What Grows in Your Garden

“I don’t have time to fall in love. And I don’t believe in it, anyhow. The love I hope to find someday grows over time and only with deliberate nourishment. You don’t fall into it by accident.”

  “Whoever told you that?”

  “My parents, as one example. Theirs was an arranged marriage. They met on their wedding day because of a promise my grandparents made to one another in the Nazi camps. Their love grew over time and became something solid, almost tangible. When I’m in a room with them, I can feel the bonds that unite them. Their devotion to one another never waivers. It’s no accident. They had to work at it.”

  As David hesitated, wondering how to address this latest twist in Sarah’s attitude, Elijah wandered into the living room. His nose twitched at the odor of the sliders, but he was much too polite to help himself. Instead, he began to purr and wind his way between their ankles. And that gave David his answer.

  “Have you and Elijah had any interesting conversations? He seems to have something to say.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, he might remind you that at your Passover Seder, there was always an empty seat at the table reserved for strangers who happened by.”

  “Are you suggesting that I share one of these luscious bites with him?”

  “No. But I thought he might remind you that he was just a stray kitten when he wandered into your dining room. And you didn’t fall in love with him on the spot. Your family let him stay because that was what charity demanded of them, but it was you who fell in love with him over time and claimed him as your own.”

  “Yes, I did, but that’s different. He’s a cat.”

  “He might also suggest that you had most of your five-year plan already in mind when you met him. You were still waiting for that job offer, but you knew you would land a teaching position somewhere. And then you knew how you would go about building your career from there.”

  “I did. So?”

  “So that plan did not involve buying cat furniture and dragging that kitten across the countryside. Nor did it include finding a pet-friendly apartment. But once Elijah was a part of your life, you found a place for him within your five-year plan.”

  “Yes, but . . .”

  “I’m just saying . . .”

  “You’re drawing unfair comparisons.”

  “Maybe so, but I’m more than a little jealous of him.”

  “David, you’re making this . . .”

  “No, don’t interrupt. I have one more point to make. Your story about your parents is touching, but you’ve ignored one important element. They grew to love each other through their marriage—by sharing every day together. And that’s how love grows—not by neglect but by constant effort. I agree with you that love isn’t a weed that springs up on its own. Nor can it be shut away, like a hothouse plant. Love needs careful and constant attention.”

  Sarah stared at him with tears filling her eyes. Just as Doctor Kaplan had portrayed her early education, so, too, David described her limited ideas about love. Was she always to live a life that shut her away from the real world? Or would she someday escape the greenhouse walls and romp through a thriving garden of her own making? She had no plan for that.

  “I won’t interfere with your five-year plan, but if you’ll make room for me within it, I can help make it happen—starting with this stuffy Founder’s Reception.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Second Chance

  January 2009

  Sarah slept well that night, and she returned to the campus with a new sense of resolve. Her first stop was Doctor Brokowski’s office, with Cassie’s project in hand. “I have a problem with one of your advisees, and I think you’d better hear about it right away.”

  “Come in and close the door. I can guess which student is causing a problem, but sit down and tell me about it.”

  “Yes, it’s Cassie McGehee. At the end of the semester, she convinced me of the seriousness of her family problems, and I granted her an incomplete so she would have more time to finish her class project. You’re familiar with the assignment—it’s the traditional annotated bibliography to show that the student has mastered the basics of historical research.”

  “Sure. Didn’t she do it?”

  “Oh, she turned it in yesterday, with a whole two minutes to spare before the deadline. Just two more minutes, and I would have had to fail her in the course. But the paper she gave me is a travesty. Here it is. I brought it to you so you could see for yourself. She didn’t follow Chicago style. In fact, there’s no sign that she ever opened her Turabian. It’s titled ‘An Annotated Bibliography,’ but there’s not a single annotation. The instructions demanded twenty or more entries with at least four different kinds of source material. She has just two kinds of sources with only thirteen items, seven of which are various editions of the Bible.”

