“And I’ve never heard of a house appearing in an empty lot overnight,” Lucille said tartly. “About that, there’s nothing I can tell you. They’re not exactly forthcoming, if you know what I mean.”
I was impressed. I knew how hard it was to avoid answering Lucille’s questions, even about the most personal things. She just kind of picked at you, in the nicest possible way, until you unraveled. It’s one of the reasons I didn’t hang out with her much.
“So, who are they?”
“Rachel Abrams and Ophelia Canderel. I think they’re lesbians. They feel like family together, and you can take it from me, they’re not sisters.”
Fine. We’re a liberal suburb, we can cope with lesbians. “Children?”
Lucille shrugged. “I don’t know. There were drawings on the fridge, but no toys.”
“Inconclusive evidence,” I agreed. “What did you talk about?”
She made a face. “Pie crust. The Perkins’s wildflower meadow. They like it. Burney.” Burney was Lucille’s husband, an unpleasant old fart who disapproved of everything in the world except his equally unpleasant terrier, Homer. “Electricians. They want a fixture put up in the front hall. Then Rachel tried to tell me about her work in artificial intelligence, but I couldn’t understand a word she said.”
From where I was sitting, I had an excellent view of Number 400’s wisteria-covered carriage house, its double doors ajar on an awe-inspiring array of garden tackle. “Artificial intelligence must pay well,” I said.
Lucille shrugged. “There has to be family money somewhere. You ought to see the front hall, not to mention the kitchen. It looks like something out of a magazine.”
“What are they doing here?”
“That’s the forty-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?”
We drained the cold dregs of our coffee, contemplating the mystery of why a horticulturist and an artificial intelligence wonk would choose our quiet, tree-lined suburb to park their house in. It seemed a more solvable mystery than how they’d transported it there in the first place.
Lucille took off to make Burney his noontime franks and beans and I tried to get my column roughed out. But I couldn’t settle to my computer, not with that Victorian enigma sitting on the other side of my rose bed. Every once in a while, I’d see a shadow passing behind a window or hear a door bang. I gave up trying to make the disposal of diseased foliage interesting and went out to poke around in the garden. I was elbow-deep in the viburnum, pruning out deadwood, when I heard someone calling.
It was a woman, standing on the other side of my roses. She was big, solidly curved, and dressed in bright flowered overalls. Her hair was braided with shiny gold ribbon into dozens of tiny plaits tied off with little metal beads. Her skin was a deep matte brown, like antique mahogany. Despite the overalls, she was astonishingly beautiful.
I dropped the pruning shears. “Damn,” I said. “Sorry,” I said. “You surprised me.” I felt my cheeks heat. The woman smiled at me serenely and beckoned.
I don’t like new people and I don’t like being put on the spot, but I’ve got my pride. I picked up my pruning shears, untangled myself from the viburnum, and marched across the lawn to meet my new neighbor.
She said her name was Ophelia Canderel, and she’d been admiring my garden. Would I like to see hers?
I certainly would.
If I’d met Ophelia at a party, I’d have been totally tongue-tied. She was beautiful, she was big, and frankly, there just aren’t enough people of color in our neighborhood for me to have gotten over my liberal nervousness around them. This particular woman of color, however, spoke fluent Universal Gardener and her garden was a gardener’s garden, full of horticultural experiments and puzzles and stuff to talk about. Within about three minutes, she was asking my advice about the gnarly brown larvae infesting her bee balm, and I was filling her in on the peculiarities of our local microclimate. By the time we’d inspected every flower and shrub in the front yard, I was more comfortable with her than I was with any of the local garden club ladies. We were alike, Ophelia and I.
We were discussing the care and feeding of peonies in an acid soil when Ophelia said, “Come see my shrubbery.”
Usually when I hear the word “shrubbery,” I think of a semi-formal arrangement of rhodies and azaleas, lilacs and viburnum, with a potentilla perhaps, or a butterfly bush for late summer color. The bed should be deep enough to give everything room to spread and there should be a statue in it, or maybe a sundial. Neat, but not anal—that’s what you should aim for in a shrubbery.
