The Wonder Garden (17 page)

When the Cook homestead had surfaced on the market, they were the first to arrive at the open house. They were instantly disappointed. The kitchen was painted a ghastly white that sheathed the ceiling beams like mold. There was a stainless steel refrigerator and marble countertops. They had considered letting the house go, in favor of something less corrupted, but now Cheryl appreciates their luck. Having been inside nearly every home on this stretch, she has seen the hidden grotesqueries, the interiors revamped without compunction. Relative to those, the Cook house is pristine. The original post and timber framing is intact, the catslide roof is solid. The exposed oak beams are as strong as ribs along the ceiling of the first floor, and the central chimney and hearth—spine and heart of the house—exude the smell of ancient smoke.

It hasn't been difficult to undo the past sins of previous owners. They've replaced areas of strip flooring with wide chestnut boards—each scrupulously pillowed, sanded, and planed to match the originals. The front door, incongruously Victorian with inset stained glass, has been swapped with a plank of reclaimed barnwood, unpainted and unsheltered. It gladdens Cheryl to know that whoever visits this house on a rainy day will get wet waiting to be let in, just as they would have in 1740. They have kept electricity and plumbing, but done away with the microwave oven and sprinkler system. They have removed recessed lighting in favor of sconces and lamps. Lastly, they've pulled off the shutters and blasted away the exterior paint, a silly periwinkle, and returned the house to its native state: the uniform, heat-saving brown alluded to in Hiram Cook's probate papers.

The Cook house has been re-crowned the king of Cannonfield Road. People stop their cars to take pictures in front of the Grand Union flag on the door. Magazine journalists visit. Cheryl and Roger pose for interior shots, dressed in period attire. Among those who enter the house and listen to them speak, there is a sense of awe, even bewilderment.

All this has been lost on the children, of course. Comfort Cook delivered seven babies in this house, she would remind her own pair of offspring in answer to complaints about cramped bedrooms. In lieu of frivolities like a finished basement, closets, a swimming pool, they should feel fortunate for the opportunity to grow up in the manner of their forebears, the chance to absorb history with every breath, to build their bones with it.

“Only three of those babies survived to adulthood,” the children would reply.

Cheryl and Roger's compatriots had warned that this would happen. It had been easy when the children were young, when there was an element of play in dressing in period clothing, in using a loom or a lathe. But at the exact age of thirteen, just as the other parents predicted, each of their children had undergone a hideous transformation, questioning the efficiency of hearth cooking, demanding cheaply made store clothing, refusing to participate in tavern nights and encampments. This was a universal phase, the others assured them, every child's way of orienting himself to the whirl of modern life, of observing and assessing it, and then, with any luck—and assuming his education has been sound—choosing to reject it. Cheryl and Roger were not to worry; their children would come back to them.

And today they are coming back—flying home from their respective California colleges for four weeks of winter vacation. Before driving to the airport, Cheryl finishes sewing bobbin lace trim to the neckline of a linen chemise for Rebekah. For Amos, she's found a reproduction pocket watch: a nickel-plated beauty with beetle and poker hands and the old-style Roman numeral “IIII” on the face. These are things her children would never dream of buying for themselves. She knows they might prefer digital gadgets, video games, but as the years pass, she's found it increasingly difficult to purchase such ephemeral objects. She is more hopelessly drawn to the qualities of handmade things. There is something almost sentient about natural material: a warm consciousness in wood, a primal heat in forged iron.

She waits in the arrivals terminal, trussed in an anonymous black parka, her heart beating in her gullet as if awaiting a lover. She detests the airport. The overhead lights blare like interrogation lamps, designed to expose every ugliness, to illuminate with dumb democracy things not meant to be highlighted. Here is the same humming tension she feels in every modern public institution: supermarkets, chain pharmacies, post offices. Entering these places has become progressively disheartening, coloring her perceptions for the rest of the day. She finds herself juggling contempt and pity for the fretful people she sees around her, scrupulously avoiding one another's eyes. Even when she frames them as tragic orphans disconnected from structural meaning, it is difficult not to place blame. Within the course of just a generation or two, the inviolable structures of religion, community, honest labor—the bedrock of this country—have been disposed of like used coffee cups, replaced by the dual Styrofoam obelisks of economy and convenience.

