dr. Brockheimer wrinkled her nose and frowned when Shirelle actually said “a paradise on earth.” No major root systems to worry about in the current front yard project. Soil a nice cross between acidic and alkaline, pH of 6.7. They had staked out five basic plots, none of which was square or rectangular shaped, Shirelle liking a much more meandering and curving style that might resemble a teardrop or one of those squiggly designs on paisley ties.

“Hmmm,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “Soil type?”

“Sandy, so good drainage, and an easily accessible faucet for the hose.”

“Go on.”

Shirelle proceeded to list the flowers and grasses she'd planted. With thirty seconds remaining in her time, Shirelle told Dr. Brockheimer how Nan had worried about the hybrid tea roses being prima donnas and not able to get along well with their neighbor flowers. Dr. Brockheimer, attentive to this new comedy angle of Shirelle's report, laughed.

“Oh, yes, this is our plant whisperer, is it?”

“Yes, she really does talk to plants, Dr. Brockheimer. I've seen her do it.”

“Um-hmmm.” Dr. Brockheimer leaned forward, tapping a mechanical pencil against her lips.

“Ms. Eadkins, are these people . . . uh, Mr. and Mrs. Fremont. . . are they . . . how shall I say it . . . uh . . .”

“Whacko?”

“Well, for lack of a better word, yes.”

“No, they are perfectly sane.”

“But they do drink, you say?”

“Oh, yes, merlot . . . and . . . and . . . what is it . . . gin and tonics.”

“To excess?”

“No, not that I've ever noticed. They just get a little jolly and silly sometimes.”

“That plant whispering's just old-wives'-tale stuff,” Dr. Brockheimer said. “It's along the line of the idea that plants flourish when they're listening to classical music. That's just poppycock. The plants flourish because the type of person who listens to classical music is probably the type of person who appreciates beauty and is responsible enough to take proper care of her plants. The person who listens to rock 'n' roll or rap or heavy metal is probably nowhere near as responsible. That type of person probably won't have flowers anyway, much less know their names or the kind of care they require. There has been no empirical evidence that I've run across that shows that flowers respond to music or noise of any kind for that matter. There's no empirical evidence that they respond to any outward manifestations of love or concern. They do well because the kind of person who shows them love and concern will also know how to care for them and will be assiduous in their constant upkeep. That's why.”

“They listen to Jethro Tull. Or at least Mr. Fremont does,” Shirelle said. “And baseball games.”

Dr. Brockheimer smiled.

“Who's Jethro Tull?”

“A rock band from a long time ago. With a flute player. The Fremonts are almost sixty, I think.”

Dr. Brockheimer chuckled.

“Well, Shirelle,” she said. “It doesn't matter what kind of music someone plays, or what kind of noise they create. If they're as committed to gardening as you say they are, then that's what makes a difference. Gardeners who know what to do and take the time to do it consistently will most likely create good gardens; though, without the proper training, it's hard to imagine that they could come up with anything that has the right mix or design scheme to it.”

“They have the most beautiful gardens in the world, Dr. Brockheimer. If you go there, I promise you will be transformed. It's like you're entering another world. And a lot's coming out now. Already!”

“Maybe someday I will, Ms. Eadkins, but getting back to all this malarkey about plant whispering—do you actually talk to these flowers yourself?”

“It's not exactly ‘talking,' Dr. Brockheimer. It's almost a sort of... um . . . um . . .”

“Brain wave communication?”

“No, not that, just a sense of harmony, a sense of knowing what they're trying to tell you. Mrs. Fremont says they're always trying to tell her something, except for the Dusty Miller, which she tore out by the roots and threw in the compost. She said she actually hears sort of whisperings, which she has learned to translate.”

“Shirelle, you know this is just the stuff of old gardening lore, and isn't true at all.”

“No, Dr. Brockheimer, it
is
true.”

“It is
not!
Scientists with nothing better to do have attached all manner of electrodes to plants to see if there are reactions to various stimuli. This, I might add, is on the fringe of the field, and not taken seriously by most of us.”

