Running Against Traffic

by Gaelen VanDenbergh

  Paige tried on her new, stiff gardening gloves and looked at the plants all around her on the ground. She looked around at the hard-packed, scrappy back lawn, with stretches of bare dirt yawning through the sparse grass. The yard was surrounded by thatches of weeds, and a selection of unidentified, brittle trees that did not flower in any way, but often dropped hard or prickly things on her head if she stood too near.

  “I can’t do this,” Paige said, softly. “Can we just go have wine and plan the garden?”

  Deirdre had been striding through the yard, squinting up at where the sun hit, and setting the flats of flowers in various areas of the perimeter. “I thought we were changing your life today,” she said, walking back to where Paige was standing and sulking.

  “Starting my life. There’s nothing to change, as of yet.”

  “Well, then let’s get started.” She put her arm around Paige’s shoulders. “Come on, honey,” she said, warmly. “Gardening is good therapy, and produces lovely, soothing scenery, as well as wholesome, organic, healing food to eat. It’s as good a place to start as any, and when you go to sell the place you’ll get a better price because it’s landscaped.”

  Paige glanced at her sideways, but Deirdre was already squatting to sort through the vegetables.

  Digging up the cracked earth and fitting the palmfulls of baby plants into the ground was arduous labor and the sun scorched their skin despite the wide-brimmed sun hats Deirdre brought for them to wear. Sweat poured down their faces and stung their eyes and Paige got to the point where if she squatted one more time she wouldn’t be able to rise again. She had new respect for the elderly.

  “What’s going on with you and Al?” Deirdre panted, prying up dirt from the garden bed while attempting to pry up dirt from Paige.

  Paige threw down her trowel and wiped her forehead on her sleeve. “Nothing,” she said. “And I mean that. Nada. Nothing to tell.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Deirdre laughed.

  “You do? How do you think I feel?”

  Deirdre looked at her expectantly.

  “Confused, that’s how.” Paige pushed herself to her feet and reached for the watering can. “I’m not sure what it is, but I sense that it’s a conscious effort on his part to keep me at arms length. I don’t know why, but I’m trying…I’m trying to just get over it. Then I’ll catch him looking at me, with those eyes, those eyes, and I just…I don’t know! You tell me. You know him better than I do.”

  Deirdre’s eyebrows drew together and she chewed her lip for a moment. “I don’t know what’s going on in his head,” she said. “What I do know is that Darnell sent him here when he was young, to keep him out of trouble. But even though he was here so much of the time, cared for by me, he felt badly about it. He was so loyal to his mom, especially because his father ran out on her.” She wiggled her toes in her sandals, working some of the dirt out.

  Paige watched her closely. “But what does that mean?”

  Deirdre shook her head. “Ask him.”

  Is that why Darnell keeps your relationship under wraps? Is he worried about Al’s disapproval? Paige thought. She opened her mouth to speak but snapped it shut again. They went back to work, too focused on their aching limbs to talk anymore.

  Finally, after what had to have been several hours, the women flopped onto the grass in the shade of a tree and guzzled from large glasses of ice water.

  Deirdre finished her glass and tossed it aside, falling back onto the ground.

  “That was a lot of work,” Paige accused, poking Deirdre’s sunburned arm. Her clothes stuck to her and she was itching from the film of dirt and sweat coating her skin everywhere.

  “Why are you always asking me personal questions and helping me every time I need it?” Paige asked, pushing herself up on her elbows.

  Deirdre looked at her as if she was crazy. “What do you mean? I like you. You’re my friend.”

  Paige was confused. “You do? Why?”

  Deirdre’s eyebrows shot up and for once she seemed at a loss for words. After a beat, her face softened. “Haven’t you ever had a woman friend?”

  Paige shrugged and lay back and tipped her face skyward. “I think Al should be obligated to do something with me. At minimum, he should be sleeping with me as a favor, after all I’ve done for him!”

  Deirdre nodded solemnly. “You definitely need to get laid. It’s the least he could do.”

