Tending Roses

by Wingate, Lisa

  The rowdy crew quieted and hunched over their plates, giggling and talking in whispers.

  Sandy rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Boys! I deal with that sort of thing all day long in fourth grade.”

  I glanced up just in time to see Dell Jordan walk by looking at the Christmas trees, her dark eyes alive with wonder, reflecting the twinkling lights. She dropped her gaze to the boys on the sidewalk and started to walk away.

  “Smelly Delly,” one of them chanted, pitching a half-eaten cookie in her direction. The rest of them joined in instantly. “Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly, Smelly Delly . . .”

  Sandy glanced at Dell as she hurried away; then she shook a stern finger at the boys. “Y’all leave Dell alone. That’s mean.”

  Mean? I thought. Mean? It went beyond mean. It was unspeakably cruel. Setting my plate aside, I stood up, but Dell was already gone, rushing behind the gazebo like a deer bolting into the woods. I turned on the boys, suddenly angry. “You boys should be ashamed of yourselves. She didn’t do anything to you.”

  The oldest one, who was probably about Dell’s age, rolled his eyes as if I were stupid. “Well, she does smell. It ain’t a lie. She’s got gross old clothes.”

  I wanted to wring his neck in spite of his age. “She’s just a little girl.” Then I realized who I was talking to, and I sat down again. Dell was just a little girl, and they were little boys, and children could be cruel.

  Sandy’s husband turned around and addressed the boys. “You boys throw your plates in the trash and go play. And don’t say those things again or I’ll tell your mamas.” They sluggishly obeyed, and when they were gone, he said, “Some of these kids around here just have so much more than others.”

  “I guess so.” I nodded as if I understood, but I didn’t. I’d lived in upper-middle-class suburbs all my life. A house and two cars for everyone. Two parents usually. Games and toys, nice yards, and nice clothes for school. Poverty and ignorance were characters we saw on TV, or sometimes passed on the highway while traveling to some vacation hideaway. They were not our neighbors. They did not have faces with soft brown eyes and downturned mouths that never smiled. . . .

  Troy stood suddenly. The abruptness of his movement broke my train of thought. Looking up, I saw Grandma coming our way, her face stern, her pale blue eyes flashing with anger, her Mrs. Santa hat gone, and her wig askew. Shuffling across the grass in a hurry, she had two boys by the shirt collars. Two other boys followed meekly in her wake. She parked the boys on the sidewalk behind us, her hands retaining a shuddering grip on their collars, as if she intended to hang them right there.

  “At the very least, you boys should clean up the food you have wasted.” Her voice was loud and authoritative, her face dangerously red. She glared at the youngsters, who, in turn, stared at their shoes. “And when you are in church tomorrow, ask the Lord to show you a better way to act. There are some children who do not have enough to eat, and you are throwing good food into the street.” She pitched the two of them forward with impressive strength, then grabbed the other two and forcibly added them to the pile. The four landed in a sprawl in the dry grass beside the curb.

  Troy and Sandy stared at her, openmouthed.

  “Grandma!” I exclaimed, looking around to see if anyone was watching. I could just imagine what the boys’ parents would think if they saw her pitching their children into the dirt.

  She blinked at me, seeming surprised by the sound of my voice, then teetered backward unsteadily. Troy rushed to her side, grabbing her upper arms to steady her. With short, careful steps, he helped her to the bench.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Vongortler,” he soothed, his face lined with concern. “It’s all right.”

  “It isn’t,” she insisted, but the red had drained from her face, and the fervor faded from her voice. “Those boys should be ashamed and so should their parents.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she blinked as they spilled onto her cheeks. The gnarled line of her mouth quivered with withheld emotion.

  My heart dropped into my stomach, and I sat beside her, feeling completely helpless.

  Sandy leaned close and whispered in my ear, “Do you want me to go get Dr. Schmidt?”

