Front Yard

by Norman Draper

  28

  Plague

  “I brought along a cassette recorder,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “I hope you don’t mind my recording your plant talking. I’ll need an auditory record of this to establish it as a field of credible study. Once we do that, we can do some kind of electrical hookup to some of your most voluble flowers to see if there’s any sort of energy surge. That way, we can find out how they’re reacting to your verbal cues.”

  “Verbal cues?”

  “Verbal cues. You know, like telling them you’re going to water or fertilize them. Praising them for their appearance and growth. Scolding them for not putting out enough blooms. Threatening to lop them off mid-stem. That sort of thing.”

  Shirelle looked away, trying desperately to avoid eye contact with Nan.

  “I would never threaten my plants in such a manner,” Nan said. “Well, just once with the Dusty Miller, but that’s all forgiven. And speaking of forgiveness, my flowers would never forgive me if I threatened to cut them off. It’s one thing to deadhead spent blooms, or to make cuttings. Flowers know when their blooms are done and should be removed to promote healthy growth. They’re also willing to make a sacrifice in the name of beauty. But malevolent cutting, just to destroy, is an entirely different matter.”

  Dr. Brockheimer smiled, but on her, a smile looked more like a poorly executed sneer. The penitent and pitiful version of Dr. Brockheimer from FremontFest had apparently given way to her arrogant and authoritative doppelgänger.

  “No need to lecture me, Mrs. Fremont. I’m the holder of three advanced degrees in my field. I understand everything you’ve said and so much more, I can assure you.”

  Nan grimaced and looked over at Shirelle, who blushed.

  “Say,” said Nan. “Did you know your soon-to-be-ex-husband was here just minutes ago?” She figured this would be just the time to introduce what she hoped would be an unpleasant topic for Dr. Brockheimer.

  “Eh?” said Dr. Brockheimer, registering neither shock nor an elevated level of curiosity. “He was? Whatever could that be for? Well, who cares, at least as long as he’s not horning in on my territory. And I doubt that. Ferd can’t tell a rose from a ponderosa pine. Ha-ha! I haven’t even spoken to the bastard in months. Now, Shirelle, if you’ll be so good . . .”

  “Dr. Brockheimer wants to inspect the new front yard,” Shirelle said shyly.

  “Well, what Dr. Brockheimer wants, Dr. Brockheimer gets, I guess,” said Nan, standing up to lead the way around the north end of the house. “C’mon.”

  “I love your Russian sage,” said Dr. Brockheimer as she gazed into the catmint.

  “That’s not Russian sage,” said Nan. “That’s Walker’s Low catmint.”

  “I could swear that’s Russian sage. In fact, I’m sure of it. I’ve been around flowers all my life, Mrs. Fremont. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Nan was speechless. She didn’t want to keep going around in circles with someone whose professional ego would never allow her to admit to an error. But, my gosh, couldn’t she tell the difference between Russian sage and Walker’s Low catmint?

  “Mrs. Fremont is right—it’s Walker’s Low catmint.”

  Dr. Brockheimer turned, stunned, to look at Shirelle.

  “How dare you contradict me!” Dr. Brockheimer croaked. “I am your mentor and your teacher. I was immersing myself in plants when you were running around in soiled diapers chasing chickens. And you dare to tell me what my business is?”

  “I do. This is Walker’s Low catmint. I should know. I studied it specifically and included it in my plans for the front yard gardens. I picked it out at Burdick’s personally. The little identification tags stuck in the soil next to each seedling said Walker’s Low catmint. Look at any of your photographs of Walker’s Low catmint and you will find them to be identical in appearance to these specimens here. Look up Russian sage, and you will find that while they look similar, they are certainly not identical. You are wrong, Dr. Brockheimer.”

  Dr. Brockheimer blinked rapidly, then turned to address Nan as if Shirelle didn’t exist.

  “Well, okay, let’s get going.”

  “What is it you want to learn? What do you want me to do?”

  “Start talking. Get down really close, and I’ll have this microphone positioned right next to your mouth and the particular flower you’re talking to. How about the hybrid teas up there on top? Do you talk to them?”

  “Talk is not really the word.”

  “What is it then?”