  Al found them in the kitchen, pink and sweaty, dirt smeared on their faces and arms, their fingernails black despite the gloves worn all day.

  “What is going on here?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of water.

  “Go look out back,” Deirdre said, proudly. Al opened the kitchen door and stepped outside to admire their hard work, and Paige marveled at how exhausted she was, despite her running keeping her in good shape. Her entire body ached, and she felt as if she could nap for hours. But the back yard, at least, was starting to take on a new life. Deirdre had explained that the flowers would fill out the beds that they had clawed up and fertilized into soft, black stretches of soil, making it easy to press their fingers in to hollow out a space for one plant after another.

  They had chosen a section on one side of the yard that would be bathed in sunlight for several hours each day, and painstakingly clawed up the dirt, raked in fertilizer, and planted each vegetable plant.

  Deirdre called Carmen’s boyfriend Paul to come help them rake up the bare patches in the grass and re-seed them, and then they had watered everything, making the many colors vibrant. Then they had crawled inside to collapse, after sending Paul back to the grocery store with promises of making him dinner soon.

  “Yo, that’s not bad!” Al popped his head back in the kitchen. Then he frowned. “Ladies, please go bathe and get into clean clothes. Miss Starfire won’t be home for hours, so I’ll open the wine and fix up some food.”

  Deirdre nodded. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she said, pushing her weary body up from the table. “But Al, please, let me bring the food.”

  Paige peeled off her sweat-soaked clothes by the tub that was filling with hot water and bath salts. Her skin was coated in a layer of dirt and fertilizer that stuck to her sweat in a grimy film. She stepped into the tub and sank into the water feeling surprisingly satisfied by the accomplishments of the day. Maybe the plants would actually survive. Maybe her vegetables would grow and produce actual food. She would have to learn how to cook.

  On Monday morning Paige was still feeling sore from the weekend’s grueling gardening, but she couldn’t help but dash out to check on her garden beds, and she felt like a smug chicken, checking over her eggs. Everything seemed to still be alive, and the sun was beginning to creep across the yard, and soon would be shining on all of her little protégés. She decided she would see if the hardware store carried sprinklers, and a hose. There was a spigot on the side of the house, near the pond. She hoped it worked, then she could give everything a good soaking, as rain was not in the forecast for another week. Not a bad thing, as the roof was still leaking, after nearly a year of Al declaring triumphantly that it was all fixed up.

  Paige walked through the little gate in the fence and headed around to the front lawn. Bryce and Al were there, warming up for the morning run, and Paige stopped short when she saw that they were not alone. Five or six townies were there, re-tying their laces, doing jumping jacks, stretching. Paige looked questioningly at Al, who mouthed I have no idea, and turned to smile at one of the men in the group.

  “Excuse me, Charlie,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt, but what gives?”

  Charlie smiled pleasantly and then dropped down to touch his toes. He bobbed back up. “What do you mean?” he asked, still smiling.

  Al folded his arms across his chest. “I mean, what are y’all doing here?” he enunciated slowly.

  “We’re here to run,” Charlie replied, brightly.

  “Ah, of course. Excuse me,” Al said, politely, and turned away from him to face Paige. Crack
pots, he mouthed, twirling a finger in the air.

  “Don’t you know them?” Paige whispered.

  “Some of them. Doesn’t change anything,” Al hissed. He turned to the group and clapped his hands. “Okay, people, let’s move.” They whooped a collective cheer and started bobbing up and down, jogging in place, waiting for Al to lead the way.

  They started off down the road en masse. Bryce dawdled behind the group and at one point tried to sneak away down a side road, but Al was checking, and sprinted off to catch him and steer him back to the front of the group, placing Bryce between himself and Paige. “Don’t try that again,” he warned. Paige was impressed by the assertive tone, coming from someone who was usually so laissez-faire. She looked at him sidelong as they jogged, and felt a great rush of attraction to his strength and determination. She looked forward again, focusing on her breathing and her posture, and her blood pumping faster, her brain churning out endorphins. She was slightly distracted by still more townspeople out on their porches, drinking their coffee, watching for them and waving at them as they went by. Some were still in their bathrobes, but they sat on stoops and leaned against porch railings and yelled encouragement. The townies running with them hooted and whooped back at the onlookers, while Paige, Al and Bryce elbowed each other and made faces.

