Death of a Political Plant

by Ann Ripley

  “Okay. But if worse comes to worst, could we pull the program?”

  His frown deepened. “We’d catch all sorts of flack about that. We don’t have that kind of money to waste.”

  She sighed. The pitch of life was growing faster, and it wasn’t even ten A.M. The day had started quietly. Subdued guests sipping black coffee at the antique pine table, nibbling tidbits of sweet buns. With Louise driving Bill’s Camry, the trip to the Hilton also started out quietly, but by the time they reached the Memorial Bridge, the women’s motors had switched on; by the time they reached the hotel, they were revving. Nothing like a big convention to get one excited: seeing old friends and associates from all over the country, taking part in programs, getting up on stage and describing a new plant one has been hybridizing or propagating, “partying down,” as they termed it, at lunch and after the day’s events are over.

  She knew one of the places they were partying down tonight was at her house. Barbara had prepared tray upon tray of snacks, encased them in plastic wrap, and shoved them in Louise’s refrigerator. Louise had no illusions about a quiet Wednesday evening.

  But now she had to tread the long exhibition hall and talk about plants with dozens of different plant exhibitors. She went with the crew for a preliminary walk-through, and stood at the entrance for a moment. The space was enormous, filled with cubicles displaying hundreds of varieties of plants and plant materials, and smelling much better than the normal large hotel space. Earthy, fresh as a spring day.

  It only took her five paces inside the hall to fall madly in love. It was a gray stone urn filled with an eye-stopping combination: Heuehera “Pewter Moon,” Salvia argentea, blue-flowered Russian sage, and tradescantia, with a pale pink-flowered, scented geranium tucked in the middle. She went over and touched a heuchera leaf, which was a miracle of good design. The cameraman trailing her had caught up, and his eye, too, was caught by the splendid plants in the gray pot. She told him, “Let’s put this one on our dance card.”

  After a feverish three hours of taping, they were at the last booth in the exhibition hall. With Marty satisfied, they were ready to call it a day. It was only then that she noticed a familiar figure standing in the wide corridor, watching her.

  Her jaw dropped; it was Franklin Rawlings, his skeletal face stretched into his trademark smile. He gave her a courtly, faintly mocking bow. Of all the people she would have expected to see here, Goodrich’s campaign manager was the last.

  He strolled over, as if he had all the time in the world. “Mrs. Eldridge. Why did I know you’d be here?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Rawlings. Why?”

  “Because this is just what you should be doing: telling the uninformed public more about perennials.”

  “Are you a gardener? Is that why you ’re here?”

  “Surprised? Do you think I’ve gotten to where I am being a one-dimensional man?” He put out a long, thin hand and touched her arm. “But let’s not the two of us bicker. I was, uh, in the neighborhood. You won’t believe it but there was a political luncheon here today. Just decided to see if you were hanging around at this convention. As I said at that fund-raiser, I hope a major media outlet like Channel Five doesn’t yield to political pressure. The environment is sacred to Congressman Goodrich, just as much as it is to our flawed President. Don’t go out on a limb, young lady. The political winds are changing.”

  With that he turned on his heel and strolled down the exhibition hall. She watched him. He stopped and touched plants in various exhibits, chatted with exhibitors, accepted handfuls of freebies from the plant people, and looked for all the world like an ordinary garden enthusiast and not one of the big political shakers in Washington.

  Louise, too, came home laden with sample perennial plants that the growers eagerly thrust into her hands. They occupied two flats that weighed at least twenty pounds each. She carried them separately up to the front porch and set them neatly near the edge, wondering if she would have time to put them in the ground before her guests returned. Tessie, Barbara, and Donna had stayed at the convention, telling her that they would get a ride out with Gil.

  She brushed her hands together to wipe off traces of dirt, then looked at her watch. Suddenly, fatigue caught up with her; it had been a tiring day after a late night. In lieu of putting the perennials in the ground, she would go in and take a long nap, Otherwise, how would she ever keep up with these energetic plant people?

