An only child, Miss Price had taken over the house when her mother’s physical and mental health had faltered and she had to go to a nursing home. The St. Anthony suburban boom was by now in full swing. When land prices soared, Miss Price stopped the farm operation, released the manager and other men she had been hiring to plant and harvest, and sold all but the house itself and three-quarters acre of land. Houses connected by new roads began to spring up around her. So did lots of new trees planted by the developers.
Miss Price had continued to live in the home alone to continue her father’s research. She read every scrap of paper in every rolltop desk nook and stuffed in every file cabinet. She did three thorough searches of the attic and cellar. She had found nothing. Her mother had never been any help; she had considered her husband’s and daughter’s quest to be a fool’s errand.
Miss Price felt her eyes moisten and her hands tremble. She had been forced to sell the house when her mother lingered so much longer than expected and the bills mounted. She bided her time, writing treatises and teaching snot-nosed idiot high school kids who couldn’t care less about the illustrious past.
She made it her second job to bury herself in the lore and legacy of those early Livians, and even those who came before there was a Livia at all. At school, her obsession made her lax in her duties, impatient of the demands of friendship, and abrupt in her dealings with colleagues. Tiring of department politics and rich-kid Ivy League aspirations anyway, she retired from her position four years ago, and took this post with the Historical Society.
Along the way, there had been the occasional, short-lived romance. Miss Price was a not-unattractive, well-presented woman of a regal carriage and prone to sudden and silky passions. She allowed these liaisons to last as long as they didn’t interfere with the overriding ambition of her life. The average length of her several affairs was two months.
Over the years, she combed through the real estate listings, hoping to see the old address up for sale again. It never was. She considered making an offer anyway, but backed off. That would have tipped them off, especially if she offered them more than the property was worth. So, she waited. And watched. And waited some more.
These days, it was tougher to stay focused on what few documents there remained to unearth and study. It was also growing too tiresome to nurture the barely flickering hope that she might someday get her old lot back. So, the all-consuming urge had softened into a peaceful dormancy. Miss Price sighed.
It was only last year, however, that, as an armchair connoisseur of zinnias and violets, she was drawn to the story of the Burdick’s Best Yard Contest in the Inquirer. It was no shock to her to discover that the owners of her old property won the contest, but then suffered through a series of misfortunes. Neither was it any big surprise to discover that they had risen triumphant out of the ashes of destruction.
It was a harrowing yet wonderful story. But a big part of it was left out. The cause of everything that had happened was missing, and only one person in the world—Gwendolyn Price—knew what that was. But she was so tired after so many years of trying. She had wasted so many years of her life. What was the point anymore?
So, Miss Price had reconciled herself to the prospect that she would carry the secret of 4250 Payne Avenue to the grave. Not only her secret, but likely the secret for all. The other branches of the family had ended as withered twigs, then broken off. Accidents. Barrenness. Wars. Disappointments or disinterest in love. They had all taken their toll. She was all that was left.
And then, they came in! Inquiring about some . . . thing buried there!
“Whap!”
A self-inflicted slap signaled that it was time for action, not all this dwelling on the past.
Miss Price found herself staring at a massive tree thrust out a short way from the edge of the woods. A white oak, no doubt. She walked over to it. It was the same tree she remembered. Back then, it stood almost alone at the boundary between the little farmhouse area and the endless fields. Her father had told her that it was old, maybe more than a century when she was a young teenager. Planted, most likely, by their descendants to remind them of more verdant climes. A good choice in that white oaks can adapt to a number of habitats to which they aren’t native.
And what was the other reason for planting the tree? As a windbreak? No, it would have been useless as a windbreak. You planted rows of trees for windbreaks, evergreens mainly. As a marker, perhaps? Yes, as a marker! If you buried something, and had to remember where you put it, you’d want to mark the spot with something permanent, wouldn’t you? Especially since there were just a few other trees around it, or maybe no other trees at all. What better way than to plant a tree on top of it? What better way indeed! And if you had to dig it up, chances are the tree wouldn’t have grown that much yet. Easy to cut down.
