Gardens in the Dunes

by Leslie Marmon Silko

  “Do your figures add up?” she said with a smile. Edward gamely nodded his head as he closed the ledger; he felt hopeful success with the citron cuttings would remedy the financial setbacks he’d suffered in recent years.

  “Is the child asleep?” Hattie nodded. Edward removed his reading glasses.

  “I could use a nap myself,” he said as he rose from the chair to replace the ledger in his valise. Hattie sat on the edge of the bed and removed her shoes; she lay on top of the starched white bedcover. Edward took off his waistcoat and hung it up and turned the key in the lock before he removed his shoes and joined Hattie. The bedsprings creaked as he stretched out his legs, the leg with the old injury first. She was delighted he wanted to join her. Although they had been married for more than eight months, the chronic pain in his leg and the expedition limited their opportunities for intimacy, and they both were still quite shy with each other.

  Before their engagement, they both confessed impediments to marriage: Hattie revealed her terror of childbirth, and Edward revealed the leg injury might impede the performance of certain marital duties. He was no prude; he was a man of science; but the excruciating pain made him nauseous. Their marriage fit their needs perfectly. Hattie wanted the companionship of a man who respected her scholarly interests and her ambition to see her thesis completed. She wanted a man who cared about her happiness. Similarly, Edward wanted a life partner who understood his research interests and the necessity for travel to distant locations unhampered. Hattie hadn’t minded a bit even when the Bahamas expedition came so soon after the wedding.

  Since the child had joined them, Hattie was aware of a gradual change in her feelings—she no longer feared childbirth as much; she began to see the pain and danger as a sacrifice necessary to bring forth new life. Hattie raised herself on her elbow, her hand under her chin as she looked at Edward.

  He closed his eyes; he could feel Hattie’s breath on his face, warm and sweet; he opened his eyes to her face, glowing with contentment. Impulsively he embraced her; the sensation was delicious and Hattie pushed closer. Instantly the burning pain shot through the leg and left him motionless with agony. Hattie apologized profusely—she was so sorry to have bumped the old injury—but Edward quickly assured her; it was his own motion, not hers, that set off the pain.

  The injured leg had healed quite well, considering his doctors were the mestizo brothers. Even when there was no pain, the healed leg felt strangely unfamiliar, as if it were another man’s leg, not his.

  They lay quietly side by side, holding hands; Hattie realized she was relieved and yet a bit sad; what a flawed vessel imprisoned the human soul! No wonder the heretic Marcion told his followers not to bother with marriage—the earthly body and what one did with it did not matter; there were no sins of flesh, only sins of the spirit.

  Indigo dreamed she was with Mama and Sister Salt. They were driving a wagon pulled by two black army mules, and the entire bed of the wagon was heaped with dirty linens and dirty clothes. She did not recognize the place on the river where they knelt by shallow pools with their scrub boards and big lumps of brown soap; perhaps the place was near Fort Yuma. In the dream Indigo knelt next to them, but the surface of the scrub board she used was uneven. As she scrubbed the white garment, its fine pearl buttons snagged and pulled loose; in dread, she lifted the soapy garment up and saw that it was a white dress of fine cotton, clearly a dress that belonged to a rich woman. Sister Salt yelled at Indigo to be careful and to find the buttons and sew them back on. In the dream Sister Salt looked different; she was as tall as Mama and almost as heavy. Mama said nothing; then Indigo noticed Mama carried a basket full of mother-of-pearl buttons just like the one the nice woman gave her.

  Indigo woke with a start. For an instant she did not know where she was, but then she remembered and was filled with sadness as she looked around the unfamiliar room filled with objects she did not know. Indigo felt the pain move around her chest and into her throat until tears filled her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks to her chin and ears. Soon the pillow felt damp at the back of her neck. “I’m trying to get back home,” she whispered to Mama and Sister Salt, and hoped when they dreamed they’d see her in this room and hear her message She stared at the ceiling’s ornate carved moldings that appeared to be leaves and vines with bunches of round fat grapes. Oh, if Linnaeus were there, how much he would love to climb the draperies to finger the carved grapes! He would not be fooled—he would know they weren’t real.