  She shook the pages and tossed them onto his desk. “I try to be encouraging—to say something nice about every paper, but I can’t find anything to praise.”

  Brokowski glanced at the paper and handed it back with a shake of his head. “So what do you plan to do?”

  “If I fail her on this, she will fail the course and find herself dismissed from grad school.”

  “Well-deserved, and perhaps the best thing that could happen to the department.”

  “But . . .”

  “But . . . what?”

  “But everyone knows she’s unstable, and this could push her over the edge. I don’t want to cause that kind of crisis.”

  “You might find it comforting to know that Trevor has a somewhat similar problem with her. You are not alone. But he and I came up with a solution that seemed wiser under the circumstances. Take the same approach as Trevor and give her a C or a C- on this paper, along with a B- in the course. I will meet with her and warn her that she has two unsatisfactory evaluations. Unless she pulls her grades up in this second semester, we drop her from the program.”

  “Postponing the inevitable?”

  “In the interest of all concerned, yes. If she is going to cause a major blow-up, I want it to happen after the faculty leaves for the summer and the campus closes down. While we have all seen evidence that she can erupt into an uncontrollable rage, we have also seen that those episodes do not last long. That’s a characteristic of the mental illness from which she suffers.”

  Sarah stared at him. “Mental illness?”

  “She experiences a bipolar imbalance whenever she goes off her meds. One day she is ecstatic, on top of the world, convinced of her own invincibility, and ready to destroy anyone who stands in her way. And the next day she can fall into a deep depression, bordering on a desire to destroy herself. In neither case can she control her own actions.”

  “That explains a great deal.”

  “Yes. We cannot control her extreme reactions, but we can control the circumstances under which we allow them to occur. For now, I suggest we suspend judgment and see what happens.”

  The semester started well. Sarah’s classes included one freshman survey covering two hundred years of American history, one late-afternoon Monday seminar on slavery as an institution, and one advanced course on the Era of Reconstruction. The advanced course carried a double number; as a 400-level class appropriate for seniors and history majors, and as a 500-level, which carried graduate credit. Only Denise and Michael took advantage of the daytime class, however. The other members of the research seminar had family and employment responsibilities that limited them to evening classes. Sarah missed the constant interplay that had enlivened her first graduate course.

  Cassie seemed to accept her low grade on her bibliography without a protest. She picked up the paper, shrugged, and bounced off to a sudden appointment. Sarah, who had been dreading a confrontation, began to relax. When she mentioned to Doctor Brokowski that Cassie had seemed unconcerned, he confirmed that she had reacted the same way to his warnings about potential dismissal.

  “In effect, she told me not to worry about her—that she was in control of
everything and would not face any further problems. She laughed when I mentioned expulsion—said it would never come to that. And then she skipped off to a meeting somewhere.”

  “Oblivious? Is that one of the mood swings she experiences?”

  “Perhaps so. Or maybe she’s planning on exploring the reactions of the rest of the department. She’s registered for one course from Julia and one from Kevin. She may need an ally—besides me, that is.”

  “I can’t imagine either Julia or Kevin putting up with some of her nonsense.”

  “No, but then people with bipolar tendencies seldom understand the real world. They see everything through a distorted lens—like the mirrors in a carnival fun house.”

  David called several times to be sure Cassie had not caused more trouble for Sarah. When Sarah told him of the bipolar diagnosis, he warned her to keep up a watchful guard. “You cannot trust her, Sarah. She may seem normal one minute and then explode a few minutes later. I’ve seen her do it.”

  “You’re referring to whatever happened over the holiday break, aren’t you? Why can’t you tell me about it?”

  “Because the basic case is still ongoing. I could jeopardize our police credibility by discussing the details. I can tell you only that it began with a small confrontation between Mr. McGehee and a foot patrolman over a traffic blockage. It escalated when Mrs. McGehee arrived and staged one of her famous tantrums. Before it was over, someone had displayed a weapon and bystanders joined the melee. She and her husband ended up in the holding tank along with several others. They are out on bond and awaiting trial. I suspect she is making a real effort to behave herself, but a manic swing could occur without warning.”

