Apart at the Seams

by Marie Bostwick

  I coughed, buying time to come up with an answer that wouldn’t make me sound any crazier than I already did.

  “I hadn’t quite decided. I’m still trying to figure out what I’m doing,” I said, tilting my head toward the pile of books. “I’ve never gardened before.”

  His eyebrows moved toward each other, becoming a singular, curious line. “Are you moving up here full-time?”

  “No, no,” I assured him. “I’m just here for a few weeks. Or months. Not sure yet.”

  “Vacation?”

  Boy, this guy had a lot of questions. I thought New Englanders were supposed to be standoffish.

  “More like . . . a sabbatical. I decided it was time to take a break, try a change of scenery. You know how it is.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said again, picking up one of the books from the table. “What do you want to grow—flowers or vegetables?”

  “Both?”

  “Well, if you want flowers, start with day lilies. They’re practically foolproof. Coneflowers are good too. Stay away from roses,” he advised, tossing aside Rose Cultivation for Beginners. “And peonies. And begonias. Definitely not orchids,” he said, discarding three more titles. “Vegetables are easy as long as you keep them weeded and watered. But steer clear of the exotic stuff—asparagus, artichokes, that kind of thing. Other than that, you should be fine.”

  He extracted two books from the pile.

  “Read these,” he commanded. “The others will just confuse you.”

  I was about to ask him why he knew so much but then remembered that he owned a landscaping company. Plants were his business.

  “Thanks,” I said, meaning it. It was a relief to have my horticultural catalog winnowed down to two useful books. Maybe I would read them. In fact, I knew I would. Because whether I’d planned on it or not, I was going to have to put in a garden; the man was lending me his rototiller.

  “Well, I should get going,” he said. “Come outside for a second, and I’ll show you how to use the tiller. Or should I show your husband?”

  “He’s not here. Works in the city. Travels a lot. You know how it is.” I shrugged.

  Once again, two eyebrows became one. This time, however, I got the feeling that he did know exactly how it was.

  “Uh-huh. Well, if you need anything, just yell. Would you like me to bring in some more firewood? It’s kind of cold in here. You ought to turn up the heat.”

  “Oh,” I said, dismissing his offer with a wave of my hand. “The furnace is out. I need to call a repairman.”

  “Really?” he asked, his expression making it clear that he found this much more interesting than anything I’d said previously.

  “Let me take a look; might be something simple. Those furnace guys charge ninety bucks just to show up. Does this lead to the basement?”

  He disappeared through the door before I had a chance to respond. I followed him. What choice did I have? Dan Kelleher was a take-charge kind of guy.

  Rototilling, as it turns out, is extremely satisfying. I had no idea.

  It took three tries before I got the engine to turn over, but once I did, the red monster bucked and roared, chewing up the ground and leaving a trail of espresso-colored earth in its wake. Keeping the machine on a semistraight path required physical strength, but I was focused and determined, gratified by the sensation of actually accomplishing something besides smoking, drinking, cursing, and smashing dishes.

  I might not have planned to take up gardening. I’d have gone through with it only to keep Dan Kelleher from thinking I was a complete nut job, which he probably did anyway. But now that I was out here, I was really getting into it.

  Watching the swaths of green disappear under the powerful churning of the blades made me feel powerful too. When that dark brown earth was cleared of stones and weeds and roots, freed from inertia and the presumptuous grass that grew there just because it always had, the patch of land could become anything I chose to make it. It was a clean slate, an empty canvas.

  I could enclose it in white pickets and put in pathways of gray-white gravel or stepping stones and nested masses of moss that divided the space into identical and evenly placed beds, a tidy garden where flowers grew in orderly, color-coordinated rows, a sensible garden where no weed would dare to sprout. Or I could cut green branches from the saplings in the woods, then bend them and tie them and turn them into rustic trellises and archways covered with twisting green vines and flowers shaped like bells and trumpets. Or I could create a garden with no beds at all, no paths, no structure or reason, just one blue folding chair placed in the center so a person could rest and think, or rest and not think, as the sun shone down on a sea of brilliant wildflowers in blue, purple, orange, and pink, carelessly sown as I walked barefoot over the warm, soft earth, scattering seeds across the welcoming soil with wide and generous sweeps of my arm, leaving them to grow as they willed, leaving it to nature, knowing there are no ugly flowers.

  Or, if I wanted to, I could grow vegetables: green beans and zucchini and peppers, and cherry tomatoes so small they could be popped whole into the mouth and so delicious they would never make it into the house because I would eat them while I stood in the garden, picking them from the vines and crushing them against the roof of my mouth, releasing sun-warmed juice that tasted like summer on my tongue.

  I could grow lilies and pansies and carnations and irises. I could grow herbs or lavender. Or sweet-scented roses. Who cared what Dan Kelleher said about it being beyond me? He didn’t know me. If I wanted to grow roses, then I would grow roses. Or peonies. Or anything else that struck my fancy. Because I could.

  Because I could.

  I stopped in my tracks. The tiller, blades still churning, bucked and urged me forward, but I stood where I was, struck by the enormity of that thought.

