The Girl in the Garden

by Melanie Wallace

  Goodbye, she said.

  Mabel kissed her, held her face in her hands. Oh, Iris—

  Tell me, Iris whispered, are you happy?

  Yes. Yes. Are you?

  I will be, Iris told her. Soon, finally, I will be.

  Oldman

  DUNCAN BROUGHT THE hot toddies from his apartment upstairs and set them on his office desk. Oldman leaned forward in his chair and cupped his hands around his toddy—he’d not worn gloves despite the sudden shift in weather on this windy day in which the temperatures would barely climb to the low forties, and the Studebaker’s heater wasn’t working. Before they’d taken a second sip, June and Sam and Luke came through the door, as they’d done the previous Friday, to collect her stipend. They didn’t linger, and Duncan commented after they’d left that June seemed to stand taller, had a certain radiance that altered what he’d always considered to be her plainness, indeed glowed in a way he’d never thought imaginable. As if, he continued, Sam had cast a spell. It looks to be pretty much mutual, Oldman agreed, although I like to think I had something to do with easing Sam out of the hell he’d pretty much kept himself in. I mean, Oldman continued, that first night at my place, he fell apart, just began to sob, and I bet it was the first time he’d grieved in front of anyone since the day the world blew up on him. And I didn’t know him, didn’t know anything about him other than what Claire said, that he was a friend, and about the only thing we knew of each other was what we saw in our faces. I told him mine had been scarred by a monkey, and suddenly I had no idea what I had on my hands because he just went to pieces, with me sitting there listening, watching, letting him go on, and hoping this wouldn’t end badly. That I wasn’t going be facing another David Jennings. Lord, remember him?

  How could I forget? Duncan replied: and who in town didn’t remember the Jennings boy, who’d come back from Nam sporting a Mohawk and earrings but hadn’t—aside from wearing only fatigues and combat boots and speaking of nothing but how much fun he’d had as a sniper, sitting in trees and shooting people he called gooks—shown signs of derangement immediately upon his return, although some weeks later word began to spread that he’d canvassed every bar in town looking for anyone who’d ever hunted or owned a gun and was willing to pay him whatever they thought the privilege of stalking and shooting him was worth, the caveat being that they had to pay up front and take their chances that their skills couldn’t match his, since—he boasted, probably with reason—he knew how to cover his tracks. And when he had no takers, he became more adamant, going so far as to offer to bet on the outcome, both parties putting in equal amounts into a third party’s hands, say, David Jennings had suggested, Duncan’s, with whom he and his family had never had any dealings but whose reputation as an honest man equaled Oldman’s, the difference being that Duncan was not—unlike Oldman—apt to visit the Jennings family upon hearing such a thing. Which Oldman did, under the misapprehension that the boy’s parents and siblings knew what their son and brother was trying to wrangle any takers into, which they didn’t, and they lost no time and minced no words informing Oldman that he, Oldman, was talking nonsense. For David Jennings, his family believed, was a fine boy; not only that, he had medals and an honorable discharge to prove it, and the U.S. government wasn’t idiotic, it took care of its soldiers and recognized valor for what it was, so Oldman should take his antiwar sympathies—which the Jennings family obviously thought extended to David, who’d given his all—elsewhere, and fast. The irony, of course, was that Oldman, about a month after that hapless visit to the Jennings family, whom he considered even more idiotic than the U.S. government, was the one who convinced the town’s sheriff and deputies not to shoot the Jennings boy, who was armed, most likely dangerous, and perched high within the foliage of one of the oak trees that graced the town’s main street, and it was Oldman who eventually talked the former sniper down by promising that every man and woman in town—none of whom was standing around, everyone taking cover except the law, who were crouched on the far side of the sheriff’s car, and Oldman and Duncan—had changed their minds about not wanting to hunt him down. All Jennings had to do was climb down and start over, play the game the way he said it should be, that Oldman would match his bet and let him take off and try to cover his tracks with a quarter-hour head start.