  “Don’t worry about me, David. I see little of her these days. She’s not taking any of my classes, and I’ve avoided the coffee shop gatherings We’re not even in the parking lot at the same times this semester.”

  “That’s all to the good, but I wish I had more time to keep an eye on you. Things have been hectic around the shop since the new year has started—one retirement, several older fellows feeling the cold in their bones, and two new recruits who quit without warning. I’m trying to help with some of our ongoing investigations, but I’m also needed here in the office.”

  “If you’re too busy, you can pass on that reception invitation. I hear several new hires are attending without guests. I can always hang out with them.”

  “Not on your life! I want to see you in your natural habitat.”

  Sarah laughed at his phrasing and went back to grading quizzes.

  The night of the reception was perfect for dressing up and being out and about. The skies were clear, and the waxing crescent moon allowed the stars to glow above the darkness of the mountains. A sudden warm spell had removed the need for heavy coats. There was only a light breeze and just enough crispness in the air to carry the lingering scent of pines.

  Sarah slipped into a new red dress—understated in its simplicity but form-fitting and just fluid enough to reveal every move. Her matching red shoes had kitten heels. They were, perhaps, less stylish than the stilettos she had considered, but the lower heel made it possible for her to move with grace and confidence, rather than teetering on the brink of planting her face in the carpet. She emphasized the dress’s low neckline with a thin silver choker and matching earrings. Her hair hung loose, brushing her shoulders with soft curls. A soft gray pashmina shawl with a silver thread completed her outfit.

  “Wow.” David stared at her, admiring but also surprised at the transformation he saw. He was used to the everyday Sarah, comfortable in man-shirts and jeans or tailored and understated. This was Sarah stepping off the pages of a fashion magazine and walking a couturier’s runway.

  “Is that a ‘yea’ or a ‘nay’?” she asked.

  “It’s ‘I-want-to-pull-a-blanket-over-your-head-so-no-one-else-can-see-how-beautiful-you-are.’”

  “Thank you, but please don’t do it. I want everyone to see me on your distinguished arm.”

  “Well then, we must be ready to take on the trustees. Your chariot awaits, fair lady.”

  At the hotel, cars pulled to the entrance, where uniformed valets opened doors and took charge of parking. And inside, a short welcoming line awaited. Uniformed footmen took the engraved invitations and read off the names of the invited guests like they were announcing the arrivals of celebrities. President Hightower and his wife repeated each name as if this were a hearing test. Then they passed the guests on to the sweaty handshakes of the chairman of the board and his lady. And from there Dean Henderson took over to direct each couple to the various sources of food, drink, and more congenial conversation groupings.

  “Doctor Sarah Chomsky and her guest, Lieutenant David Cohen.”

  “Ah, yes, I remember you now,” the president murmured, letting his eyes drift over her dazzling form. “And, uh, Lieutenant Cohen? Army or Navy? I’m told they differ.”

  “Birch Falls Police Department, sir.”

  Taken aback, Hightower opened his mouth and closed it again when he could find nothing to say. “Well, uh, I feel much safer now, as, I’m sure, does Doctor Chomsky. Let me know if you see anyone filching the silverware, won’t you?”

  David nodded, but Sarah blanched at the tone-deaf insult. David’s hand on her back reminded her to smile as they moved on through a second grilling from the chairman. And when Dean Henderson pointed out the bar set up in the corner, Sarah did not hesitate before heading in that direction.

  “Alcohol before food, I presume?”

  “Yes, and I’ll have a very dry martini, thank you. Oh, David, I’m so sorry. That was the clumsiest greeting I’ve ever heard. I’m embarrassed for our administration.”