  When she crawled into bed, she fell immediately to sleep and she dreamed. Strong, muscled women, her P.P.S. friends Tessie, Barbara, and Donna, decked out in military-looking uniforms and yellow hard hats, held chainsaws in their hands as if they were machine guns and ran around her beloved yard like soldiers with a cause, ready to buzz down her trees. “No, stop” she heard herself crying out loud, as she awakened with a jolt. It took her a few moments to come back to the real world. The bedside clock said it was seven o’clock. Time to get prepared: There was going to be a party here tonight.

  Thirteen

  IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST AMIAble parties Louise could remember. Almost twenty Perennial Plant Society members gathered in the rooms of her house and flowed out onto the patio and into the bamboo garden. Like her trio of houseguests, they seemed to feel at home immediately with Louise. Many had met her during the day as she and the Channel Five crew went through the big exhibition hall taping the show. She gave tours of the yard and gardens, illuminated now with just a few outside lights so any imperfections fell into the shadows.

  Inside, music was playing; a few danced. Others sat around with drinks and talked shop: new automation systems for nurseries, new methods for hybridizing plants, arguments over the use of native plants, new ideas brought up by speakers at the opening day of the convention.

  Gil Whitson, Louise noticed, was well-respected by all, as both a leading garden designer and an author of and contributor to garden books. He moved easily from group to group, like a host. Tessie ran the bar, and Barbara and Donna distributed refreshments. In fact, Louise needn’t have been there at all, except to give yard tours and bask in the glory of being next year’s Plant Person of the Year.

  Gil finally made his way to where she was sitting talking to a grower. Taking the seat next to her, he said, “I liked that John Batchelder. He did a great job with the interview. By the way, you said your neighbors have a koi pond. Any chance I can go look at it?”

  “Yes. It’s straight across the street, and it’s a fairly well-lighted yard, but you’ll still need a flashlight. Come, I’ll get one and go with you; a friend’s staying over there.” She led the way to the kitchen and got the light.

  “You don’t need to come. Just point me in the right direction. I always like to see a new pond and be sure the situation is good for the fish.”

  “Mary Mougey, whose pond this is, told me to keep an eye out to see that the raccoons don’t eat them.”

  “She must have been joking. You would have to sit up all night to guard them from that predator. Anyway, if the pool is deep enough, raccoons won’t jump in and swim after koi. They will, however, stand on those underwater plant ledges, and with their feet firmly planted, take a swipe at a fish.”

  She oriented him toward the house across the cul-de-sac, which had its usual yard lights on, as well as a light in a front window of die Mougey house. Jay was probably buried in his work, for he’d wanted to finish that story before Friday, which was only two days away. Remembering how jumpy Jay had been, she returned to the house and rang up the Mougeys to warn him that Gil would be coming. There was no answer. Oh, well, Gil seemed like an unobtrusive man, who probably wouldn’t disturb her busy writer friend.

  She went back to the party and selected a compact disc filled with Tony Bennett songs; Bill’s mother had brought it as a gift when she came to visit earlier in the summer. Then, for a change of pace, she brought out a Charlie Mingus CD to play next. Bennett’s fourth song was playing when Gil returned. She remembered, because she thought he was taking a long
time to look at a fishpond in the semidarkness. The first thing she heard was the front screen door slamming shut. She turned, and there he was, looking disheveled and angry, the flashlight hanging in one hand like a club, the other hand jammed in his jacket pocket. His jacket collar was flipped up, and thin wisps of faded blond hair over the top of his head were out of place. The man’s catlike eyes were narrowed with rage in his reddened face.

  She got up from her chair and walked quickly over to him.

  “Gil, what’s the matter?”

  Tessie approached, too, sensing trouble.