  For the first time in my life, I was not responsible to or for anyone but myself. My parents were dead. My children were grown. My husband didn’t love me anymore.

  For different reasons and at different times of my life, the truth of those statements had brought me to tears and despair, made me feel empty and alone. But there was another way to look at it.

  Empty. Alone. I’ve always associated those words with anguish, confusion, and, in some sense, failure. But if emptiness is a void, isn’t it also the state that precedes fullness? Is it not a moment of supreme anticipation, the season of preparation when there are no rocks or roots or weeds or impediments before you, only bare earth and possibilities? And if being alone forces you to stand apart, doesn’t it also separate you from the responsibility of bowing to the opinions and expectations of others?

  For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to please or answer to anyone but myself. I was empty. I was alone. I didn’t belong to anyone.

  What a relief.

  A relief? Had I actually said that? Even in my own mind, had I actually allowed myself to think that the potential ending of my marriage was cause for relief?

  But at that moment, it was true. Why try to pretend otherwise?

  I pushed the tiller forward again, erasing another strip of green under the blades, trying to sort things out, to sieve out the guilt and see my feelings as they were instead of how I thought they were supposed to be.

  For as long as I could remember, I’d had to worry about pleasing my parents, trying to live up to the expectations and role they had assigned me from birth. Then about being my children’s mother, making sure they ate properly, brushed their teeth, learned to say “please” and “thank you,” knew that I loved them, believed in them, was always ready to go to bat for them. And then being Brian’s wife, loving him, supporting him, trying to read his mood, to cheer him on, to fight fair, making allowances for him, excuses for him, making myself attractive for him, making a home for all of us, making more money so the whole burden of bills wouldn’t fall on his shoulders, working at home, working at work, working at everything, trying to be the woman who “has it all” and, in the end, having nothing.
<
br />   For the previous seven days, that knowledge had driven me to despair. But now I realized that having nothing meant that I, too, was a blank slate. I was free to be or do anything I chose.

  So what did I choose? If I had only myself to please, what would please me? How did I want to spend my time, effort, thoughts, and heart? Where should I—

  A tremendous clank-bang, a sound like a hammer striking a broken brass bell, jarred me from my thoughts. The red monster bucked and jerked. I lost my grip on the handlebars and jumped back, frightened. It bucked again and tipped onto its side with the motor still running and the blades churning, throwing clods of dirt into the air.

  I switched off the engine as quickly as I could and knelt down to inspect the damage. I’d hit a rock, a big one. But there were no dents that I could see. Thank heaven! I really wasn’t in the mood to explain a broken rototiller to Dan Kelleher.

  He already thought I was crazy. He clearly hadn’t bought my story about Brian not coming with me because he was traveling or about me being on sabbatical. Well, big deal. I wasn’t trying to impress Dan Kelleher. I wasn’t trying to impress anybody.

  Besides that, I decided, I wasn’t lying. I was on sabbatical. From here on out, if anybody asked me what I was doing in New Bern, I would say I was taking a sabbatical until the end of the summer. My seniors had all gotten their acceptance letters, so I could afford to take some time off. I needed a break—from everything.

  Come fall, I could write that fifty-thousand-dollar check to Libby Burrell and start the ball rolling on the divorce. But right now and for the rest of the summer, I would take a step back, focus on myself, on living and enjoying my life. It occurred to me that Brian might file divorce papers before the end of summer. Well, if he did, then he did. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. In the meantime, I was on sabbatical.

  Of course, most sabbaticals involve some sort of project, lists of goals and plans of action. Normally that sort of thing would be right up my alley, but not now. Now I wanted something new, and maybe the new thing I needed was not to have a plan.

  Unless . . . Unless “new” is the plan.

  That was it! I would spend my sabbatical trying new things—things I’d always wanted to try but had never had time for. Something new every day. Or maybe every couple of days? Or even once a week? After all, there were apartment buildings in Manhattan with larger populations than the village of New Bern. How many new things could there be to do in a town this size?

  But I had already tried one new thing: rototilling. My edges weren’t as straight as they could have been, but I hadn’t cut off any toes or broken the machine. Not bad for a first try.

  I flopped on my behind in the dirt to catch my breath, still feeling the vibration of the big motor running through my hands and forearms, and laughed out loud.

  The patch of tilled soil that stretched out before me was about forty feet long and twenty-five feet wide, a footprint almost as big as our apartment in the city! Holy crap!

  I’d been so focused on keeping the machine running in a straight line and so lost in my thoughts that I’d tilled under at least a third of the side yard. Thank heaven for that rock in my path. If it hadn’t stopped me, I probably wouldn’t have any yard left.

  But I was going to have a garden all right. A big one.

  9

  Ivy

  “But why can’t he?” Bobby whined, stretching out the “why” and thumping the back of my seat with his shoe.

  “I told you it’s because he won’t be here until the end of next month. Even when he does get here, you’ll meet with him in Mrs. Fenton’s office at first. It will take a while before the two of you can go off and do things on your own.”

  “But why not? I don’t—”

  “Bobby! Quit kicking the seat!” I shouted.

