by Jan Burke
The relief of it had been great. Later she called her old friend, Arnie, who was a landscape contractor. Arnie, who had benefitted more than once from Leila’s ability to chose investments, was happy to make arrangements to have the broken loveseat hauled off. The day after it was gone, Leila went back to work in the garden.
On this warm June day, she had dug up about two feet of soil in the area of the corner, preparing to plant a last trio of rosebushes, when the shovel had rung out. She knelt down on all fours, picking up a small hand spade, and tried to clear away the soil that covered the metal object that was thwarting her progress. Thinking of Sam and Marietta, she dug with furious movements, showering dirt everywhere, some of it landing in her hair and on her clothes. Before long, the spade struck the object as well. She scraped aside enough of the soil to reveal a dark, rusty piece of metal. Curious, she continued to dig at the soil surrounding it. It was flat and smooth. She reached a curving edge and burrowed with her hands to grasp the edge of the object. She tugged and pulled, and suddenly it came free, causing her to fall back on her rump. Dirt flew everywhere, and she laughed as she looked at the heavy object on her lap. A frying pan.
“Why would anyone bury a cast-iron skillet upside down in the corner of a garden?” she wondered aloud. It was heavy and large, but there were no special markings on it. She set it on the brick walkway which curved past the area she was working on. She brushed herself off and looked into the hole from which she had pulled the skillet. A shiny object caught her eye, and once again she used the hand spade to clear the soil away. She soon had freed enough of the soil to see that it was the lid of a jar, and could tell that the jar was still attached.
Feeling a certain mild excitement, as if she were a backyard archeologist, she carefully worked around the jar, finally freeing it. She brushed it off with a gloved hand and held it up. A Mason jar, filled with old-fashioned buttons. The glass of the jar was thick, and she wondered how old it was. She set the jar next to the skillet, trying to make sense of them, and of their burial.
Unable to succeed in solving that puzzle, she stood up and went back to work with the shovel. But she had not been digging very long, when once again the shovel struck an object. She knelt again and went to work with the hand spade. This time, she found a small, crude wooden box, about the size of a shoe box. The blow from the shovel had splintered the lid, and inside the box was a small canvas bag filled with old marbles. She continued to use the hand spade.
An hour later, she had an odd collection on the walkway: to the skillet, the button jar, and the marbles, she had added an old pocket watch, a wedding band wrapped in a linen handkerchief, a fragment of stained glass. The handkerchief bore pretty embroidery, and the initials “CG”; the inside of the ring was inscribed, “Chloe and Jonathan, 2-22-41.” There was no inscription on the watch, but the crystal was cracked and the hands stopped at 6:10. Again she wondered why this particular group of objects had been buried here. A child might bury marbles, maybe even buttons, but a skillet? A wedding ring or a pocket watch? Why hide such objects? It was unsettling.
Leila continued to dig, and the next discovery brought her up short. The toe of a rubber boot. She was afraid to touch it, afraid the boot would still be attached to the owner. She stared at it, wondered if she should call the police, then smiled to herself over this unexpected nervousness. Still, when she reached down to move the soil away from it, her hand trembled. The toe of the boot felt as if it had something in it.
Timidly, she used the small spade, afraid to reach down into the soil with her hands. But as she made her way through the layer surrounding it, she saw no bones or rotting flesh. She pulled it free and held it upside down, spilling most of its contents on the walk. The boot held a woman’s black leather shoe, and nothing more but soil. She pulled the shoe out. Further digging led to no new revelations.
Leila gathered the collection of objects and took them back to the house, where she cleaned them off as best she could. She poured a glass of red wine and sipped it thoughtfully while she took a long, hot bubble bath in her claw-foot bathtub. She climbed out when the water began to chill, and made her decision.
* * *
“I appreciate your coming by on such short notice,” Leila said to her guest, as they reached the back patio. Alice Grayson smiled as she looked across the backyard, then back at the young woman who had invited her here. “You’ve done wonders with it.”
“Thank you.”
“As for the notice, I am no different than most old ladies; I have more time than opportunities. And I must admit your invitation intrigued me. Buried treasure in the backyard of the house you bought from me?”
“Have a seat, please,” Leila said, gesturing to a rattan patio chair that was next to a low table. The table, covered with a lumpy cloth, held what Alice Grayson assumed was the “treasure.”
Leila took a seat on the other side of the table and poured a glass of wine for each of them. “How long ago did you live here, Mrs. Grayson?”
“Alice. No need for formality. And it’s Miss Grayson. I never married. And I never lived here.”
She laughed at Leila’s look of surprise.
“This house belonged to my uncle, and then to my brother. I inherited it from him.”
“Jonathan?”
It was Alice Grayson’s turn to look surprised. “How on earth did you learn his name?”
“I believe I found his wedding ring, along with a rather strange assortment of other objects.” Leila lifted the cover.
“Good Lord,” Alice said, and her blue eyes grew watery.