  So David Jennings, carrying a rifle mounted with a telescope strapped to his shoulder, swung out of that tree with the ease of an acrobat and got himself tackled before his feet hit the ground by the sheriff—who, despite being somewhat corpulent, was more agile than most big men and hadn’t forgotten his high school football years—and was shackled and safely escorted to the local hospital, where he was sedated, and where the local authorities signed the papers Duncan helped prepare that remanded the Jennings boy to a VA hospital’s psychiatric ward, where he remained a good while. And Oldman got himself thanked by the town council as well as cursed by the Jennings family who—shocking, this, Oldman had quipped to Duncan later, much later, when enough time had passed to allow for jokes—wouldn’t consider the fact that the outcome could have been much, much worse.

  Anyway, Oldman told Duncan, the two of them relaxing back with their hands cupped around their toddies, Sam broke down and all I could think of was I didn’t know this man from Adam—I mean, at least with the Jennings boy I’d known what was going on—and that if I only kept plying him with alcohol, at one point he’d have to fall over. But the more he drank and wept and talked, the more convinced I became that he’d never bared his soul to anyone before, and that he was both harmless and a lot more deeply scarred than what I was looking at.

  And is he?

  Well, from what he’s told me over the last few weeks, he was.

  And now.

  And now, well, I’d say he’s considering that it might be possible to put the past in perspective and get on with his life, do something more than cook for a soup line, maybe come back here and give small-town life a try.

  Duncan raised his eyebrows, queried: And stay with you?

  No, Oldman replied. No, he repeated slowly, that would complicate matters. Because, Duncan, I’ve been thinking of asking June to move in with me. To offer her and the boy a home after Iris passes. I know—Oldman raised a hand, stopped Duncan from interrupting—about Iris’s will, I know the financial provision she’s made for June; Claire’s told me. Told me Iris’s wishes as well, in terms of letting June stay on.

  Well, at least I don’t have to invoke lawyer-client privilege.

  And it wouldn’t have mattered if Claire hadn’t told me. Because once Iris is gone, it’d be hard for the girl to continue on there, raising Luke alone. I’m not getting any younger—

  You’re not serious, Oldman, Duncan interjected, rolling his empty glass between his palms, don’t tell me you’re thinking of proposing—

  Oldman laughed, shaking his head. I want her to legally become my daughter, Duncan, which would stop wagging tongues as to what our relationship might be. I want her and Luke to have a home.

  And provide you with a family.

  I never said I wasn’t selfish. And I surely always wanted one.

  Have you mentioned this to her?

  Not yet. I needed to know if the law would allow it.

  The law would, but—

  You don’t need to caution me, Duncan. I’ve never done anything on impulse.

  Except talk crazy people down from trees.

  I was being extremely thoughtful in that situation, but awfully quick at it, as I was trying to avoid possibly being among those who were going to be shot at.

  Well, if June is willing, I’ll do the paperwork. But I think she has the right to know what Iris has allowed for before making her decision.

  I agree.

  Damn it, Oldman, you’re supposed to argue the point.

  I can’t. I’ve asked Claire—who doesn’t know what I’m proposing here—to tell June about Iris’s will and wishes before she and Sam leave.

  Which is when?

&nb
sp; Oldman considered Duncan quizzically. I thought Claire would have told you: the day after tomorrow.

  Whoa, Duncan said.

  They’ve been here for almost three weeks. Claire’s moving back to my place this evening after she talks to June about Iris’s will. I’m surprised Claire didn’t tell you over lunch.

  Lunch turned out to be a bit awkward.

  Because of Meredith?

  Most likely, Duncan said. Did not say, I couldn’t face Claire alone, I didn’t want to confront or evade that question of whether I’m spoken for, and who knows whether Claire took Meredith as my answer or simply my shield. Not that it wasn’t pleasant, Duncan went on, only quite impersonal. I handed Claire an envelope containing a copy of Iris’s will and codicil, and then we made small talk and ate and went our separate ways. She hasn’t come by or called. I had no idea she was going to speak to June.

