The Hawks_A Novel

by SD Hendrickson

  I moved a bright blue hydrangea, according to the label, next to the trellis. Finding two more on the pallet, I bunched the flowers around the base of the glossy white structure. Salty sweat ran down in my eyes, and I wiped my face on my sleeve as I carried a display of tiny orange roses to place next to the blue ones.

  The patio door slammed and Virginia walked out toward the yard. She wore a mustard-colored dress that flowed down to her ankles and carried a pair of sharp hedge clippers in her hand.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Hello, Ms. Sarina. Mrs. Hawthorn has requested some real ivy vines to be woven around that magnificent trellis.” Her face beamed as she looked at the structure. “My son made it, you know.”

  I nodded, grinning back at her. Yes, I knew this fact since I was the one who had suggested his services. “He did an amazing job on it. You should be very proud, Virginia.”

  “Yes, yes. He did. I still can’t believe he makes such beautiful things with his hands.” She tilted her head back, gazing at the handiwork, but the sun seemed to blind her for a moment. The elderly woman turned back to me, dazed as she struggled to focus again in the heat.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m just dandy.” She nodded. “Anyway, as I was saying. Mrs. Hawthorn thought it would look nice with real vines twisted around the trellis. She asked Antonio to cut some strands that are growing by the garage. But they had words. He thinks she should wait for Mr. Javier, which made her furious. So I just took the trimmers out of his hand and said, ‘Y’all quit your fighting. I’ll just take care of it myself.’”

  I shook my head. “It’s too hot. You don’t need to be out here. I can get them. Where are they?”

  “I believe there’s some vines toward the back of the parking garage annex.” She handed me the metal blades and then pointed to the building that housed my car. “Antonio doesn’t go back there much. You should be able to find some good ones.”

  “Okay. I’ll go cut some real authentic vines.”

  “Thank you.” Virginia laughed and smoothed the front of her dress before meandering back across the patio. I waited for the little white bun on the back of her head to disappear into the house before starting on the hundredth task on my list.

  I grabbed a garden cart and went in search of the vines. Why couldn’t Mrs. Hawthorn just get along with Antonio? I had a full day without her side errands. I doubted she would be this irrational if Javier was home. But he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow due to a business trip with his uncle to Texas. He’d left me to manage her last-minute eccentrics alone. Not that I would let him intervene. I’d made that very clear. Even with our new arrangement, I still worked for his grandmother and I could handle whatever she threw at me.

  This brunch meant something big to her. She had never said the words. Nor did I expect her to acknowledge the fact. But it was Brenda who informed me of the details. Mrs. Hawthorn had become ill about two years ago with pneumonia, spending two weeks in the hospital. It was a strenuous recovery for the older woman. She’d attended numerous events since her illness. But this garden party was a return back to her entertaining days at the house.

  I reminded myself that growing old wasn’t something that people handled lightly. My mother was less functional than this woman who was twice her age. Okay, Delsey wasn’t really a hundred. But I needed to find some compassion this week for Mrs. Hawthorn—even when she decided to be more unreasonable than usual.

  My compassionate thought lasted about fifty-seven seconds.

  When I reached the parking garage annex, I stared for a moment in disbelief at the overgrown area behind the building. I had no idea this even existed. Bushes and tall weeds. Vines running down tree trunks and along the back fence, which butted up to a small creek. I didn’t even want to step foot in this mess, let alone touch it with my hands. These were not the kind of vines a person brought back to a house like a bouquet of roses.

  I heard footsteps behind me. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Mrs. Hawthorn moving with purposeful steps from the driveway to where I stood in the jungle. I turned back around, rolling my eyes. She didn’t need to be back here any more than I did today.

  “Ahhh . . . yes. Those will do. I want a large bundle. And maybe get enough that we can make it appear as if the vines are growing out of the pots. I want the trellis to seem authentic. Not something brand new tossed in the yard like a pop-up tent for the party. I want it to look established.” She took a small handkerchief out of her pocket to dab the sweat off her forehead. A red monogrammed H flashed on the corner of the fabric.

