Warm Wuinter's Garden (39 page)

“I can remember one time we spent most of an
afternoon moving wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of mint plants. Do
you remember the old stone steps that led down the embankment to
the river?”

“Yes.”

“The slopes on both sides of those steps used
to be filled with mint. Being close to the house someone was always
running down there to get a handful for iced tea or to steam with
fresh peas or put in carrot salad.

“That day we took out masses of mint, making
sure that we checker-boarded our shovelfuls so there’d be no
erosion. We filled up the wheelbarrow three or four times, pushed
it up the hill. Remember how steep it was? When I was little, even
later, I used to roll down that hill in the summer after it was
mown until I was so dizzy I couldn’t stand. Covered in sweet grass
and stained with green and absolutely dotty. We pushed the
wheelbarrow up the hill and across the yard, down to the end of the
fence, along the road to the lane, then down the lane, past the
vegetable gardens to a spot where the lane met a spit of uncleared
land. That spit was on the left. There was a field, usually in
timothy, to the right and a small field straight ahead where Opa
let a crazy neighbor, Carl Feiderspier, keep some horses. No one
ever rode those horses. They drank from a stream at the back of the
field, ate the weeds and volunteer timothy, and, occasionally
someone, probably Opa, would give them a new salt lick. They must
have been good horses at one time because they’d always come up to
the fence when anyone showed up.”

Bett stopped picking through a small pile of
seeds trying to find the fattest ones.

“Do you remember where that was?”

“No, not really. We weren’t there that many
times. Maybe vaguely.”

“Well, off to the left, on the uncleared
part, the woods thinned out and where there was enough light there
were patches of wild strawberries.”

“Now, I remember. You took us there and we
picked those little berries.”

“Well, that’s where we hauled all that mint.
We planted mint in a big border around the berries and put some in
between the patches and also along the fence where the horses
were.

“When I asked Opa why we were moving all that
mint he said that it was an experiment. He had noticed there
weren’t so many flies around when we drank iced tea. He had thought
maybe it had something to do with the mint. He had started drinking
lemonade with mint. Nothing draws more flies than real lemonade.
And he thought putting the mint in the lemonade worked.”

“That’s why we always drink lemonade with
mint?”

“Yes.”

“We’re the only people I’ve ever seen do
it.”

“We hold the patent. What’s the phrase?”

“Intellectual property?”

“Yes. One of Opa’s many legacies.”

“But why in the field?”

“He, we, all of us loved wild strawberries.
The most wonderful perfume in the world. But tedious picking. Down
on your hands and knees. Remember? It takes forever to pick a
quart. That’s if you don’t eat any—which is very hard to do. The
flies from the horses would soon find us and then it would become a
battle of speed and will. Did the flies want us more than we wanted
the strawberries? Were our hands faster than their wings?”

“Did the mint work?”

“Yes, it did. You could pick until your knees
gave out. Opa was very observant. He saw things and remembered
them. He saw the vegetables and what was necessary to nurture them,
but he also saw the other pieces of the puzzle—the weeds and pests,
molds and rust and what was necessary to support those things, too.
In Indiana they used to say that a weed was anything that grew
easily and a crop was anything that didn’t. Opa didn’t believe
that. He saw everything struggling. Some he helped and some he
tried to hinder. He was an amazing man.”

“Who taught an amazing woman.”

“Not much. Not enough.”

“It seems like more than enough.”

“I’m a good weeder. Strong back and knees,
enough songs to hum to keep content. I like the dirt. The smell and
feel. I love seeing the colors come. I can be patient and wait—a
year for rhubarb, a couple for asparagus, or a lifetime for
wisteria or for that stubborn grapefruit that I grew from seed that
likes to leaf but never flowers or fruits. I love all those things,
but I’m not a natural. I learn something, or read something, and
then forget. Every year I get so caught up in the fuchsias’ blooms
I forget to pinch the seed pods. Then it’s July and the plant wants
to call it quits. I never quite remember the sequence of births in
the spring and death in the fall. Does the sumac bud before the
maple? Both are late, I know that. But, which is later? Will the
coral bells beat the columbine? I forget. Always have. Opa never
did. One other big difference. The bugs.”

