My Very Best Friend (6 page)

Oh, how they needed to escape.

I huddled deep into all my blankets and let the tears soak my pillow.

“Bridget will come back to you.”

“What do you mean, Grandma? She’s right there.” I pointed to Bridget. She was helping my mother tie up the trumpet vine with the orange flowers to our trellis. Bridget wasn’t afraid of the bees.

“She’ll be gone for a while. She’ll move across an ocean, she’ll run with devils, she’ll hurt her arms, she’ll keep getting lost. I don’t know why she can’t find her way home, so confusing, but she’ll come back with roses and a statue of four children. She’ll bring a long garden. You’ll see her again. Do you understand?”

“Yes. No.”

She stroked my hair. “Cursed, she is.”

“What?”

“It’s random, unfair,” she muttered.

“What is?”

“Life.”

I woke up the next morning to white rays of sunshine pouring through the window and my face puffed up like a pasty white balloon.

Toran had put me in a guest room with a yellow comforter and pillows, a wicker chair in the corner and a wicker desk. It was clean, sparse, and organized. My suitcases were in a corner.

I had a dark brown suitcase and a light brown suitcase. The dark brown one was duct taped shut. I found out the lock was broken a half hour before I had to leave to go to the scary airport, so I duct taped it, round and round. I bought them both at Goodwill. No need to pay hard-earned money for more expensive ones. I would try to fix the one that was duct taped, but I figured that after ten years, I might have to find a thrift shop and buy a new one.

I felt human again except for my exploded face.

Toran was gone, working on his farm. I got up and took a shower. I washed my hair, though I find that chore tedious. I do have thick hair, via my mother, and it can be a nuisance.

I dried off and put on fresh underwear, slightly frayed, only one hole, no matter, and my other beige bra. I clipped my wet hair back from my forehead so it wouldn’t get in my way. I put the rest of it in a bun. I pulled on my denim skirt that hung to midcalf and a blue blouse with two red diamonds on the front. I’d found it at Goodwill in Seattle for two dollars three years ago. Still looks stylish. I added a yellow crocheted vest. As I would be at my house today, cleaning, I put on my tennis shoes and my favorite blue socks with white stripes to complete my outfit.

I went downstairs, made eggs and toast, ate half a bowl of vanilla ice cream, and drank four cups of coffee. I cleaned up the kitchen. It was messy, not much, but once I start cleaning I don’t quit until I’m done. When I was done, that kitchen sparkled, everything in its place.

I took discreet peeks around Toran’s home. So this was where the Scottish Warrior lived. This was where he walked around, this was the den where he worked, this was where he fell asleep.

This was where he ate. If he had girlfriends, this was where he brought them.

I did not like the thought of girlfriends, so I envisioned the women stuck in petri dishes with the lids screwed on tight in refrigerators. Laboratory research is a creative way to mentally exact revenge.

Toran had a huge four-poster bed with a headboard. I thought about tying up Toran’s wrists to the bedposts and kissing him down one side and up the other, and then I blushed. McKenzie Rae Dean would not blush at that thought. She would have been proud of herself and excited. She would have grabbed silk scarves for Tie Me Up Night.

I don’t think I could be tied to bedposts by anyone but Toran. I would savor the experience.

I saw the Ramsay clan tartan, red and black, hung from a hook on the wall, and his red and black kilt, hung on a hanger, his fur sporran and Prince Charlie jacket. His bagpipes were in a corner, next to his clan’s crest, with a unicorn.

I was getting all hot and bothered once again and I had work to do, mice to chase out, moldy couches and mattresses to get rid of, porn magazines to toss.

I grabbed the keys to my rental car and left as visions of bedposts danced through my mind.

I like routines, and I would have to figure out one for my time in Scotland.

Routines mean I can have control over my life, that there will be no surprises.

I lie to myself sometimes. There are always surprises in life.

