What Grows in Your Garden

  “That I was only a cop, right?”

  “No! Remember telling me about how your father taught you to look for a cop if you ever needed help? Well, I got the same lecture, and, like you, I believed it. I grew up knowing that if I was lost, or hurt, or afraid, a cop would help me. The real problem is that I’ve never grown up.”

  “You’re thirty years old, Sarah.”

  “Yes, but until five months ago, I lived nowhere but under my parents’ roof. They fed me, clothed me, sheltered me, and helped pay for my education. I worked hard in school and earned quite a lot of scholarship money, but I never had to support myself. I never paid a bill, or even cashed a paycheck.”

  “Lucky you. But I still don’t get . . .”

  “That night we met, someone had damaged my car and called me an ugly name. I was tired and scared. Then there you were—the cop Papa always promised me. I saw you as my rescuer. I was the little kid in trouble, and you were the grown-up who could save me.”

  “Happy to oblige!”

  “Yes, but don’t you see? For me, you were—perhaps still are—an authority figure.”

  “I'm only five years older than you. That difference is not wide enough to make me an authority figure in our relationship.”

  “But it does. At Thanksgiving, when your father described all your accolades, I felt even smaller than I had before. Not only were you my rescuer, you were also someone who far out-distanced me in terms of academic accomplishments. I was in awe of you but also angry that the distance between us was growing rather than shrinking. And now you’ve added another advancement. From your end, we may seem more like social equals. But from where I stand, I’m still the kid and you’re still the grown-up.”

  She looked over at him and saw a muscle jumping in his cheek. He was struggling to deal with her pronouncement. “We’re part of the same generation, Sarah. I’m not a child predator.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. But you try to take care of me while I’m fighting to gain a sense of independence.”

  “What would you have me do, then?”

  “Quit trying to help me. Don’t jump in every time I have a problem.”

  The car swerved as he jerked the wheel and pulled onto the shoulder. “OK. Fair enough. Go on. Get yourself home. This is a main thoroughfare, and someone will stop for a pretty girl and her cat. You know how to hitchhike, don’t you? You just stick your thumb out and . . .”

  She stared at him. “Whoa! You have a childish side, too. That’s refreshing. It’s the first time you’ve ever been mad at me.”

  “Hah! That’s what you were trying to accomplish, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. I’m hoping that you’ll understand that I need some space to grow. If I need new tires, I may ask you for advice. But I don’t expect you to take over and go get the new tires for me. I’m only asking which dealer you recommend. I can take it from there.

  “Today offers a good example. If you dump me out here along the side of the road, I’ll need help from someone. I admit that. It’s a long walk back to Birch Falls. But I didn’t need a ride from the airport. I’m capable of claiming my suitcase, heading for the rent-a-car counter, and driving myself home. In fact, if you hadn’t taken me to the airport in the first place, my car would have been there waiting for me. I can manage my own affairs, and you need to let me do it.”

  “In my defense, I enjoy helping you.”

  “I’m sure you do. But you might feel even better if you help me become a strong and independent woman—one who can stand by your side as an equal, not a responsibility who uses you as a crutch.”

  “Do we still get to date?”

  “Yes, although there’s no need to fill my every empty evening and weekend. I would quite enjoy some time alone to smear my face with mud, crawl into my pajamas, and read a good book. I don’t think I’ve read anything for enjoyment since I arrived here.”

  “And what about holidays?”

  “Sometimes, sure. But there will be occasions when I want to be a hostess rather than a guest. As a matter of fact, we might as well clear the air about Passover right now. There’s a Jewish professor in the music department. He and his wife have no family here, so they hold a Seder for any student who has nowhere to go for Passover. He’s already asked me to attend this year and give the answers to the traditional questions of the Haggadah.1 From what he tells me, the students are always a little shy about doing so. He’s even invited my Elijah.”

  “And you’ve agreed.”

  “I have.”

  “That news will disappoint Mother.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “What about Purim?2 Can you join us for the traditional feast that evening?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Purim falls during our Spring Break this year, and I am spending the week at the University of North Carolina—doing some research and attending the Nineteenth-Century Studies conference. My plane reservation is for Monday morning, so I won’t be here for the Feast of Purim. Perhaps I can make it up to your mother by helping with the Hamantashen3 ahead of time, if that would please her.”

  “She does kreplach,4 too and puts them in chicken soup for the homeless shelter.”

  “Fine. I have a talent for pinching and sealing. Have her call me, and we’ll make cooking plans.”

  “You have an answer for everything.”

  “Yes, I do. You need to listen now and then.” She grinned at him as she saw his shoulders sag a bit in surrender.

  “But you don’t mind accepting a ride from here to your front door?”

  “No, it seems like a logical solution to the difficulties of being left in the middle of nowhere. But thanks for giving me the choice.”

  The rest of the trip took place in near silence. Now and then, one of them would make a comment on the passing scene, but their usual banter did not develop. At the apartment, David parked at her garage entrance close to her back door. He removed her suitcase from the trunk while she pulled the cat stroller from the back seat.

  “Are you coming in?”

  “Better not. I need to check into headquarters and make sure there have been no crises while I’ve been gallivanting. And you have some unpacking to do.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be all right for dinner?”