  “Oh, communicate, I guess. I don’t know how to put it. Sometimes, yes, I actually do talk to them and then listen. But that’s more for my benefit, sort of like talking to your pet, though please don’t let them ever hear me calling them my pets. But you’re not going to hear actual words coming out of them. It’s all part of the sensation. And, yes, they all do have different characteristics.”

  “I want to learn how to do it.”

  “I’m not sure it’s something you really learn. You have to have sort of a natural knack for it. At some point, you just find yourself doing it. What they’re feeling and thinking fills you up, sort of like a jolt of energy going in one direction or another. Or lots of jolts of energy going in lots of different directions that you have to sort out.”

  “I need to learn the language of plants,” Dr. Brockheimer said. “I can learn anything I put my mind to. Just show me how.”

  “I doubt that you will ever be able to do this, Dr. Brockheimer. Why waste our time here?” Shirelle looked stricken.

  “Oh,” she moaned. “Mrs. Fremont.” She gazed at Nan with sad, pleading eyes.

  “Can we just go up to the hybrid teas and try?” pleaded Dr. Brockheimer, whose tone suddenly took on the characteristic of the supplicant, losing its hard-edged arrogance. “Look, Mrs. Fremont, I’ll be frank with you. I’ve not been doing very well lately as a professor of floriculture. Nothing published in two years. I hate teaching undergraduates. I’m sure Shirelle can attest to that.” Shirelle forced a wan smile. “And I’ve fallen behind most of my colleagues on the track to becoming a full professor. When Shirelle told me about your gardens and their unworldly opulence, I didn’t believe her at first. But I wanted to see for myself. Now that I’ve seen, I believe. There’s something amazing going on here. Something that no years of stored knowledge or chemical analysis can explain. I want to tap into that. Not just for myself, though that is, I’ll admit, a big part of it. But for others, too. Maybe others can capture lightning in a bottle and make the world so much more beautiful. Please help me tap into that.”

  Aha, thought Nan, we’re back to the helpless and humble Dr. Brockheimer. And how long will that last? Never had she seen someone go through such a character transformation so quickly and convincingly. Except maybe for the Mikkelsons, those timid souls who a couple glasses of Sagelands two years ago at this very spot had turned into fire-breathing louts.

  Who knows? thought Nan. Maybe it’s the flowers.

  “Well, I suppose we could give it a try,” she said. “George, after all, learned, though he’s still kind of stuck at the beginner’s level. If George figured it out, maybe even you can. Now, what exactly is it you want me to do?”

  “Can we do it with the tape recorder, please, if for nothing else, to prove that the ordinary ways of collecting data won’t really work here?”

  “Okay, who knows—maybe they’ll surprise me. Try to leave your holier-than-thou academic attitude behind, please, Dr. Brockheimer. They won’t respond to that. If anything, they’ll clam up just to spite you. Understand that this is the longest of long shots. Also, the hybrids are haughty and full of themselves and they know it. But, maybe they’ll respond to a like-minded creature.”

  Nan winked, and Dr. Brockheimer couldn’t help but smile in a self-effacing way she wasn’t accustomed to.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said.

  Soon, Nan was lying prone on the grass bordering the hybrid tea rose bed, her mouth within a sneeze of the sta
lk of their most resplendent Full Sail hybrid. She fought off the urge to laugh, which she realized might be somewhat startling and off-putting as far as the hybrids were concerned. Dr. Brockheimer, also lying on the grass, thrust the microphone into the few inches separating Nan’s lips from the rose.

  “Tape’s running,” she whispered.

  “You really don’t have to whisper,” Nan said. “Okay, this is kind of awkward, doing it sort of on demand here. It won’t seem as natural, but here goes.

  “Hello, my beautiful Full Sail rose. How lovely you look today. You have made me so proud. Oh, that fragrance. You fill up my senses. Sun’s out nice and hot. You like that, don’t you? More of that tomorrow, they say. We’ll give you more water tomorrow. And special rose fertilizer’s coming on Friday . . . uh . . . right, Shirelle?” Nan twisted her head to the left to look up at Shirelle, who nodded. “Your friend Shirelle says yes, yummy fertilizer to make you even more beautiful. Okay, that’s it.”

  “Now, we just wait?” asked Dr. Brockheimer.

  “I don’t know; I’ve never done this before.”

  Dr. Brockheimer snorted. One minute passed. Then, two. Three. The rose’s leaves rustled.

  “A message?” wondered Dr. Brockheimer.