  Who will be mostly shocked by the fact that Iris is going to die sooner rather than later, I fear, Oldman confided. I don’t think she’s understood that. Young people are very good at ignoring—or not recognizing—mortality. I’m assuming this will hit her hard, and then, a few days on, she’ll begin to worry over what it will be like after Iris is gone.

  Which is when you’ll offer her—

  Everything I can.

  And what if Sam returns to sweep her off her feet?

  Well, that would be fine with me, I couldn’t wish for a better son-in-law, but he isn’t one to rush things. He’s told me he won’t leave the soup kitchen in the lurch, that he wants to return with enough money to settle himself, stand on his own two feet while trying to make a go of it here, that he doesn’t want to hang on by the skin of his teeth after renting an apartment and before finding a job. Sam is a cautious man. And even if he weren’t, June is incapable of being swept off her feet. She made that mistake once and suffered immensely for it.

  Love makes people erratic, Oldman.

  Can, but doesn’t always. Some, it just makes true to themselves, and to others.

  Duncan paused, studied his empty glass, knew that Oldman realized he’d inadvertently hit a raw nerve. For love had never made Duncan erratic or true to himself; he’d shrugged off being the most sought-after bachelor during his first and much of his second decade in town, only occasionally dating and never having what could be construed or misconstrued as a steady relationship until Meredith came into his life and remained resolute, having what Oldman considered the patience of Job and who, Oldman also considered, had probably finally come very close to winning Duncan over by sheer steadfastness, that conviction she held evident that Duncan was a man worth his salt even if he had to be accepted on the strangest terms, which had so far extended to never formalizing any emotional relationship. For he’d had that once as Claire’s legal guardian, and—as Oldman suspected, but would never know—he’d suffered his role as such, had never once trespassed the boundaries of that role, and had kept Claire on the other side of the line he’d drawn, which line—as Oldman also suspected, but also would never know—Claire had had no respect for; indeed, she’d constantly tested its inviolability, had continued until now to question whether Duncan still felt bound by what had from the beginning legally defined their relationship.

  Look, Duncan finally said, I’m not much of an expert when it comes to love. But I will point out that legal adoption won’t guarantee June will live with you for any length of time, never mind stay with you forever. Don’t count on either.

  All I’m counting on is my intuition, Oldman admitted, thinking, as he often had since meeting June, of her double, the young woman he’d once found atop a rubble pile and fallen in love with and left behind, lost. And causality, he thought to himself.

  Well, Duncan pronounced after a moment, I believe June will be as honest with you as you are with her. Just let her know what your expectations are, what strings might be attached. Don’t keep those in the back of your mind.

  I expect only to give her a choice—and, if she chooses, security and love for both her and Luke—and beyond that, my only hope is that she’ll decide how to live her life as she sees fit. There won’t be any strings, there’s no reason for any: it’s June we’re talking about.

  I haven’t lost sight of that.

  I’ll be taking this slow, Duncan. I’m not even sure when I’ll bring any of this up to her.

  In the meanwhile, what would you like me to do?

  Wait, Oldman said. Join me and Claire and Sam for dinner tomorrow night.

  Waiting’s easy, but, sorry, I can’t make dinner.

  I meant to include Meredith. Bring her along.

  Actually, she’s out of town for a few days. And I have other plans.

  Are you about to lock yourself away?

  At the moment, I’m about to fix myself another toddy.

  Fix two, Oldman told him.

  Duncan

  HE HEARD THE KNOCK he’d already decided to ignore, the knock Duncan had known, feared, would come: he’d called Oldman’s too late, they’d had an early dinner, Claire had taken her car and was gone, and Oldman didn’t know when she’d be back; she’d gone out late the night before and had returned just before dawn, telling Oldman that she wanted to take advantage of the only two free nights she now had, hoping to transfix whatever wildlife might step out into the sweep of the headlights; maybe Duncan could call around seven the next morning, Oldman had suggested, for they’d be up, Sam and Claire planned to leave by eight. Will do, Duncan said, and then he’d put down the receiver and pulled down the shades and turned off the lights and sat in the dark. He hadn’t expected Claire to be insistent—how could he have forgotten that streak of determination?—and listened to the knocking grow louder, more emphatic, heard the door rattle and reverberate, until he was convinced she was using both fists and would likely pound through the wood never mind wake the entire main street. She must have been eyeing the upstairs apartment windows, for it was only when Duncan turned on a lamp that she ceased banging and instead began again to politely and quietly knock.