  “Don’t be. I get that kind of reaction all the time, including, I might add, in my parents’ house. I’m fine with it. But are you sure you want a martini? On an empty stomach and an angry reaction to the boss, it could hit you hard.”

  “All right. Make it a gin and tonic. But heavy on the gin, and as dry as they have it.”

  “I would never have pegged you as a gin aficionado.”

  “After growing up in a house fueled by sickly sweet sauternes and grapey Manischewitz, I prefer anything that is not sweet.”

  “Got it!”

  Drinks in hand, they stood for a few moments as Sarah surveyed the crowd looking for a familiar face.

  “Holding a glass makes it almost impossible to eat, doesn’t it?” she commented with a tinge of remorse. “With the glass in one hand and an empty plate in the other, there’s no way to help oneself to a buffet. You wait and hope someone feels sorry for you and drops a morsel onto your begging plate.”

  “Which doesn’t appear likely in this crowd. You’ll notice that your Christian colleagues are threatening each other with forks over the last of the shrimp.”

  “Maybe the best thing to do is drink up and wait for the waiters to replenish the empty trays. I’m not all that hungry yet, and I'm relishing this Bombay Sapphire gin.”

  “Well, I suppose we could circulate a bit.”

  “I agree. Duty calls, beginning with a departmental check-in. You’ll remember these fellows from the evening of the great car-keying episode.”

  “I don’t remember names. I was too busy focusing on you.”

  Sarah tipped her chin to acknowledge the compliment and led the way to an oddly mixed cluster of five uncomfortable-looking guests. “The rest of the history department—Robert Brokowski, our chair; Kevin Chalmers, our medievalist; and Trevor Monroe, our modern Americanist,” she announced to David. Then she turned to the three professors.

  “You may remember David Cohen. He was helpful to us all when our cars received damage in the parking lot.”

  “Cohen?” Brokowski was at full alert. “Any relation to the powerhouse law firm of Cohen, Schneider, and Fielding?”

  “Yes, sir. Leonard Cohen is my father.”

  “I see.”

  Sarah stared at them, befuddled by the unexpected exc
hange, but David’s attention had already moved on to the two younger men.

  “I remember you as the policeman who calmed us down.” Kevin reached to shake hands. With his free arm, he pulled a frumpy, pink-clad woman closer to his side. “This is my wife, Victoria.”

  Taking his cue, Trevor tapped the arm of a severe-looking woman whose bored gaze had wandered off to the far corners of the room. “And my wife, Genevieve Bourgogne. She kept her maiden name when we married because as a CPA she already headed a large accounting firm.”

  The woman acknowledged their presence with a humorless smile before letting her attention drift away again. After a few more uncomfortable moments, Sarah eased David away with a light-hearted comment about needing something to eat.

  “Look. There’s Beth Wilkerson with Lyle Agaretti. You’ve met her at the apartment complex. He’s the new hire in the biology department—Beth calls him ‘the mushroom guy.’”

  “Mushrooms? He love them or hate them?”

  “He studies fungal species, but one cannot refer to him as ‘the fungus guy.’ It makes him sound like a bad case of athlete’s foot. Come on. You’ll like him. He has mastered the art of clever sarcasm.”

  Beth looked relieved to see them. “There you are. I was worrying that I would spot no one I recognized.” Beth looked sweet and virginal in her cream-colored silk dress. Its full skirt emphasized her tiny waist, while the low neckline belied the modesty of her long sleeves. Beside her, Lyle’s hounds-tooth suit, black shirt and white cravat warned strangers not to take either of them at first appearances.

  Introductions out of the way, the four of them approached the buffet tables to reconnoiter. Lyle took one look at the spread and began a lecture. “It looks like a poster for Around the World in Eighty Days, doesn’t it? French brie en croute next to Mexican street corn, Chinese egg rolls sharing a dipping sauce with Polish sausages, English asparagus wrapped in Italian prosciutto, Indian naan and German pickled vegetables, coconut shrimp from the Caribbean and tiny Maine lobster rolls . . .”