  “I left several frozen meals so I wouldn’t need an immediate grocery run. And there’s cat food, too. We’ll be fine.”

  “OK, then. Uh, what happens tomorrow and the rest of the week?”

  “An 8:00 AM faculty meeting, class preps, a short break on Tuesday to watch the presidential inauguration during lunch, and then chaos as we get ready for classes to resume on Wednesday.”

  “Sounds busy.”

  “Yes.”

  ”He shook his head in bewilderment. “I’ll call you.”

  She busied herself moving all her belongings into the kitchen. Then she hurried through the apartment, turning on lights, opening curtains, and adjusting the thermostat. She opened the cat stroller so that Elijah could get out when he woke up. On the dining room table, she found a mound of mail gathered by her landlady, who had also offered to water her ficus plant and make sure everything was undisturbed. And on the desk, her phone blinked an insistent red light, telling of messages waiting.

  She started there. Most were recordings or sales pitches, and she clicked through them. The last was from Beth.

  “Hi, Sarah. Just checking to see if you are home yet. I guess you are if you’re listening to this. Anyway, I'm eager to talk to you. I've had an interesting vacation period getting to know the mushroom guy you introduced me to. If you’re not going out somewhere with your cop, call me. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll see you at tomorrow’s faculty meeting. Bye!”

  She shuddered at the cheerfulness of the message. Beth would have to wait. Sarah was in no mood to listen to someone’s tale of a budding romance. Her alternative was tackling the pile of mail. She pulled a wastebasket to the table and began to fill it with ads for maga
zine sales, a brochure from a new dentist’s office, insurance offers, and grocery store flyers. Then she turned to the smaller stack of bills and threw away all the fillers that accompanied most of the statements. All she kept were the bills themselves and their return envelopes. She gritted her teeth when she realized several of the bills were overdue because she had not thought to check on their status before leaving. “Live and learn,” she muttered.

  Her evening did not get any better. For dinner she settled on a boring plate of chicken Alfredo with broccoli and the dregs of a bottle of wine she had left in the fridge too long. Some red pepper flakes and a heavy dose of parmesan cheese helped the noodles, but the wine was beyond salvaging.

  Just as she gave up and chose an early bedtime, Elijah arose from his long catnip stupor. He bounced from the stroller, seeming to take delight in finding himself at home, and made a straight line for his litter box in the bathroom. Then he gorged himself on a can of tuna cutlets and attacked a ping pong ball he had discovered under the table.

  Sarah headed for bed, but once there, she couldn’t sleep. The ping pong ball rattled and bounced across the wooden floors. It stopped only when Elijah discovered her feet moving under the covers. With deadly accuracy, he pounced and dug in his claws. She had only two choices—to lie still until the cat got bored and went back to chasing the ping pong ball or move and risk losing a toe to the black avenger. When Elijah settled down, she wrestled with her pillow, but sleep still eluded her. Now she kept hearing those final words: “I’ll call you.” And she also heard the unspoken second part of that sentence: “. . . but don’t hold your breath.”

  Had she put an end to their friendship? Lost her chance at that “Nice Jewish Boy?” The possibility loomed ever larger as the night passed.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Attitude on a Seesaw

  Monday, January 12, 2009

  Sarah almost tripped as she entered the faculty assembly room. She was so tired she was dragging her feet. She headed for her favorite seat—somewhere near the middle of the crowd, not because she was that involved but because it made her less visible. The doers and shakers, the pushy ones, were vying for the front row, while the shirkers clustered as far from the podium as they could get. Both groups were likely to be targets for pointed questions before the morning was over. Sarah just wanted to be invisible.

  “Morning, sunshine! Welcome back to Smoky Mountain!” The perky voice was Beth’s. Sarah opened one eye enough to glare at her. “Wow! Somebody’s having a bad morning! You look terrible!”

  “Thanks. Nice to see you, too.” Sarah did her best to sit up and be friendly. “Sorry to grump. Had a bad night. Couldn’t sleep. Cat kept me awake. Then overslept and didn’t have time to do anything except put my hair in a bun and find my shoes. I haven't looked to look to see if they match.”

  Beth peered over to check. “You’re good. At least they’re both black.”

  “Then all is well. I heard your phone message, but it was too late to call. I take it you had a good holiday.”

  “An interesting one. Too bad it’s over.”

  “Over? You and the mushroom guy?”

  “No, just the days off. How was yours?”

  “Too long! Everyone wanted to renew old ties, while I was busy trying to cut them. Pressure from family and friends, an advisor who wanted a play-by-play of my first semester, an academic clique whose conference bored me, and then more pressure from the cop when I got back—all of them tugging at me. It’s no wonder I look like a piece of well-worn play-dough.”

  The president of the faculty senate banged his gavel, and everyone rose for the ritual pledge and playing of the alma mater. Then one by one, the permanent committees reported they had no reports. Sarah fought to keep her eyes open.

  “Old business?”

  “Yes, sir.” A member of the economics department stood. “Economics would like to repeat our protest from last semester that Tuesday-Thursday classes have more hours of instruction in the course of a semester than do Monday-Wednesday-Friday classes.”

