Front Yard

by Norman Draper

  “That? Oh, it was Marta talking about Dr. Sproot. She said to watch out because she’s on the warpath again. I guess I got a little mad.”

  George chuckled. “Hmmm,” he said. “Maybe Shirelle ought to go get her shotgun after all.”

  Clinging to each other like two strands of a clematis vine, George and Nan toured the yard and made as many stops as it took to say thanks and good-bye to their guests, even waving to the Jerlicks, who, as usual, dropped their napkins and empty cups right on the lawn, as unabashedly as if they had just deposited them in the garbage can.

  After another fifteen minutes, all that remained were the McCandlesses and the Winthrops—who stood looking at George, awaiting his annual post-party announcement. George cleared his throat and broke free of Nan’s embrace—a little too abruptly, she thought.

  “Your attention, please,” he said. “It appears all the riffraff have blown away. Time to break out the hard stuff.”

  As the sun dipped into its summer evening zone, and the Muskies wrapped up their 12–3 laugher over the Starlings, the Winthrops and McCandlesses got up listlessly from their chairs and began to move toward the steps. The McCandlesses were already halfway to the driveway, with Steve Winthrop right behind them, when the slowpoke of the group, Juanita, finally rose from her wine-induced semi-stupor, turned toward the back, and stopped abruptly, staring at the woods.

  “What is it?” wondered Nan, gaping. Her third glass of merlot had apparently unhinged her jaw.

  George laughed. “Better close up,” he said. “The male wrens are looking for homes again, and your mouth is just about the right size.”

  “My gosh! Your tree! It’s like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.”

  All heads turned toward the back, and there was the dying white oak, only not nearly as vertical as it was when George stood next to it with Miss Price. Now, it had tipped precipitously toward the west, part of its root system unearthed, and leaning at a sixty-degree angle like an arboreal sword of Damocles over the shed and Nan’s new bed of brilliantly flowering liatris and rudbeckia. Only the bracing effect of its massive branches had apparently prevented it from toppling over, and several of them had cracked and broken.

  “Good Lord!” cried George. “When did that happen?”

  “Must have been in the past, what, fifteen minutes?” said Nan, whose mouth opening had returned to its customary aperture. “We must have been too besotted by wine to notice.”

  “Well, good grief,” said Steve, who was now standing there, along with the Winthrops, staring at the tree. “You’d think it would have creaked or groaned. The lowest branches look like they snapped. Wouldn’t we have heard that?”

  “I heard a groan,” said Jane. “I thought it was just Alex. Tee-hee-hee.”

  “Why do weird things always happen in your yard?” Jane said. “You poor Fremonts. Haven’t you had enough drama in your backyard to last you a lifetime?”

  “Apparently not,” said Nan with a sigh. The couples exchanged another round of hugs and farewells, then the Winthrops and McCandlesses picked their way down the steps, careful even after three glasses of wine not to disturb Nan’s pea gravel.

  “George, on to the Internet, chop-chop. There’s gotta be a twenty-four-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week tree service around here somewhere. That tree has to come down, and I mean right now.”

  George disappeared into the house and emerged, downcast, a few minutes later. He pretended to watch the unsteady clot of Winthrops and McCandlesses passing out of view in the course of their stop-and-start transit down Payne toward their homes.

  “George?”

  “Okay, Nan-bee, but there’s one little problem. It’s called family finances. We can’t afford it. We’re either going to have to get Jerry over here with his chain saw, or we’re going to have to take Miss Price up on her offer.”

  Nan shuddered, then picked the last wine bottle up off the table, put it to her lips, and glugged down the remaining contents.

  “I’m not sure I trust Jerry with a project that big. Besides, he’d charge us, of course, and I’m guessing more than we’d want to pay. Looks like Miss P.’s our only option.”

  “There’s only one problem with that,” said George. Nan hiccupped, then sighed.

  “Spill it,” she said. She hiccupped again. “Not literally, of course. Ha-ha.”