“I know you’re squeamish.”

“Certain ones I just hate. Not hate. What I
hate is how I feel. They revolt me. Japanese beetles, cut worms,
potato bugs, slugs and borers, earwigs—I shiver just thinking about
them. Ooohhhh. Opa thought of them as just another piece of the
puzzle. Something natural. Something interesting.”

“Mom, they’re not that interesting to me,
either.”

“Lise is like Opa. She’s not put off. She’s
wonder-filled.”

“Lise is Lise. I’m still amazed at what you
know and what that knowledge leads to. I’m really enjoying being
out here with you. Look at these.”

Nita splayed her hands.

“It’s been twenty years since I’ve had nails
this dirty. Why are you smiling?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t be, but it’s
hard for me to think of potting soil, sand, peat and vermiculite as
something dirty.”

“Give a novice a chance. I’m sure my
manicurist will think it’s dirt and probably be horrified, or,
maybe, in awe.”

“Nita, if you like, you should take some of
these flats home with you.”

Nita laughed nervously.

“That’s a little radical, Mom. I can barely
figure out how and when to feed and water myself.”

“Well, think about it. When are you
going?”

“I want to be home before nine.”

“Why so early?”

“That’s a lawyer’s trick. Home in the generic
sense. I need to go by the office to do a few things to get ready
for the week.”

“Nita, it’s been very nice having you here. I
know how hard it is for you to get away. I’m grateful you’ve taken
these days.”

“Me, too, Mom. It’s been terrific having you
to myself.”

“I don’t think it’s quite been me.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

Each paused. Nita wanted to talk about Dan
Herlick. Instead she asked, “What are you going to do with the
health care forms?”

“I want to talk to Dr. Eberd to find out what
could happen. After I understand all the possibilities I’ll try to
figure out what I want to do. I’ve decided I’m going to use Ellen
and one of her sons as my witnesses. Then, I’ll send it to
you.”

“It should be pretty simple, but I’ll be
happy to check it for you.”

“To you as my agent.”

“Mother, no, why?”

All the inner weight of Nita’s body began
sliding toward her feet. She could feel herself hollowing out. It
reminded her of the first time that she had stood in court and
heard a judge take away the parental rights of an alcoholic mother
whom she was representing.

“I’ve thought a lot about this, honey. I want
you to be my agent. If you can do that.”

“But why me, Mom?” Why not…?”

Nita thought of her late night rendezvous
with her father.

“Not your father. We’ve talked about that.
It’d be too hard on him. If he had to make a decision, he’d second
guess himself that he had made it for his own interest rather than
mine. He’d be afraid he’d would do something because of the
revulsion, and, because of that fear on his part, I’m afraid he
might keep me hanging on when I should be let go.”

“This is very hard to hear. You don’t know
that you’re that bad.”

“No, I don’t. But you’re the lawyer—a
responsible citizen gets his affairs in order. You get twenty year
old parents to write out their wills. Contingencies.”

“Why not Pete?”

“He’s too soft.”

Nita’s face changed.

“Honey, I’m sorry, but you’re asking. Plus,
he’s just been through so much. It’s not that you’re hard; it’s
that you’re stronger. If something had to be done, I think you
could do it, and, more importantly, do it and then quickly recover
from the decision. Peter couldn’t. Dilly certainly couldn’t. Your
father couldn’t. Lise could. In many ways, Lise would be my first
choice. For the reasons we were just talking about—when I said she
was like Opa. The scientist part of her would be a good reason to
choose her, but her being the youngest is why I’m not. It would
make it too hard for her, especially with Dilly.

“Nita, we’ve been through a lot together. In
some ways, and sickness is certainly one of them, we’re closer
because of that. I respect your judgment and I firmly believe you
have the strength to carry out my wishes and the strength to
recover if they’re painful to carry out. I hope you’ll say
yes.”