  “Noted. Any other old business?”

  A math professor rose. “Mathematics would ask that Economics notify us when they have found a way to make two equal three.”

  “There being no other old business, we shall move on to new business. Faculty marshals have several items for distribution, so we will take a brief break to allow them to do that.”

  “Don’t wake me unless I snore,” Sarah whispered.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be joining a whole choir of snorers.”

  “Why does this happen every single month?”

  “Because this is the way we have always run our faculty meetings.” Beth grinned as the marshal reached the end of their row and began counting the proper number of handouts.

  Sarah did her best to follow the rest of the meeting, making notes in the margins of the handouts for future reference. Then one announcement caught her full attention.

  “Before we adjourn for lunch, let me remind you of our Founders’ Day reception, which will take place Saturday evening, January 31. Those of you who are new to the faculty this year should understand that you must conform to our expectations during this event. Our board of trustees will have been on campus most of that week, setting their fund-raising goals and establishing plans for the university. As is their responsibility, the trustees will also make any future decisions about your tenure in your positions. You only get one chance each year to make a good impression on those who hold your futures in their hands. The reception takes place in the Grand Ballroom of the Birch Falls Hotel. You need to be on time and in appropriate dress. That presumes suits and ties for the gentlemen and cocktail dresses for their ladies.”

  “Welcome to the 1950s,” Beth whispered.

  “We will invite married faculty to bring their spouses. Those who are in other recognized and committed relationships will receive invitations in the names of their partners or fiancées. Single faculty will receive an appropriate ‘plus-one’ invitation. The evening will feature an open bar, although we advise against having more than one mixed drink or two glasses of wine. We will also offer a full buffet of heavy hors d’oeuvres, from which you can make a full dinner so long as you are careful not to spill anything on the carpet or dribble down your chins.”

  Sarah wrinkled her nose. There were days when being a professor made her feel like a grown-up, but this was not one of them. “Next he’ll be reminding us to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’” she grumbled.

  As they left the meeting, Beth giggled. “I just had a devious idea. The mushroom guy and I will each get a ‘plus-one’ invitation, so we could smuggle an unsuitable couple into the reception. Once there, we’d abandon them to each other and pretend we didn’t know them. They could disrupt the whole show.”

  “You wouldn’t . . .”

  “No, but it’s great fun to think about. Will your cop be able to attend, or will he be patrolling the parking lot?”

  This time, Sarah did not find Beth so amusing. “Why do we do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Refer to the guys—no, the men—we’re dating by some descriptive term rather than calling them by name. Why don’t we talk about Lyle and David?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe because it’s cute or affectionate?”

  “Not to me . . . not anymore. I think we’re inserting a wall between us and them. If I say I will ask the cop, our relationship sounds casual; if I say I will ask David, it’s personal.” When Beth threw her a quizzical look, she shrugged it off. “Oh, don’t mind me. I told you I’m half-asleep today.”

  Later, when Sarah found the engraved invitation in her mailbox, she remembered that fragment of conversation. “It’s an attitude I have to change,” she told herself. “I need to think about David, not ‘the cop.’”

  She started to send him an e-mail about the reception and then changed her mind. An e-mail was also impersonal. She reached for the phone, quelling a sudden flutter of ne
rves about calling him. Then, when the call went to voicemail, she sighed in relief and left a message. “Hi, David. It’s Sarah. I need to ask you about attending a fancy college affair with me. Call me when you can. I’ll be in my office all afternoon, and then at home tonight.” As soon as she hung up, it felt like another mistake. Voicemail was impersonal, too, and now she would spend the rest of the day staring at a phone that wasn’t calling her back.

  A knock at her office door snapped her back to the present. “Come in, it’s open.”

  “Hi, Doc!” Cassie breezed in, looking healthy and excited—a far cry from the teary-eyed, brow-beaten child she had been before the holidays.

  “Cassie. Welcome back. Have you brought me your class project?”

  “Oh, that. No, although you’ll have it by the end of the day. The file is in a queue over at the library, waiting to get printed. I just dropped by to chat. I hope your vacation was as good as mine.”

  “It was nice, thank you. But I am surprised to see you so upbeat. The last time you were here, the world had crashed around your feet.”

  “That was then. So much as changed since last year. Do you have time to hear all my good news?”

  “A few minutes.”

  “Well it all goes back to my friend Lucinda. I told you about her, didn’t I? Or maybe not. She showed up at the farmhouse back in November and introduced herself as a friend of my Granny Jernigan. It seems they were both members of the same coven back in the hills before Granny died.”

  “Excuse me? A . . . coven? They were witches?”

  “Sure. But the good kind. She said Granny was a fantastic wise woman who knew all about herbs and medicinal plants. Lucinda took me out behind the barn and showed me the hidden entrance to a cold cellar, where Granny kept her dried herbs and the salves and potions she made up. They were all still there. And then she gave me a handwritten book of recipes and spells. Granny Jernigan gave it to Lucinda when she knew she was dying and asked her to give it to me when I was old enough take over. The idea scared me, but Lucinda said Granny had been sure that I had inherited her witch’s blood.”