Leila watched her in silence, amazed at how discomposed the older woman seemed. She had met Alice Grayson only once before, when the escrow had closed, but had taken an immediate liking to her. Alice had told her that she was in her seventies, but Leila thought she seemed more lively and energetic than Leila did at thirty. Alice seemed to have liked her too, giving her a phone number to call should she have any questions about the house. Leila knew that she couldn’t have expected the questions which actually did arise.
“I’ll be happy to give all of these things to you,” Leila said. “They seem to mean something to you. But please, can you tell me why this particular set of objects was buried here?”
Alice dabbed at her eyes. “Forgive me. I’m sorry to be so emotional. After all these years, you wouldn’t think that I could react so strongly. Yes, certainly.” She sighed. “Where to begin?”
She reached over and picked up the gold band. “This was Jonathan’s wedding ring; his wedding ring from his first marriage, to Chloe Manning. Chloe was a lovely young girl. They were both young; she was nineteen years old, he was about twenty-one, I believe. It was just before the war.”
“In February of 1941? That’s the date on the ring.”
“Yes. That April, our uncle died after a long illness and left this house and his store to Jonathan, who had worked for him. Jonathan and Chloe were very much in love. She was pretty, and full of life and laughter, and she spoiled him rotten. She was an excellent seamstress.
“He thought her the perfect wife in all but one regard. She was a terrible cook. But Jonathan didn’t want to hurt her feelings so he always ate the meals she made for him with a smile. I lived just down the street then, and he’d come over to visit me after dinner, and groan and down bottles of antacid. She caught on, and one day gave him a large, heavy box with a big bow on it. There was a big, cast-iron skillet in it. She laughed and told him she would help him run the store if he would help her cook.”
“Do you think this is that same skillet? Why would he bury it?”
“I would be surprised to learn it was not that skillet. As for why, well, perhaps it is best if I continue to tell you their story.
“In December of 1941, they had a little boy, William, named after my uncle. He was born two days before Pearl Harbor. Jonathan was drafted. They were very brave a
bout it, as were most people then. Chloe and I ran the store, and Little Billy kept us too busy to feel sorry for ourselves.”
She paused and took a sip of wine.
“She was staying with me then; she had rented her place out to a group of women who worked at a war plant. One rainy night, after we closed up the store, Chloe told me she was going to stop by our little church on the way home. It was the winter of 1944. Jonathan had been wounded and was being sent back home. Chloe had been worried about Jonathan; said she hadn’t been able to sleep much, and wanted to pray for his safe return. Billy cried when she tried to get him to leave with me when we reached the steps of the church, so she took him with her. I still remember them standing under their umbrella on the steps, giving me a little wave.”
She stopped again, her eyes filling with tears.
“Please, I didn’t know this would be so painful for you,” Leila said. “Perhaps you’d rather tell me another time.”
“No, no, I’ll be all right. All of this happened almost fifty years ago. You’d think I’d be able to talk about it.”
“Time might heal our wounds, but that doesn’t mean we forget how much they hurt in the first place.”
Alice smiled. “Something tells me you know something about being wounded, Leila. Well, you may be right. Still, I owe you an explanation for my brother’s odd behavior.
“So, on that night, I went home alone in the rain. It had been raining hard for a couple of days. I waited, but they didn’t come back. Finally, I put on my raingear and walked back to the church. There were firemen and emergency vehicles blocking the street. The roof on the church had collapsed. It had been a flat roof. The scuppers on the drains from the roof had been plugged by leaves, and the water built up on it until it just gave way. Chloe and Billy were killed.”
“I’m sorry.”
Alice shook her head. “I identified their bodies. They took them away. I sat there, next to the place they had been killed, unable to move, getting drenched by rain. I kept wondering how I could possibly tell Jonathan about what had happened. A policeman tried to get me to go home. I saw one of Chloe’s boots; I guess it had come off of her when they pulled her body out. I picked it up, and a piece of stained glass that lay next to it. Don’t ask me why. I didn’t know then, and I don’t know now. The policeman walked me home. On the porch step, he handed me Jonathan’s pocket watch and little bag of marbles. Billy had been carrying them.”
After a moment, Leila said, “And Jonathan? What became of him?”
“He was devastated, of course. I worried for a while that I would lose him, too. He wasn’t quite recovered when he returned, and with Chloe and Billy gone, he just didn’t seem to have the will to live. He pulled through, though. The war workers who lived here were laid off and moved on, and he moved back into the house. He went back to the store and went on with his life. He began to talk to me more about Chloe and his son, seemed able to cherish their memory instead of being beaten down by it.”
“You said Chloe was his first wife. Did he marry again?”
“Yes. Not right away, mind you. About fifteen years later, he met another woman. Monica.”
She said the name with obvious distaste.
“You didn’t like her.”
“Not in the least. She was an Amazon of a woman, and bossy to boot. But Jonathan was lonely, and had been for years. And I think she appealed to him on some—hmm, basic level, we’ll say. He was turning forty, and she made him feel, well, virile.
