Front Yard

by Norman Draper

  “Miss Price,” said Artis softly. Miss Price was too caught up in her task to pay any attention. Artis and Nimwell looked at each other.

  “Miss Price!” Artis shouted. Miss Price stopped her digging and turned to look at the inert Scroggit brothers.

  “No need to raise your voice, Scroggit. What is it? And why are you two just standing their passively like bumps on a log? Gonna let me do all the work for you, eh? Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to deduct it from what I owe you, that’s for sure.”

  “Miss Price,” said Artis deferentially. “Is it too much for us to ask what is going on here? We’ve got human bones falling at our feet. It’s not exactly what we were given to expect. This is very macabre.”

  “Very macabre,” added Nimwell.

  It should be noted that the sight of human remains being unearthed was not, per se, a shocking one for the Scroggit brothers. They had, on a number of occasions, back before their obsession with Civil War relics and other Americana took hold, exhumed skeletons, mummified remains, and even shrunken heads from the jungles of Indonesia. But, on all of those occasions, they knew what they were looking for, and were to be well paid for their efforts. Here was the unanticipated spectacle of remains falling out of the crumbling root system of a suburban American oak tree and this weird Miss Price gleefully probing for more. What was also disquieting for the Scroggit brothers was the uncertainty about the legality of all this. They conducted their previous exhumations with full knowledge that what they were doing was either legal or not, and acted accordingly. Here, they had no clue. The fact that a busy city street was within sight no more than a hundred yards away added to their discomfort.

  Miss Price ignored Artis’s question and went back to her digging. Ten more minutes passed, and the Scroggit brothers found themselves increasingly acting like guards, looking around continuously to see if anyone was coming, or for any car pulling into the parking lot. How the hell were they going to explain the pile of bones and the savagely active Miss Price should someone have the effrontery to ask?

  “Eureka!” shouted Miss Price.

  Artis and Nimwell perked up. Could this be the treasure Miss Price had promised them? The Scroggit brothers leaned forward expectantly. What they saw was another dirty-white, smooth, rounded object around which Miss Price was plunging her trowel. Gasping for breath, she dropped the trowel with a clang onto the pavement, and pulled out a second skull. Exultant, she turned and held it out for them to inspect.

  “Here’s number two!” she cried. “Here’s number two! Say hello, skull number two, to a couple of boobs, the Scroggit brothers. This one’s in excellent condition. Probably because I’m not an incompetent who’s always dropping things. Here, make yourself useful, dodo; hold on to it.” She thrust the skull toward Nimwell. He accepted it with shaking hands.

  “Don’t drop it, fool! Now, we need to find something to put these remains in. A box will do. But don’t you boys have something in your trunk you can put all this stuff in without damaging them further?”

  Yes, they did. Relic hunters such as the Scroggit brothers were always prepared for any chance discoveries that needed to be carefully handled and stored. Artis retrieved a special felt-lined and compartmentalized case from the trunk of the Citroën. The bones were soon safe in the case, and out of view of the general public.

  “Okay,” said Miss Price. “Those will have to stay in your trunk for the time being.” Artis and Nimwell shuddered. “Yes, you’re disappointed that there was no treasure. I am, too. I thought maybe, just maybe, it was buried shallow enough to be fastened tight to the stump by the roots. It must be deeper in that hole, deeper down. We must dig deeper down.”

  “But how, Miss Price?” Artis asked. “We can’t just go traipsing on to the site with our metal detectors and shovels. They’ll call the police at the first sign of us anywhere near that property.”

  “That’s right,” said Miss Price. “You two have bungled that approach completely. But I’ve got some other ideas. Now, let’s get back to my place. We can have a hot cup of Ovaltine while I tell you what our strategy is. Maybe that’ll put a little more sizzle in your pizzles.”

  Dr. Ferdinand Lick heard the squeal of un-oiled hinges in motion. He looked up from his desk, where he had been studying the symmetrical construction of Manhood magazine’s June “cozy creature,” to see the head of a modestly attractive and seemingly disembodied woman sprouting from his door, which was slightly ajar.