These ruminations fly away like dust the instant she catches sight of her children. Her lurching heart pauses and her mind goes blank as she meets their eyes and sees a sparkle of gladness there, undermining the slow indifference of their gaits, their hooded sweatshirts with dangling strings.

In the car, Cheryl cannot stop talking. Without pause, she finds herself itemizing the menu for Christmas dinner. It isn't remotely authentic to prepare a holiday feast, of course, but the children expect it, and she harbors a private enjoyment in making it. She imagines what Comfort might have cooked for her own children—the three who remained, whom she must have loved with violent passion.

The meal begins with an appetizer of Indian pudding, then roast turkey with onion, stewed pumpkin, and skillet cranberries. Cheryl and Roger alone have dressed for the occasion, Cheryl in her red satin Brunswick gown, and Roger in waistcoat and cravat. Rebekah wears another floppy sweatshirt, her hair cropped at the ears in blunt waves. Amos hunches in a tight black T-shirt, dark bangs fringing his eyes. He resembles a sprite of the woods more than a man, but Cheryl knows better than to comment.

Instead, she talks. She tells them about the Slater house, rolls out a diatribe against the commission.

“But how do you know for sure, Mom?” Rebekah asks. “Don't you think you're being a little paranoid? You haven't even met the new neighbors.”

“I know enough about the kind of people they are,” Cheryl answers. “And I know exactly how the house was marketed. The listing was shameless.
Gorgeous two-acre property with house
. It actually said that.
With house.
I truly doubt these people bought the Ezekiel Slater house for its historical importance. I know the type. They don't want small, they don't want charm.” Cheryl hears the venom rising in her voice. “They want open floor plans, kitchen islands, Viking ranges. They want two-car garages and gunite swimming pools in the backyard.”

Rebekah is silent. Amos pokes the turkey bones on his plate. After a moment, Roger lifts his flagon of ale.

“How are your classes going, Rebekah?”

Their daughter, eased by the release of tension, speaks at length, telling more than she normally might.

“I've decided to major in history,” she announces, and Cheryl feels her head lift like a balloon. “With a focus on colonial Africa.”

“Colonial Africa?” Cheryl echoes. “What about American history?”

“There's a requirement for that, of course.” Rebekah grins.

“A requirement.”

“And I'll be taking French, too, so I can read primary source documents. And I might audit a course in Afrikaans, if they offer it next year.”

The word
Afrikaans
hovers in the air for a long moment.

“Well, that does sound interesting,” Cheryl makes herself say. “I have to admit, though, I'm surprised they offer classes on the subject. Not to offend, but the African nations don't seem to have done much with their independence. Not compared to the United States. It seems to me that a
real
revolutionary success story is right here in front of us.”

Rebekah stares. “I can't believe you just said that, Mom. That's cultural hegemony, pure and simple. Not to mention racist.”

“Cultural hegemony?” Cheryl blinks her eyes and lays her silverware gently on her plate. “Whatever does that mean?”

Roger sets his flagon down. “Cheryl.”

“I'm only asking. I've never heard of this term, this
cultural hegemony
.”

“What it means,” Rebekah says, “is that your definition of success doesn't apply to the whole world.”

“Oh.” Cheryl nods. “I didn't realize that.”

“Coming back here, it just reminds me how insidious nationalism always is. This place especially, with its fetishization of history and patriotism, is unbelievable. So much pride, but in what? This great country was founded on
murder
. Do you know how many Native Americans were massacred in the colonies?”

“Well, aren't you a fount of knowledge.”

“Why don't we talk about something else,” Roger says.

“Wouldn't that be convenient,” Rebekah mutters, but does not continue.