“I found it!” Miss Price cried. “I’ve found where it is! Isn’t that wonderful, isn’t that wonderful?”
“What’s so wonderful?” Miss Price turned to find Nan and George standing next to her.
“That tree, Mr. and Mrs. Fremont! That tree! It’s so wonderful, isn’t it? Why, back when this area was first settled, this was one of the only trees out here on the windswept prairie. My gosh! That was before those woods over there. There were no woods. Everything had to be planted. Then, the seeds spread and the procreation of trees began. Then, the towns and cities sprang up and trees were planted everywhere. Back then, before we were there, they used trees for markers. It was how they remembered where things were buried without signaling it to strangers who might be out to rob them. That meant valuables and dead people and special pets. This was before cemeteries and safe deposit boxes, you know. It was also a way to get the tree population started. So, you see, they killed two birds with one stone.”
Miss Price placed her hand on the bark of the tree and stroked it.
“This was one of the anchors of our clothesline. Mother tied it between the two trees.” She looked over toward the house.
“Oh, dear, the other one’s gone, I guess. Cut down or died, I suppose. You’ve just got those crab apples and paper birches over there now. I remember all those wet clothes flapping in the wind. Ninety feet of line it took to go from one tree to the next. I remember her saying that. ‘Ninety feet of line. I don’t need ninety feet of line. But where else am I going to put it?’ I remember her saying that for some reason. Daddy had to screw iron hooks into each tree to hold the line. And, goodness, where’s that hook? It must have broken off or something. Oh, well . . . later, there were more trees. And, now, of course, look at it. There are even woods.”
Miss Price clucked her tongue, and looked up toward the spreading crown of the white oak. She stroked the bark again.
“This is a wonderful tree,” she cooed. “Wonderful. But it has to go now, doesn’t it? Its time has finally come.”
“Wonderful?” said George. “Yes, I suppose. We’ve just never paid that much attention to this corner of the lot. It’s shady over here and close to the woods.... What the heck happened to this tree?”
“No kidding!” said Nan. “Sheesh! Look at it!”
The white oak had apparently suffered a traumatic injury of some sort. Its leaves were crinkled and brown. In fact, dozens of them were falling, sprinkling the ground around them with detritus. The tree itself looked suddenly decayed and wilting.
“How can that be?” said Nan. “There was no sign of anything wrong. And, now all of a sudden . . .”
“I was just sitting out here yesterday in the arbor, looking at it, and it looked fine,” said George. “And, yes, someone did tell us it could be at least 150 years old. Now, it’s just a blot on our beautiful backyard. We’re going to have to call the tree guys to cut it down. How could this happen?”
“Lightning,” said Nan, walking around to the other side of the tree.
“Huh?” said George.
“Here’s a huge scar running down the back of the tree. Crown to roots, it looks like. Lightning must have killed it .
. . but instantly?”
“Impossible,” said George. “The other problem with that theory is we haven’t had a thunderstorm in weeks. And that last one was a weeny one. Hardly any thunder or lightning at all.”
“Maybe its time has just come,” Miss Price said. “Maybe it has to die to make way for something better. This tree must come down.”
Nan and George stared at Miss Price.
“What are you talking about, Miss Price?” Nan asked.
“What I mean is that maybe this is a sign that it is time to cut down the tree and to search further.”
“For what?” wondered George.
“It’s making it easy for us,” Miss Price said, appearing to be in the clutches of a rapture. “It’s saying, ‘Cut me down to learn what you should learn.’ ”
“Okay,” said George. “I think it’s time to go now. Nan and I have a lot to do, and I’m sure you’ve seen quite enough, Miss Price.” Nan gently took hold of Miss Price’s arm.
“We must talk some more,” said Miss Price as Nan led her gently down the steps. “Please, let’s talk some more. Don’t cut that tree down until you talk to me. Don’t do it! Please! Something awful may happen if you do!”
