What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  “Sarah? Julia? I need a woman to handle this problem.”

  Sarah came into the hallway looking puzzled. “What's going on?”

  “Here. Take this call. It’s the Student Health Center.” He thrust the receiver into her hand and retreated.

  “Hello? This is Professor Chomsky. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, please. This is Nurse McKenzie in the Student Health Center. I have six female patients in my waiting room, all with the same complaint—an itching rash on their buttocks. I’m not sure how to put this, but . . . the rashes are all the same, uh, shape and size . . . resembling a toilet seat. And the only thing the patients have in common is that they all used the ladies’ room on the third floor of Bailey Hall this morning.”

  Sarah suppressed her first temptation to giggle. “And that means . . .?”

  “That they all sat down upon something that has caused skin irritation. I am about to contact the town's poison control office to have them check your toilet seats for noxious substances. Once they have taken their samples, I will call housekeeping to send cleaners in your direction. However, the immediate need is to empty that restroom and close it to further use. Post a sign and put a guard on the door. I’m running out of ointment.”

  “Oh, my word!” Sarah glanced at her watch. “It’s April Fool’s Day, isn’t it?”

  “Afraid so. Can you handle things over there until I can call in the campus cops?”

  “Sure. But what about the men’s room?”

  “So far, there are no male patients, but it would be wise to close it, too.

  “We’ll handle it. And thanks for the warning!”

  Sarah slipped into Brokowski’s office to return the phone and held up a hand to stop him from demanding an explanation. “The situation is under control, I think. We need to close the restrooms and guard the doors, but I can put the teaching assistants on that duty. And you might as well get used to having visits from the campus cops and the local health department. But it’s not a history department problem, except for the technicality of our location next door to the scene of the latest April Fool’s Day prank.”

  “April Fool . . .! Damn it! I warned you all, didn’t I?”

  “Only about the possibility of a revolutionary barricading of the halls, not an assault from the rear!” She was still laughing as she went out to summon Mike and Ellie. “The duties of a TA are many and varied,” she told them. “I need you to go into the restrooms and make sure everyone leaves. Mike, we need a Marine sergeant to stand guard and make sure no one else enters the restrooms until the campus police have arrived to take over. And whatever else you do, don’t use the facilities! I’ll explain later.”

  Then she went out to Gwen’s desk and asked her to print CLOSED signs for the doors. By now, curiosity had spread, and the hall was attracting a crowd of onlookers.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Plumbing backed up?”

  “What about the lavatories on the other floors? Are they OK?”

  “Has there been an accident?”

  “Did somebody get hurt?”

  The campus cops, accompanied by two people in full hazmat coveralls, gloves, boots, and masks, attracted even more attention until Mike jumped onto Gwen’s desk and shouted in his best Marine voice. “OK, you lot. Clear out. We are investigating a problem here, and you are impeding progress. Move out of the hall.”

  Once the way was clear, the two outfitted investigators entered the restroom and, with the door propped open, began their inch-by-inch search. Sarah watched from the hallway as they took swabs from the toilet seats and surrounding surfaces and examined the counter. It was then she noticed a message written with lipstick on the mirror: “Have a good day, April Fools.”

  After setting up equipment and running tests involving tubes and microscopes, the investigators removed their headgear and announced, “Crisis over, folks. There’s nothing more dangerous here than some ordinary homemade itching powder. Any good boy scout could tell you how to make it to torment your tent mates at camp. It’s just dried rose hips and baby’s breath, ground up together in a mortar and pestle to make a fine powder. That powder, though, has microscopic barbs that can cause intense itching if the substance gets ground into your skin. Nothing that will not yield to a good soaking bath. It doesn’t cause any long-term damage. We’ll just need to get it cleaned up.”

  The campus cops were already on their phones arranging for a rubber-gloved cleaning crew. Doctor Chalmers stepped out of his office to ask if they had taken DNA swabs from the lipstick on the mirror. The head investigator gave him a withering look.

  “For a minor prank with only temporary irritations? No, sir, those tests take weeks and cost big bucks. We don’t use them for frivolous infractions.”

  “But if we think we know who . . .”

  “Kevin! Zip it!” Doctor Brokowski stared him down and then glared at the rest of the onlookers. “Everyone, go back to work. We will not dignify this nonsense any further.”

  Once again, the history department returned to normal. The young women who had fallen victim to an anonymous April Fool’s Day prank recovered from their rashes within a few hours and joined the rest of the campus in laughing about it. Kevin Chalmers fumed that no one was attempting to identify the perpetrator, but Brokowski refused to give the joke new life by further investigation.

  “Nothing infuriates a prankster more than being ignored,” he declared.

  “If the prankster was who I think it was, you may not want to anger her any further,” Kevin countered.

  “But if it wasn’t Cassie, what then? Might we not be fueling her resentment by a false accusation?”

  The grad students also joked about it. Matt suggested they blame the Easter Bunny, while Jeff offered the possibility that the itching powder was one of the seven plagues brought upon the Egyptians by an angry Hebrew God before Passover. The rest of the faculty avoided the argument, keeping their heads down for a week and looking forward to the four-day break that would cover both Passover and Easter this year.