“I know what I see,” Shirelle said, getting up from her chair. “What I see are gardens that would surpass your wildest dreams, Dr. Brockheimer. You should see the hybrid tea roses. They have a lushness, a purity, a brilliance, a depth I wouldn't have thought—”

“Time's up. Your portfolio, Ms. Eadkins.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shirelle handed her thick portfolio of photographs, plans, and notes to Dr. Brockheimer, who would review them and hand them back in a couple of days with suggestions before Shirelle's project committee graded it. As Shirelle bolted out through the office door, glad to be freed of her adviser's unwavering pedantic doubts, Dr. Brockheimer flipped through a few pages of photos Shirelle had assembled for her.

My God, would you look at that!
Page after page of flower power exploded out at her. Amazing. Even the ag school's meticulously maintained gardens couldn't approach this. Every flower so lustrous, even making allowances for photo quality and lighting!

There was a knock on the door. Dr. Brockheimer looked up to see a pimply, moon-faced teenager peeking around the door at her.

“Hi, Dr. Brockheimer. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

“In fact, you are.”

“Uh, well, I guess I had an appointment.”

“Something urgent has come up. Call back to reschedule.”

She shooed her former appointment away and got up to shut and lock the door. Then she sat back down and eagerly began to plow through Shirelle Eadkins's suddenly fascinating final internship-and-senior-project report.

12

D
r. Sproot was a gardener possessed. She slashed, dug, and extracted, driven by a sense of purpose she hadn't known since last year. Her muscles ached and her palms blistered. Sweat stung her eyes and so soaked her shirt that it clung to her like sticky body paint. But Dr. Phyllis Sproot was never one to let a little discomfort stand in the way of the mission at hand. By Sunday evening, after two days of work interrupted only by a few hours of sleep, seventeen coffee breaks, and thirty-two trips to the bathroom, her job was done: Every trace of geranium and spike was out of the ground and piled into eight giant mounds around the yard.

Discarding her sopping shirt and brassiere onto the nearest mound of dead and dying flowers, she stood on her deck, her hands braced on the railing. Ingloriously topless, Dr. Sproot imperiously scanned her yard. What was once a paean to gardening monotony had now been reduced to churned-up and empty brown garden plots and piles of color-blotched, spiky green beside them. A wonderful sense of confidence and well-being surged up in her. No geranium or spike would ever blot her gardens again. Never! They seemed like abortions to her. But, oh, what a joy it was to be the abortionist!

Someone was opening the fence and entering her backyard inner sanctum. Out of the corner of her eye she saw several figures walking toward her. Only a few besides Marta would ever dream of taking such liberties, and Marta would obviously never do so again after the BB-gun incident of three weeks ago. It could only be an official delegation of Rose Maidens, the bitches!

Dr. Sproot turned to watch their tentative and halting approach. Livia's premier women's gardening club had cut all ties with her after last summer's garden rampage fiasco. The Rose Maidens stopped halfway between the backyard fence gate and the deck, where Dr. Sproot stood, immobile, gazing down at them. They stared, open-mouthed in shock, at the destruction around them and at Dr. Sproot's naked torso.

“Why, Phyllis, what in heaven's name have you got going on here?” said Dawn Fisher, the club's outgoing president. “Who did this to your gardens? And . . . and would you please put on a shirt?”

“I did it,” said Dr. Sproot, folding her arms proudly across her sagging, smallish breasts. “I did this to my gardens. I also have no intention of putting on a shirt. I have no need of it. If you're going to be squeamish about it, you can just leave.”

“My gosh,” said Muffy McGonigle, the former president who now served as secretary-treasurer. “Those are piles of geraniums and spikes, aren't they?” Dr. Sproot nodded. “What got into you, Phyllis?”

“Nothing got into me,” said Dr. Sproot sternly. “I'm just piling up the rubbish. Then, I'm going to burn it!” A collective shudder rippled through the Rose Maidens.

“What a travesty,” said Muffy. “And shameful!”

Muffy and her fellow Rose Maiden officers were trying to choke down their disgust at what they were seeing. But they were also afraid. Dr. Sproot's transformation back to gardening gorgon was obviously nearing completion. What might that portend?

“Phyllis . . .” began Muffy.

“That's Dr. Sproot to you, Muffy. I am no longer Phyllis, so don't call me that. I'm a Ph.D. who deserves the title she's gained by dint of hard work and unstinting devotion to a plan of action no one else could even dream of accomplishing.”

“We're actually here to do an intervention,” said Sarah Feingold, the club's vice president.

“An
intervention?
” said Dr. Sproot. “What kind of intervention?”