  “Dr. Ferdinand Lick, I presume,” said the head. At first startled by the appearance of an unfamiliar head craning around his doorjamb, Dr. Lick recovered quickly and began to speculate on the feminine wonders currently hidden from view. He then began to appreciate the absurdity of what he was looking at. He chuckled at the thought of a woman’s head flying around the department to spy on professors looking at men’s magazines, though why that was particularly funny he couldn’t quite say. He quickly placed the copy of Manhood back in his top-right-hand drawer.

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “But my office hours are for appointments only, and my schedule doesn’t show that I have an appointment now. In fact, I don’t have one for another hour, and I believe it’s one of my male students, which is obviously not you.”

  He smiled. Dr. Lick was not without his winning ways. The disembodied head pushed open the door and became a full-bodied and rather-well-put-together woman whom he struggled to place. Dr. Lick knitted his brow, and successfully pushed aside any carnal thoughts that had begun to insinuate themselves in that realm of the brain where carnal thoughts abide.

  “Mother?”

  Miss Price chortled.

  “Of course I’m not your mother. I’m not nearly old enough to be your mother. Good Lord above, Dr. Lick, don’t you know what your own mother looks like?”

  Dr. Lick blushed at being upbraided in such a manner.

  “You’ll have to excuse the case of mistaken identity,” he said. “My mother had me at a very young age. She disowned me for all intents and purposes when I was a teenager. It had to do with some disagreements about my entering the family business. She has lived abroad for the past thirty years, and I’ve never visited her. I have no earthly idea what she looks like now. But then, I won’t bore you with all the sordid details of my family life. What is it you want with me? I’m very busy, and, as I said, you don’t have an appointment.”

  Miss Price plopped right down in the comfy guest chair and leaned forward alluringly across his desk, showing off her décolletage to the best possible effect. Dr. Lick, at first uncertain as to whether he should lean forward or hold his ground in the face of this attempted confidence, ended up lurching so far back in his office chair that he almost tipped it over.

  “I’ve read your work on the early European discovery of America, and how Europeans were actually here three hundred years before Columbus,” Miss Price purred. “It is brilliant. I know it has been dismissed as sheer nonsense by the academic establishment. But I also know how you can find the evidence to back up your thesis. In fact, I know exactly where it is. Actual, tangible artifacts that will prove everything you say beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Dr. Lick sprang forward in his chair.

  “What!” he cried.

  “Did you know those artifacts are buried somewhere very close by?”

  Dr. Lick, flabbergasted into a mute numbness by Miss Price’s stunning announcement, could only shake his head. He began to pant with excitement.

  “I can show you where they are. They are right here in the St. Anthony metro. In Livia, to be specific. A few hours, maybe less, of digging, and they’re yours. Not only that, but you’ll have the evidence to refute your critics and become the nation’s—no, the world’s—most famous archaeologist. Academically, you’ll be able to write your own ticket. You’ll have your pick of any department or any university in the country. To say nothing of the riches you’ll find.” Miss Price pulled away from the desk, settled herself back into the chair, and smirked.
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  “Now, what do you say to that?”

  Dr. Lick was salivating so hard that he had to consciously shut his mouth to prevent the pool of saliva forming around his teeth from spilling out over his thrust-out lower lip and onto his desk.

  “I say, that’s amazing, that’s wonderful. I will need some more evidence of course, but probably not too much more since you are obviously very learned in this field. Actually, I don’t need any more evidence at all. I can assemble a crew and the appropriate equipment in a matter of a few days. You won’t tell anyone else, will you, Ms., Ms. . . . ?”

  “Miss Price. No, of course I won’t. This is for your ears only, Dr. Lick.”

  “Wonderful! That’s just wonderful! Now, if you can tell me the location of this particular find, and some other salient details, I’ll get the process rolling here.”

  “Two things,” said Miss Price.

  “Uh, what’s that?”

