The Memory Garden

by Mary Rickert

  “What are you doing, Sage? You look… What—is that—smell?”

  “Ruthie’s cooking.”

  “It reminds me of something,” Mavis says, her bracelets clanking when she gestures. “What? I can’t remember, but it’s a good memory, I’m sure. Where’s Nan?”

  “Taking a nap.”

  “Still?”

  “Maybe her bones are growing,” Bay says, immediately feeling ridiculous when Mavis’s eyebrows, darkly drawn on her pale forehead, rise like the antennae of a giant insect.

  At the sound of someone moving in the upstairs hallway, Bay feels unreasonably excited, as though her Nana has just returned from a dangerous trip, but it is Stella, not Nan, stretching as she comes down the stairs.

  “Oh, I didn’t know you were here,” Stella says, her cheeks pink, her short brown hair tousled. “I don’t know what happened to me. I don’t usually sleep like this in the middle of the day. I felt like Dorothy, you know, in The Wizard of Oz? Remember that scene where she’s walking through the poppy field? I felt like that, but now I’m wide awake. Maybe this would be a good time to talk, Mavis. About, you know, Eve.”

  Mavis responds with a grunt.

  Stella’s little mouth in the midst of a frown repositions into pursed lips. “Oooooh, what is that smell?”

  “Ruthie’s cooking,” Bay says. “No one’s allowed in the kitchen.”

  Stella closes her eyes and inhales deeply, reminding Bay of the yoga teacher who came to her school last year, the way she breathed so loud that it was inevitable she be mocked for it. Later, she made things worse by talking about the “spirit” of yoga, which Karen Hander’s mother says is a cult.

  Mavis edges closer, inspecting Stella the way someone might study a sculpture in a museum. Stella’s expression, for a moment rhapsodic, turns sour. She opens her eyes and, apparently startled by Mavis’s proximity, steps back.

  “You do bear a remarkable resemblance,” Mavis says.

  “Thanks? People say we could be sisters.”

  “I hardly think so.” Mavis claps her hands, one loud clap. “Come along.”

  Stella and Bay exchange a look that suggests neither of them care to take orders from Mavis, but because there is little avenue for escape, they follow her out the door to the backyard, which Bay notices has been restored to some semblance of order, though it still has a messy quality about it, a few errant shoes in the middle of the grass, as if caught in the midst of fleeing. Well, no wonder Nan needs a nap, Bay thinks, feeling guilty for having abandoned the job.

  “This is where we’ll have the ceremony.” Mavis gestures broadly at the yard. “Just in case.”

  “A ceremony,” Stella says. “What kind of ceremony? I didn’t know anything about a ceremony.”

  “In case what?” Bay asks.

  “A sudden downpour. Or any reason why we might want to get inside quickly. For the autumn equinox.”

  “The equinox isn’t for another month.”

  Mavis turns to assess Stella with narrowed eyes. “For a young person, you are really stuck in your ways, you know.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  Mavis laughs, nodding as she reaches up the long bell of her sleeve to remove a cigarette and matchbook. She places the cigarette between her bright red lips, turning away to strike the match.

  “I wanna talk to you,” Stella whispers. “Somewhere private.”

  Bay nods, pretending nonchalance, as though she is one of those girls frequently pulled aside for whispered conferences, used to being considered someone whose opinion matters. Mavis, who seems to have forgotten all about them, stands with her face tilted up to the blue sky, where a rising snake of gray smoke lingers overhead. Stella turns toward the house, but Bay pretends not to notice and walks farther into the yard, beyond the lilacs, through the pampas grass, and into the small clearing, Bay’s special place she’s shared with no one, not even Thalia. Bay doesn’t know what came over her to share it now. Stella seems entirely unappreciative as she follows Bay into the clearing, brushing her legs, complaining about a sticky web. When she looks up, she wrinkles her nose and asks, “What is that smell? That’s not a skunk, is it?”

  Stella scans the clearing, and Bay looks too, imagining what it must be like to see it for the first time. A small blue butterfly hovers over the wild honeysuckle, and the sunlight laces through the weeping apple trees’ gnarled branches that arch above the patch of tamped down grass, sheltered on all sides. “You wanna talk here? Doesn’t the smell bother you?”