  The kicking stopped, but when I looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror, I saw his eyes filled with tears. I shouldn’t have yelled, but I’d had about all I could take.

  How could I explain to my barely seven-year-old son that if I had my way, Hodge would never see him without supervision? Bobby didn’t understand why I was so on edge. It must be so confusing for him. It was confusing for me too.

  “I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t mean to yell. Just please don’t kick the back of my seat anymore, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said glumly. “But I wish he was coming home now. I want him to be my partner in the bowling tournament. The tournament is only a couple of months away. We have to start practicing now!”

  “I can be your partner if you want.”

  “It’s Boys’ Brigade! Only boys are allowed!”

  I turned the car into the Kellehers’ driveway. “Okay, okay! I was just trying to help,” I said, and then muttered under my breath, “I am so ready for a night without kids.”

  I pulled up under a tree near the front of the house and put the car in park. Normally, Drew hears my car in the driveway and comes out of the house on his own. A minute passed with no sign of him. I was just about to get out of the car and go knock on the door when Drew’s father, Dan, came outside.

  “Drew’s running a little bit late,” he said, leaning down and looking through the driver’s side window. “But he should be back in a minute. Want to come inside and wait?”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “How long do you think he’ll be?”

  “Not long. I loaned my rototiller to the neighbor and he drove the truck over there to pick it up. Should be back any second. You sure you don’t want to come in?”

  I shook my head. “That’s all right. We’re fine out here.”

  Dan seems like a nice enough guy, nice looking too. Good hair, a little long, but I like that. I say hello if I see him around town, and I give him a wave whenever I pick Drew up for babysitting, but we’d never had a real conversation. I’d feel awkward sitting in his living room, trying to think of things to say while I waited for Drew to show up. I’m lousy at small talk.

  Having refused his invitation twice, I figured Dan would go back in the house. Instead, he stayed where he was, leaning down to my window but leaving one hand resting on the roof of the car, smiling at us. He had big arms. Not beefy, not like one of those guys who spent all their spare time working out, but he was muscular, wide at the shoulders, like somebody who spent his time working outside, doing physical labor, which was exactly what he did. He was one of the best landscapers in the county. Even if I hadn’t known that already, I might have guessed it by looking at his yard. It was beautiful; the grass was green and lush. And even now when the leaves on the trees were slow to emerge and the flowers were only just beginning to bud, his planters looked beautiful, as if he’d worked out a plan so they would look good at any time of year, summer or winter. Maybe he had.

  Anyway, it was awkward to have him standing there by my car, smiling through the open window but saying nothing. I wanted to tell him that he didn’t have to entertain us and could go back inside, but I figured that might sound rude, so I just sat there trying to think of something I could say. He beat me to it.

  “You must be Bobby,” he said after a moment and raised his hand in greeting. “I’m Dan. Nice to meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby said morosely, keeping his eyes on a red Matchbox car he was playing with, moving it back and forth across the seat without looking up.

  “Bobby!” I hissed, turning around to glare at him.

  “Nice to meet you too,” he mumbled, barely glancing at Dan.

  I gave him “the look” and turned back toward the front.

  “Sorry. We’re having kind of a rough week. So . . . ,” I said, stretching out the word, searching for something to say. “You loaned your rototiller to a neighbor?”

  What a stupid thing to say. Hadn’t he just said that? I suck at small talk.

  “Uh-huh. To Gayla Oliver.”

  “Oh? The people who own the cottage? You mean they actually showed up?”

  “Not them. J
ust the wife, Gayla.” He shook his head and made a puffing sound with his lips.

  “I think she might be kind of a loon. Showed up here all on her own about a week and a half ago. Don’t know where the husband is. Everything was fine at first. I probably wouldn’t have known she was here if Drew hadn’t told me about it. But a few days ago, at about three in the morning, I woke up and heard all this noise coming from over there, cursing and the sound of breaking dishes. At first, I thought maybe the husband had shown up and they were having a fight, but I only heard a woman’s voice. After about ten minutes, it stopped.”

  “Weird.”

  “Yeah, right?”

  He leaned closer, and I caught a whiff of verbena. Aftershave? Or maybe just soap. Whatever it was, it smelled good.

  “It happened again the next night,” he said. “Twice: once just after midnight and again around four. And the next night too. Every time it happened, it took me at least half an hour to fall back asleep.”

  “Did you ever find out what was going on?”

  “Uh-huh. The night before last, I woke up around three-thirty. It was just like before, the sound of a woman cussing and dishes breaking, coming from that side of the property,” he said, tipping his head toward a line of trees on the northern edge of the lot. “I finally decided that enough was enough, so I got dressed and went over there. It was pouring rain, but there she was, wearing a coat over her pajamas, cussing like a sailor and throwing plates at a rock wall. Crazy.”

  “In the rain? In her pajamas? Really?”

  When Dan first called Gayla Oliver a loon, I felt a little uncomfortable. I don’t like gossip to begin with, and this seemed kind of a harsh thing to say about somebody you’d barely met, but it seemed like he had a point. And really, given all that had been going on next door, how could you not want to tell somebody about it?