  He went downstairs and, without turning the lights on in his office, opened the door a crack.

  Duncan, she said.

  Claire.

  She looked to her left and right, put her hands on her hips. You can let me in, she told him. He hesitated, then did, and she slipped past him and didn’t stop in the office but headed up the stairs, which she’d never before climbed, and walked into his apartment, in which that one lamp cast a dull light. She didn’t pause or look around, just stripped off her jacket and dropped it beside the armchair Duncan had been seated in. It’s almost ten, he said, turning on another lamp, and she looked at him with an amused gaze. Rum? he queried. Neat, she answered. He went into another room and returned with two drinks, sat opposite her, listened to her tell him that, to her amazement, she’d been able to photograph Sam that afternoon as he and Oldman came up through the pasture. Oldman had been leading the pony—you know how he always says the creature is fickle and always adds, What pony isn’t—and Sam had Oldman’s horse, and the two were in deep discussion. And it struck me, she said, that that’s how it should be, Oldman should always have company, his house is too big for one person and after all the man’s not getting any younger. Oldman had told Claire that he’d finally decided to retire from those Saturday evenings he spent at the town newspaper’s darkroom, he was thinking of retiring from his every involvement with the town and intended to hand that torch to Duncan because it wasn’t like half the town didn’t drop in on Duncan anyway; and what with winter coming on—Oldman said he hated to admit it, but even if this winter came off mild he probably wouldn’t think so, it’d seem harder than any that came before, given the care he had to give those foolish equines and useless curs and his place—it had dawned on him that he didn’t want to face the season and indeed the rest of his life alone. He went on to confide to Claire that he was, eventually, going to suggest to June that she and Luke move in with him, and that the only other person who knew this was Du
ncan. Oldman then went on to say that he hadn’t decided to take this step only because he’d taken June under his wing, but also because she’d acted toward him as a daughter, and because she was quiet and plainspoken and self-contained and appreciative, and because he adored Luke. They were already, he considered, his surrogate family: and that had surprised Claire. More surprising, she told Duncan, was that as the two men were leading that pony and horse toward her and the barn, it struck her that Sam was the likely candidate to be the son, should Oldman want to round out the family.

  At any rate, they saw her raise her camera as they neared, and Sam—who’d once told her No photographs in no uncertain terms—didn’t protest, didn’t make any motion to deny her. You know, she continued, what fine heads that horse and pony have, but beyond this they’re nothing alike, in contrast to Oldman and Sam who bear such a strange resemblance to each other—both lean, about the same height, and scarred—despite the difference in their ages, and despite Sam’s eyepatch. They both knew what I was doing, she went on, but it was Oldman who worked magic, drawing close and stopping and waiting, knowing those critters would immediately become impatient and start tossing their heads, rolling their eyes; and then the sun’s rays broke through the clouds and streaked down in the background, and Oldman kept talking to Sam and got him to look up at the camera, cutting short his one protestation with Hell, why not, son? We’re the best-looking men in this field.

  You can’t imagine what it was like, she told Duncan, clicking that shutter as Sam looked directly at her and Oldman turned in three-quarters profile to scold the pony that had begun to nip at the horse, Sam looking at the camera with that patch and slight frown, as if unaware that the pony’s upper lip was raised and its teeth bared and that the horse was rearing its head. This, she said, is the photograph Oldman will hang in his museum room alongside those tintypes and old farm implements. It’s the one I’ll frame and give to Sam as a keepsake of the day he relented, having realized because of his time with Oldman that it’s never the scars which can be seen that matter.