  “Mrs. Hawthorn?” I paused, trying to choose my words carefully. “I don’t think those vines are regular ivy. The leaves are grouped together strange.”

  “Are you questioning my intelligence, Ms. Atwood? I don’t recall botanist being listed on your résumé.”

  “No, I’m just saying. I don’t think those are ordinary vines. I think that’s poison oak.”

  “Ms. Atwood, I’m a member of the botanical society. I’ve subscribed to Horticulture Digest for thirty-five years. And until recently, I attended to my own garden roses, which qualifies me more than you to adequately say with complete knowledge and authority that those vines are not poison oak.”

  “But—”

  “Start cutting!” She snapped her fingers twice before turning abruptly and marching back through the grass to the driveway.

  I shook my head in bewilderment. The audacity of that woman. She’d given me no choice. Do the job. Do it now, Ms. Atwood. Start cutting. Chop chop. I groaned, peering closer at the vines. Growing up, I’d seen plenty of poison ivy, which ingrained the old saying, “Leaves of three, leave them be.” But poison oak leaves were grouped in five. Right? And poison sumac had seven. Or maybe oak had six and sumac nine? As in three, six, nine.

  Maybe that was right and I had it all wrong. I wasn’t a botanist—as she had so arrogantly pointed out. Nor had I done one shred of gardening in my entire life. I couldn’t even identify the different flowers on the patio without the aid of the identification card attached to the pot.

  I let out an agitated huff and picked up the clippers. Crawling around in the undergrowth, I went to work, grabbing handfuls of the damn vines. Every breath of air felt humid and saturated in dirt and pollen. Branches scratched against my arms as my tennis shoes stepped around fallen limbs. I filled the cart to the point of overflowing and hauled it back to the house.

  When I returned, I noticed a ladder had been placed next to the trellis—all ready for me to get to work. Mrs. Hawthorn suddenly appeared on the patio as if the woman had been peering out the window, waiting for my return. She sat down at a little white wrought-iron table and chairs. A green umbrella rose up from the center, casting shade over her head.

  Brenda brought out a serving tray that contained an antique teapot and a single white china cup with a plate of scones. Even in the glaring heat, the woman sipped her afternoon ritual of pretend English tea while sitting on her pedestal.

  Antonio pulled another pallet of flowers onto the patio. He unloaded, adding the pots to those already lining the edges of the pool while I attached the vines to the trellis. Not a single guest would ever believe this structure had stood for years with these vines growing all over it.

  “Stupid established bullshit,” I grumbled to myself. The wood still smelled of fresh paint and the polish glistened in the sunshine.

  I wiped my forehead with the front of my shirt, not even bothering with my towel. To hell with it. I needed one of those bands around my forehead to keep the sweat out of my eyes. And then on second thought, I pulled the yellow rag from my pocket and tied the fabric around my head like a bandana durag. My ponytail hung free out the back. I smiled as I went back to work.

  Problem solved.

  A half hour later, Brenda brought me a large glass of sweet iced tea and I took a break to sip the cold beverage. “Thank you. I was in desperate need of your Wonder Woman juice. I’m about to die out here
.”

  “Darlin’, that woman should have hired someone to help you,” the cook whispered.

  I rolled my eyes and then turned in the opposite direction of our employer with the fear she could read lips. “I suggested hiring a gardening crew, but she said, ‘I did hire someone, Ms. Atwood. I hired you.’”

  “Oh, Lord.” She laughed. “That sounds about right. Well, I thought I’d come out here to see how y’all are doin’ in this heat. I’m waitin’ on the delivery company to get here with the food. Got a busy day tomorrow, gettin’ all those dishes prepped.”

  Most people would have hired a full-blown catering company for a gathering of this caliber. But Mrs. Hawthorn preferred Brenda to oversee everything in the kitchen herself. Plus, very few companies would come to the house anymore. And the ones who decided to take on any events for Mrs. Hawthorn usually charged twice the normal amount.

