Mulch Ado About Nothing (15 page)

Jane had to get outside where she couldn't hear them bashing her plates around in the sink. Shelley brought them both cups of coffee and sat down opposite Jane at the patio table. "Have they broken anything yet?" Jane asked.

“Only a salt shaker," Shelley replied.

“Why were they washing a salt shaker?" "They weren't. It just got in the way.”

Jane sighed. "This seemed such a good idea. Now I'm wondering if we're all going to get ptomaine poisoning."

“Maybe they'll move on to desserts tomorrow," Shelley suggested. "Desserts can't poison anyone." "The cream can go bad."

“Why are you being so bleak?"

“It's my kitchen. You'd be bleak if they were trashing yours. Did you ask them to wash up whatever sticky stuff they got on the floor?"

“I put a mop out for them," Shelley said a little more cheerfully than normal for her. "It's so nice out here with all these plants. Jane, we really ought to learn to garden for ourselves. Picture a sweep of obedient plants in white and pink against your fence. That would be so pretty," she added, trying to cheer Jane up.

“What are obedient plants?"

“Nice little bushy things with spires of flowers. One of the few things that blooms well in the fall. My mother has grown them for years. I'm sure she'd be glad to dig some up for you. They spread so well she has to give baskets of them away every fall or they'd take over her whole yard."

“That doesn't sound very 'obedient' to me."

“The obedient part of the name is supposed to be that you can make them bend every which way you want. They look good with cosmos, which start blooming sooner, but last to frost."

“Whose gardens are we seeing tomorrow?" Jane changed the subject. Right now the idea of digging up part of the yard to put in a real garden was too daunting to consider. Though maybe later, when she wasn't stuck in the cast, it would sound better.

“Arnold Waring's and Stefan Eckert's. Although Stefan doesn't even claim to have a garden. He just wants one. We should have told him that you can rent one. Maybe we should team up with him and collect ideas from plant catalogs."

“Poor old Arnold, trying to keep up his wife's garden. What a chore it must be for him."

“I think he might like it," Shelley said. "It's probably a way he keeps his wife's memory alive and growing."

“Somebody told me once that gardens should die with the gardener," Jane said. "I guess I don't like that view any more than Arnold does. It's sort of like tearing a house down just because the person who built and lived in it is gone."

“You're having such grim thoughts this evening. What's really wrong?" Shelley asked.

Jane shrugged. "I'm meeching. I'm just sick ofeverything I do being so much more difficult. I've lost my freedom to drive myself. I can't take a shower without trussing up my whole leg. And every time I turn over at night, I bang the cast on my other leg. I had no idea a cast could make such an impact on my daily life. And be so itchy. And just think of how hairy my leg is going to be when it's taken off."

“You'll just wear a long skirt that day, and fling it down to your ankle the moment the cast is gone. It won't be on for long," Shelley said. "It wasn't all that bad a break. I'll bet you get out of it in three or four weeks. And I'm willing to drive you wherever you need to go.”

Jane laughed at that. "That's one of the worst parts of the experience!"

“I'm not a bad driver. I've never had an accident that was my fault," Shelley said defensively.

“You're a terrifying driver. You know that. You take pride in taking over any road you're on. Give you an ignition key and you turn into Attila the Hun, conquering the highways of the Western world."

“What a sissy you are," Shelley said. "No sense of adventure at all.”

The back door opened. Mel said, "The girls said you two were hiding out here. Jane! What happened to your yard?"

“I broke down and followed Shelley's example and rented a semigarden."

“It looks great." He took the chair between them and patted Jane's arm. "You look glum."

“Thanks. I'm having a pity party about my foot."

“Too bad you didn't break it when you were a kid. Having a cast then is a mark of honor.”

Jane made a conscious decision to at least act happy. Nobody was taking her complaints seriously. "Shelley's trying to get me to plant a real garden when I'm out of the cast."

“Good idea. I could help.”

Jane turned and looked at him. "How? Why?"