  Indigo cheered herself with thoughts of Linnaeus and what he might do if he were with her. She was still sleepy and closed her eyes again to imagine Linnaeus and herself romping on the wide lawn edged with lilacs; she sent him a message too, in his dreams of her: she told him how much she loved him and that she would return.

  Now she dreamed Grandma Fleet hugged her close and told her to be strong, and she would get back home just fine. When Indigo woke, the scent of crushed coriander leaves in the cloth of Grandma Fleet’s dress was still vivid and so was the sensation of Grandma’s embrace. Grandma Fleet came to her and she loved Indigo as much as ever; death didn’t change love. The dream reminded Indigo she must gather as many new seeds of flowers and trees as she could find on this journey so she did not disappoint Sister Salt and Mama, or Grandma Fleet.

  When Hattie woke from her nap, Edward was already awake, but they rested on the bed awhile longer. Hattie asked about his breakfast with Susan and Colin. They seemed quite well, Edward replied. The girls were off for a week of parties with their cousins in Newport.

  “They’ll be engaged and married before we know it,” Hattie said somberly.

  “Susan is going all out with her garden renovations,” Edward said as he rearranged the pillow under his head.

  “I didn’t expect to see a Scottish gardener,” Hattie said. Edward recalled the odd, almost overbearing presence of the gardener that morning, but thought it rude to speculate about the arrangement. He did not mention the cool reception Susan and Colin gave his plan for the citron orchard, or his fear Susan and Colin wanted to assume control of the estate if the lawsuit turned out badly. Hattie was so earnest in her conduct with him and the child that he felt his resolve waver. For an instant Edward was on the verge of telling Hattie everything, but an ember of hope still glowed on the shores of Corsica, so he patted her gently on the arm and said nothing about the estate.

  “I’ve been mulling over an idea for growing citron commercially—I ran it past Susan and Colin to see if they wanted to invest with us.” Edward felt his heart pound in his chest as Hattie asked their reaction.

  “Oh, they have no objections,” he continued, which was true enough; Colin had perked up at the prospect of the citron; only the finances were in doubt. Edward worried Hattie might feel his pulse race as she fondly stroked his arm. He felt a weakness, a shortness of breath as if he were fleeing the flames on the hillside again. A voice inside his thoughts urged him to confide in Hattie, but he could not bring himself to tell her.

  Hattie found Indigo in the front parlor with her mother. They were poring over a book of Renaissance costumes complete with the elaborate hats that reminded Hattie of pillows. The theme of the Masque of the Blue Garden was the Renaissance, and Indigo wanted to see how the costumes might look, though she had to imagine them in all shades of blue because that’s what all the ladies wore, to match the garden, of course.

  Indigo understood immediately: blue was the color of the rain clouds. She wanted to wear blue from head to toe, she announced, and Mrs. Abbott gave a smile and enthusiastic nod. Hattie reminded her mother children did not attend the ball, but Mrs. Abbott interrupted. Of course Indigo must come! Early, before her bedtime, she must see the blue garden in all its splendor! Her mother looked at Hattie as if to say, “Even this Indian girl can appreciate the ball more than you do.”

  Hattie realized then it was futile to attempt to resist the Masque of the Blue Garden. All right, Hattie thought, they would make the best of it. Off she went with In
digo to the library to look at more pictures of Renaissance costumes. Indigo was fascinated by the odd ornate collars the Elizabethans wore, so Hattie brought out more books. Indigo lost interest in the costumes when she saw the pictures and diagrams of Renaissance gardens; she spent the rest of the afternoon in the library, kneeling on a chair while Hattie browsed the shelves for other books of gardens and architecture. Hattie glanced at the shelves of early church history without any curiosity or desire to look at them, and realized her interests were shifting.

  Indigo lingered over books with pictures of gardens with water splashing from fountains and statues and even a long stone wall covered with spouts of gushing water. Hattie pointed out what appeared to be extensive stone stairs built for a great cascade of water to a long pool below; in Italy they’d see places like this. They looked at the books together and Hattie pointed out the French gardens and Italian gardens, but Indigo did not see a great deal of difference between them—except the French gardens seemed so empty while the Italian gardens were populated with stone figures of animals and people.