  I shook my head, not knowing what to say. I had no idea if her behavior was typical or not. I only knew I’d never seen anything like it in the past. My helplessness reminded me of how ill prepared I was to be her caretaker.

  “Grandma.” I leaned close, feeling better when she looked at me with tearful recognition. “Are you all right? Do you need Dr. Schmidt?”

  “No.” Her voice was small, as if it were coming from somewhere far away.

  “Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like cider or some water?”

  “Cider.” She wiped her eyes and ran her hands self-consciously over her wig, straightening it, then looking up to see if anyone else had noticed us. “I would like to sit with the others before they wonder about me.”

  “All right.” I helped her up and dabbed the moisture from her cheeks with a napkin, relieved to see her acting like herself again. I was also relieved that no one else had noticed the incident. Grandma looked embarrassed enough with just the three of us watching. I was embarrassed for her and wished Sandy and Troy weren’t there. I could tell they were wondering, just as I was, what had set Grandma off and why she’d taken the boys in hand. I wondered if she was angry over what they’d done to Dell Jordan, or because they’d wasted the food. Probably the food. She’d already made her feelings about the little Jordan girl quite clear.

  As we joined the others for the last of the evening’s Christmas carols, I looked around for Dell, but she was nowhere to be found. I wanted to make sure she was all right and to let her know the boys had been reprimanded, but she was gone, so I tried to put it out of my mind. Grandma’s outburst kept replaying in my thoughts. I couldn’t even begin to guess at her motives. I never would have imagined she was capable of manhandling someone else’s children.

  The truth was, we really didn’t know each other at all.

  By the time we headed home, Grandma seemed to be in high spirits again. She had apparently forgotten all about the incident with the boys and was now focused on preparations for our family Christmas, which was, for me, about as unpleasant a subject as the awful event in the park.

  “We should hurry home,” she said. “We have so many things to do before Christmas. Now, I don’t want one of those store-bought trees this year. We’ll go on Christmas Eve and cut a cedar from the north field, and . . .”

  The rest of the way home, she talked about the family coming for Christmas, and who would stay in what room, what sheets and quilts we would use, how we would fit everyone at the table, and where she had stored the Christmas decorations in case I wanted to pull them out when we got home.

  Guilt rushed over me, making me unable to discuss the plans with her. Christmas was only a week away, and I had not called my father to ask when he would arrive, or if he was coming at all. It was childish of me, I knew, but I was waiting for him to call me. Fortunately, Aunt Jeane was making arrangements with Karen and her husband, so that was out of my hands. As far as I knew, they were to arrive on December 23rd and leave four days later. It would be the longest visit to Hindsville of Karen’s adult life, and I wondered what sort of emotional blackmail Aunt Jeane had used to convince her to come. Aunt Jeane wouldn’t say.

  I wondered if Karen was as nervous about the visit as I was. I supposed not. Karen was always confident of her position, seldom rattled by anything.

  I called my father that night after Grandma had gone to the little house and Joshua was put to bed. In my mind, I rehearsed what I would say if he answered. Hello, I’d say matter-of-factly. I’d make some inquiry about his health or his work. Tell him how much it mattered to Grandma that he come for Christmas. Make sure he knew it didn’t really matter to me.

  Of course, the truth was that it did matter. I thought about Joshua
, and the fact that he was nearly four months old and no one in my family, except Grandma, had even seen him.

  I was relieved when Dad’s answering machine picked up. I quickly left a message. “Hello, it’s Kate. Grandma has been wondering when you’re coming for Christmas. She says she hasn’t seen you since she was in the hospital in June. She’s really looking forward to this Christmas. Please let us know as soon as you can.” I hung up the phone hurriedly, afraid he would answer. Then I sat at the kitchen table, catching my breath, feeling as if I had been running from something in a nightmare.

  The sound of the television in the living room caught my attention, and I walked through the dogtrot, wondering if Grandma had decided to come back into the house. I hoped she hadn’t heard me on the phone. I didn’t want her to know I was having to beg my father to come.