  Sarah was still excited about her new research agenda and was looking forward to several days away from campus. True, she had two Seders to attend, but neither seemed to threaten her writing time. She had no responsibilities for the Wednesday night Seder with the college's Jewish students, except for showing up. And while she had offered to bring two dishes to the Cohen dinner, neither required much time or labor.

  She began her cooking efforts on Tuesday evening, April 7. She prepared a flourless chocolate cake1 so simple and decadent that no one would miss the usual flour-based dessert. Then she whipped up a nut-free charoset2, so that Mrs. Cohen could also serve her special recipe featuring walnuts. Once both were benefiting from a chilling time before Passover, she still had a free day to draft a proposal for her planned article on conch shells as a symbol of a release from bondage.

  Her confidence carried her through the second-night dinner with David’s family without a misstep. Even Elijah seemed to take his cues from her, accepting the attentions of a six-year-old boy with un-catlike patience. The story of the visiting cat’s arrival at the end of the Seder fascinated the child and his mother alike. When Hannah asked if she could take some pictures of Elijah at the Passover table, Sarah admitted that Mrs. Cohen’s instincts had been right.

  “I think his story would make a delightful children’s book,” Hannah explained. “I won’t use the pictures themselves, but I’d like to have the photos available to guide my sketches for the illustrations.” The family pitched in to stage the photo session, and Elijah proved to be a cooperative model. Sarah was proud of him and pleased to discover how comfortable she was with the Cohen family.

  By the time the picture-taking was complete, little Benjamin was flagging, and Hannah hustled her family toward home. Elijah went to sleep in his carrier, while the Cohens relaxed around the still-cluttered Seder table. “Let us at least finish the wine before I clear this mess,” Mrs. Cohen said.

&nbs
p; “No more wine for me, mother. I still have to drive Sarah and Elijah home, but you three go ahead.”

  Mrs. Cohen beamed with pride. “There are advantages in having a policeman in the family,” she observed. “He looks out for the rest of us.” If she slurred her words, no one noticed.

  “So, Sarah, we’ve been so busy with the Passover story, we haven’t asked about your trip to North Carolina. Did you have a good time?” Mr. Cohen was playing the role of a jovial host this evening. “I’ve heard the UNC campus is beautiful.”

  “Yes, sir, it is, although I didn’t have a lot of time to see the sights. I was deep in the library archives or surrounded by other historians at the conference I was attending.”

  “You accomplished a lot, then? Like what?”

  “Well, I’ve located materials to use as evidence in least two new journal articles, isolated an idea for a book proposal, met lots of interesting and influential people, and won a place for myself on the planning committee for a national project commemorating the sesquicentennial of the Emancipation Proclamation. How’s that for starters?” Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “Wow! You did all that in five days? But that’s quite an agenda. Now that you are home, can you do all that writing and teach, too?”

  “Every one of those items is a requirement for getting tenure. But I have four years to get them done, and that’s doable, now that I have my topics confirmed.”

  “Oh, my dear child! You can’t be serious.” Mrs. Cohen was shaking her head. “You and David will already be so busy—planning the wedding, finding a place to live, meshing your schedules and settling into—”

  The voices came all at once. Only later was Sarah able to separate them in her head.

  “Miriam!” Mr. Cohen cringed as he realized that his wife might have had more wine than he had realized. “Stop, dear. Leave the young folks to make their own plans.”

  “Mother! You promised me . . .!” David watched in horror as the sparkle in Sarah’s eyes died, and the blush on her cheeks faded into pallor. He rose half-way out of his chair, trying to block his mother from saying anything more damaging.

  “No . . .” Sarah struggled to her feet, spilling her wine as she clutched at the tablecloth. “I can’t . . . I don’t feel well. David, please take me home. Now!”

  “Wait! What did I say? I just . . .” Mrs. Cohen looked mystified as the surrounding scene erupted into chaos. Then she sank back into her chair and had another sip of wine.

  In the car, Sarah remained silent. She sat erect, the cat carrier in her lap and her eyes fixed on the scenery out her side window. David tried several times to get her to talk, but she refused all overtures with a vehement shake of her head. At the apartment, she had her door open before the car came to a complete stop. She stepped out, threw the carrier strap over her shoulder and marched to her door, leaving David still standing next to the car.

  “Sarah! I swear. She didn’t get those ideas from me. I have given her no reason to think that . . .”

  She turned, stared at him, and said, “Don’t call me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  A Police Matter Now

  May 1, 2009

  The last three weeks of April were quiet. The students had returned to their studies with a renewed realization that the semester was winding down. They were doing the readings and working on term papers, but without the panic that would come with the last few days. Sarah appreciated the calm that settled over the campus with the return of sunshine and budding leaves. She and Julia found time to drive out to have another pizza at Guido’s, and Beth threw a small party for the other first-year faculty members to celebrate their mutual survival. On most other nights, Sarah enjoyed curling up with a book and a purring cat in her lap. Did she miss seeing David? Sometimes. Once, she thought about calling him to solve a small problem with her car. Instead, she took care of it herself and felt proud. This was the life she had envisioned for herself.

