The Heirloom Garden, page 2
“She’s a handful,” Shirley clucks. “Reminds me of someone.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
Mary rejoins her friends, jumping back into the circle to play ring-around-the-rosy, turning around to look at me on occasion, her violet eyes already filled with remorse.
Ring-around-the-rosy,
A pocket full of posies,
Ashes! Ashes!
We all fall down.
“I hate that game,” I say to Shirley. “It’s about the plague.”
I return to hoeing, lost in the dirt, moving in sync with my army of gardeners, when I hear, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”
I look up, and Mary is before me, her chin quivering, lashes wet, fat tears vibrating in the rims of her eyes. “I didn’t mean to call you a fathead. I didn’t mean to get into a rhubarb with you.”
Fathead. Rhubarb. Where is she picking up this language already?
From behind her back, she produces another bouquet of dandelions that have gone to seed.
“I accept your apology,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Make a wish,” she says.
I shut my eyes and blow. As I inhale, the scent of my Jonathan rose fills my senses. The rumble of a car engine shatters the silence. A door slams, followed by another, and I open my eyes. The silhouettes of two men appear on the perimeter of the field, as foreboding as the old oaks. I notice the wind suddenly calm and the plants stop rustling at the exact same moment all of the women stop working. A curious hum begins to build as the men walk with a purpose between the rows of plants. The women lean away from the men as they approach, almost as if the wind had regained momentum. Row by row, each woman drops her hoe and shuts her eyes, mouthing a silent prayer.
Please not me. Please not me.
The footsteps grow closer. I shut my eyes.
Please not me. Please not me.
When I open them, our minister is standing before me, a man beside him, both of their faces solemn.
“Iris,” Rev. Doolan says softly.
“Ma’am,” the other man says, holding out a Western Union telegram.
The world begins to spin. Shirley appears at my side, and she wraps her arms around me.
Mrs. Maynard,
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regrets that your husband, First Lieutenant Jonathan Maynard, has been killed...
“No!” Shirley shouts. “Iris! Somebody help!”
The last thing I see before I fall to the ground are a million white puffs of dandelion floating in the air, the wind carrying them toward heaven.
ABBY
MAY 2003
“This is the house I was telling you about.”
I twist to look out the open car window. A smile overtakes my face as soon as I see a rambling bungalow with a wide front porch. A warm summer breeze shakes the porch swing before making the American flag on a corner pillar flap.
Our Realtor, Pam, parks her Audi on the narrow street, barely wide enough for one car to pass at a time, which sits at the top of a very steep hill. The street—and whole neighborhood—reminds me of the time I visited San Francisco, only in miniature. Pam rushes around to open our doors.
“Did Daddy put the flag there?”
“Yes,” Pam lies to my daughter, Lily. “He’s a war hero!”
I can feel my heart split, as if it’s been cleaved in two by a butcher.
Pam and I are roughly the same age, early thirties, but Pam is somehow still filled with the same unbridled enthusiasm as Chance, the Irish setter we had growing up. I am filled only with a dull ache brought on by silent rage due to a confusing war that has stolen the husband I once knew.
Pam salutes Lily, who mimics the patriotic gesture. Pam turns to me and salutes.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson,” she says, quickly lowering her arm. Her blond bob trembles in the breeze, just like her lips, which are slathered in pink gloss.
“Abby,” I say.
“I understand, Mrs.... Abby. It’s okay. You must be so nervous about your husband all the time.”
I force a smile. “I am,” I say. “Didn’t mean to be so short.”
She turns toward the house, and her Chance-like enthusiasm returns as she reenters agent mode. “This is a Sears kit home,” Pam says as my daughter sprints for the front porch and jumps into the swing.
“A what?” I ask.
“A Sears kit home,” she continues. “Oh, my goodness, Abby. They’re historic now. Sears homes were shipped via boxcar and came with a seventy-five-page instruction manual. Most homes were sent via the railroad, and each kit contained thousands of pieces of the house, which were marked for construction. You can still find lumber that is numbered throughout the house. They did lots of different styles, from bungalows to Colonials.
“This house and the one next door were both Sears homes,” she says, before nervously beginning to babble, “but...um...but...the two homes are nothing alike.”
I look at Pam, whose face is registering absolute panic, and then turn to look for the first time at the neighboring house.
“That’s an understatement,” I say. “It looks like a prison.”
An imposing wooden fence, which is—no exaggeration—at least ten feet tall, surrounds the property. The second story of the home, which looks to be identical to this one, despite what Pam has just said, is all peeling paint. Moss is growing on the roof’s shingles on a shady section under a towering tree whose first leaves are blush red.
“What’s the story?” I ask.
Pam’s face turns the color of the tree. She takes a deep breath.
“A very old woman lives next door,” Pam says. “Rumors in town are that she lost her husband in World War II and then her young daughter died, too.” Pam glances back at the house and then whispers, “Went crazy and has lived alone for years.” She stops and resumes speaking in a normal tone and nods at the house for rent. “This is her house, too. Used to be her mom’s...or her grandma’s...no one really knows anymore. I heard she has to rent it now for money.”