* * *

Neil got home just before the early dinner,
an equal effort between mother and daughter, was ready. He was
hearty. He joked with Nita and caught her eye. The memory of their
late night get-together did not seem to muddy up his gaze as Nita
felt it did hers. She had thought there might be a moment made by
one of them to get together in a hidden corner to share, in one
simple declarative sentence, the weighty secret each was holding.
She wanted to give up her burden, now made even heavier by her
mother’s request, to her father. She thought that if he could take
hers and she could shoulder his, then, in the exchange, each would
be made lighter. However, despite moving about and hovering in the
hallways and making several announced trips to load her car of no
great amount of luggage, Nita failed to rendezvous with her
father.

After dinner, after her coat was on, and
after hugs and promises had been made, Nita agreed to take several
flats of seeds home with her. The tyro gardener’s anxious questions
were dismissed by Bett with a stiff-shouldered sweep of her
arm.

“Just keep them warm and moist, they’ll be
fine.”

As she drove north through a night so dark
that the work of spring could not be seen, Nita, like some fretful
puppy with a bone, gnawed at the same images over and over again.
The power of attorney. An ivory-colored, clean-nailed hand turning
the black knob on a silvery, stainless steel machine. A nest of
glowworms writhing. Her father. Father and daughter, turncoats,
holding hands and holding tight onto the railing of a small boat,
holding out against the nausea as the boat rose and rose before
dropping back under the swells of an oily green sea. The hurting
hardness of a blunt-featured unexpectedly gentle man. Buried in the
dark on the floor beside Nita, seeds’ hardnesses turning soft and
doubling and doubling and doubling and doubling in exponential hope
of breaking through to light.

Nita stopped at her office. At the reception
desk, the black plastic message holder was stuffed with dozens of
pieces of paper. She started to go through them, but after a few
minutes she walked down the corridor to her unlighted office and
dropped the unread messages onto her desk. She worried that the car
might become too cold for the new growth she was transplanting to
her home.

Dilly let her head fall forward. The hot
sting of the shower began to melt the knots in her neck muscles.
Slowly her head dropped lower as muscles were stretched free from
stress and the tightness from a day of yard work. Like a cat
working itself against a chair rung, she twisted her spine to push
her shoulder blades up under the scalding jet. After many minutes
of being pummeled by spray she began the breast exam she had
started to give herself during each shower. Dilly pushed against
her pink sodden flesh with the flattened surface of her
straightened fingers. She rubbed and patted and probed. She lifted
each sac and rolled the soapy flesh between her inquisitive
fingers. With her eyes squeezed tight, Dilly concentrated on seeing
inside her skin to learn if there had been any betrayal in the last
twenty-four hours.

After her shower was finished, Dilly stood in
the fog of the bathroom doing things long absent from her nighttime
ritual. She plucked three short brown hairs from the bridge of her
nose. She rubbed a drop of cologne into each armpit. She toweled
her short thick curls until they were dry. She took a fingertip of
baby oil and rubbed it between her labia. After putting on her best
nightgown and just before she left the room she rubbed and pinched
her nipples until they were erect.

The light from the lamp on Bill’s nightstand
was too low and too yellow to tell whether he did much more than
glance at her.

“A little quiet’s nice, huh?”

“Mmmmmm.”

Bill dropped his head back toward the black
binder that was open on his lap. Dilly sat down in front of her
dressing table and began to brush her hair.

“Spring takes so much energy. Of all the
seasons, I think it takes the most. What’s amazing is that every
fall I always think that we’ve done a good job of putting the yard
to bed and every spring I find a million things that need doing.
The bittersweet terrifies me. We’re going to wake up one day and
not be able to get out of the house. Like Briar Rose. Do you think
we should have something done?”

Dilly’s inflection raised Bill’s head.

“What?”

“I’m babbling. You’re working and, as usual,
I’m babbling.”

Bill used a hand holding a red pen to brush
off her remarks.

“No. What’d you ask?”

“Are you worried about the bittersweet?”