  Then she turned a calendar page, and her world fell apart. It started the moment she entered Bailey Hall on the first day of May. At the top of the stairs she met the new cleaning woman assigned to their department.

  “Oh, there you are, Doctor Chomsky! I’ve been waiting for you—or for Doctor Winthrop—so I could explain what has happened in your offices.”

  “In the offices? What? A leak? A fire?” Sarah forced herself to quit creating problems and to listen.

  “No, no. No damage, but there’s a big shopping bag full of flowers—funny-looking flowers. A delivery person brought them in right after I came to work. She had three big bags, and she was trying to hang them on doorways, but they kept falling off. She asked me to let her into your offices. I told her I couldn't do that, but I could take care of the bags for her. So, she had me put one in your office, one in Doctor Winthrop’s office, and the third one is on the conference table down in the lounge area. Each one has a note telling you to be sure to add water to the vases, but not saying who they are from. It’s not any of my business but when I asked what I should tell you about them, she said it was just an old mountain custom for May Day. I hope you don’t mind that I opened the offices and let her see inside. But I didn’t let her in or let her touch anything. I hope that was all right.”

  The woman seemed nervous, and Sarah wondered about the way she was wringing her hands. Perhaps it’s just because she’s new, Sarah told herself. She’s afraid of getting fired.

  “So, did you put them in some water?”

  “No, ma’am. The delivery girl yelled at me when I tried to take them out of their bags. She insisted that I shouldn’t touch them until you got here.”

  “Odd. And she didn’t say where they came from, other than the mountain?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’ll deal with them. Thank you for helping her.”

  Sarah peered into the large shopping bag to see a beautiful bouquet of white and purple blossoms, surrounded by fronds of palm and leafy branches. She started to lift them out and then changed her mind. She picked up the whole bag and carried it down to the lounge where she located several old newspapers. She spread the pages over the conference table and laid the flowers there while she filled their glass vase with water. She rearranged the flowers in the vase, spreading them out to their best advantage. She did the same for the bouquet left on the table. The label said it was for the history faculty, but its message was the same as hers: “Happy May Day. Remember that wild flowers need lots of water.”

  For one moment, Sarah reacted to the word ‘water,’ equating it somehow to the slave interpretations she was working on. She shook her head at the ridiculousness of that connection and forgot about it. She displayed the department’s flowers in the middle of the conference table with their card, then crumpled the two bags and the newspapers and threw them into the trash. She took her bouquet back to her office, checked to see if Julia had come in yet, and left her own office door open so that she would hear her arrival.

  When Julia’s voice exclaimed, “What on earth . . .?” she hurried out to deliver the explanation.

  “It’s all mysterious, but the flowers are lovely, and I’m learning not to question anything that happens around here,” she said with a laugh. “Under all that foliage, you’ll find a vase. I took mine down to the kitchenette to fill it with water. There’s another bouquet on the table there for the men to share.”

  Sarah went back to her office and buried herself in work until she heard Doctor Brokowski’s voice booming through the hall with an angry exclamation, “What the bloody hell is going on now?”

  She hurried out to deliver the explanation once again but stopped short when Brokowski looked at her and asked, “And what truck ran over you?” She stared at him, not understanding. Then she looked down and saw her hands, swollen and red, looking like raw sausages. Her first reaction was to put a hand to her mouth, at which point she realized that her lips had swelled.

  “I—I don’t know!”

  Brokowski looke
d toward the end of the hallway and called, “Julia? Can you come down here for a minute?” His eyes widened as he stared at her. “You, too? What’s going on?”

  By now the rest of the department had emerged from their cubicles. “You two look like poisoned pups,” Trevor observed. “What have you gotten yourselves into?”

  “Poisoned pups, indeed,” Kevin said. “That’s worse than the rashes from the great toilet seat caper.”

  “All right. Calm down, everyone. What new objects have you women touched in common this morning?” Every eye turned to the flowers.

  “Let’s not panic and turn this into another sideshow with cops and hazmat teams yet. Ladies, bring your bouquets down here. Kevin, call the Health Center and ask Nurse McKenzie to pay us a visit. Tell her it’s an emergency and she should bring her medical bag. Trevor, you get on the phone to the biology department and see if they have a plant specialist who might tell us what’s in those vases. The rest of you, stay away from the flowers.”

  Nurse McKenzie agreed to come as soon as she finished with her current patient, but the biology department responded at once. In just a few minutes, Lyle Agaretti came running in.

  “Morning, Sarah. What’s up over here? And what happened to you?” A quick look at her had stopped him cold.

  “The flowers on the table, Lyle. An anonymous delivery person gave them to our new housekeeper before anyone else was around. Julia and I both handled the flowers to put them in water, and we broke out in this allergic reaction. What are they? Do you know?”

  He leaned forward over the table and then backed away. “Do you have a long stick? Maybe a ruler?”