  “Plenty,” he barked, throwing his hands out to either side in an extravagant gesture. He paced in a little circle near the piano, where a P.P.S. member, bored with Bennett, had been softly competing with “Tea for Two.” He quit when Gil started his harangue. “I’ve had a tiff. I damned well hate to have such a thing happen.” His loud tone began to fray the edges of the congenial group. Conversations halted.

  Louise had a sinking feeling he had run into Jay McCormick. “Did you, uh, run into my friend there? Are—the fish still all right?”

  “Good questions, both of them,” Gil answered, in acid tones. “Yes, I met someone, and I gather it was your friend. Louise, he was a boor. He knew nothing about fish.”

  That sounded like Jay, in his present mood.

  “What, uh, exactly, was he doing?”

  Gil plucked a cigarette out of a pack, and Louise could see he was dying for a hit of nicotine, but forbore since no one was smoking inside. “I went straight to the back of the house where you said I’d find the fishpond. He was there, crouched down next to the pool. Louise, I think he was loaded. Said something about how it was time to celebrate. But what infuriated me was what he was doing to those fish.”

  “What did he do to them?” she asked, catching her breath. She had visions of hundreds—no, perhaps thousands—of dollars’ worth of koi floating on top of the water, dead.

  Gil got a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow, keeping the other in his jacket pocket. “He was crouched down near this crazy crane statue next to the pool, and then he got up and he had this plastic container in his hand filled with remnants of fast food: cheeseburger, pickles, greasy fried potatoes, apple pie! Next thing I know, he had thrown the whole mess into the pond for the fish to eat!”

  “Oh, no.” She didn’t know exactly what fish ate. The only words that crowded into her brain were off the wall: “Do not feed the fish,” a line from a Dr. Seuss book she used to read to her little girls that always sent them into attacks of giggles.

  This was not funny. “Um, is that food going to hurt Mary’s fish?”

  “Look, fish will eat anything you give them, but it’s not necessarily good for them. It was just the principle of the thing. What would he have fed them next? That guy should not be allowed anywhere near marine animals, especially ones as valuable as koi. And those were a particularly fine group of fish. Who was this jerk, anyway?”

  “Actually, he’s a visitor who’s staying there because he got bumped out of this house.” She put a placating hand on Gil’s arm. “I’ll go over there tomorrow and tell him not to feed the fish.”

  By this time, others had gathered round, attracted by Gil’s angry tone.

  “Come on and have something to drink,” offered Tessie.

  “I don’t need a drink,” he growled, and Tessie backed up, almost as if she feared Gil would strike her.

  Louise continued to press. “There’s a comfortable seat right here on the couch, Gil. Why don’t you take it?”

  His face was stormy. “I don’t think so, Louise. In fact, I know there’s plenty of room in the other cars for people returning to the city, so I’m going to get out of here and go back to my hotel room. I need a little alone time.”

  He hurried out the front door and she trailed after him, still apologizing. When he reached his van, he turned and gave her a haunted look and a grunted “good-bye,” then gunned the motor and sped off.

  When she returned to the house, the party had resumed its normal pace and if anything had grown livelier. She glanced at her watch and saw it was getting on toward midnight; she marveled at the youthful capacity of the group. Hard work gave them the strength for hard play.

  No one seemed surprised at Gil’s behavior. One amiable man made an awkward try at explaining it to Louise: “You wouldn’t believe it, but Gil designs the most serene gardens you ever saw. But in his personal life he’s always been a little hot-tempered, and it comes out at parties. You know, like Satchel Paige said, ‘Social ramble ain’t restful.’ With Gil, it’s always after a couple of drinks he probably shouldn’t be drinking, and it’s mostly talk besides.”

  That was fine, but now she was left with the embarrassing task of reprimanding the errant jay, the most unrewarding houseguest she had ever entertained.