  When I entered the living room, it was empty. Shaking my head, I turned off the TV and stood looking around the room for a minute, having the irrational feeling that there were ghosts in the house. The mantel clock chimed, and I jumped, surprised by the noise.

  I thought I hid the winding key where Grandma wouldn’t find it. . . .

  Something white caught my eye near the clock, something fluttering just slightly in the draft from the register. Grandma’s book. Glancing around the room again, I walked to the mantel and picked it up, looking at the words in the dim light from the floor lamp. The story about the roses was gone, replaced by something new.

  Fragile Things, the story was titled. In the back of my mind, I thought of Joshua.

  I remember a time when I was too young to know the worry of money or work. I knew only the little things in the world around me—the grasshoppers and the flowers, the sound of dragonflies, the silk of milkweed pods, the taste of honeysuckle. I knew nothing of larger things.

  I was too young to understand the need that forced us to load the old box wagon with all that we owned—mother’s quilts and linens and dishes, the birchwood cradle she used to rock my baby brother, the blue-rimmed china that came from the old country with my grandmother, the mantel clock that had been handed down to my father. We were like that clock, proud and solid—something that shouldn’t have been moved, but was. My soul was like the china, fragile and white.

  I touched the china with reverence as we folded it among old linens in the trunk. Mother stood above me, her hands poised in the air as I touched the fine golden flowers painted like windsong along the blue edge. She hovered there silently, nervously, watching me, warning me, waiting to catch the fragile things should they fall.

  When the wagon was packed, I sat near the china trunk, my legs swinging off the rough tailgate, bare and brown, no stockings or shoes. I did not watch our small farmhouse disappear behind us. Instead, I watched my shadow slide over the ground with the silence of a serpent, the grace of velvet. I did not wonder where we were going or why. I knew our journey would end someplace wonderful.

  I saw it ahead later in the day—a settlement of fine whitewashed buildings and a tall stone church with beautiful colored glass windows. I imagined it a castle as we stopped in front, and I imagined myself a princess in the tower. From the churchyard, I heard the shouts and laughter of children, and I watched them with interest as they played. Never had I seen so many young people, and I wanted to jump from the wagon and run to join in their games.

  I was angry when my mother kept me beside her in the wagon as father climbed down. I watched him stop for a moment before he went forward to the men gathered nearby. I saw his hat clenched tightly in his hands, his strong shoulders rounded like an ox yoke, his dark head bowed as if in prayer. I saw my mother hold her hands just an inch above her lap, as if she were waiting. I did not know why these things made me feel heavy and small. My mind had no words to frame it.

  I turned, instead, to watch the children play with tiny arks and carved animals, miniature people and dolls. I imagined myself among them in a starched print dress, blue like our china, with tiny golden flowers. I thought of the fun we would soon have together, and I knew our journey had, indeed, ended someplace wonderful.

  The wagon swayed suddenly, and I heard my father clamber to his seat. Shouts and laughter followed him into the street. I started to laugh also, but the voices made me silent.

  “We don’t want beggars here!” they called. “Move on, white trash, no charity here!”

  A rock flew close to me and struck the wagon like brimstone. My mother cried out, clutching me and the baby as stones drove the mule to bolt. I huddled there, my heart fluttering like a tiny bird as the wagon bounced and swayed. Behind me, I saw the china trunk slide to the back of the wagon, then slowly topple over the edge. I cried out as it fell to the street, splintering against the ground and spewing bits of china like water drops. My father did not draw up the mule, but instead allowed him to run until the town was far behind us.

  Burying my face against my mother’s breast, I cried in anger and fear and sadness. She wrapped me in her arms and promised that things would be all right. But I knew things would be different. I knew I would be different. I understood the truth that had hidden beyond the smallness of my world—that I was not good and perfect, that others would live in wonderful places while I would not, that others were greater and I was less.