  Every morning before their runs, Paige liked to dart out the back door with her coffee and check on her plants. She walked the perimeter of the yard, examining the leaves where bugs had munched tiny holes, admiring growth, and pressing her fingers to the soil around them to see if they needed water. She sipped her coffee and poked around, feeling very maternal. The heady scents from her herbs, flowers, and tomato plants, combining with the rich smell of warm earth was intoxicating, and she fantasized about cooking up fresh, tasty meals, once the produce matured.

  She began to notice that while certain plants were flourishing, others simply disappeared. She named the vanishing ones David Plants. Around her flowers, she discovered anorexic but determined weeds growing up against them, flowering deceptively in attempt to fool the gardener while crowding out the intended flower and taking over its spot entirely. She called them Simones, and was careful to yank them out as they appeared around the garden. Garden gloves were necessary for many of these weeds, because though they flowered decoratively, when she touched their stems they either pricked her or gave her a rash. She giggled to herself about this discovery, wondering how many men had gotten a rash from Simone. She hoped David was one of them.

  On an overcast Sunday, Deirdre stopped by mid-morning to check on things. She joined Paige in the back yard and clapped her on the back. “So, how are the vegetables today?”

  “They’re still upstairs sleeping. They won’t be up for a while.”

  Deirdre peered over at a bare patch in the garden. “Didn’t we plant something there?”

  Paige nodded. “It turned out to be a David.”

  “It looks like a critter carried it off,” Deirdre said. “You had better get the boys to build you a wire fence around your garden.”

  “My garden,” Paige echoed. “I never thought I would ever hear that.” A warm rain began to sprinkle softly. The women stayed, enjoying the gray of the morning, and the raindrops soaking into the earth, splashing on their bare arms and toes, plinking in their coffee.

  Later, finding herself with nothing do on the warm, rainy Sunday, Paige wandered into town. She stopped to gaze down the length of Main Street, the way she had nearly a year ago, when she had first arrived. It was the same road, in the same town, but the trees were no longer menacing. They watched over her. Paige walked up to the lake and sat on a wet bench for a while, soaked by the drizzle, watching Dingbat splash around with his girlfriend.

  Her mind settled into a disconcerted place. Perhaps a little lonely. She wondered if it was loneliness, or realizing that she would be alone again, soon. She didn’t belong here, this was not home. It was home to everyone around her, and they had opened it to her, but she couldn’t stay forever.

  Carmen and her darling boyfriend would stay forever. They would marry, have a pack of children, and run the store. Bryce was dating a boy from the university a few towns over, whom he had met while hanging around campus, in the throws of a tryst with a professor – who knows if that affair was for money or for fun, but he had bought himself a nice new bicycle. The frogs were out of hibernation and snuggling in the sun on the flat rocks by her pond. They annoyed her with throaty love songs to each other at night. Even Dingbat the Solitary had coaxed another duck to settle in Wells Lake, though she would probably convince him to move, soon.

  Paige watched Dingbat herd his mate through the water, now deep and nearly overflowing its banks, and then they swam over to her, quacking expectantly. Paige fished around in her pockets but she didn’t have anything for them, so she stood and slowly walked back through town.

  And Al, she gloomed as she walked, dragging her feet. Al’s presence in the house had been scarce, lately. No doubt he was cooking up a little summer romance as well. He had been going out most evenings, smelling delicious, and she knew that Darnell’s wasn’t so busy that he was needed every night. Perhaps Adriana was back in residence at the Guest House.

  The rain lightened to a soft mist, and she was awash with a sick feeling that always came over her when she was about to be transplanted. She was never deeply rooted anywhere, nor did she feel the warm bond of home, but in her entire past, whenever she had changed residences it had been a ripping up and throwing down experience. She had never been able to think about it first, feel out the new ground, get a grip.