  “First, I must be present when you do your excavation work.”

  Dr. Lick frowned and tapped a pen against his forehead.

  “Our workplace safety rules prohibit that,” he said. “Liability issues, you know.”

  “Take it or leave it, doc.”

  “I’m sure we can find a way to circumvent the red tape.”

  “Two . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Two, you can’t just go waltzing over to the site and start your work.”

  “And why is that?”

  “It’s on private property.”

  Dr. Lick smiled. “We can talk to the homeowners,” he said. “I’ve dealt with reluctant property owners before. Usually, they can be persuaded to let us dig, especially if we offer some kind of pecuniary inducement. They’re usually flattered that something so important has been discovered on their property.”

  “That probably won’t work here.”

  Dr. Lick frowned. “And why won’t it?”

  “The property owners know there’s something there. They know it could make them very rich. You’re probably going to be the last person they want showing up at their place with picks and shovels.”

  Dr. Lick, his mind swimming with visions of wealth and glory, leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and gazed at Miss Price with glimmering, dream-sparkled eyes.

  “We sometimes run into difficult property owners,” he said. “Never fear, Miss Price. We have our ways.”

  “Actually, there’s another thing.”

  “Yeeesss?”

  “I must have some of the credit for the discovery.”

  “Well, certainly you would get some credit. Mention in whatever press coverage there would be, for instance.”

  “I would want more than that,” said Miss Price. “I would also want the rights to some of the artifacts you unearth.”

  “Well, technically . . .”

  “No technically about it, bub. You play by my rules or I will never tell you where the site is. Then, someone else can worry about all the trappings that go with the greatest archaeological find of the past century.”

  “Ah . . . well . . . we can certainly discuss terms, Miss Price.”

  Miss Price got up to leave.

  “I’ll have a document delivered to you that I’m sure we can both agree to,” she said. “I’ll be back Friday to sign it. Just be sure there’s a notary available. Those are my terms. And I’d hurry if I were you. Who knows how quickly others might move to beat us to the punch, eh?”

  Miss Price’s Plan A was proceeding nicely. Dr. Lick signed off on her stipulations, and she was preparing a map with an address and even an X-marks-the-spot drawn on it for delivery to his office. Now, for Plan B. She picked up the phone and dialed Artis.

  A voice weighted down with useless torpor answered.

  “Wake up!”

  “Wha . . . huh? . . . Miss Price? . . . Wha . . . wha time is it?

  “What time is it? What time is it! How should I know what time it is! The only time I know is it’s time for action!” There was silence at the other end.

  “I said action! It’s time for you and your brother to put Plan B into effect.” The silence gave way to a prolonged groan.

  “Drat it all, Miss Price, it’s, uh, two forty-five in the morning.”

  “So! Wake up, you useless kumquat! I’m not paying you to sleep.”

  “Plan B,” repeated Artis groggily. “Is it legal?”

  “Perfectly. At least up to a point. Do you know anyone who can operate heavy machinery? Something that can dig a really deep hole, for instance? And maybe even dig a tunnel?”

  “Of course. All professional treasure hunters have proven and discreet heavy equipment crews they depend on. We’re no different. We know and use the best.”

  “Good. Call him up and tell him you’ve got a job for him. And, yes, one that requires discretion. Oh, and I’ve got a property I want you to take over. In fact, it was cheap. A foreclosure property. I’ve already signed the papers on it. I’ll give it to you and your useless brother.”

  “I’ve already got a really nice home, Miss Price.”

  “Not to live in, nincompoop. To use as a staging area. The property right next door to the Fremonts. And no more than a few piddling yards to one very large stump hole on the other side of a fence. Get my drift?”

  There was a groan and some mumbling. It was soft and distant, as if Artis was holding the phone away from his mouth so he could vent his frustration in private.

  “I heard that, Mr. Worthless-Lazy-Bones. Now, if you have a better suggestion, I would like to hear it. Otherwise, Plan B. Come over to my apartment with your pathetic slip of a brother tomorrow—or I guess, technically, today—and we’ll discuss Plan B.”