  Loneliness, Bay thinks. That’s why she never shared her secret place with Thalia. What if she reacted like this? What if she didn’t understand that this small patch of grass matters to Bay? She doesn’t think she could stand how lonely that would make her feel. She shrugs. What smell?

  “This could be nice, I guess,” Stella says as she sits on the grass. “You know, if you had a little table and some chairs back here.”

  Bay has been noticing the smell much of the summer, though it seems worse today. Is the forest dying? Her Nana says, years ago, this used to be a real forest with deer, coyotes, raccoons, skunks, mice, and birds, the population greatly diminished when they built the subdivision, a project that took many years, and even now isn’t finished but abandoned, a few houses occupied, but with yards unseeded.

  “I’m not the outdoors type, myself. You seem like you enjoy it, though. You seem like you have a nice life. It seems really…normal.”

  Bay smiles, what she hopes is a normal smile, not overly eager, merely courteous. She thinks of her Nana wearing that stupid walnut wreath in the front yard, where anyone can see her, or her muddy clogs to town, once to school to watch Bay in a swim meet, not meaning to doom her as strange, though that’s what happened. And really, in spite of this, Bay wouldn’t trade her Nana for anything. Thalia once even said she wished her mom were like Bay’s, which would probably mean more if Bay hadn’t said she wished her Nana was like Mrs. Desarti, who wears lipstick and high heels, and whose idea of making dinner is opening the Chinese take-out cartons. In reality, Bay is almost certain, neither would trade mothers. What is that thing Nan sometimes says? “Love has thorns?” Yes, that’s it. For the first time, Bay thinks she understands.

  “Obviously,” Stella says. “I mean who wouldn’t?”

  Bay, used to tuning out Thalia’s constant stream of chatter, suddenly realizes Stella is talking and has been for a while. Reluctant to assent to something unknown, Bay assumes an expression of interest, her eyebrows raised, her gaze steady.

  “People change, I get that. We aren’t, none of us, any one thing, right?”

  When Stella frowns, a small heart-shaped furrow appears in her forehead, which Bay studies closely. She wonders if any hearts appear in her own face when she frowns; she wishes one would, it’s very pretty. She’ll look in the mirror later.

  “Then there’s time, of course,” Stella says. “I mean, I’m not who I was at eighteen. I’m sure you’re not who you were as a kid. I get it. I can see how sweet she is, but that doesn’t change what she did.”

  Clearly, Bay has lost track of the conversation. She has no idea who or what Stella is talking about.

  Stella cranes her neck to look over her shoulder, as though there might be spies hiding in the apple trees. “I know she doesn’t seem like it, but that might be a trick, acting sweet, though maybe she really is now. She used to be dangerous. I mean, I think she outgrew all that, but I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t warn you. One thing I know for sure is you are innocent.”

  “Who are you talking about? Who’s dangerous?” Stella better not be talking about Nan. Stella better not be one of those witch haters. Not that Nan is a witch, because she isn’t, but some people who think she is are really mean about it.

  Stella exhales the name as though it is too bitter to have in her mouth. “Ruthie.”

 
; Ruthie? Ruthie, of the heavenly pancakes, mixed-up words, and sweet smile? Ruthie who brought a chocolate cake with her on the plane? Ruthie, who at this moment, is making dinner for everyone? Dangerous?

  “You have to take this seriously.”

  “But, Ruthie is—”

  “I’m not saying she’s dangerous now. Obviously. I wouldn’t be here if I thought so. When she invited me for this weekend—”

  “Wait. What? Who invited you?”

  Stella bites her lip. “I wasn’t supposed to say. She doesn’t want Mavis or Nan to know. See, that’s what I mean. I like Ruthie. I like her a lot, actually.”

  “Why would she invite you if she has something to hide?”

  “I know, right? I mean, how does that make sense? I feel like there’s something really obvious I’m not seeing. They’re so secretive. That’s why I thought we should talk. I thought you could help. As my grandma says, ‘little pitchers with big ears,’ and all that.”