Cheryl rises from her chair and collects the dinner dishes. She carries them into the kitchen, her shoes marking a slow, hollow beat on the floorboards. Alone in the buttery, she breathes in and feels the pressure of the stays at her ribs. Comfort Cook, she is certain, would never have suffered such insult. No child of her day would have dreamed of challenging her elders in this way. Comfort may have faced terrible trials, but this aspect of Cheryl's work is undeniably harder. She imagines Comfort watching her, sympathizing. Strengthened by her commiseration, she retrieves the Marlborough pie for dessert.

When she returns to the table, Roger is straining to listen to Amos talk about core requirements.

“Econ,” Amos mumbles, “ . . . political science.”

Cheryl suspects that her son has been spending most of this first semester with the crew of waifs he met during orientation. His roommate answers the phone every time she calls and tells her that Amos is in band practice. It seems that her son's obsession with music has only intensified, that his attachment to his keyboard—what he calls a “keytar”—has become surgical. She remembers how, as a boy, he would sit and plink away at her virginals. Part of the credit for his interest in music belongs to her, for better or worse. Now, sitting hunched in his father's handmade Windsor chair, he seems to be in physical pain just to be in the house.

During dessert, she asks about his band and he brightens as he tells about their performances on campus and off. Seniors are hiring them for parties, paying real money.

“Maybe you can minor in music?” Cheryl suggests.

Amos grimaces.

“Well, anyway, you know that you're always welcome to practice on the virginals while you're home.”

His grimace tightens. Cheryl rises from her chair again, brings the dessert dishes to the buttery. When she returns to the table, Roger is visibly ruffled.

“I know you think we're too young,” their son is saying, “but this is the peak age. By the time we graduate, we'll be older than half the guys out there.”

“The answer is no,” Roger says. “Education is a privilege and may not be thrown away so cavalierly. Our forefathers didn't lose their lives for your freedom so that you could trample all over it.”

“What's this?” Cheryl asks.

“Wait a minute,” Amos says, his voice rising in pitch. “If they fought so hard for my freedom, then shouldn't I be able to use that freedom to do what I want? Isn't that the whole point?”

“No.” Roger pushes back his chair and stands. At his full height, in his ivory linen waistcoat, he is a commanding figure. His features—the high forehead, narrow nose, hooded eyes—are not unlike those of Hiram Cook himself, who gazes out from the portrait on the dining room wall. In the adjacent portrait, Comfort smiles gently, her open face framed by a ruffled cap. What would the Cooks think of this family? Cheryl puts this question to herself at least once a day. What would they think of this town, what's become of this country? They would appreciate her struggles, she knows. They would applaud what she and Roger are trying to do. Every day of her life, with every action and decision she makes, she endeavors to make Hiram and Comfort proud.

That night, the children lie quiet in their bedroom, in the same folding beds they slept in as toddlers. As they'd grown, she and Roger found themselves debating ever more torturous decisions, brokering compromises they'd sworn they'd never make, bending the rules to accommodate the culture's gluttonous demands. The children joined sports intramurals, attended gatherings at the mall. Cheryl and Roger insisted on certain activities over others: the debate team over the audiovisual club, for instance, in the hope they might absorb something of the classical art of rhetoric. Still, the children went to unruly pool parties and came home with favor bags full of plastic junk. Cheryl found herself capitulating to Chinese-made toys so her children wouldn't feel alienated. It hurt her to purchase Rebekah's first Barbie and Amos's first Game Boy.

Despite all their efforts, Rebekah had rebelled like any other teenager, dressing in showgirl ensembles, blasting music through her earphones, dating disgusting boys. It seemed an attack on Cheryl, the way she paraded them into the house as if to defile it. The culmination was an older boy—a stunted man, really—with the face of a vagrant, punctuated by an asinine earring between his nostrils. The boy was visibly on edge, a fact that Cheryl first attributed to drug use. She was surprised when, after peering into the stone hearth, he looked at her and asked point-blank, “Are there spirits here?”

“Y-yes,” she stuttered, “I do believe there are.”

Rebekah had kept seeing him through that summer, but did not bring him through the door again.