  The gardener stopped for his own glass of tea. His dark-green T-shirt was completely soaked in sweat. He took a deep swallow, setting the empty drink back on the tray. “Gracias, Mrs. Van Horn.”

  “You are most certainly welcome, Antonio.” She smiled.

  The man gave her a brief nod before returning back to the pallet of flowers. I didn’t know his age. He seemed younger than Brenda by a few years. But in better shape than me. I watched him move fluidly around the patio, lifting the large pots and depositing them in the designated areas. His body was conditioned to the physical labor and he was rather attractive for someone his age.

  Taking another drink, I savored the cold liquid rolling down my throat. I wanted to sit down for a real break, but I might not be able to get back on my feet. I needed better discipline like Antonio who downed his glass and returned to the flowers. Instead, I took another swallow and watched Antonio carry a pot of yellow roses. His arms flexed as he set the heavy pot next to the pool’s edge.

  “Marco!” Mrs. Hawthorn yelled in his direction. “I told you to place all of the Limona roses next to the podium. Ms. Atwood has a specific X marked on the ground where it will sit tomorrow.”

  I froze, clutching the tea glass in my hand.

  “This is not going to be good,” Brenda hissed. “I heard those two arguing all the way in the kitchen earlier.”

  “No mas!” Under the heat of the summer sun, the gardener’s face turned bright red as he raised the large plant above his head, muscles tensing in rage before smashing the ceramic pot on the ground. Dirt, flowers, and shards of brick-red pottery went in every direction—across the patio cement and splashing into the water.

  The gardener marched over to where our boss held court beneath the umbrella, sipping that damn tea. I watched in both horror and fascination as the man faced Mrs. Hawthorn.

  “I’m not Marco. You know I’m Antonio. Antonio!” His voice went angry deep and his eyes grew wide as he spoke in rapid Spanish. The man pointed in every direction around the yard. He motioned toward the house and then laid a hand on his chest. He yelled a few more sentences and then spat at her feet before leaving the yard.

  Mrs. Hawthorn stared as his retreating back in horror. Eyes wide as if someone had just streaked through the yard butt naked with fireworks shooting out of their hands.

  But I wasn’t far behind her. My mouth fell open. The man had finally cracked. I guess we all had a breaking point, and today was his. “I wish Javier was here to tell us what he said.”

  “Darlin’, I can understand the words. I just don’t say them very well.”

  “You know what he said?” I asked while keeping one eye on Delsey, not sure what she would do next.

  “Most of it was pointin’ out all the good things he’s done here. And then he brought up the time she tried to stab him over the roses in the front yard, which is what they were fussin’ about earlier. Always the roses.” She sighed. “Antonio had refused to do anythin’ for Mrs. Hawthorn that would require the use of the clippers while she watched. The last part I’m not exactly sure. I think he may have cursed the house and then sealed it with a wad of spit.”

  I almost snorted the iced tea into my nose. “Cursed the house?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t understand the end very well. He was speakin’ so fast and angry. But the spit. That was a very deep insult. More than any curse.” She turned her head to shield her smile as she whispered, “I think he may have gotten it on her shoe.”

  “Ms. Atwood!”

  Her voice startled me. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Don’t dally. You’ll have to finish the rest of the plants on your own. And clean up that mess by the pool. I’ve fired the gardener.”

  “You mean he quit,” I murmured under my breath. Javier would have a fit when he returned tomorrow. I plastered on a smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And why on earth is that hideous thing tied around your head? Are you a rodeo clown?”

  My mouth opened to speak, but I didn’t have any words. I just reached up and removed the durag from my hair.

  “And don’t forget the pieces that went in the pool. I don’t want the filter to get clogged.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” My teeth gritted on the words.

  Brenda took that as a way to exit the uncomfortable moment and went quickly back to the house with her pitcher of tea. I worked the rest of the day and into the evening, getting all the flowers placed for the garden party. The tables would arrive tomorrow. Another day and more setup. I was exhausted by the time I made it to bed. I think my body fell asleep in the shower before I even crawled under the covers.