  Bay doesn’t know what Stella is talking about. What do pitchers have to do with ears, anyway? She has an idea, however, that she’s being insulted. She’s pretty sure she’s the “little” in that saying, which makes her feel stupid. Stella isn’t trying to be her friend, after all.

  “Have you noticed how they won’t really talk about Eve?”

  Bay opens her mouth to object, but closes it without making a sound. It has been Bay’s experience that when confronted with accusations, the best defense is often silence.

  “I mean, we looked at some old photographs, but it’s not like anyone told me anything I couldn’t tell from just looking at them myself. ‘Here’s a picture of Eve in her bathing suit. She liked to swim,’ you know? I mean, come on!”

  “Well, if you don’t know anything about Eve, why are you writing a book about her?” Bay asks.

  Stella exhales loudly. “Okay, here’s the thing. I wasn’t writing about Eve. Not at first. I was just going to write about my grandma, you know? She’s getting old, and well, you know. I thought it might be research for a novel, or something. Then, when I lost my job—”

  “You lost your job?”

  Stella purses her lips and nods. “But that’s not the point. It might even be a good thing, all right? I mean, I kept saying I wanted to be a writer, but when was I even writing? Not much, let me tell you. Grading freshman comp is actually soul sucking, just so you know.”

  “Why’d you lose your job?”

  Stella shakes her head. “That’s not the point. Where was I? Okay, I thought I’d write this family memoir thing, or maybe a novel, and there were always stories, you know, family stories about my grandpa and his brothers and sister, and their dad, and Eve’s mom, who also died young—very Grapes of Wrath, if you know what I mean.”

  Bay shrugs. She’s not sure she’s following, though she does enjoy the feeling of being confided in.

  “So you see,” Stella says.

  “Not really.”

  “Okay, there were all these rumors, right? Grandma told me there were rumors about an old witch, of all things. Can you imagine? I mean, really. I couldn’t believe Grandma was talking like that. There was an old witch, she said, a rumor about Eve and her friends, how they joined a coven. I know. I can tell by your expression you think this is really nuts, and I do too. But I thought, well, you know, Grandma’s getting old, though she’s not as old as they are, but I thought, dementia, right? And then she said she had something to tell me. She said Grandpa saw it with his own eyes.”

  “Saw what?”

  “You can keep a secret, can’t you?”

  Though Bay isn’t even sure she likes Stella, she does enjoy the thrill of secrets. She nods.

  Stella takes half a deep breath, briefly covering her nose and mouth with her hand as she inhales. “Grandpa saw Ruthie shoot someone.”

  “Ruthie would never—”

  “I know. Believe me, Bay, I know. I’ve met her, all right? Just ’cause it turns out she’s all Mary Poppins now doesn’t change what she did.”

  “But you don’t know—”

  “Grandma wouldn’t lie. And my grandpa didn’t lie to her. He saw the whole thing. He told Grandma he never forgot the look in Ruthie’s eyes. He said they were killer eyes.”

  “But who—”

  “I’m not ready to say who yet, okay? You don’t really need to know that right now, anyway. I don’t actually know why she did it. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. That’s why I’m here. I was using Eve as a cover. ’Cause she died young. I thought they would talk to me about her. But of course I started with the source, right? I called Ruthie, you know, pretending I was trying to find out about Eve, and she was so sweet, Ruthie I mean, and invited me to come this weekend, but she said we had to act like it was just a coincidence. See how sneaky she is? She also said that maybe they were ready to finally talk about ‘what happened to Eve.’ That’s how she said it: ‘what happened to Eve.’ And just like that I knew I had a bigger story than I thought. I know there’s a connection. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

  “She’s not your usual bird,” Nan will say, for instance, when Mrs. Hevore drops off a donation of unmatched shoes, no pairs in the entire box, which always makes Bay wonder if Mrs. Hevore has a secret shoe garden of her own, though the few times Bay has seen her at the supermarket, her cart filled with red meat and yogurt, or at the summer theater production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, sitting stiffly in a folding chair, wearing her social worker clothes, she has appeared far too tame for secrets. “Oh, she’s not your usual bird,” Nan says, as though that explains everything. Clearly, Bay thinks, Ruthie is “not your usual bird” either, but that doesn’t mean she’s a murderer.