Ophelia sure had the not-anal part down. The shrubs didn’t merely spread, they rioted. And what with the trees and the orchids and the ferns and the vines, I couldn’t begin to judge the border’s depth. The hibiscus and the bamboo were OK, although I wouldn’t have risked them myself. But to plant bougainvillea and poinsettias, coconut palms and frangipani this far north was simply tempting fate. And the statue! I’d never seen anything remotely like it, not outside of a museum, anyway. No head to speak of, breasts like footballs, a belly like a watermelon, and a phallus like an overgrown zucchini, the whole thing weathered with the rains of a thousand years or more.
I glanced at Ophelia. “Impressive,” I said.
She turned a critical eye on it. “You don’t think it’s too much? Rachel says it is, but she’s a minimalist. This is my little bit of home, and I love it.”
“It’s a lot,” I admitted. Accuracy prompted me to add, “It suits you.”
I still didn’t understand how Ophelia had gotten a tropical rainforest to flourish in a temperate climate.
I was trying to find a nice way to ask her about it when she said, “You’re a real find, Evie. Rachel’s working, or I’d call her to come down. She really wants to meet you.”
“Next time,” I said, wondering what on earth I’d find to say to a specialist on artificial intelligence. “Um. Does Rachel garden?”
Ophelia laughed. “No way—her talent is not for living things. But I made a garden for her. Would you like to see it?”
I was only dying to, although I couldn’t help wondering what kind of exotica I was letting myself in for. A desertscape? Tundra? Curiosity won. “Sure,” I said. “Lead on.”
We stopped on the way to visit the vegetable garden. It looked fairly ordinary, although the tomatoes were more August than May, and the beans more late June. I didn’t see any corn and I didn’t see any greenhouses. After a brief sidebar on insecticidal soaps, Ophelia led me behind the carriage house. The unmistakable sound of quacking fell on my ears.
“We aren’t zoned for ducks,” I said, startled.
“We are,” said Ophelia. “Now. How do you like Rachel’s garden?”
A prospect of brown reeds with a silvery river meandering through it stretched through where the Morrisons’ back yard ought to be, all the way to a boundless expanse of ocean. In the marsh it was April, with a crisp salt wind blowing back from the water and ruffling the brown reeds and the white-flowering shad and the pale green feathery sweetfern. Mallards splashed and dabbled along the meander. A solitary great egret stood among the reeds, the fringes of its white courting shawl blowing around one black and knobbly leg. As I watched, openmouthed, the egret unfurled its other leg from its breast feathers, trod at the reeds, and lowered its golden bill to feed.
I got home late. Kim was in the basement with the animals and the chicken I was planning to make for dinner was still in the freezer. Thanking heaven for modern technology, I defrosted the chicken in the microwave, chopped veggies, seasoned, mixed, and got the whole mess in the oven just as Geoff walked in the door. He wasn’t happy about eating forty-five minutes late, but he was mostly over it by bedtime.
That was Thursday.
Friday, I saw Ophelia and Rachel pulling out of their driveway in one of those old cars that has huge fenders and a running board. They returned after lunch, the backseat full of groceries. They and the groceries disappeared through the kitchen door, and there was
no further sign of them until late afternoon, when Rachel opened one of the quarter-round windows in the attic and energetically shook the dust out of a small patterned carpet.
On Saturday, the invitation arrived.
It stood out among the flyers, book orders, bills, and requests for money that usually came through our mail slot, a five-by-eight silvery-blue envelope that smelled faintly of sandalwood. It was addressed to The Gordon Family in a precise italic hand.
I opened it and read:
Rachel Esther Abrams and Ophelia Desirée Candarel
Request the Honor of your Presence
At the
Celebration of their Marriage.
Sunday, May 24 at 3 p.m.
There will be refreshments before and after the Ceremony.
I was still staring at it when the doorbell rang. It was Lucille, looking fit to burst, holding an invitation just like mine.
“Come in, Lucille. There’s plenty of coffee left.”
