Where Lilacs Still Bloom (16 page)

I thought of the hedge my mother planted and how I’d pruned it once we moved into the house. “Now, you can also prune over a few years, taking a few of the old branches out each year. It might feel less exposing, and it would allow some blooming every spring. But I prefer the first method. May as well get it over with.”

“That’s very informative. I’ll be sure to tell my friend Cornelia. And really it’s not much different from what we’d do in our cold climate.”

“Flowers have a way of reducing differences,” I said. “I love restoring old lilacs, but my goal is working with entirely new varieties.”

“We confer often with horticulturists around the country and would be pleased to have you on our mailing list. If you’d care to sign here, I’ll be sure you receive our catalogs and news.”

Martha was back. She signed for me. Her penmanship is so much better than mine, and it felt strange to put my name on a list as a horticulturist. Martha looked at her watch. “We
should be going, Mother.” I started to thank Miss Hetzer, accepting more papers she offered for a winter’s evening, when another young woman approached.

“This is Cornelia Givens, from the
Sacramento Bee
, the woman who asked about pruning lilacs. Your name is …”

“Hulda Klager. From Woodland, Washington,” I said, putting out my hand to her gloved one.

“This woman could answer your regional gardening questions,” Miss Hetzer told her.

“Really? That would be swell,” the young woman said. She wasn’t much older than Lizzie. “Could I ask you a few more questions now?”

“Certainly.” I liked the idea of being interviewed by a newspaper reporter, but Sacramento didn’t share the same climate issues as the Northwest. The reporter gave me little time to mention that.

“Do you heat the soil you bring in during the winter before you plant seedlings in them?”

“I do.”

Martha tugged on my sleeve. “Mama, the boat. We’ll miss the boat.”

“And what about slugs?” The girl had a notepad.

“They’re universal, aren’t they? Sweet pickle juice or beer. Best use of beer I know of. They’ll drink themselves to death if you put a bowl out for them. And you can compost them.”

“Moles?”

“Traps.”

“Mother …”

“I really can’t talk now. My daughter’s right. I have so little time. My family waits for me.”

She handed me her card. “Would you write your name and address here for me? Then I can write to you. That would be lovely, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t.” I scribbled our address. I asked her for another of her cards so I’d have her address too, and then we hurried away, Martha holding my elbow as we fast-walked to the dock.

“And we were just getting started.”

“Nearly an hour and a half ago,” Martha said. “Good thing Papa always tells you a fake time, or you’d miss every boat.”

The rest of the family waved us forward as we rushed toward the gangplank. I was short of breath. Just before we boarded, the fireworks began. I’d forgotten there would be a display. We watched the explosion of color out over the water as I looked at my family’s faces reflected in the rainbow colored light, so grateful we had taken this time to be together.

“We’re blessed, Frank. We planted good seeds in our children and tended them well.”

“I submit, we truly are.”

It was what I’d hang on to as the pruning season began.

M
ama, you’ve got to come! Now!” Lizzie’s voice sounded tinny over the phone line we’d just installed. It was two weeks since we’d all been together at the exposition, just around the corner from the Fourth of July.

“What?” I had to stand on tiptoes to reach the mouthpiece, as Frank had installed the contraption too high. I held the black piece that looked like a small trumpet to my ear, adjusted it yet again. “Say again.”

“It’s Fred. Something’s wrong. Dr. Alice is on her way.”

Lizzie and Fred lived just north, close enough for us to see one another every day, but far enough away we couldn’t hear their disagreements. From the stories Lizzie told and from seeing them together on the trip, they had a good solid marriage for barely a year since their vows. They’d done the discovery, as I thought of it, adjusting as they had to. Fred liked
his shirt collars starched more and preferred that her flannel nightdress stay in the closet—though she said he was fine with her wearing linen to bed. He didn’t like carrots. She’d gotten him interested in a new sewing machine, and he’d had one delivered for their anniversary. He’d added a bouquet of flowers too, knowing that a woman likes to receive things that are fleeting as well as everlasting. I’d chuckled at her tales of adjusting to married life and was pleased to know that they worked on the kinks.

I’d never heard her this frantic.

“Lizzie, calm down. What’s happened?”

“Fred’s been complaining about his stomach hurting for the past week, but he didn’t want to take time off work to go to the doctor. I thought it was what he ate at one of the pavilions, something he wasn’t used to. This morning, he collapsed on the steamship. They’re not sure what it is. The doctor there said … Oh, Mama, he looks awful, all pale and clammy and moaning. He’s in so much pain!”

Tears thickened her voice.

“Dr. Alice is on her way?”

“Yes, yes, but you come too.”

“We’ll be there as fast as we can.”

I rushed out to the barn where Frank sanded new stakes for my starts and told him to harness the horse, we had to go to Lizzie’s. The zinnias had made their debut, dotting the greenery with yellows and pinks.

Frank dropped what he was doing to harness the horse, while I went back out to cut dahlias and the willowy cosmos for their purple color and a few of the zinnias, whose blooms would last a long time. I wrapped the stems in a damp cloth, finishing as Frank brought the buggy around from the side of the barn, and I stepped up into it.