“And a good day to you, Miss Price,” said Nan with a sarcastic wave as Miss Price got into her car. “No need to talk anymore, I’m sure.” Nan was shaking her head as she climbed back up the steps to the patio.
“What could that weirdo have possibly meant?” she said as George met her at the top of the steps with a glass of Sagelands.
“No more than what she meant that day at the Historical Society,” George said. “She’s got a screw loose somewhere.”
“But you must admit that some very strange things have happened around here. What is with this place?”
“Here, drink this,” said George, handing Nan her refilled wineglass. The real magic was how a glass of Sagelands 2007 merlot could disperse even the most unsettling thoughts and premonitions. By the time Nan had drained her last drop, Miss Price had been reduced to the status of a fleeting whimsy.
“George?”
“Nan-bee?”
“Heard the one about the aphid and the Ukrainian vegetable gardener?”
15
Settling In
The combination of the new gardens and the Burdick’s sign that still stood on the corner of Sumac and Payne attracted a steady stream of gawkers and visitors through June.
One Saturday morning, from eight thirty a.m. until noon, George counted twenty-three cars either slowing down to a crawl or flat-out stopping at the sign. These cars often disgorged drivers and passengers who would read the sign, then move a few steps toward the gardens for a better view. Sometimes they’d take pictures and wave to the Fremonts, if they happened to be either sitting on the front stoop or puttering around among the new flowers, which were in full, fresh, show-off mode.
The grass, for a change, was thick and green. Plus, it was now being regularly mowed by their yard-care reinforcements, sons Cullen and Ellis having meandered their way home from college several weeks earlier. Neither of them demonstrated the slightest interest in any gardening that went beyond the rudiments of operating the new self-propelled whiz of a Toro wide-swathed lawn mower. Both landed summer jobs in the ready-made-food-preparation-and-delivery field.
“I’m sick of planting flowers,” said Ellis, even as George and Nan pointed out that he had never had to plant one. “My dream is to own a chain of fast-food outlets specializing in some kind of upscale confection. I haven’t decided which one yet.”
George and Nan, being supportive parents, encouraged Ellis in his ambition, and made sure to patronize Yukkum’s Creamery, where he worked scooping out thirty-seven flavors of hand-churned ice cream.
“I’m going to start my own fresh-veggie delivery business at Dartmouth,” said Cullen. “I can make a mint, especially around exam time. What better way to serve an apprenticeship than by making pizzas at Curbside?”
Nan and George had to concede that the logic of that decision was hard to dispute. Plus, they especially liked the “veggie blaster” thin-crust pizzas Curbside made, and looked forward to the discounts Cullen could presumably now get for them.
So, the boys were left to their own devices, as long as they chipped in toward the general care of the household, which involved doing their own laundry as well as those onerous mowing duties. The real challenge lay in getting them to abandon the notion that they could blast iPod music through their headphones while mowing, special care being needed to avoid cutting off all the blooms bursting out right up to the very edges of the mow-able turf.
“The grass likes getting haircuts,” George said. “Not the flowers. Leave that to us. Pay attention when you mow; don’t rock out!”
Speaking of decapitating flowers, it was time for George and Nan to start deadheading the hybrid teas. It stood to reason that haggard blooms past their prime needed to be cut off for the health and well-being of the entire plant. It was to their credit that the hybrid teas understood that. Plenty of other flowers needed the same treatment. Deadheading ensured that the energy of the plant would be redirected toward shooting out fresh new blooms, besides lengthening the lifetime of the annuals. Of course, fresh blooms in their prime could also be cut for decorative purposes, such as filling indoor vases. Roses, lilacs, and daylilies were especially good for that.
“George, it’s about time to move the sprinklers,” Nan said. “Then, we need to switch over to the soaker hose for the hybrid teas.”