I don’t think I’d ever seen Lucille in such a state. You’d think someone had invited her to parade naked down Main Street at noon.
“Well, write and tell them you can’t come,” I said. “They’re just being neighborly, for Pete’s sake. It’s not like they can’t get married if you’re not there.”
“I know. It’s just. . . . It puts me in a funny position, that’s all. Burney’s a founding member of Normal Marriage for Normal People. He wouldn’t like it at all if he knew I’d been invited to a lesbian wedding.”
“So don’t tell him. If you want to go, just tell him the new neighbors have invited you to an open house on Sunday, and you know for a fact that we’re going to be there.”
Lucille smiled. Burney hated Geoff almost as much as Geoff hated Burney. “It’s a thought,” she said. “Are you going?”
“I don’t see why not. Who knows? I might learn something.”
The Sunday of the wedding, I took forever to dress. Kim thought it was funny, but Geoff was impatient. “It’s a lesbian wedding, for pity’s sake. It’s going to be full of middle-aged dykes with ugly haircuts. Nobody’s going to care what you look like.”
“I care,” said Kim. “And I think that jacket is wicked cool.”
I’d bought the jacket at a little Indian store in the Square and not worn it since. When I got it away from the Square’s atmosphere of collegiate funk it looked, I don’t know, too sixties, too artsy, too bright for a forty-something suburban matron. It was basically purple, with teal blue and gold and fuchsia flowers all over it and brass buttons shaped like parrots. Shaking my head, I started to unfasten the parrots.
Geoff exploded. “I swear to God, Evie, if you change again, that’s it. It’s not like I want to go. I’ve got papers to correct; I don’t have time for this”—he glanced at Kim—“nonsense. Either we go or we stay. But we do it now.”
Kim touched my arm. “It’s you, Mom. Come on.”
So I came on, feeling like a tropical floral display.
“Great,” said Geoff when we hit the sidewalk. “Not a car in sight. If we’re the only ones here, I’m leaving.”
“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
Beyond the copper beech, I saw a colorful crowd milling around as purposefully as bees, bearing chairs and flowers and ribbons. As we came closer, it became clear that Geoff couldn’t have been more wrong about the wedding guests. There wasn’t an ugly haircut in sight, although there were some pretty startling dye jobs. The dress code could best be described as eclectic, with a slight bias toward floating fabrics and rich, bright colors. My jacket felt right at home.
Geoff was muttering about not knowing anybody when Lucille appeared, looking festive in Laura Ashley chintz.
“Isn’t this fun?” she said, with every sign of sincerity. “I’ve never met such interesting people. And friendly! They make me feel right at home. Come over here and join the gang.”
She dragged us toward the long side-yard, which sloped down to a lavishly blooming double-flowering cherry underplanted with peonies. Which shouldn’t have been in bloom at the same time as the cherry, but I was growing resigned to the vagaries of Ophelia’s garden. A willowy young person in chartreuse lace claimed Lucille’s attention, and they went off together. The three of us stood in a slightly awkward knot at the edge of the crowd, which occasionally threw out a few guests who eddied around us briefly before retreating.
“How are those spells of yours, dear? Any better?” inquired a solicitous voice in my ear, and, “Oh!” when I jumped. “You’re not Elvira, are you? Sorry.”
Geoff’s grip cut off the circulation above my elbow. “This was not one of your better ideas, Evie. We’re surrounded by weirdoes. Did you see that guy in the skirt? I think we should take Kimmy home.”
A tall black man with a flattop and a diamond in his left ear appeared, pried Geoff’s hand from my arm, and shook it warmly. “Dr. Gordon? Ophelia told me to be looking out for you. I’ve read The Anarchists, you see, and I can’t tell you how much I admired it.”
Geoff actually blushed. Before the subject got too painful to talk about, he used to say that for a history of anarchism, his one book had had a remarkably hierarchical readership: three members of the tenure review committee, two reviewers for scholarly journals, and his wife. “Thanks,” he said.
Geoff’s fan grinned, clearly delighted. “Maybe we can talk at the reception,” he said. “Right now, I need to find you a place to sit. They look like they’re just about ready to roll.”