“Now I wish we’d gone ahead and gotten that vehicle,” I told Frank, “so we could get there faster.” I lifted the flowers to my nose and inhaled, the aroma inviting an exhalation of prayer in the covered buggy. “She sounded so upset.” I reassured myself. “Dr. Alice will have good words for them.” I inhaled again. “It’s probably minor. Food poisoning, maybe.”

Frank looked at me. He knew me as someone who spoke the truth, but when it came to my children, I sought optimism even in the face of challenging facts. The sound of Lizzie’s voice haunted.

I let my mind wander. The horse trotted along the Lewis River, which was running strong from spring freshets. Clumps of riverbank slipped into the water as the river looked to undercut the banks, the water moving ever closer to the road. I wondered if one day that road would just disappear, consumed by high water and the dredging done by the government to allow more and larger steamboats to come farther up the river. We watched a steamboat dock, and I could see the bank give way, ever so slightly, but it would happen with every steamer docking. So much good soil going to waste. I
could do nothing about it now, but being incensed about it took my mind from my child’s painful voice.

As we approached Lizzie and Fred’s home, I noted Dr. Alice’s car already there along with another buggy. Frank tied the horse to the picket fence and helped me out, and we rushed inside.

Fred’s brother, Edmond, stood with Lizzie in the hallway.

“Lizzie.” Frank opened his arms to our daughter.

She raised her eyes and moved her crying from Edmond’s shoulder to her father’s arms. Edmond’s eyes were red too, and he rubbed at his nose, his eyes not wanting to make contact with any of us.

“So … how is he?” I laid the flowers on the table and removed my hat, scanning the room for the doctor.

“He’s gone.” Lizzie said.

Edmond nodded toward the bedroom, and I approached the door.

“Gone? You mean he’s—”

Before I could knock, Dr. Alice stepped out, pulled the door shut behind her. She shook her head at my questioning eyes, hugged me briefly as she walked to Lizzie and Frank. “I’m so sorry, Lizzie,” she said. “So sorry. Appendicitis. Must have burst a few days ago, and he’s been fighting the infection ever since.”

“If only he’d gone to see you when I told him!” Lizzie said, anger her first visitor in grief.

“Don’t blame yourself,” Dr. Alice said. “We never know with these things. It might well be that the first sign of the burst was when he mentioned the pain, and by then it would have been too late. I’m so sorry.” She touched my daughter’s shoulder, but let Lizzie’s family be her comfort in this storm.

“Can’t you do something?” I asked.

“Nothing, Mrs. Klager.” To Lizzie, she said, “If you want to know for certain, I can perform an autopsy, but—”

“It won’t bring him back,” Lizzie wailed.

“No, it won’t.”

I opened my arms to take my daughter in, wrapping her with love scented with my garden’s blooms. Her crying renewed, and I held her, prayed it would bring her relief, that I’d know what to do, what to say.

“I’ll let Tom Chatterson know,” Dr. Alice said, clearing her throat.

The sound of the undertaker’s name was my trigger. “We can take care of things,” I said, then asked, “Can’t we?” Lizzie nodded, wiped at her eyes with the handkerchief I handed her. “Edmond, I’m so sorry. You’ll let your parents know.” He nodded, and I watched grief take hold of him, his only brother gone. “He’ll lie in our parlor,” I said. “I’ll contact the reverend. The women’s group will bring food. What’s that girl’s name with that lovely voice? She could—”

“Huldie—” Frank touched my shoulder.

“What? Things need to get done.”

“In their own time.” Frank pulled both his daughter and me into the steadiness of his arms. “Lizzie needs time,” he said. He kissed the top of Lizzie’s head, then mine. “She has to do this on her own.”

I nodded. But what mother doesn’t want to relieve her child of suffering? It was easier to bear my own loss of a mother and father than to watch my daughter endure the anguish of a lost friend, lover, husband. She’d turn twenty-five on July 6. So young to be widowed.

“Do you want me to let Delia know?” I asked her.

She nodded yes. “I tried to call but couldn’t reach her. Jennie said she’d keep trying her.”

I slipped from the safety of Frank’s arms and went to the phone. I knew as soon as I put the call through that Jennie, the operator, would know, and so would the others on the line. But that was a good thing too, because neighbors could begin helping as they did: bringing food, doing chores; praying for Lizzie as they washed their dishes, fed their cows, dug in their gardens. People would come to sit with my daughter, speaking little, but being present. They’d do whatever they could; but nothing would bring Fred back.

Our new pastor, Angus Kenzie, performed the service. He spoke of a plant’s cycle of life, from seed to sprout to bloom, then fading away to nurture the soil. I loved the image and thought I might return to it often as I helped my daughter grieve. He spoke of youth—Fred was but three
years older than Lizzie—reminding us that death comes to all, and who is to say that a shorter life on this earth is any less abundant than one who has lived many years. Frank squeezed Lizzie’s hand; I had my arm around her as she sat between us. We were two old stakes propping up our delicate sprout, hoping we’d be enough to bring her toward her next season of blooming.