“Thank God! There are survivors!”
Thunder grumbled in the distance.
“I didn’t know we had thunderstorms in the forecast today.”
“Forty percent chance,” mumbled George through the hands that cradled his anguished face. “With the possibility that a few could become severe.”
There was more thunder, this one a long, distant roll, followed shortly by a louder crack. That brought George out of his funk and sent him and Nan racing through the twilight into the front yard.
There was no mistaking that they were in the crosshairs of this thunderstorm. Looking across the lake, they could see a black sky alive with ragged strings of lightning. What especially alarmed them was some of the black was turning a sickly green. A burst of wind from out of nowhere collided with them, almost knocking them over.
“Straight-line winds!” George said. “This will be big!”
“We have to cover the plants! We have to protect them!”
They sprinted to the shed to get the plastic tarps with grommeted borders and the ropes. The hail had already begun to rattle against the roof and vinyl siding of the house by the time they threw one madly flapping tarp over some of their newest little darlings—the hibiscus—and had just started to pass the rope through the grommets. Then, as thunder crashed above, the skies opened up, hurtling a blizzard of hailstones the size of marbles earthward. It wasn’t long before bigger ones—some as large as ping-pong balls—came crashing down. Glass shattered somewhere. It sounded as if artillery rounds were crashing into the walls and roof of their house.
George and Nan finally had to drop their rope ends and run for the eaves that sheltered that part of the patio immediately adjacent to the back door. There, they sat silently and grimly watched as chaos engulfed their beautiful gardens and tore them to ribbons. In ten minutes, it was done. The furious wind subsided and the hail gave way to a steady downpour of rain. The backyard was covered more than two inches deep with white hailstones of all shapes and sizes, as well as several large and medium-sized branches, and dozens of smaller branches and twigs that had been sliced off the trees. One large branch came crashing down onto one of the rose trellises, cleaving it in two. It wasn’t a half hour before the rain ended and the clouds gave way to a moonless night darkened even further by a neighborhood power outage.
The next morning it looked as if a hurricane had roared through. In addition to all the branches lying everywhere, leaves had been stripped from most of the trees. Many had been plastered to the sides of the house. They stuck there as if they had been glued on. Much of the siding was dented and puckered from the pounding it had taken from the hail. Scores of broken shingle pieces were lying around the yard. Others had probably blown off into neighbors’ yards. The glass in one of the front windows had been shattered, as had the rear window in Cullen’s Camaro and the front passenger side window of Ellis’s Duster. The electricity came back on around four thirty a.m. with blasts from the radio and TV, which had been left on by the kids when the power shut off.
As Ellis, Cullen, and Sis gathered the branches into several big piles, George and Nan surveyed their backyard gardens, which had been crumpled, sliced, battered, and broken. The shrubs and bushes were still standing, but what was the point? Their leaves and blooms had been shredded. At least, George noted with grim satisfaction, the hated angel’s trumpets hadn’t made it; their leaves and flowers were pulverized.
“There are a few survivors,” Nan said glumly. “The alyssum’s okay. The hosta under the eaves. Gosh, one of the hydrangeas seems intact. It’s close enough to the house that the way the hail was angling down, it must have missed it. That’s about it. Everything else’s torn to pieces.”
A small crowd of neighbors and friends had gathered on Payne Avenue to survey the damage. Several had their hands clamped around their faces and their mouths open in shock. Here were the Boozers, the Rodards, and the Mikkelsons, Deanna noting happily once condolences were offered and an appropriate moment of silence was observed that she was due in late August and that it was going to be a boy. Then came the McCandlesses and the Winthrops walking gravely up the steps. They stood next to the Fremonts and for several quiet moments surveyed the damage.
“All that work!” Jane McCandless said, her voice breaking as she wrapped her arms around Nan. “All that hard work!”
“The insurance should cover this,” said Alex McCandless. “I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know,” George said. “Who could put a price on what we lost here?”