  This time was different. She would be doing the transplant of herself, by herself. She had plenty of time to get used to the idea. Nothing but time stretched behind and before her, but the faint sick feeling was still there.

  She needed to find a way to finish the house and put it on the market. Her stomach was doing the Mambo, and she decided it would be best to write it all down, and discuss it with Dr. Hackney, in their way, passing her journal back and forth.

  The next day she left the office at two o’clock and hurried to her appointment. The inner office had peaceful, quiet safety, with its dim light and tucked in atmosphere. It was a place of solace. It was so peaceful that Dr. Hackney fell asleep with her journal in his hands. Paige curled up on the sofa to mull over her situation on her own, but soon dropped off into a nap as well.

  When she awoke it was four o’ clock. She eased her journal off of the doctor’s lap and tiptoed out of his office. She sprinted back to the law office and garbled to her boss about an emotional breakthrough. He nodded, eyes narrowed, then snapped that he wasn’t going to pay his father for the extra hour.

  On Thursday, Paige marched to her shrink’s office and handed him the journal. In a few minutes he was asleep again. She took the journal back and doodled in it for a while. After a half hour, she nudged him with her foot, and he lifted his head and smiled. “Where were we?” he asked, clearing his throat.

  Paige handed him the journal and sat back. I think I need to move back to Philadelphia.

  Dr. Hackney nodded. “Of course you do,” he said. He said it the way Carmen would say “well, duh.” This made him smirk.

  Chapter 21

  Paige awoke in the middle of the night to a clattering and muffled swearing downstairs at the front door. She leapt out of bed, panicked. This is it, she thought. A criminal has broken in. It’s not just a local drunk coming to crash on her couch. Please let it be a burglar, she thought. They will realize that she has nothing of value and leave. A local drunk might not leave for days.

  She crept to Al’s room to wake him, but it was empty, as was Bryce’s. She grabbed her mace from her nightstand and tiptoed down the stairs. Peeking into the kitchen, she saw Al, and he was grappling with a local drunk. The drunk was Bryce. Al had dragged him into the house and gotten him as far as the kitchen floor, where Bryce’s boot had become caught on one of the table legs.

  Al saw Paige st
anding there staring at them, and he looked scared, then defeated. “Help me out, here,” he said, trying to wrench Bryce out from under the table. Paige stomped to the table, anger starting to simmer inside of her. She wrestled with Bryce’s boot and he opened one bloodshot eye. “Heeey, leggo my eggo,” he slurred.

  “He’s wasted,” Al explained.

  “Really,” Paige snapped. “Think so?”

  “Help me get him to the couch. He can sleep it off there.”

  Paige grabbed one leg and Bryce jerked and his boot kicked her in the eye. She was knocked backward onto the floor and she screamed from the pain. Al let go of Bryce and rushed to her, dropping to his knees and gathering her to him. “Jesus, Paige, you okay?” He tried to hug her to his chest and she shoved him away and fingered around her eye. It was tender, and her tailbone hurt from where she had fallen.

  Paige pushed herself up from the floor, seething and sure she was frothing at the mouth. Al looked annoyed, now. “Cut him a break,” he said.

  “You want me to cut him a break, really?”

  Al stood and folded his arms, defiantly. “Yes,” he said. His voice was deep and firm.

  Through clenched teeth, Paige said “You cut him a break. Cut him a break somewhere else. I don’t want either of you here when I wake up tomorrow. You want to cut him a break, drag him over to Deirdre’s and shove a handful of pills down his throat yourself. You’re both pathetic, and I’m sick of it! I’m going to bed!”

  Paige turned and ran upstairs to her bedroom, falling into the bed and pulling a pillow over her head to cut out all sound. Her head was pounding so loudly she could hear it. When she finally lifted the pillow, the house was silent. She could hear the frogs and the crickets, singing their night songs, but inside she was alone in quiet emptiness. She lay staring at the ceiling for a long time, an aching sadness pushing sleep away.