  Hattie found the beginner’s botany book her father gave her after they moved from the city. Hattie showed her diagrams of a lily bulb and a gladiolus corm. Indigo’s expression went from concentration to delight. These bulbs were giants compared to the bulbs of little plants she and Sister Salt used to dig from the sand to eat raw.

  They sat on the old leather library couch and began to read about the anatomy of the flower. Indigo was fascinated by the orchids with odd shapes that resembled butterflies and moths to lure insects to pollinate them. When Indigo’s interest in stamens and pistils began to flag, they went out into the garden, where Indigo delighted in examining the late tulips and the gladiolus and lilies until her hands, face, and even the front of her dress were streaked with bright yellow-and-orange pollen.

  Compared to Susan’s garden or even the run-down gardens at the Riverside house, the Abbotts’ garden was rather ordinary. Mr. Abbott’s interest in gardening was limited to relief of hunger among the poor. Mr. Abbott said if he wanted flowers, he simply went next door for a look at Susan’s latest feat.

  The Abbott garden was shaded by towering trees that formed a great leafy canopy; simple rectangular plots enclosed by a rock wall were planted informally with scatterings of cosmos and hollyhocks above four o’clocks, snapdragons, and carnations. Along the wall, dwarf plums alternated with cherry trees behind the yuccas in clay pots. Towering foxgloves and fragrant columbines in rainbows of color delighted Indigo. She made her way carefully between the powder blue asters and creamy yellow sunflowers to reach the big yucca plants crowned with spires of waxy white blossoms. Indigo touched the sharp tips of the leaves carefully and watched the bees, fuzzy yellow with pollen, in the throats of the flowers.

  Hello, Old Man Yucca, how did you end up here? Indigo thought as she gently touched the sharp tip of the spiny leaves. Hattie said the clay pots kept the yucca roots dry so they didn’t rot from all the New York rain.

  Indigo liked the water garden best and wiggled her fingers in the water to tempt the goldfish. Mr. Abbott found Hattie on her hands and knees and Indigo on her stomach; both craned their necks as far over the edge of the pool as they could to sniff the big yellow water lily blossoms. He called out with delight to see Hattie so relaxed and happy; he had feared for his daughter’s happiness after the thesis controversy, but it was clear the Indian child was just what Hattie needed after her disappointments.

  “We got tired of looking at flower pictures in books,” Hattie explained. Edward had gone to the city to his lawyer’s office to pick up a letter from their Riverside lawyer. Indigo was anxious to have news about the monkey.

  “The little monkey is safe, I am sure,” Mr. Abbott said; his eyes on Indigo’s eyes urged her to share his confidence. He offered his hand to her and to Hattie, who took it; then Indigo shyly took his hand and together they walked down the stone walk past the stables. Mr. Abbott explained how he hoped to banish hunger from the lives of the poor families with dwarf goats and dwarf pigs that could be raised in cities. Her father’s enthusiasm was a quality of his generous spirit Hattie loved a great deal; she feared her enthusiasm was ebbing away.

  The experimental vegetable gardens formed a large border around the goat pens and pigpens. Lloyd and two young Negro men were shoveling goat manure into wheelbarrows. Mr. Abbott said the dwarf milk goats promised to be a success, but the jury was still out on the dwarf Chinese pigs.

  The goats were browsing or lying down, but the instant they heard Mr. Abbott’s voice they all jumped to their feet and began bleating loudly. Indigo allowed the goats to nibble the tips of her fingers while others started mock head-butting battles, rearing gracefully on their hind legs.

  The small black Chinese pigs were alert and watched Mr. Abbott. They seemed to listen with defiant pride as he recounted their naughty habit of breaking out of the pen. The ingenuity of the pigs amazed Mr. Abbott; they pushed and pressed their bodies against the fencing material—stone, planks, or wire, it didn’t matter to them—until they located the point of most weakness. Then day after day they took turns, rubbing and scratching themselves against the same point in the fence until at last the wire or the wood or the stones gave way.

  After they escaped the first time, the pigs rooted up the kitchen garden; the following week they escaped again but seemed to remember the kitchen garden was ruined, because they went straight to the barn, where they managed to dump barrels of dry corn before Lloyd herded them back to their pen. Despite extra rations Mr. Abbott thought would calm them, the pigs escaped a third time. He pretended to shudder and shook his head. This time no one realized the pigs’ escape until they had uprooted and eaten a dozen imported peonies just transplanted by Susan’s gardener. It had been a very expensive meal for pigs!