  I knew my father was right in not going back for the china. It was no longer perfect, no longer whole. It was now fragmented and sharp and, as with all things fragile, could not be made whole again.

  In that moment, I understood so much about Grandma Rose that I had not before. I understood why she was so worried about someone spoiling the things that belonged to her, why she obsessed so over her house and her savings. I understood why she couldn’t stand the sight of Dell Jordan. Dell reminded her of a past she was trying to forget, a girl she used to be. The incident with the boys in town had brought it all back to her, and she lashed out at the people who had long ago broken her own spirit.

  After reading her words, I understood how much the safety of that big white house and the security of her land and her belongings meant, and how deeply she feared losing them. I understood why she had never been willing to let even a piece of it go.

  Somewhere inside, she was the little girl in the back of a wagon, trying to hold on to something that was heavy, and fragile, and slipping away.

  Chapter 7

  THAT night I dreamed of flying. In my dream, I leapt from the bluffs above the river and soared high over the farm. Below, the maple trees were bright with fresh spring leaves, and the fields were filled with yellow bonnet flowers. Dell Jordan was running through them, her feet bare, a long yellow dress flowing around her like sunshine. Two brown-haired girls ran with her, their hands clasped together. Laughing, they fell onto the carpet of yellow bonnets and lay gazing skyward with long dark hair tangled in the grass. The smiles were mine and my sister’s, our faces young and bright with innocence.

  A child appeared from the flowers, her hair in tawny curls, her feet and legs bare and brown. Her eyes were blue like the summer sky, my grandmother’s eyes. Smiling silently, she coaxed us to our feet, and we joined hands, darting through the flowers like untamed horses. Then we ran to the bluffs above the river and disappeared into the sky.

  My limbs were leaden as I drifted between sleep and consciousness, as if my spirit had been away and had suddenly come back to the shell of my body. I lay listening for the sounds of summer outside, thinking about waking my sister and going out to play in the fields. The rattle of dishes clinking in the kitchen brought to my mind an image of Mom and Grandma cooking breakfast for all of us. For just an instant I hung suspended in the mists of my dream, forgetting who and what I was.

  A baby’s cry came from somewhere far away, and the dream rushed away like a genie disappearing into a bottle. Reality struck me with a suddenness that stole my breath, and I sat up, realizing Joshua was crying.

  I walked upstairs, feeling like an impostor in my own body.

  Joshua was wiggling in his bed with his eyes
still closed, so I slipped the pacifier into his mouth, watched him settle into sleep again, and tiptoed to the window. Outside, the first long rays of a winter dawn rose into the sky like outstretched fingers. The hillsides and farmyard remained shrouded in dusky gray, and a pair of deer had come to graze just outside the yard fence. They started suddenly, raising their heads and flicking their tails, then darting into the murky darkness beyond the glow of the yard light.

  Grandma appeared in front of the little house and walked slowly along the path toward the main house, her gray wool coat wrapped over her pajamas. Leaving the window, I went downstairs and found her in the kitchen.

  “Katie!” She jumped and slapped a hand over her heart when she saw me. “What are you doing up?”

  “Josh was crying,” I whispered, as if there were someone else in the house to hear. “Are you O.K.?”

  She smiled, starting to fix the coffee. “Oh, yes. Fine. I just couldn’t get back to sleep. Don’t let me keep you up. You go back to bed.”

  “All right,” I said, turning to leave.

  “I had the most wonderful dream.” Her voice was almost a whisper, her face turned away. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or not, but I stopped to listen. “It was all about spring and yellow bonnet flowers. I was young again.” The last words faded into a sigh, and she stood looking out the window. Silent.

  Watching her, I thought of the tawny-haired girl in my dream—the girl who had my grandmother’s summer-sky eyes. I wanted to ask if her dream had been like mine—if our souls had truly become young again and galloped together through the fields of yellow bonnets. Words came to my mind, but not to my lips, and finally I turned away and left her there staring out the window.