  “Why so soon?”

  “So soon! So soon! You worthless so-and-so’s couldn’t open a frozen slushie stand in hell. You have a wonder of the New World awaiting your grasp, and you want to wait! Waiting is for saps and losers. You will come over in the morning, the earlier the better, for your briefing. Then, you will put Plan B into effect with all possible dispatch. Otherwise, I will look elsewhere for men of action and you will get no share and no recognition from what will inevitably follow.”

  “Miss Price!”

  “Don’t you ‘Miss Price’ me. Remember, one of the greatest treasures of the New World lies at your feet. Don’t let it slip through your fingers!”

  21

  Drive-by

  Dr. Sproot pulled into her driveway shaking so hard she could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel. How she had managed to get home she had no idea. Her eyes were twitching so rapidly that it seemed as if she was watching a strobe light show.

  In fact, she was caught in a violent upheaval. The forces of good and evil were locked in combat for possession of her soul. When a soul possession battle happens, there’s a certain amount of discomfort and disorientation, the degree of which depends on how badly good and evil want the soul in question. In the case of Dr. Sproot, they wanted it in the worst way. It looked like she was having a seizure. Her head throbbed. Her pulse raced. Her stomach churned like a cement mixer ready to disgorge its contents. Her legs and feet suffered from such tremors that she could barely step down on the accelerator or brake.

  “Oh, poor me,” she moaned. “Poor, poor me.” Even speaking to herself, she couldn’t keep her voice from quaking.

  This was all the fault of those Fremonts. Dr. Sproot had just been out for a drive down Sumac Street, paying particular attention to the sloping side of the Fremont property. She wanted to see for herself if the rumors about the front yard were true.

  And were they ever! My God, what happened to the scabrous desert of cockleburs, dandelions, and barren earth? Here was . . . well . . . an earthly paradise!

  Of course, Dr. Sproot recognized everything they had planted. There was nothing there she couldn’t have nurtured herself to a certain degree of brilliance. But not to THAT degree of brilliance! She could not have devised as perfect a symmetry or combination of annuals and pe
rennials in a million years.

  Goodness, they were dabbling in hybrid teas! Though to call what they did “dabbling” would do a terrible injustice to the magnificent creations that shone along the top of the slope so iridescent in the afternoon sun.

  The skilled cultivator in Dr. Sproot couldn’t help but appreciate such a rare accomplishment. She herself had tried growing hybrid teas once in her younger days. That experiment had failed dismally.

  Dr. Sproot mostly poked along, her car barely moving, as she drank in the wonders of these new front yard gardens. Then, she’d speed up and slow down again. Back up, then drive forward. She’d swerve from one side of the street to the other, then do a U-turn to drive back across the length of the property.

  A loud honk signaled that she’d barely missed getting broadsided by a UPS truck.

  There, what was that? An orange-and-black blob shot past the front of the car, and skimmed the contours of the slope, then rose to perch in one of the lower branches of the big silver maple. From there, it dropped down to land on the little structure suspended on the shepherd’s crook pole a short way to the side of the hybrid teas. Ah, she thought, that must be a Baltimore oriole. Isn’t it lovely?

  The gardening ogre that had reemerged as Doc-tor Phyllis Sproot a month ago was still fully evident to anyone careless enough to cross paths with her. But alone, Dr. Sproot was a conflicted and miserable soul. As dominant as the dictatorial, scornful, and destructive Dr. Sproot persona was, it had never completely subdued the patient, appreciative, and at least marginally humble Phyllis, who could still be lost in admiration for a garden other than her own, even if it defied her own rigid floricultural formulas. Such a garden was a rare find indeed, but this was truly one of them. Dr. Sproot pulled over to the curb, stopped the car, and sighed.

  That nagging inner voice was back. It whispered that this was the apex of the gardener’s craft, and that her own efforts were no more than a shadow of what was happening here. But that was okay, it said; make your peace with it, Phyllis.