  “If the pigs overran Susan’s blue garden right now it would ruin her ball,” Hattie said; the pigs’ eyes followed her as if to memorize the face of one who dared speak against them.

  Indigo watched the men rake and shovel the manure while Hattie and her father sat on the garden bench in the shade. She wondered if Lloyd and his sons had pigs and goats of their own; how did they take care of their pigs and goats if they were always here helping with Mr. Abbott’s animals?

  Her father was pleased Hattie had relented and agreed to attend the Masque of the Blue Garden because the occasion meant a great deal to Edward’s sister.

  “I know Susan isn’t easy to know,” he said as they relaxed on the bench and watched the child pet the goats. “But I think a spirit of amity between you and Susan is important, and the ball is the highlight of her year.”

  The next day, after Lucille cleaned up the breakfast dishes, she mixed the ingredients for gingerbread dough. Hattie rolled out the dough and Indigo used the cookie cutter to make the little dough men. Indigo pressed raisins into the faces for the eyes and nose, and a bit of candied cherry for the mouth.

  Later, when the cookies had cooled, Hattie prepared a box of gingerbread men wrapped in wax paper. After Lloyd returned from taking Edward to the ferry, he drove Hattie and Indigo past Glen Cove to the salt marshes and dunes, down the sandy lane to the small, unpainted wood houses with fishing nets hung out to dry. No faces peeked out windows or doors, and Lloyd pointed at the iron padlocks on some front doors.

  Indigo recognized the button maker’s house by the mounds of broken shells in the front yard. Hattie held the box of gingerbread while Indigo knocked, but no one was home. A strong breeze came off the ocean and the salt marsh grasses rustled as Hattie stood looking in the direction of other houses for some sign of life. Indigo reached into her pocket and touched the shell button the woman gave her; she carried the button with her everywhere she went because the button was her first gift from another Indian and because the shell came out of the same ocean she soon must cross. After Hattie knocked at another door with no response, Indigo suggested they leave the box of cookies on the old chair by the front door. To keep any
stray dogs and the gulls away, Indigo took an old wooden bucket and turned it upside down over the box on the chair. Years later Indigo always wondered if her friend the button maker found the box of gingerbread men still under the bucket when she returned.

  The sounds of the wind in the grass and the nearby waves gave the deserted village a lonely feeling that did not leave Indigo until the carriage pulled around the driveway to the house and she saw Mr. Abbott walking from the stables with two brown-and-white goats on leashes. He smiled and waved for Indigo to come join him. Lloyd stopped the carriage and Indigo ran across the lawn and took the leash he offered.

  As they walked along behind the grazing goats, Mr. Abbott told Indigo all about his plans for poor people to use goat carts for transportation. At the edge of the woods, the goats turned away from the wild blackberry bushes reluctantly, but they came along quite obediently once they realized they were headed home. Indigo helped Mr. Abbott feed two orphaned baby goats with bottles of warm milk. She was happy to see the little goats’ gusto as they thrust their mouths against the black rubber nipples, nearly pushing the bottles out of their hands.

  Just then Hattie came in the barn with a bright blue garment over one arm; Indigo’s dress must be fitted. Indigo left the goats for the upstairs parlor, where the dressmaker and her assistant helped her step up onto the little pedestal so they could pin up the hem of the bright blue silk dress.

  “My hands smell like goats,” Indigo said, sniffing, then dropping her hands back to her sides. The seamstress and Mrs. Abbott exchanged glances and Mrs. Abbott turned to Hattie.

  “You could have taken her to wash up first. When I told you to hurry back I didn’t mean bring a dirty child.”

  “The child is not dirty, Mother; she only petted the goats. Father bathes those goats every day,” Hattie said stiffly. “Father is the one who smells of goats.” Mrs. Abbott seemed not to hear what Hattie said; she was preoccupied with the fit of the dress around Indigo’s waist as the seamstress arranged the fabric. Afterward, Indigo stood barefoot on a piece of paper while Hattie traced the shape of her wide feet for matching slippers.