When I drove to our cottage, I took a slight detour to the place where Toran and Bridget’s old home had been. There was nothing left. Any scrap of the building had been ground into Scottish land. In fact, judging by the ground, I think it may have been set on fire.

It was as it should be.

Bridget and I, even as little girls, used to write letters to each other. She told me one time that when she was sad and lonely at home, that’s when she would write to me. I kicked a few charred pieces. When we saw each other at school, or when we were playing near the ocean, she would give me the letter.

She wrote me many letters. From right here.

I kicked another charred piece of wood. Hard. Then three more.

I let out a scream, too. It echoed off the rolling hills in the distance and came right back at me.

I knew what I had to do first when I arrived at our cottage. I could not start anything else until it was done. I heard my grandma’s voice saying, “It will be the time of the bees.”

I found our old ax with a red handle in the barn and stomped back to the trumpet vine, my hands trembling as one memory after another rushed in, stabbing and cruel. I cut the trumpet vine down, right at the base, my mouth trembling.

Whack.

I remembered everything.

“You stupid vine,” I said to it. “You did it. The bees did it.”

Whack.

It will be the time of the bees.

The tears streamed down my face.

My mother had taken this very same ax to it, years ago. She had been crying, too. And the damn thing had grown back again.

Whack.

I sobbed, my breath catching.

No, that damn trumpet vine could not stay, no matter how pretty the orange flowers would be this summer.

Whack.

Out.

Whack.

Out.

My grief rushed through, in screeches of pain. It had been twenty years ago, but still, here the grief was back again, mangling my insides.

When the vine was down, and in a dead pile, which I would later set on fire, I tossed the ax, sunk to the ground, and covered my face. I let all my tears out. My glasses fell off and I rocked back and forth.

It will be the time of the bees.

Yes, it was. She had known it was coming.

It was the time of the bees, and that’s when it all went to hell.

I lay down on the trumpet vine, in victory. It was gone, and I was here. I won. It was dead. I watched the clouds, my tears sliding out the corners of my eyes. I hadn’t won.

Silver Cat came and lay on my chest.

“Nice to see you again, mouse killer,” I managed to rasp out.

Silver Cat meowed until I meowed back at her.

I later used a water bottle to clean off my face and hands, then grabbed a plastic trash bag and pulled on thick work gloves I had borrowed from Toran.

A towing company had already been here, thanks to Toran, who had said he would call. The two old cars in front of the property were gone, as were two ruins of cars in the garage, a motorcycle without wheels, and a camper trailer without, curiously, a roof. There was also an enormous bin in front, about fifteen feet long and six feet high.

I took a deep breath and told myself to buck up. I opened the door to our near-destroyed cottage as a mouse skittered across the floor. The mouse was in mouse heaven in a second as Silver Cat streaked in and snatched it up.

“Perfect execution. Take it outside.” I pointed. She took the dead mouse out. Cats are obedient to me. I don’t know why.

I quickly filled two trash bags and dumped them in the bin. I worked for about two hours, nonstop, and got rid of the porn magazines, the kennels, two tires, a six-foot stack of newspapers, and piles of clothes, among other bizarre things.

A car headed down the driveway and stopped. Two ladies climbed out and walked underneath the tilted arc holding up Purple Lush.

“Hello there!” one woman, with a white braid, called out. “Greetings! I’m Olive Oliver and this is Gitanjali Chavan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet both of you.” I took off my gloves and we shook hands. Olive was tall and thin, wide boned. She was about sixty-five. Gitanjali was much shorter, East Indian, very pretty, and wore an embroidered blue tunic with small mirrors attached to it. Hard to determine her age. Probably fiftyish.

Gitanjali said, her voice gentle, like molasses on ice cream, “I learning English. Pardon me for mistakes I give and take generously. A pleasure on meeting you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, too.” I turned to Olive. “So you’re the one whose chickens my tenant stole?”

“Yes, he did. Mr. Greer, chicken eater.” Her face showed her disgust. I noticed she was wearing a knitted green scarf with a white cat on it. The white cat looked dizzy, eyes slightly crossed. I don’t think it was intentional. “Did you find evidence of the crime?”