  “I just checked; both she and the Historical Society are unlisted. I have no idea how to reach her. She’ll have to come back.”

  “Given her recent track record,” said Nan between more hiccups, “that shouldn’t be a problem.”

  17

  Tree Disposal Done Cheap

  Two hours later, George and Nan were on their second cup of lite coffee, having determined that the amount of alcohol they’d consumed over the course of a late afternoon would be of little help in solving their stricken-tree crisis.

  George was on the brink of volunteering to rent a chain saw and take on the dangerous job himself when a sputtering and clanking noise announced the appearance of a European-looking car in the driveway.

  “Wow!” cried Nan. “Look at that! It’s a Rolls-Royce!”

  George rolled his eyes.

  “That is a Citroën, Nan-bee. An old Citroën. A Citroën is about as far removed from a Rolls-Royce as a sixties Volkswagen bug.”

  For all her breadth of knowledge on many subjects, Nan could be ill-informed when it came to certain important matters. For instance, though she often joined with George in rooting for the Muskies, especially if they were winning, she would have been at a loss to identify Smokestack Gaines with his position—first base—on the team. Finances, bills, and investments baffled her. Money, she figured, was for spending, especially as it related to gardening, furnishings, and numerous items of clothing and footwear that would reside in her closet unworn. She let George take care of all that accounting stuff.

  When it came to cars, she was similarly at a loss. If aliens from the Andromeda galaxy were to drop down for a visit, join the Fremonts for a civilized glass of wine, then ask to be shown what a Corvette Stingray looked like, she might well point to the Oldsmobile Cutlass parked in the driveway across the street.

  “A what?”

  “A Citroën. French-made. Jeez, I haven’t seen one of those since . . . ”

  “And who do we know that drives a . . . whaddayacallit?

  “A Citroën.”

  “Sit-ron.”

  “No one. This is somebody new. And it could sure be someone unusual ’cause, I mean, how many people around here drive Citroëns?”

  Two men they didn’t know emerged from the car. They smiled up at George and Nan as they trod gingerly on the pea gravel, which made a good first impression on Nan.

  “Greetings,” said the first man, lifting his hand up in the pantomime of a windshield-wiper-pattern wave.

  “Hello,” said Nan.

  “What can we do for you?” said George, who had already lost any enthusiasm he might have had for entertaining Citroën-driving visitors.

  Both men were now standing on the patio, studiously looking around and upward.

  “Most of these look okay,” said one to the other.

  “Mmm-hmm,” said the other. “These trees are in good shape.”

  “That’s nice to know,” Nan said. “Who are you and what do you want?”

  One of the men cleared his throat and looked at the other.

  “We are the Scroggit brothers,” said the taller, less stupid-looking of the two. “Artis and Nimwell Scroggit. That’s us. I’m Artis, he’s Nimwell.” Nimwell nodded, then did some more looking around at the treetops.

  “Nice, healthy-looking trees you’ve got here,” he said.

  “Yes,” said Artis. “We are in the tree care business. Chickamauga Tree Service. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  “No,” said Nan curtly. “We haven’t.”

  “Hmmm,” said George. “You named your tree service after a Civil War battle? One that was fought twelve hundred mil
es or so away?”

  Artis and Nimwell looked at each other, stunned.

  “You are familiar with the battles of the great Civil War, sir?” said Artis, his voice trembling with the historical profundity of it all.

  “George is a Civil War buff,” Nan said. “In fact, we visited Chickamauga, Chattanooga, Murfreesboro, Shiloh, Forts Donelson and Henry. What else, dear?”

  “The great cyclorama of the Battle of Atlanta.”

  “The great cyclorama of the Battle of Atlanta . . . uh . . .”

  “Nashville, Franklin, and Perryville.”

  “Nashville, Franklin, and Perryville. We visited all those places right after we were married. It was what some people might call a honeymoon.”

  “My goodness!” Nimwell cried. “Would you be interested in buying some artifacts we just happen—”

  Artis clamped his hand over Nimwell’s mouth.