It was a lovely wedding.
I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but I was mildly surprised to see a rabbi and a wedding canopy. Ophelia was an enormous rose in crimson draperies. Rachel was a calla lily in cream linen. Their heads were tastefully wreathed in oak and ivy leaves. There were the usual prayers and promises and tears; when the rabbi pronounced them married, they kissed and horns sounded a triumphant fanfare.
Kim poked me in the side. “Mom? Who’s playing those horns?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a recording.”
“I don’t think so,” Kim said. “I think it’s the tree. Isn’t this just about the coolest thing ever?”
Before I could think of an answer, we were on our feet again, the chairs had disappeared, and people were dancing. A cheerful bearded man grabbed Kim’s hand to pull her into the line. Geoff grabbed her and pulled her back.
“Dad!” Kim wailed. “I want to dance!”
“I’ve got a pile of papers to correct before class tomorrow,” Geoff said. “And if I know you, there’s homework you’ve put off until tonight. We have to go home now.”
“We can’t leave yet,” I objected. “We haven’t congratulated the brides.”
Geoff’s jaw tensed. “So go congratulate them,” he said. “Kim and I will wait for you here.”
Kim looked mutinous. I gave her the eye. This wasn’t the time or the place to object. Like Geoff, Kim had no inhibitions about airing the family linen in public, but I had enough for all three of us.
“Dr. Gordon. There you are.” The Anarchists fan popped up between us. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Come have a drink and let me tell you how brilliant you are.”
Geoff smiled modestly. “You’re being way too generous,” he said. “Did you read Peterson’s piece in The Review?”
“Asshole,” said the man dismissively. Geoff slapped him on the back, and a minute later, they were halfway to the house, laughing as if they’d known each other for years. Thank heaven for the male ego.
“Dance?” said Kim.
“Go for it,” I said. “I’m going to get some champagne and kiss the brides.”
The brides were nowhere to be found, but the champagne, a young girl informed me, was in the kitchen. So I entered Number 400 for the first time, coming through the mudroom into a large, oak-paneled hall. To my left a staircase with an ornately carved oak banister rose to an art-glass window. Straight ahead was a semi-circular fireplace flanked by a carved bench and
a door that probably led to the kitchen. Between me and the door was an assortment of brightly dressed strangers, talking and laughing.
As I edged around them, puzzle-fragments of conversation rose out of the general buzz:
“My pearls? Thank you, my dear, but you know they’re only stimulated.”
“And then it just went ‘poof’! A perfectly good frog, and it just went poof!”
“. . . and Tallulah says to the bishop, she says, ‘Love your drag, darling, but your purse is on fire.’ Don’t you love it? ‘Your purse is on fire!’”
The kitchen itself was blessedly empty except for a stout gentleman in a tuxedo and a striking woman in a peach silk pantsuit, who was tending an array of champagne bottles and a cut-glass bowl full of bright blue punch. Curious, I picked up a cup of punch and sniffed at it. The woman smiled up at me through a caterpillery fringe of false lashes.
“Pure witch’s brew,” she said in one of those Lauren Bacall come-hither voices I’ve always envied. “But what can you do? It’s the specialité de la maison.”
The tuxedoed man laughed. “Don’t mind Silver, Mrs. Gordon. He just likes to tease. Ophelia’s punch is wonderful.”
“Only if you like Ty-D Bol,” said Silver, tipping a sapphire stream into another cup. “You know, honey, you shouldn’t stand around with your mouth open like that. Think of the flies.”
Several guests entered in plenty of time to catch this exchange. Determined to preserve my cool, I took a gulp of the punch. It tasted fruity and made my mouth prickle before hitting my stomach like a firecracker. So much for cool. I choked and gasped.
“I tried to warn you,” Silver said. “You’d better switch to champagne.”
Now I knew Silver was a man, I could see that his hands and wrists were big for the rest of her—him. I could feel my face burning with punch and mortification. “No, thank you,” I said faintly. “Maybe some water?”
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