“Just before Jonathan and Monica were married, Jonathan told me that he was going to hide all of his reminders of Chloe and Billy from his new wife. He said Monica was insanely jealous of their memory, which he couldn’t understand.”
“Can you?”
“Of course. Monica could see for herself that Jonathan’s heart still belonged to his first wife. How could she compete with a memory?”
“But Jonathan was aware of her jealousy?”
“Yes, even Jonathan could see that. He told me she had destroyed his favorite photo of Chloe. He decided he wanted to keep his reminders where Monica couldn’t harm them. Now, thirty years later, you’ve found the place where he hid them. Where were they?”
“Beneath the loveseat.”
Alice looked back to the corner of the garden where the loveseat had been. “I should have guessed. You’ve had the pieces taken away?”
“Yes, I’m sorry if it was special to you in some way.”
“No, not to me. But it was to Jonathan. He used to sit there with Chloe. An extravagance for newlyweds, but the house had come to him furnished by my uncle, so that loveseat helped them to make the place their own. In much the way you have, with this garden. Jonathan would have loved this garden.”
“How was the loveseat broken?”
Alice laughed. “That was the time Monica went too far. They weren’t married for more than a year or two when they started having problems. She’d throw tantrums, and he just withdrew more and more from her. He’d come out to the garden.
“One day, Jonathan was sitting on the loveseat, doubtless remembering happier times. Monica came striding across the yard, carrying a sledgehammer.”
“What?”
“Yes, a big old sledgehammer. She lifted it up over her head and brought it down with all her might. Jonathan barely got out of the way in time. Busted the loveseat in half.”
“Was she trying to kill him?”
“Jonathan told me he didn’t believe she meant to harm him, but I don’t think he was certain of that. In any case, they separated, and she went off to live with a sister in some other state. He divorced her. He was disappointed, but he didn’t seem overly bitter. Said that maybe he’d caused it by hanging on to his memories of Chloe. He lived here by himself until he died, about a year ago now. I miss him.”
Alice looked away for a moment, then turned back to Leila.
“In the last ten years he was pretty much crippled up by arthritis, and he couldn’t take care of this yard. You’ve made it beautiful again, you’ve brought it back to life. As I’ve said, it would make Jonathan proud.”
“Thank you. It sounds strange, but I’m sorry I didn’t get to know him.”
“You would have liked him. I think he would be quite happy that you are the one who came to live here. I think Chloe and Billy would be, too.”
They chatted for a while, and then Leila brought out a small box and loaded Jonathan’s mementos into it.
“After all your hard work, you should keep something for yourself,” Alice said. “I know they’re rather silly little treasures, but are you sure there’s nothing here you’d like to have?”
“They aren’t so silly after all, are they? And they’ve been buried together for all these years. I wouldn’t want to separate them.”
“So, you are sentimental after all.” Alice smiled. “Don’t look so surprised, Leila. When you bought this old house, I wondered about you. You seemed so business-like, so self-possessed, so emotionless. But why, I asked myself, would such a modern person want such an old house? I don’t know who made you believe that feelings don’t matter, but they were very wrong.”
Leila looked out across the yard. “You know, Alice, until I moved here and worked on this garden, I don’t think I would have been able to understand that.” And before she knew it, Leila had told Alice the story of Sam and Marietta.
Alice listened patiently. “This Marietta sounds a lot like Monica. A perfectly dreadful girl. But I’m not sure Sam has forgotten you any more than Jonathan forgot Chloe. I think Sam just needs to wake up and realize that you’re a person with feelings. It sounds as if you’ve been more like a mother, or perhaps another male friend, than a partner to him. The next time you see him, don’t be afraid to let him know you have feelings. And if he can’t respond to them, find a man who can.”
Leila laughed and thanked her.
Alice gave her a hug, and carrying the box of treasures, took her leave.
Leila made a big bowl of soup for dinner, went to bed and slept soundly.
* * *
The next day was a work day. She noticed that for some reason, men in the office were paying attention to her. She wondered if they had paid attention before, without her being aware of it, or if something about her had changed.
Later that evening, in line at the grocery store, a good-looking man stood just ahead of her. He smiled at her. When she smiled back, he spoke to her, laughing with her about an article featured on the cover of a tabloid. Suddenly, she heard a familiar voice calling her name.
“Leila?”
She turned to see Sam and Marietta at the next checkout stand. She waved, and turned back to talk to the man who had been flirting with her. “Friend of yours?” he asked.
“Former boyfriend,” she whispered, as the checker handed the man his change.
The man looked back at Sam and Marietta and shook his head. “He’s crazy,” he whispered back, and to her shock, leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Goodbye, Leila,” he said loudly, “Don’t forget our date!” He winked and smiled as he walked out with his groceries.
Leila blushed deeply, but then smiled to herself. The checker had to announce the amount she owed twice before Leila returned her attention to matters at hand. As she pushed her cart from the store, Sam came up beside her.
“Who was that?” he demanded.
“Who?”
“The man with whom you just made a spectacle of yourself. The one who kissed you in the store. Or are there so many men kissing you in public that it is no longer a memorable experience?”