  How to Put Serenity into a Small Garden

  AMERICANS HAVE A TENDENCY TO admire many things and want everything. This can be particularly true of gardeners. If the garden isn’t quite full, why not tuck that new Penstemon digitalis “Husker Red” into the back corner, and try that new white marigold in the six inches in front? If we fulfill bur dreams of owning every plant, the overall effect will be “chaos-theory” gardening, In both large, but especially small, gardens, there should be a feeling of calm, not chaos. Serenity in the garden is reached by stopping before we have gone too far, not destroying our views or allies, and remembering that less is sometimes more.

  Garden designers will tell you that the small garden or yard is a greater challenge than the large yard, and small spaces are what most gardeners must work with. Perspective is a sometimes-forgotten consideration. Mastered by the Japanese for centuries, it concerns itself with the close-in, the middle distance, and the far distance view. By the placing of objects in these spaces, we alter perspective. We can use both our own trees, rocks, and walls and our neighbors’ to provide these accents and defining borders.

  If a yard is wide and shallow, parallel vertical lines of plants will give it more depth. Conversely, a deep, narrow yard can be broken up and widened by interrupting the view from front to back. This is where the concept of garden “rooms” can be put into action: using barriers of trees, bushes, or partial walls to create interest in what is to come next.

  A small yard needs no more than a few simple elements:

  An interesting tree. River birch (Betula nigra), with its peeling white bark; the unsurpassable Japanese maple, Acer W japonicum; or a species of cherry would be good choices.

  A focal point, such as a rock with a depression that makes it a good birdbath, or a generous-sized decorative garden pot.

  Several small evergreens, such as dwarf mughos or pines; and a couple of skeletal plants such as ornamental grasses, Apache plume, sagebrush, or yellow or red dogwood.

  One or more ground covers to unify the plantings, such as liriope, epimedium, carex, ginger, sweet woodruff, ivy, or lamium. Within this ground cover could be planted an irregular drift of early spring bulbs; the ground cover will conceal its dwindling foliage.

  Several ample clay pots submerged in the ground in the dramatic center of the plantings. They would hold colorful plants to accent different seasons. In spring, the pots could be filled with primroses; in summer, tuberous begonias, petunias, or geraniums; and in fall, they could be replaced with chrysanthemums or anemones.

  Even a small space can contain a water feature such as a scaled-down waterfall or pond; this becomes the yard’s central feature. Such a minimal pond should be planted with miniature water flowers. Simple changes in the grade can enhance perspective, even without water; this is done to good effect in western gardens where “dry bed” streams are imitated in a rocky descent of just a few feet.

  The famous English gardener Gertrude Jekyll wrote in one of her books that garden design was all about making “pictures of living beauty” The paths in her woodland gardens led from one living scene to another. The use of color was importa
nt to her designs, and she was known for using it in great bold swaths. Other times, she used it in the most delicate ways, and once described coming upon this view: “A pleasant mass of color showing in the wood-edge on the dead-leaf carpet,” intertwined drifts of just three flowers, white daphne, red lenten hellebore, and yellow dog-tooth violet. The colors were what old-fashioned garden writers used to call “sad”—flower tints of secondary strength, and as beguiling to the eye today as they were then. Combined with the other tones Jekyll valued so much—the tans, browns, and grays in tree trunks and bushes—these splendid and finely designed flowers in their faded hues formed a perfect garden picture.

  Fourteen

  SINCE TESSIE, BARBARA, AND Donna were anxious to make the nine o’clock session of the convention, Louise had no need today to employ her handy formula for “speeding the parting guest.” First, it was something she and Bill had only joked about, after a gaggle of guests had strung out their departure for more than half a day. Then she tried the formula and found it worked, and it involved only a little lying. There were four rules. Number one was to make the guests a hearty breakfast, but only to brew up a limited supply of coffee, and not the guests’ favorite brand. Second was to put a scribbled schedule for the day in a visible place so they could see that she had lots of things on the to-do list. Third was to allude the night before to a possible doctor’s appointment for an undisclosed minor ailment. Fourth was attitude: to be friendly, and at the same time businesslike and brisk, so guests knew she didn’t need them, that she had already made the psychic break and was ready to go on with life without them.