“Marta told us you were changing back to your old self. We want to stop that from happening. It looks like we're too late for your gardens, but maybe not too late to help you. Keep being Phyllis—don't go back to being Dr. Sproot. We will give you some time to go inside and make yourself presentable. Or do you plan to continue going around like that in public?”

Dr. Sproot cackled.

“You want to help me! You were the first ones to turn your backs on me after last year's little trouble!”

“Little!” cried Carla Kitchener, the sergeant-at-arms. “You call that
little?
” She moved toward Dr. Sproot in a threatening sergeant-at-arms-like way. Displaying the reflexes of a cheetah, Dr. Sproot turned suddenly toward the back of the house.

“Phyllis! Phyllis!” cried Dawn. “Don't run away. Stay and talk to us. Maybe we can all sit on your deck and have some coffee.”

Seconds later, the Rose Maidens were running, shrieking, for the fence gate. Dr. Sproot had her BB gun at eye level and was firing one pellet after another at them. The first one hit Dawn's purse with a whack. The second hit Carla in the thigh, which she clutched in agony.

“What are you doing, Phyllis!” they screeched. “We're your friends!”

“We're all going to die!” gurgled club president-elect Wanda Sperling between sobs, as she struggled to release the latch that would open the door in the fence.

“Damn you, Phyllis Sproot!” shouted Dawn, the bravest of the five officers, who, after the initial panic, turned to stand her ground and shake her fist. BB after BB whistled past her ear. Finally, one nicked her earlobe.

“Yeeeoow!” she howled. “We'll call the cops!!”

When another BB nicked her wrist, she turned and walked calmly toward the fence, one BB after another popping against her jeans, the coarse fabric of which was thick enough to protect her bottom from anything more than tiny stinging sensations.

“Pests!” shouted Dr. Sproot. “And don't come back, Rose Hags!”

That night, Phyllis Sproot's neighbors watched as the flames from her bonfire momentarily rose higher than the eight-foot fence separating their property. They considered calling the fire department, but settled instead for just keeping a careful watch on the fire, which soon subsided, having quickly ingested all of Dr. Sproot's geraniums and spikes, plus whatever other scattered yard detritus she could find lying around that would act as tinder. Had the neighbors been in a position to see what was going on, they would have found it unsettling. After piling all her flowers on their funeral pyre, Dr. Sproot lit the fire, then just watched impassively, the flames flickering spurts of light across her emotionless face, which only toward the end, as the flames subsided into glowing embers, tightened into a smile of grim satisfaction.

The police never came, just as Dr. Sproot figured. The Rose Maidens were, at heart, timid souls not wanting to draw attention to themselves and more than willing to accept a few little stings and some low-grade humiliation as the price they had to pay for trespassing, and still perhaps were stricken by guilt at abandoning one of their former officers in her time of peril.

Three days later, a Federal Express truck pulled up into Dr. Sproot's driveway and delivered a dozen large boxes to the front porch. An hour later, she was already unpacking scores of seedlings and planting them in ground she had already turned and fertilized. By nine p.m. Sunday, the last seedling was in.

Over the next few days, their rate of growth astonished her. Why, it would only take a few more weeks for them to reach their full maturity! This was where her legacy lay, she reflected. The coreopsis-salvia-hollyhock blend. From tried-and-true methods passed down through the generations, and her own studies, she knew that the perfect flower-garden combination melded those three lovely flowers into one geometrically pure, properly-spaced-to-the-centimeter display. How wonderful to have released herself from that ill-conceived masquerade. A malevolent sense of freedom mingled with entitlement and a violent spirituality surged through her. Just let Earlene try to come back through with her chain saw again, she thought. Why, she'd BB the chain right off its guidebar. Then, with Earlene at her mercy, she'd put a BB right smack in the middle of her forehead. Whoo-hoo!

Speaking of which, not only had Earlene served some time in the workhouse for that chain-saw incident, but Dr. Sproot has successfully sued her for damages, making quite enough out of the settlement to leave her job at Cloud's department store and devote herself full-time to gardening.

She beheld her creation with the satisfaction of a general inspecting her ranks on review, and, upon calling them to ramrod attention, found them to be straight as arrows and unblemished.

“We're back!” shouted Dr. Sproot. “And this time, we're going to kick some Livia gardening butt!”