“I'd love to have a weekend or two renting guy machines. High loaders, trenchers, stuff like that."

“It must really be a guy thing. I don't even know what those things are for," Jane said with a smile. "And they sound like something that would scare the cats out of their skins. How's Julie Jackson doing today?”

Mel said, "She's getting better physically. Still no memory of anything about the attack. Apparently the hospital is willing to send her home in a day or two, so long as her sister and brother-in-law can stay over to watch her closely for a few days."

“I'm glad she's getting better," Jane said, "but I really meant, how is the case going?"

“I was too busy with another case nearly all day. I made a couple of stabs at getting in touch with Dr. Eastman. He doesn't seem to ever be home. I'm afraid I might have upset the boy who answers the phone by calling three or four times. Now he's worried about where his boss has gone.”

“Aren't you?" Shelley asked.

“Not really. Why should I be?"

“Because the woman who was supposed to teach the class was seriously injured, and what if it had something to do with the class itself?"

“But, Jane, why would anyone try to stop her teaching what she writes about all the time?”

Jane hated it when Mel was so reasonable and she hadn't a good answer.

“I'll catch him later tonight," Mel said. "He might have just driven up for the day to the place he has up north. That's what the boy thought." He looked toward the house. "Were there any leftovers from your dinner? I didn't even get lunch today."

“One piece of leather chicken," Jane said.

“I think I'll stop for fast food," Mel said, getting up. He kissed Jane in a preoccupied manner and said, "Perk up, honey.”

When he'd gone, Shelley and Jane looked at each other for a long moment.

“Are you thinking what I am?" Shelley asked. "Yes. What's become of Dr. Eastman?”

Jane
was giving the cats fresh cat food about · eight o'clock that night when the doorbell rang. It was Arnie Waring again. This time with a crock-pot recipe of Darlene's three-beans, onion, and ham recipe in a heavy plastic container with a towel around it.

“I'm sorry I'm dropping by so late," he said, "but I started this after the garden tours and had to wait until it was done. I guess you've had your dinner already, but it heats up real good the next day." He set the container down and unwrapped it; it even contained homemade crackers in a well-sealed plastic bag.

Jane was touched. "Arnie, you're just trying to fatten me up. I don't need fattening. This is so sweet of you, though. And it smells fantastic."

“You could use some weight. I was always glad that Darlene was a bit plump. It made her even prettier."

“I guess that's true of some women," Jane said. Arnie went on, "This was my wife's favorite recipe, and mine, too. She made it every Wednesday night, which this is. I always cook it up on Wednesdays.”

Jane was torn. She wanted to say,
Darlene is gone. Get your own life.

But that would only hurt his feelings. He was devoted to her memory, and duplicating their life before she died probably kept him alive and busy and made his days happier. Maybe this was the only life that could ever be his own.

“How long ago did your wife die?" she asked, hoping it wasn't a tactless question.

“Four years and three weeks ago. I wish you could have known her. She was the best woman in the world. Little, but strong. And so smart. She read all the time. And her gardens were beautiful. I've tried so hard to keep them just as she left them, but I'm not a good gardener. It's sad to see her plants looking so bad."

“I'm sure when we visit your yard tomorrow, somebody will make good suggestions. It won't be me, though. I'm not really a gardener, I'd just like to turn into one," Jane said.

“I don't want to be one," Arnie admitted. "I just owe it to Darlene.”

Jane thought for a moment. "Are you sure you owe her that?”

He frowned. "I'm sure."

“I'm sorry if I offended you," Jane said. "It's just that I'm a widow. My husband died in a car wreck, but I've gone on with my own life. So I guess I see it differently”

Jane didn't think she needed to give the whole truth, that Steve had died on an icy bridge while leaving her for another woman.

“But you're young," Arnie said. "I married Darlene when we were both seventeen and we lived together with joy for decades. These things are easier when you're young."

“I guess you're right. I didn't mean to pry or criticize. You're a good man. And I thank you for the beans. They'll be my lunch tomorrow and I'll be thinking of you and Darlene.”