I nodded. “I did. I found chicken bones. One full skeleton in the kitchen sink and two other full skeletons in the bathtub. I don’t know why he put them there. I apologize for his actions.”

“I knew it. He ate Lieutenant Judith.” She snapped her fingers. “And Lizbeth and Smelly Toad.”

“You name your chickens?”

“I don’t have that many. It’s unfortunate that Mr. Greer did not care for the garden, either.”

“It’s a regrettable mess,” I said. “My mother would be disappointed.”

“I’m sure.” She nodded, wisely. “Do you like to garden?”

“Yes. It’s a compulsive habit.”

“Compulse iv hab eat?” Gitanjali said. “What is that?”

“It means I have to garden or I get anxious. Nervous.” I wrung my hands. “It’s a calming mechanism. Some people do yoga. I pull weeds, dump snails in buckets, and design garden rooms.”

Olive Oliver flipped her white braid over her back. “That’s how I feel. Nothing more emotionally stimulating than gardening.”

I thought of a naked romp with Toran. That would be more stimulating. “Nothing more stimulating except for sex.” I cleared my throat, surprised by my bluntness. “Pardon me. I can’t believe I said that.”

“No need for pardon,” Olive said, waving a hand. “I agree. My husband knows after I garden is the proper time for post-planting coitus.”

Gitanjali’s eyebrows shot up and she laughed. “Ah, sex. I know that word. The making loving. That not better than gardening, but still pleasing, I hear. I don’t know. It not happy for me. Not much had in long time for me.”

“I’m sorry about that, Gitanjali. Me either.” I thought of Dan The Vibrator. He didn’t count, as he doesn’t have testicles or kneecaps.

“Ah,” Gitanjali said. “Maybe one day or one week. New man come in the life for you. Say hello.”

“Sex could be better than gardening as long as he’s talented in the bedroom,” Olive said. “I’ve had both. Sex less stimulating than gardening and sex better than gardening.”

“Talent in the bedroom is a requirement,” I said. “And lusty. Who wants a prim man in bed?”

“Not me. I like the creative type.” Olive put a finger up. “Nothing hurtful.”

“I agree with your opinion,” I said. “No spanking for me.” I thought of Toran. “At least not
hard
spanking.”

“I have not making love in my bed for long years, so my garden feed my soul,” Gitanjali said, pressing her palms together. “The world down upside. Wars. Starving. I feel I do so little. But my garden is peace. A place for me.”

“That’s how I feel,” I said. “I like to watch things grow.”

“Watch things grow, plant, nurture, then drink Scotch,” Olive Oliver said. “Scottish Scotch only.”

I nodded. “It does have a special smoothness after one has spent time cutting back the roses or tying up a wisteria just so.”

“It is thrilling to the heart when pure dirt can be transformed with love and care,” Olive said, “with a shovel and your bare hands, to flowers, trees, vines, and vegetables.”

“From dirt to color. From nothing to an Eden. From plain to a place where butterflies and birds come to visit.” I choked up. “Like friends.”

Gitanjali reached for my hand and patted it. “We make the vegetables in dirt. We make the fruits bloomy. We talk, say hi to them, thank you for being over here with me. Then we share with others. Ah, gardening.” She tapped her chest. “Here.”

“It’s a damn gift,” Olive said, dabbing her eyes with her dizzy white cat scarf.

“Yes, a gifty.” Gitanjali smiled, a dimple in her right cheek. “Damn.”

“And I will forgive you for having a chicken stealer in your home,” Olive said.

“Thank you. I appreciate your understanding. I had no knowledge of it. I will replace your chickens.”

“No need.”

“Please. I insist.”

“We’ll argue about chicken replenishment later,” Olive said. “For now, I would like to formally invite you to attend the St. Ambrose Ladies’ Gab, Garden, and Gobble Group.”