  “That’s a secret, brother,” he said. “Don’t you remember, those are not for sale?” He winked at the Fremonts.

  “Precious family heirlooms. We’ve been instructed not to sell them, or even tell anyone about them. Now, can we behave?”

  Nimwell nodded. Artis removed his hand from Nimwell’s mouth, and turned to the Fremonts. “Gee whiz, I can’t take him anywhere.”

  “I can sympathize,” Nan said.

  “Well, it’s just a matter of one side of the family wanting to sell these particular heirlooms and one side not. It’s unfortunate that we have to air out these family differences in front of prospective customers. Isn’t it, Nim, you dimwit?”

  “Yes,” said the fawning Nimwell. “Yes. I don’t know what got into me. Please accept my most fulsome apologies.”

  George and Nan frowned at this display of familial scorn. Mostly, they were wondering when this brother comedy routine was going to get around to telling them about their connection to Miss Price.

  “Well,” said Artis. “Now it’s time to get down to brass tacks. Our business, as you can undoubtedly tell from our company name, is trees.”

  “Trees,” Nimwell said. “Yessir.”

  “So, you just decided to stop by and tell us our trees look fine?” Nan wondered.

  “Why, no,” Artis said as Nimwell shook his head violently. “There is a tree we noticed back near your woods that isn’t fine at all. In fact, oh, my goodness, look at it—it’s almost fallen down!”

  “Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” said George. “We figure that to have happened in the past one half hour or so, though we were entertaining at the time and didn’t notice it.”

  “That tree must come down,” said Artis.

  “That tree must come down,” repeated Nimwell.

  “Jeez, that sounds familiar,” said George, chuckling. Artis frowned.

  “It does? How so?”

  “Never mind,” said Nan, wanting to enjoy the rest of the performance. “Continue, please.”

  “We can get rid of it for you, lock, stock, and barrel, for a price no one can beat. Say, $450?”

  “That’s a good price,” said Nimwell. “No one can beat that.”

  “And that includes what?” asked Nan.

  “That includes cutting the tree down, removing the stump, filling up the hole, and carting everything away. We, or our field crew I should say, could be here tomorrow.”

  “We usually like to see references for that kind of work,” George said. “And there’s another matter. It’s a good price, but we’re running a little short right now.” He cast a guilty and forlorn look at Nan. “We can’t afford it.”

  Nan pitched back in her chair. She had expected as much, but George’s bald announcement right here, in front of strangers, had come as a shock nonetheless.

  “Payment plan?” offered Nimwell.

  “Nope,” said George.

  “No problem,” Artis said. “We’ll do it for free. Then we’d just ask you to tell your neighbors about us. Consider it a promotional special.”

  “Free?” asked Nan.

  “Free?” asked George.

  “Just tell your friends and neighbors to think of our name—Scroggit Brothers Tree Care—when they’ve having trouble with their trees,” said Nimwell.

  “I thought your name was Chickamauga Tree Service,” said Nan.

  “Of course, of course it is,” Artis said. “My brother just can’t seem to break free from our old name. We just changed it.”

  “Yesterday,” said Nimwell, nodding violently. “And since the vireos have departed, weather-wise, as to like our own dearest departed ones.”

  “Yesterday, yes. We haven’t even changed our business cards or repainted our trucks yet.”

  “We haven’t even changed what is our thankfully, and in the fullness of the recipe for hot apple fruity cobbler we have prepared,” Nimwell burbled. Artis pretended to chuckle as he jabbed Nimwell violently three times in the shoulder, then twirled his forefinger next to his head to indicate there were a few lose connections in his brother’s brain wiring.

  “That’s right, we did move, didn’t we, Nim? Thanks for reminding me. Now, where was I? Oh, yes, we will take care of your tree removal for free. No charge at all. Is it a deal?”

  “What do we have to lose?” George said.

  “They could cut it down the wrong way and wreck the shed and my new flower beds,” Nan said. “The branches are already pushing down on the shed’s roof, and have probably dented it beyond repair.”