The Fremont children crisscrossed the yard, gathering up debris in stony silence as if they were collecting the bodies of plague victims who had died overnight.
“What happened to you guys?” Nan wondered.
“Power out, that’s all,” Alex said. “A couple branches down. Nothing that bad compared to you guys.”
“We didn’t even get hail,” Juanita Winthrop said. “And our power never went out. It was you guys right next to the lake that got the brunt of the storm. Go down the street two blocks and there isn’t any damage at all.”
Someone carrying a clipboard and holding a pen had stealthily joined their group, and was also looking around the yard.
“The homeowners here?” The Winthrops and McCandlesses pointed to the Fremonts.
“That was quick!” said George. “We just called two hours ago.” The insurance adjustor smiled, and handed him his business card.
“Quite a mess you got here,” he said. “I’ve already looked at the home. Looks like you’ll need new siding in the front, a new window, and maybe a new roof. We’ll have to work out some figures and get back to you. You’ll have to call your auto insurance for the cars, assuming those parked on the street are yours. Anything damaged inside?”
“We had some frozen ice cream cakes in the freezer,” Nan said. “And several gallon-sized buckets of Rocky Road. Extra-creamy Rocky Road. They’re all mush now. Melted ice cubes. The limes are probably warmer than we would like. Thank God we don’t drink chilled white wine.”
“Make a list,” the adjustor said. “Funny. The rest of the neighborhood barely got touched. Just little stuff. Never seen anything like it. You guys were at the epicenter.”
“What about all this?” said Nan with a sweep of her hand.
“All what?”
“Why, our beautiful gardens. They’ve been wrecked.”
“Hmmm. We probably won’t give you much for that. We’re already covering the house and roof. I see your thing over here. . . .”
“Trellis.”
“The trellis is wrecked. We might give you something for that. But don’t count on much for plants. We might give you a few hundred. No more than that, I would think.”
“A few hundred! These gardens are virtually priceless!”
“Sorry. You can submit a list to us of the plants damaged and destroyed and their approximate greenhouse value. We’ll see.”
“You need to fight them on that,” Alex said as the insurance man walked around the yard. “You should get thousands for that.”
“Even thousands won’t make up for it,” said George. “Maybe $200,000.”
“Two hundred thousand?” said Juanita. “How come that much exactly?”
“That’s how much the Burdick’s Best Yard Contest first prize is up to now. You know, the contest we just lost.”
“Maybe all the other contestants suffered damage, too,” Juanita said. Nan and George forced wan, unbelieving smiles.
“What’s worst is it’s like losing your friends,” said Nan, a tear sparkling in each eye. “This was such an animated place. Now it’s so quiet. Even the ones that are still living aren’t talking. They’re hurting too much. And to think that we had really just gotten to know them. Listen.” The McCandlesses and Winthrops earnestly pretended to listen.
“Hear that?”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Juanita.
“I hear something,” Steve said.
“
No you don’t!” retorted Nan sharply. “Don’t patronize me. There’s nothing. What you hear is the sound of silence. What can something say if it’s dead?”
Juanita and Jane hugged Nan, while Steve and Alex nodded sadly.
“Well, I guess it’s about time to call Jerry and get him and his chain saw over here,” said George after the Winthrops and McCandlesses made their slow, somber way down the steps, stopping and swiveling their heads halfway down as if not believing the damage they had witnessed and having to check again to prove it to themselves. Nan noticed appreciatively that, as always, they managed to negotiate the steps without disturbing any of her pea gravel.
Another visitor was climbing up the steps toward them, stopping halfway to the patio to pivot and survey the carnage spread out before her with a long sigh. Short of stature and middle-aged, she carried herself with the familiarity and confidence of someone the Fremonts figured they should know. She stopped directly in front of them, smiled meekly, and offered her hand.
“I just wanted to tell you how much I feel your pain,” the woman said softly. “I’m just distraught at what happened here. Well, you don’t really know me, but I’ve been a big admirer of your gardening skills for a long time. I wanted to offer you the solace of someone who cares a lot more than you might realize.”