  The next morning, I woke to clouded thoughts as I struggled to pull my mind from the depths of slumber and turn off my alarm. My eyes were blurry. More than usual. No matter how much I blinked and rubbed my fingers, I still saw the room with a slight haze. I went to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face.

  I caught a fuzzy glimpse of myself in the mirror. “Ahhh!”

  I looked down at my arms, my neck, and then pulled up my nightgown. Red hives covered at least 75 percent of my body. The itching grew something fierce. I dug my nails into my skin. The relief spoke of both ecstasy and torment.

  My anger grew as quickly as my discomfort. I had poison oak all over my body.

  Poison oak!

  I wanted to do nothing more than march upstairs to her private suite and spit at her feet too. I had warned Mrs. Hawthorn, but her little backhanded comments had made me feel like some incompetent idiot.

  That bitch!

  I could barely stand to wear clothes. Brenda drove me to the urgent care clinic to see a doctor. They confirmed my obvious diagnosis and said there really wasn’t much that would fix my situation in time for the party tomorrow. I received a painful shot and a tube of cream and some pills to help with the itching.

  When I returned to the house, I found Mrs. Hawthorn waiting for me on the patio. Her eyes swept over the layers of poison oak whelps and my swollen eyes. “Well, this is unfortunate.”

  I just stared at her. The vision of Antonio yesterday rang bright in my mind. Was this my breaking point? The moment I said to hell with this and packed my bags? I contemplated my options. I would have to return to my grandparents’ house. I would no longer have a job. No laundry service. No fancy meals. And no potential career. And of course, no money.

  If I could survive this woman, my résumé would glow. Employers would think I was superhuman. I could accomplish anything.

  No pain. No gain.

  I swallowed back all the vile, hateful words my gut wanted to sling in her face. “I’ll get started on things in a few hours. The doctor gave me a shot. Hopefully, it will help.”

  “Very well. Take the morning off—if you must. But, Ms. Atwood, you will need to do something about your appearance tomorrow. I can’t have the guests seeing you . . .” Her hand waved around my face. “All distorted. The ladies will think I am hosting one of those sideshow carnivals.”

  My teeth gritted as I struggled to stay calm. “What do you suggest I do?”

  “I will think of
a solution.” She huffed. “Oh, and don’t forget: something will need to be done about the trellis. I can’t risk exposing the guests.”

  I nodded as my fists turned into vise grips. There was no way in hell I was touching that monstrosity wrapped in devil vines. Maybe I should just light it on fire and burn the damn thing to the ground. But it had been carved by Elmore and Virginia’s son. I couldn’t do that to them.

  Absently scratching my right arm and then my neck, I ran through my options. Maybe I would take the leaves off and shove them down in her shoes or rub the vines across her D. Porthault Jours satin-woven sheets. Maybe I could have Brenda put them in her omelet and say it’s spinach. I laughed out loud at the thought.

  “Do you find this funny, Ms. Atwood?” Mrs. Hawthorn quipped back.

  “No.” I composed myself. “Not at all.”

  Summer

  I RUMMAGED THROUGH MY DRAWERS, looking for something long with a defined edge. Nothing too sharp. I didn’t want to draw blood. But I needed some relief. I couldn’t find anything, so I backed up against the doorway of the bathroom and rubbed the space right at the top of my shoulder, right in that elusive spot that evaded my fingertips.

  I still couldn’t figure out how all of these odd places had gotten covered in the nasty red rash. The whelps must have spread while I was outside in the heat setting up for the garden party.

  The afternoon had been filled with nothing but torture. The poison oak. The heat. The hundred and ten things I needed to get accomplished in half the time because I had taken the morning off.

  My phone rang and my brother’s face flashed on the fancy screen of my new phone. Tyson stared back at me. Haunting me. I didn’t want to answer. I couldn’t handle anything else traumatic today, but I took the call anyway. He deserved my attention.

  “What’s up, Ty?” My words came out as a groan.

  “Hey, sis . . . I . . .” He paused. “Are you busy?”