“Why would she need more money at her age?” I ask. “These surely have to be paid off by now. Is she sick?”
Pam again whispers, “I don’t think so. Who knows? There’re lots of rumors about her and that house. They say she has a virtual Garden of Eden behind that fence. She breeds plants, or something like that. She’s like a flower scientist. Used to call her the First Lady of Flowers around town. Anyway, I hear she spends all of her money to buy different varieties of flowers. Specimens. In fact, this house used to have a beautiful garden in the backyard. The two gardens were combined at one time. This one has fallen into a bit of disarray, but I think it could be brought back to life with a little love.
“But don’t focus on all that,” Pam says. “Focus on that.”
Pam sweeps her well-manicured hands in front of her like a Price Is Right model and a flash of blue catches my eye. For the first time, I realize that we’re not on a hill, we’re tucked atop a dune overlooking Lake Michigan.
“There’s only a peek of the water from the front yard, but the house overlooks the entire lake,” she says. “You can even see the pier from your deck if you stand on your tippy toes. This cottage is part of what’s known as Highland Park. It’s an association of cottages built atop these dunes and dates back to the late 1800s. Isn’t it quaint?”
“You buried the lede, Pam,” I say. “But I’m sure we can’t afford anything on the water. What’s the monthly rent?”
She looks at me and tries not to look next door, but her eyes betray her. “I’m sure we can work out a deal if you’re interested.”
I turn and stare at the imposing fence. Why would she want someone living next to her when she’s trying so hard to keep everyone out?
Pam leans toward me. “I can read your mind. Want to know what I think? I think she’s just lonely. Wants someone next door in her final years. This association is filled with families. They just pass along the houses from one generation to the next. There’s no one left after her.” Pam waves for me to come closer, and I lean in even farther. “She has final approval on who rents this house,” Pam whispers, even more softly.
“You’ve met her, then?” I ask. “What’s she like?”
“Not exactly,” Pam says. “We communicate only via email.” She stops. “Sometimes, she’ll just leave a note in the wreath on the door of her fence. It’s written in longhand on a yellow sheet of paper, like they used back in the olden days.” Pam stops again. “She’s turned down a half dozen other applicants. She’ll just write, ‘No!’ on a piece of paper after I’ve shown the listing. I don’t know how she knows since she never leaves her property. She’s like an agoraphobic spy. Personally, I think she’s holding out for a young family. I think it’s pretty black-and-white.”
Her words ring in my ears.
I’ve always thought it must be a blessing to see life in black or white. It must be easier if things are cut-and-dried. If emotion is removed, decisions are clear-cut. Me? I’ve always seen a thousand shades of gray. And that has made for a more difficult existence.
“What brings you to Grand Haven, by the way?” Pam asks. “Did you grow up here? Do you have family here? Are you just wanting to spend a summer with your family near the water?” She stops and looks at me with great concern, before lowering her voice. “I could certainly understand if that were the case.”
“No, no, no,” I stammer. “I grew up in Detroit.”
How do I explain? I think. Why do I have to explain? I’m too tired to explain any more.
A buzzing sound grows in my ears, as if cicadas have nested inside my head. The world tilts—like an old Batman episode—and all its color—the American flag, the brown bungalow, the blue sky, the red tree, Pam’s pink lip gloss—turns black-and-white.
“I got a job offer,” I continue.
“But,” Pam starts, “your husband...”
“Oh,” I stammer again. “He...uh...he’s back from the war.”
“What a blessing!” Pam cries. “I didn’t realize that. I thought he was...”
She stops short.
Dead? I want to ask. He is. Just not literally.
“Goodness,” Pam says in a too chipper tone. “Why didn’t you say so?”
Say what? I want to ask. Say that my husband was returned to me as a shell of his former self? Say that our lives were upended because of a war I never believed in? Say that I’m always worried about my husband because I have no idea where he is or what he’s doing half the time when he’s not drinking or depressed? Say that I’m an awful person for thinking all of this?
A thousand shades of gray.
“Yes, it is a blessing,” I reply. “It’s just hard to talk about.”
“I understand,” Pam says. She reaches out and touches my arm. “You’re doing what you can for your family.”
“Yes,” I say, forcing a smile.
“Are you a teacher?” she asks. “Or a secretary?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I’m a chemical engineer,” I say.
“Oh!”
“I work for a boat and yacht paint manufacturer here,” I continue. “I’m developing a new marine paint—in interesting colors—to prevent rust and barnacles on ships and docks.”
“That’s amazing,” Pam says. I don’t know if she’s referring to the job or the fact I’m a chemical engineer. She looks at me closely, as if for the first time, and I can see myself reflected in the slippery gloss coating her lips: my brown shaggy hair, little makeup, big black eyeglass frames. I think of the neighbor’s fence: perhaps I’m trying to keep the world at bay, too. “I never think of engineers as being, well, creative.”