The Fremonts looked on, puzzled, but accepted the woman’s proffered friendship. Her tiny hand had the firm, purposeful feel of someone who meant what she said.
“I’m sorry,” Nan said. “But your name is . . . ?”
“Marta.”
“Marta what?”
“Just Marta’s enough.”
“Sounds familiar. Don’t we know you?”
“I don’t think so. But, as I said, I know you.”
“Wait a minute!” said George, snapping his fingers. “That voice. I know that voice. I know who you are.”
Marta winced and held her breath, hoping that she wouldn’t start hyperventilating.
“You’re the voice of Kurt’s Karamel Kandies! On the radio. Between innings during the Muskies games! The one that does the Kurt’s Alerts, then finds somebody at the ballpark eating your caramels and gives him a year’s supply if he can eat ten at one time. ‘Eat Kurt’s Till It Hurts.’ I love that promotion. I never mistake a voice. That’s you, isn’t it?”
Marta almost fainted with relief.
“No, not me. Sorry.”
“Dang,” George said. “That’s the first time I’ve mistaken a voice.”
“Well,” said Marta, “I won’t waste any more of your time. I did want to tell you that I know what happened to you and may be able to make it right.”
“You what?” Nan said.
“That’s all I can say for now,” said Marta, who had turned and was about to make her way back down the steps. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Be patient.”
“Hang on, there, Mrs. . . . Poppendauber.” Marta stopped dead in her tracks. “A little bird told us that you might have had something to do with all the trouble we’ve been having.”
“And that little bird would be correct,” said Marta, wringing her hands. “But I didn’t want to. I was weak and Doc Phil . . . ah . . . Dr. Sproot had been my best friend for many years. She had helped me so much to become the gardener I am now, not as good as she is, of course, or you. But I did break loose eventually. I am my own woman now, and I have actually already helped you.”
“The woman in the robes!” George cried. “The spy!”
“Correct again,” Marta said. “But I never did any damage other than snipping off a few of your monarda.”
“And that’s what you call help?” said Nan. “Strange definition of the word, if you ask me.”
“Hang on!” George said. “You’re the angel-monk with the cross that night. The one that vanquished the zom . . . uh . . . Dr. Sproot! You did help us.”
“Oh, jeez,” Nan moaned.
Marta sighed.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any of that wine of yours handy, would you?” she said. “I’m afraid you haven’t heard the whole story of what has happened here. If you don’t mind, I’d kind of like to fill you in.”
30
Garden Renewal for Fun and Profit
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Nan said. “Not a word. I mean, really. A witch’s curse on our property? This is some kind of joke . . . isn’t it, George?”
“Pretty hard to buy,” George said. “But she seemed sincere. She seemed sane. And, Nan-bee, you might have noticed that some people have been wondering about our sanity, what with us yakking it up with the plants and all. And you and your sentient flowers. I mean, if this was Salem, Mass, circa 1690, you’d be toast. Besides, she’s as old as we are, maybe older. When you come right down to it, how many people our age get their jollies telling people lies about spells being cast on them? Huh? There must be something to it. And it’s the same story Dr. Sproot was trying to tell us.”
“That’s hardly a reliable source,” Nan said acidly, peeved that George would stoop so law as to connect her proven techniques of cross-cultural contact with such a dark, superstitious absurdity as witchcraft. “And sane? This Marta Poppendauber is the same woman who’s been dressing up like a monk to spy on us. I’d say she’s got a side to her that’s certifiably wacko.
“Let’s say it’s true, which it is not for one thing, and for two, it would be blaspheming. But just for argument’s sake, let’s say there’s something to all this hokum. Okay? Here goes: ‘Edith. Edith Merton. I know you can hear me with your witch powers. Edith, please call up one of your good spells and plunk down a check right here in front of us to cover the damages. A check for, um, $100,000 or so would work quite nicely as a starter, thank you.’ Okay, where’s the puff of smoke and the check? Nowhere, of course. You know, it really burns me up that I haven’t heard that Marta Poppendauber or anyone else stepping forward to offer that kind of restorative justice.”