George, entranced by the front yard scene laid out before him in the perfect definition of a late-morning’s light, looked over from the stoop at the misting yard and listened to the hypnotic snip, snip, snipping of the two sprinklers that were currently spewing their water over the lawn. The daylilies would be blooming within the next week or so, and George and Nan couldn’t wait to see how the Happy Returns and Rosy Returns varieties would perform. From what they were picking up from the other flowers, both varieties would be outgoing, exuberant in their beauty, and fully cooperative in any gardening plans George and Nan might have for them.
A male oriole emerged from the hidden lower reaches of the slope, and attached itself to the shepherd’s crook pole from which the oriole feeder was suspended. For an entire minute, it jerked its head one direction, then another, then darted to the feeder jar to gorge itself on grape jelly and live mealworms. Having sated itself, it perched on top of the feeder, scanned its surroundings again, then took off in a blur of orange and black. It disappeared momentarily, then reappeared on the other side of the street, and soared into the upper reaches of one of the tall cottonwoods that grew on the near shore of Bluegill Pond.
“Earth to George-dear,” came a voice from out of the watery sprinkler haze. “Looks like you’re getting ready for the switchover to wine, so I thought I’d better catch you now. Detach the left sprinkler and attach to the soaker hose for the hybrid teas. They really get thirsty.”
“No kiddin’,’” said George, who had picked up the parched-stamen vibes. “Every time you walk past them, they’re letting you know. Kinda used to being the queen bees of the garden, aren’t they?”
“They’re not so bad,” Nan said. “They like to show off, and they need constant watering to always be at their best. Don’t worry; once the daylilies bloom, they’ll keep them in their place.”
George nodded. The daylilies. The enforcers of gardening discipline and equity. You could really count on those guys to keep everyone in line. But they weren’t out yet, so they had to depend on the delphinium to keep order.
“Sprinkler on the right goes farther to the right, George, and a bit down the slope. We don’t need to water the street, though.”
George really hoped it would rain soon: a big, long, soaking rain, because the way they were pumping out water, it was only a matter of time before they’d be lowering the water levels of a half-dozen major rivers and a good fourteen tributaries. After turning off the water and mov
ing the sprinkler coming out of the right spigot, he turned his attention to the left one, from which a hose already snaked toward the hybrid tea roses. He connected the male end of the hose to the female end of the black soaker, manufactured from super-porous material to drip water from a thousand points along its length on to the plants among which it had been strategically placed. That was the best way to water plants, right at dirt level and down directly to the roots at slow-motion optimum soaker speed. A horn beeped from the corner.
“Hiiiii!” George heard Nan yell in her shrill long-distance-greeting voice. He looked up to see the Winthrops walking up the slope toward them.
“So, this must be the true source of the Mississippi,” said Steve Winthrop, chuckling, as the sprinklers twirled water everywhere.
“I see the Winthrops are here,” said George, coaxing his knees into slowly lifting him upright. “It must be time for alcoholic beverages.” He lifted his left wrist to look at an imaginary watch. “It’s two fifteen, which means it is absolutely cocktail hour in Halifax, Nova Scotia.”
“Well,” Nan said. “Let’s all convene in the backyard for a little burgundy delight.”
Juanita Winthrop rubbed her hands expectantly. “Yummy, can’t wait!” she cried. “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask, where do you guys get your wine . . . that . . . that . . .”
“Sagelands 2007 vintage merlot,” chirped George.
“Yes,” Juanita said. “But we can’t get it any more at Lubbock’s. We were only able to get it there once. Three bottles. Then, next time, poof, gone.”
“Of course,” Nan said. “Lubbock’s stopped carrying it. Distributor stopped bringing it around. We had to start going to Frey’s in St. Anthony, then they stopped carrying it. We can’t understand. We tried to get Frey’s to order it for us, but they said they can’t get it. Now, what kind of a liquor store is that? We have to special order it now right from the company. Costs a pretty penny, I’ll tell you, but worth every cent.”
“Maybe we can go in with you,” Steve said. “We love that wine, and you could maybe save on shipping. I bet the McCandlesses’ll go in, too, if you can wean them off their chardonnay.”
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