  “You’re wrong. Ruthie is—”

  “I went back there, where they grew up. Do you know about Eve’s grave?”

  Bay shakes her head.

  “Grandma said I would smell it before I’d see it. Because of the roses. Grandma says no one knows how they got there. She said Great-Grandpa Leary tried to dig it out once, but all he got was scratched up, and besides, who goes digging up someone’s grave, anyway? It’s kind of stunning, really, beautiful in a forbidding way, you know, because of the thorns. The headstone is almost covered, the roses wrapped around it. People were so much more dramatic back then. Anyway, carved into her headstone are these lines: ‘Did not the whole earth sicken when she died?’ It’s from a poem by Ben Jonson. Grandma says the roses were a sign.”

  “A sign of what?”

  Stella shakes her head. “Well, you know. A sign of a witch, or maybe a ghost. Some say it’s a sign she’s a saint, like a miracle, but no offense, I don’t believe that. And you know, of course, I don’t believe in, like cartoon witches, but everyone these days knows about Wicca.” Stella stops abruptly, eyeing Bay from beneath lowered lids. “I’m just trying to figure out the truth. I mean, if I’m wrong, then fine, I’m wrong. All I’m saying is they’re acting secretive. All of them are, even Ruthie, who invited me and now talks nonsense half the time. I really don’t know what’s going on. I still don’t know what she meant about ‘what happened to Eve.’ I’m not trying to hurt anyone, but I think I have a right to know. Don’t forget, this is my family.”

  When the pampas grass rustles behind her, Bay wonders if a deer will walk in on them. Once, when she was a child playing here, a deer did wander into the clearing. Her Nana was upset when Bay told her about it afterward. “Deer are dangerous,” she said. “Their hooves are like razor blades. Don’t ever get so close to one again.” Bay never said how close she’d gotten, lying down next to it, falling asleep until a sharp sound like a bough breaking or a gunshot woke her, and she found herself alone, though the ground beside her was still warm.

  This time, however, it is not a deer, but Howard, apologizing when he sees them.

  “Oh, I get it,” Stella says as she stands and brushes blade
s of grass off her legs. “Secret assignations? I guess I’m in the way here.”

  Bay feels herself blush as Howard protests more vehemently than seems necessary.

  “I was just leaving anyway,” Stella says. “Don’t worry. I won’t blow your cover. I can keep your secret too.”

  Howard and Bay both start to speak, but Stella waves her hand, dismissing them as if they are the last people on earth to explain themselves. She gives Bay a long look and says, “I hope we have an understanding,” before exiting through the tall grass.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Howard says.

  Right, Bay thinks. Because why would you have anything to do with me?

  “This is a nice spot. I was here earlier, but that smell got to me. Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “I don’t notice anything.” At this point Bay is lying, for no reason she can think of, other than she doesn’t feel like agreeing with Howard.

  He studies her, his eyes narrowed, forehead furrowed. “What’s wrong? Why are you angry?”

  “I’m not angry,” Bay says, though she is beginning to suspect she is. “Why is everyone saying that? Mavis—”

  “Yeah,” Howard says. “I know how angry I was that she told everyone I’m gay—”

  “Wait. What?”

  “Not that I’m ashamed. I mean, that’s why I’m here. Well, not here, but home this week.”

  “You’re gay?”

  “You knew, right? Mavis told everyone.”

  Bay shakes her head.

  “Are you… I mean…” Howard shifts from one foot to the other, and Bay realizes he is mistaking her silence for judgment.

  “Oh, no. I don’t care,” she says. “I don’t care about stuff like that at all. It doesn’t matter.”

  This isn’t completely true, because it does matter, but not like that. Of course it matters. Howard’s sexuality is an important part of his life. Bay doesn’t mean to suggest it is trivial. That’s not what she meant. It’s just, she liked Howard. She likes him. She thought…well, what was she thinking? Even if he weren’t gay, he’s in college and way too old for her. Still, Bay feels sad to lose the fantasy she’s been imagining. It’s not horrible, it’s just not the story she thought she was in, that’s all.