“She said be patient.”
Nan snorted.
“Well, I’ve had it up to here with patience,” she said.
George and Nan were sipping diet Cokes as evening rolled around, wine and gin not really seeming appropriate considering what they had been through. They gazed abstractedly into the meaningless jumble of torn, knocked-down plants that was their backyard. A light breeze wafted their way, carrying with it the scent of charcoal and lighter fluid.
“Somebody’s firing up the grill,” said George unenthusiastically.
“The Cadawalladers,” said Nan. “Whatever it is they’re cooking, they’ll vaporize it. We’ll be smelling carbon and ash soon.”
George smiled joylessly.
“I guess it’s about time we figured out whether we have misspent the last six years of our lives indulging in a fruitless, unproductive hobby at the expense of our livelihood,” said Nan. “We need to get off our hindquarters and start looking for jobs, full time and permanent. That means we start pounding the pavement tomorrow. Time for you to freshen up the old résumé, bud.”
“Freshen it up with what?”
“Good point.”
A week later, after their first unsuccessful rounds of job interviews, George and Nan settled in on the patio, pinching pennies by reluctantly tolerating the cheapest merlot they could find.
“Damn if this rotgut doesn’t work fast,” Nan said, puckering her lips. “You sure someone didn’t bottle one hundred percent grain alcohol in here and just add a little sour grape juice for flavoring?”
Just after they had waved halfheartedly to the Boozers, who waved back and said something inaudible, a black BMW pulled up on the side of the road, leaving enough room between it and the leper Duster to avoid any chance of contamination. Out stepped a serious-looking man wearing a dark suit and carrying a plain but tasteful briefcase.
“Uh-oh, another jerk realtor,” growled George. “It’s okay. One more glass of this stuff and screw propriety; we’ll just keep insulting him till he leaves.”
�
�Now, dear, be civil. We are the Fremonts, after all.”
The man walked briskly up the steps, making a good impression on Nan by not mussing up her pea gravel and disarming George with a serious mien that didn’t even hint of phony neighborliness.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fremont?” George and Nan nodded. “I am Jasper Burdick, owner of Burdick’s PlantWorld as well as any number of other enterprises with which I won’t bore you this evening. You may have heard of me and I am quite certain you’ve heard of our big contest. The results were announced Tuesday, you know.”
“We know,” Nan said with a hiccup. “So, you’re here to tell us we didn’t win? We know that already. Just look around. We know Marta Poppendauber won first place and our heartfelt congratulations go out to her.”
Mr. Burdick chuckled.
“Glass of budget merlot?” George said halfheartedly, motioning for their unexpected guest to seat himself.
“No,” Mr. Burdick said. “I want to get down strictly to business here. And I think you will find my visit to be quite a pleasant surprise.”
“How might that be?” Nan said.
Mr. Burdick cleared his throat.
“How that might be is that we’ve awarded you first place in the Burdick’s Best Yard Contest. Your first-place sign will be delivered to you later this week. I, however, am here to personally deliver to you your official certificate of congratulations and a check for $200,000.”
For a minute, the earth stood still. No bird twittered. No tree rustled. No plant photosynthesized.
“I’m sure this comes as something of a shock,” said Mr. Burdick as George and Nan stared vacantly at him. “A good shock, I would think, but I can see you’re flummoxed.”
George grabbed one of the bottles of merlot, which came from a small town in Utah, and not too far from a big uranium mine, and squinted at the label.
“I don’t see anything here that would unduly speed up brain cell mutation,” he said. “But it sure is very bad wine. Could you repeat what you said, Mr. Burdick? My wife, as you can see, has gone apocalyptic . . . I mean, ha-ha, apoplectic on us.”
Backyard Page 27