  “Good point,” said George. “That’s a concern.”

  “If that happens, we pay for the damages,” countered Artis quickly. “Guaranteed. Now how about it. Should we have a crew here tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” said Nan. George nodded.

  “Okay,” said Artis, as he and Nimwell turned to walk back down the steps. “Tomorrow around eight a.m. You don’t have to be here. In fact, we encourage you to either sleep in or go out and have some breakfast or something while we’re working. The noise really bothers some people. Thanks, folks.”

  “Hang on,” said George. “Don’t you want us to sign a contract?”

  “Heck, no,” Artis said. “You look like trustworthy folks. We’ll take your word for it.”

  “Okay, but remember, it’s free,” Nan said. “No charge.”

  “That’s our deal,” said Artis. “And a deal’s a deal. Just spread the word about us throughout your neighborhood.”

  The Scroggit brothers scampered down to the driveway and drove off in the clanking Citroën, which was burning oil and blowing out a greasy blue cloud of smoke from its exhaust pipe. George and Nan shook their heads.

  “Well, those are the world’s worst liars,” Nan said. George laughed.

  “The connection with that Miss Price is so patently obvious,” he said. “I mean, what kind of rubes do they take us for?”

  “But what’s the deal with the tree?” Nan wondered. “Why do they want so badly to cut it down? It’s obviously important for them to get to the tree quickly, as in before we hired someone else to cut it down.”

  “Maybe it’s the body of that dead guy,” said George with a snort. “Remember the one she talked to us about when we went into the Historical Society?”

  “It’s got to be something bigger than that. Why would they want the moldering bones of an old dead guy?”

  “My brain’s starting to hurt trying to figure this all out,” said George. “I think a glass of Sagelands might help. You?”

  “Of course.”

  It was almost dark, and they’d lighted the citronella candles ringing the patio to keep the emboldened mosquito population at bay. Here and there, a stray lightning bug shone in a brief point of luminescence. The earlier heat had subsided into a heavy, humid warmth that lacked the day’s occasional breezy freshness and would soon send them into the house for their nighttime dose of central air. Nan moved in her chair, and the motion-sensor light turned on.

  “George, dear, please go turn that off,” she said. “I don’t want to sit here in the spotlight.”
r />   A cardinal broke the evening stillness with its simple, loud, and solitary chirp.

  First to the feeder was the brown, red-smudged female. She cracked open one sunflower seed, then another, for her last evening snack. Then came the male, magnificent in its red plumage and dignified wariness, always turning to watch for predators as it extracted the sunflower seeds from their shells.

  From out of the woods came a noisy, deranged chatter that had no discernible pattern, always loud, but varying, the most anarchic animal sound they had heard except for the death throes of some rodent that they figured had been punctured by a great horned owl’s talons at around one a.m. a couple of weeks earlier.

  “What is that?” George wondered. “What kind of bird was THAT?”

  “Mockingbird,” Nan said. “I believe that is a mockingbird.”

  She reached behind her chair to a small wooden crate sheltered under the overhanging eave of the house, and plucked out the Peterson Field Guide to Eastern Birds, which had been carelessly left outside after they I.D.’d a brown-headed cowbird strutting across the lawn.

  Nan flipped through the pages as George watched the dark, abrupt form of a bat zigzag across the sky. He heard the buzz and noticed the slight movement on the hair of the forearm currently in use as his drink appendage, then swatted the mosquito with his left hand. He flicked it off, and raised his glass to the bat, which was still swerving drunkenly on its evening flight as it chowed down on one mosquito after another.

  Back came the racket from the woods, a solitary noise now that the cardinal had quieted. “That is one partying bird who’s going to have a hell of a headache tomorrow,” George said. Nan cackled as she read from the bird book.

  “It is a mockingbird,” she said. “I’m almost sure of it. Listen: ‘Song, a varied, prolonged succession of notes and phrases, each repeated a half-dozen times or more before changing. Often heard at night.’ I think we’ve made an identification.”