Once again Arnie was about to get teary, so he very nearly ran out of the house without even saying good-bye.

Jane felt a bit teary, too. But she'd lied about waiting until tomorrow's lunch. She was already hungry after the mediocre meal the girls had cooked. She scooped out a ladle full of the beans and ham and warmed them up in the microwave. Katie must have smelled the aroma wafting up the stairs, and came down from her room to eat again as well.

“Mom, this is great stuff. Did you make it?" "No, an old man I know made it with his late wife's recipe.”

Katie nibbled a few of the crackers. "These are terrific, too." She finished munching and said, "Our dinner wasn't really very good, was it?”

Jane shook her head sadly. "No, I'm afraid it wasn't. But cooking is an art. It takes practice and experimentation. Sometimes for years. I had no idea how to cook anything at all when I married your father. I'd eaten what the staff of various embassies had cooked through my whole childhood. Then I ate in a dorm in college. And when I finished, I had a roommate who was a good cook and wouldn't let me near the kitchen. Your father nearly starved to death the whole first year we were married, I was so bad at cooking."

“I'd like to be good — at something," Katie said.

“You're already good at a lot of things, Katie. Your grades at school have steadily gotten better and better and I'm so proud of you for that."

“But you say I'm no good at driving."

“Because you aren't yet. You will be when you learn how important it is to keep your eyes and brain on the road instead of what you see around you. You might turn out to be a race driver. Though I pray not!" Jane added with a smile.

“So when do people get to know what they really want to be good at?”

Hard question for a mom who wanted to give good advice.

“Everybody knows when it comes along," Jane said. "I'm still working on being a writer, you know. I've spent a couple years on one book because it's not good enough yet. But like you with driving, the more I do it, the better 1 get when I focus on the right things. And I'm a pretty good cook when I feel like it, even though I started out badly. And I'm a better driver than Mrs. Nowack.”

Katie laughed.
"Everybody's
a better driver than Mrs. Nowack.”

Katie rinsed out her bowl, put it in the dishwasher, brushed the cracker crumbs into her hand, and washed them down the disposal before leaving the room.

That's progress,
Jane thought.

Jane went to bed early. Mike was still out at ten, and she was fretting that he was getting seriously interested in the bizarre Kipsy Topper. How could he be? She was such a deliberately unattractive girl. And appeared to have no personality at all. Or, if the conversation she overhead when Shelley was grilling her was any indication, an unformed and insecure personality.

She crawled into bed, knocking her left shin against the cast. She'd had it on more than half a week now. In light of her talk with Katie, it was time to quit whining about it and learn to get around better. No more scooting up and down the stairs on her bottom, no more letting people help her in and out of vehicles.

After all, this was nothing. A broken bone in a foot was trivial. It wasn't on a scale with breast cancer or some other dangerous disease. She'd been a wimp and should have been thinking it was a good thing she had nothing worse wrong with her body and health.

When she comfortably settled into bed, she realized she'd brought the wrong book upstairs. It was
The Arms of Krupp,
not the mystery she intended to read tonight. She crawled back out of bed, picked up the crutches she'd dragged up- stairs, and with determination, got to the bottom of the stairs keeping upright. A small victory, but she was learning how to cope and was proud of herself. Starting now, she was no longer an invalid. She was a perfectly able-bodied woman who just happened to have a cast on her leg.

She got back up to her bedroom with only one scary moment at the top step, and started reading the mystery book she'd fetched from the living room. But ten pages into it, she realized she'd read it before and hadn't believed the ending. So what now?

She hoped to be awake when Mike came in. Should she tidy up the closet? It didn't really need tidying. She could strip the bed and wash the sheets, but that would take too long. She suddenly realized how terrific it would be to have something to watch on television. But she'd always resisted having a television in her bedroom for no good reason.

But now she was Woman, competent with crutches, and she deserved one. She'd order it tomorrow. That way she could listen to a program while she was taking a bath, or cleaning upstairs, or simply vegging out early.