  “The wind,” said Nan. Two more minutes passed in absolute silence. Not one car rumbled by on Sumac Street. Not one jogger, noisily leashed dogs leading the way, tromped down the sidewalk. Shirelle barely moved. Suddenly:

  “Beat it, lady, you’re interrupting my sunbathing!”

  Nan jerked away from the hybrid tea and Dr. Brockheimer dropped her microphone.

  “Jesus!” cried Shirelle. “Ha-ha. Ha-ha.”

  Nan looked up to see George leaning over them, laughing. He gave her a hand to help her up, then offered one to Dr. Brockheimer, who declined.

  “Damn it, George,” Nan cried. “We had a scientific inquiry going on, and you go and spoil it, you goof!”

  Dr. Brockheimer self-consciously brushed some blades of mown grass off her shirt and slacks.

  “Well, at least you gave us a little chuckle, Mr. Fremont,” she said icily. “I’m not really sure the exercise was going to give us much in the way of quantifiable information.”

  “Heck, I could have told you that,” said George, who from the looks of things, had refreshed his wineglass a couple of times. “It has to come from the heart, Dr. Brockheimer, and it has to be genuine. You think, what, the delphinium over there is going to sing out, ‘Hey, Dr. Brockheimer, give me a drink; I’m parched’? Heavens no. It’s not actual human conversation. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

  “George, dear, how about a pitcher of ice-cold water for the three of us? Dr. Brockheimer and I have some things to discuss.”

  “Okay,” said George. “But here’s something to think about: I’m picking up bad vibes from some of the guys. Started about fifteen minutes ago, and it’s powerful.”

  “I think that’s the merlot, George,” said Nan. Shirelle and Dr. Brockheimer tittered nervously. “Now, water, please! And for you, too.”

  George disappeared behind the north end of the house, mumbling something about nervous Nelly plants.

  “Okay,” said Nan. “Where were we before being so rudely interrupted? You know, Dr. Brockheimer, I was actually starting to feel something as I was lying there. Probably not anything you could pick up with your cassette recorder or some electric impulse sensors. But something. Hmmm.”

  “Mrs. Fremont!” said Shirelle. “Mrs. Fremont! I’m feeling something, too. Wow!”

  “What is it?” said Dr. Brockheimer, fumbling with her recorder and trying to jot down notes in her steno pad at the same time. “What is it, Shirelle? Can you hear anything?”

  “She doesn’t really hear anything, Dr. Brockheimer,” said Nan. “She feels it. I’m feeling the same thing right now. Wow! It just started.”

  “What is it? What is it you’re feeling?” Dr. Brockheimer dropped her pen and steno pad and stuck her microphone in Nan’s face.

  “Please, Dr. Brockheimer,” said Nan, gently guiding Dr. Brockheimer’s microphone hand away from her. “For lack of a better definition, it’s what I guess you would call a dissonance in the life force. Something is turning the smooth sort of hum vibration of growing and flourishing into a sort of bumpy, staticky sound track, though there isn’t any sound in the conventional sense. It’s like you suddenly pushed the wrong button on your remote and got something weird on your TV screen. But in this case you can’t actually hear anything. I really don’t know how to describe it, because it’s not like anything else you’ll ever experience.”

  “That’s just what it’s like, Mrs. Fremont,” said Shirelle.

  Nan smiled. “You should be very happy that you feel it, too, Shirelle. You are blessed.”

  Dr. Brockheimer gazed around disconsolately.

  “Why can’t I feel it?” she said. “I want to feel it, too.”

  “I’m not sure you want to feel what I’m feeling now, Dr. Brockheimer,” said Nan, ominously. Hundreds of little energy impulses were shooting through her like blinking lights of varying duration and intensity.

  “What?” said Dr. Brockheimer. “What!”

  “I don’t know what. Just something bad. But there’s nothing in the forecast that even hints of violent weather. And look at the sky. Just a few puffy fair-weather cumulus clouds. A little purpling at their bases, but that means nothing.”

  “Oooh, gross!” cried Shirelle. Nan and Dr. Brockheimer turned to look at her. “There’s a slug on one of the delphiniums, Mrs. Fremont. Ecccch! A slimy slug.”

  Nan rushed over to inspect the offending pest, a tiny, concentrated blob of gray mucus distinctly visible on one of the leaves.