I nod. “People always say engineers aren’t creative, but we are. In fact, my work is a sort of art, scientific painting if you will.” I raise my hands and wave them around. “Our world is made of scientific paint mixing. I mean, just look at the air we breathe. It’s made up of lots of other things besides oxygen, which is only about 21 percent of air. About 78 percent of the air we breathe is made up of nitrogen. There are also tiny amounts of other gases like argon, carbon dioxide and methane.” I stop and gesture at the lake. “And what is water made of?”
Pam is staring at me.
“Fascinating,” she says as she reapplies her gloss. “Well, this is a perfect place for your family, then. Grand Haven is a water and boating haven. You know this is the Coast Guard City of the US, right? And we hold the annual Coast Guard Festival, which honors and respects the men and women of the US Coast Guard. Your husband should be right at home here. And you, too.” She smiles. “Now, let me show you the house, okay? And that view!”
Before we can move, Lily races down the stairs and over to the fence separating this yard from the one next door. She clambers atop a large river rock and jumps up to grab a big shepherd’s hook jutting off the side of the wooden fence where it looks like a hanging plant once was located. She tries to climb up the fence like a squirrel, her sneakers raking against the wood.
“Lily!” I yell. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She jumps down.
“Mom,” she whines.
“She’s a bit of a tomboy,” I say to Pam, who cannot hide her disappointment.
Lily presses her face between the tiny slats in the fence. “Whoa!” she says. “You have to see this!”
I walk over to where Lily is standing and position my right eye against a minuscule opening and squint. Beyond the fence is a garden that resembles one of my own chemical experiments: there are dozens of stakes everywhere with small flags attached, and they’re fluttering in the breeze. Daylily stalks are everywhere, and there is something odd attached to them that I can’t quite figure out.
Little is in bloom this early in the season, but I can only imagine what is to come.
I reposition myself and try to peer farther into the yard, but it’s too narrow and strains my eye. The one thing I can make out right in front of me, however, is a beautiful arbor with a trellis that looks as if it not only might grow roses but might also have been a pathway between these two houses.
I feel the fence shaking. I look up to see Lily trying to scramble up it again.
“Lily!” I call again.
She hops back to the ground and sprints toward the porch.
“Why don’t I show you the house?” Pam asks again. “You just have to see that view.”
“Of course,” I say.
I turn and start toward the little flagstone pathway leading to the house. Before I head up the stairs, I look back at the neighboring house.
A curtain moves, nearly imperceptibly, upstairs. I take one step, stop and look again. The window is not open, but the curtain is still swaying slightly.
I take another step, turn on a dime and narrow my eyes behind my glasses.
A shadow flutters and then disappears.
PART ONE
LILACS
“The smell of moist earth and lilacs hung in the air
like wisps of the past and hints of the future.”
—Margaret Millar
ABBY
MAY 2003
Snip, snip, snip...
I am lining the kitchen cupboards, pantry and drawers with contact paper. I am not what you would call innately domestic, but my mother—the master of focusing on the innocuous—has ingrained in me an orderliness and tidiness that borders on OCD.
Perhaps that’s why I became an engineer.
I don’t deep clean—I’d prefer to have someone come in and do the windows, wipe down baseboards and stand on stepstools to dust ceiling fans—but I do, what I term, “tidy house.” The bed must be made, dishes cannot be left in the sink, Lily’s toys must be returned to her room.
Things must be in their place.
I put the scissors aside and look around the surprisingly spacious kitchen of our new rental home. It was obviously renoed since it was built in the—when did Pam say?—1920s, but not updated again since Truman was president. The reno is more Happy Days than today. The cabinets are bright yellow, and I mean bright yellow. Pam pitched this as a “sunny kitchen,” but it borders more on blinding. The cabinets have flat fronts and vintage hardware, and the countertops are sparkly pink Formica. A matching retro pink dinette set remains in the corner by a big window, as does a pink rotary phone in a little nook that has a pulldown drawer. I’ve already staked this out as my home office, my Mac as out of place in this time capsule of a kitchen as the newer stainless appliances.
I’m not quite sure if the kitchen is retro or tacky, but I love it. It reminds me of my grandparents, and the space feels like a warm hug.
I found rolls of contact paper in the basement. The paper is what the HGTV designers call “atomic,” and it’s dotted with aqua and lime green jacks, like I played with as a little girl. When I initially unrolled the paper, the edges were wavy from moisture and humidity, but I ironed them flat, another trick I learned from my mom.
I line another shelf, walk over to an open box sitting on the counter and begin to unwrap glasses and coffee mugs, tossing the newspaper on the floor as I go.
We are starting over, I think, in so many ways.
I think of our house in Detroit with its open concept and tidy gardens. It was supposed to be our forever home but it ended up a house of horrors. We sold the updated home we had a mortgage on in the city to rent an old house in a resort town neither one of us knows a thing about.
I look around the colorful kitchen. Not so black-and-white, Pam, I think.
“No! No! No!”
I sprint into the living room holding a glass. My husband, Cory, is screaming in his sleep.
“Honey,” I say, taking a seat on the edge of the couch, modulating my voice so as not to frighten him any more. “It’s okay. It’s okay. You’re all right. You’re all right.”