  “My gosh,” she said, flicking it off. “I’ve never seen a slug in these gardens. Never. And look here at the leaf. It’s got holes where the slug’s been chowing down. I hope and pray this isn’t the sign of an infestation.”

  As Nan turned, she noticed another slug on a neighboring delphinium. Then, another. She counted six on yet a fourth. Shirelle grabbed her by the arm.

  “Mrs. Fremont, we have to act now,” she said. “Beer. Do you have beer?”

  “No, Shirelle, we’re wine and gin drinkers; you know that. And I’m not sure this is the time—”

  “That’s okay; I have some beer at home. I’m going to go get it. You’ll need to get all the shallow containers you can find. We need to bury them in the ground so they’re flush with the surface. Saucers for your clay flower pots should work. But no drainage holes. Then, we’ll fill ’em with beer. It’s the yeast that does the trick. They climb into the beer to get at the yeast scent and drown. I’m outta here. Be back in a jiff. Oh, Dr. Brockheimer, grab a shovel from out of the shed. We’ll need some holes to put the beer basins in. Just a couple of inches, and flattened bottoms.”

  “Oh. Okay, Shirelle.”

  “That way, Dr. B,” Nan said, pointing to the shed, just visible behind the northwest corner of the house. “Pretty sure it’s unlocked. I’m headed to the garage for clay saucers.”

  Suddenly, there was Mary, just arrived home from work and standing next to her.

  “Hey, Mom, what’s everyone running around for? And what’s with Shirelle? She just peeled out of the driveway as I was pulling in. Almost hit me.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there, girl,” Nan barked. “We’ve got a serious infestation problem here. Slugs.” Nan gave Mary her instructions and sent her running off to the backyard to find George.

  Dr. Brockheimer rummaged around in the shed for a few minutes before finding the shovels, then spent a few more minutes weighing whether to take the triangular-pointed spade, the rounded transplanting shovel, or the square-edged shovel. When she returned with the square-edged shovel, she stopped and stared, stunned, at what lay before her eyes. The front yard gardens had taken on the appearance of one big, crawling organism, and emitted a low sort of crackling noise. It was the sound of tens of thousands of insects eating a
nd digesting stems, leaves, buds, and blooms.

  “Ah!” she cried, dropping the shovel.

  Nan was already laying out her clay saucers. George and Mary grabbed quick handfuls and ran past Dr. Brockheimer and toward the backyard, without saying a word. Announced by a couple of short beeps, Shirelle pulled into the driveway, jumped out of the car, and popped open the trunk.

  “That was quick!” shouted Nan.

  “Didn’t go home,” Shirelle shouted back as she climbed the slope lugging two cases of Tippy Toes microbrew. “Went straight to the liquor store. Got any bug juice?”

  “Just the ant stuff and yellow jacket spray. Will that work?”

  “Probably not.”

  “I can run to the hardware store.”

  “That’ll take too long the way things are going. Hmmm . . . Okay, there’s one thing that might work. Mrs. Fremont, do you have some liquid dishwashing detergent?”

  “Of course. At least I think so. We eat on paper plates a lot.”

  “Do you have one of those Miracle-Gro thingeys you attach to your garden hose?”

  “Yes. Definitely . . . Ah, I think I know what you’re getting at.”

  “Put about two cupfuls of detergent in it, attach it to the hose, and we’ll wash everything down.”

  “And that’ll work?”

  “There’s a chance. That’s all I can promise. I’m hoping the sun’s low enough in the sky. Otherwise, everything we wash is gonna get cooked. That’s because the detergent magnifies the rays . . . Good Lord!”

  They both looked at the hybrid teas, which were crawling with so many insects they looked like little twitching scarecrow beings. They walked up for a closer look.

  “My God!” moaned Nan. “The aphids are here, too. Japanese beetles. What kind of plague is this?”

  “No time for talk,” said Shirelle. “Let’s get a move on.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Nan said, mimicking a salute.

  “Hey, over there! Doc!” Shirelle yelled at Dr. Brockheimer, who was standing transfixed, in awe of the devastation that was being unleased on the Fremonts’ gardens. “Get crackin’. Dig holes where the saucers are laid out, and make sure they’re in, flush with the ground. C’mon, now.” Shirelle reached down to tear open the case of Tippy Toes, and pulled out a can.