What Grows in Your Garden

by Carolyn P Schriber

  And then there was Trevor Monroe. Sarah had no reason to question his scholarly competence, but she knew he was awkward when it came to personal relationships. He had remained detached from the rest of the faculty and from his students. Now he was facing his tenure year, and that detachment might be about to come back and hurt him. His colleagues in the department would support him, but those in other departments did not know him, and he was not popular with the students who would rate his teaching.

  He faced personal challenges, too. Sarah remembered her only meeting with Trevor’s wife, Genevieve—she of the pin-striped suit in a sea of cocktail dresses. Would she be willing to support her husband’s efforts? That was not likely. She had her hopes set on moving her accounting business to Wall Street, regarding Birch Falls as a backwoods outpost to abandon as soon as possible. Trevor must know, as did everyone who had met her, that if the school offered him tenure and he accepted it, he would lose a wife. And under those circumstances, how could anyone rise to the challenges set by the Tenure and Promotions Committee?

  “I fit right in with this crowd,” Sarah told herself. “Like all of them, I’m broken, challenged beyond my capabilities, and living with impossible expectations. Look at me. I can’t imagine living without David. The thought of having broken his heart destroys me, and I can't stand to think of him falling in love with another woman. But I can’t spend my life with a cop who risks getting himself killed every day of his life. Can I leave this town, this job, this school, a man willing to risk his life for mine? No. But I can’t stay here, knowing I might see him any time I venture out of my apartment. I'm a mess. Can’t, can’t, can’t. Is there anything I can do? Maybe not.”

  Graduation Day came all too soon, forcing the history department to put aside their personal problems and play their assigned parts in this final ceremony. They donned their formal academic regalia, lined up with their colleagues from across the campus, and sorted themselves according to their self-perceived importance. Like a flock of colorful twittering birds, they perched on either side of the sidewalk leading from Bailey Hall to the Amphitheater, all eyes turned to the great wooden doors through which their students would march for the last time. The chimes in the bell tower rang out the hour of 10:00, and from somewhere across the lawn the college band struck up the first notes of “Pomp and Circumstance.”

  Drawn out of herself and her problems by the anticipation that seemed to overwhelm the campus, Sarah looked at those shining young faces through a sudden film of tears. They were so young and so innocent. They balanced their mortar boards and marveled at the feel of their black graduation gowns swishing against their calves. Some wore plain gowns, while others sported several colorful cords and tassels denoting their honor societies, major fields, and fraternal organizations. Their expressions also varied. Some grinned because they had made it this far. Others mourned the loss of this idyllic shelter from real life. Some were proud and others were afraid.

  As Sarah watched them, she began to see one common pattern. Most of them were not looking toward the crowded bleachers where their parents and friends waited for their appearance. Instead, they were looking backward, trying to spot their favorite classmates for the last time. They scanned the faculty lines, seeking a particular face—an advisor, a mentor, someone who had guided them through a difficult four-year period. And now and then, eyes locked and time stuttered. The faculty member smiled, and the student tilted his head in recognition. Often the student mouthed a silent “Thank You,” and the teacher nodded.

  Next to her, Sarah felt Beth squeeze her hand from behind their flowing robes. “This is what it’s all about,” she whispered. “This is why we do what we do.”

  “I know. It’s easy to forget that sometimes.”

  Then the show moved on. The line of graduates filed into the amphitheater and filled the rows of waiting seats. The faculty marshals mounted the platform and placed the school’s banner and ceremonial orb and scepter in their waiting stands. Faculty members assumed their usual places, the administrative staff first, followed by the eldest professors, and then their younger colleagues.

  “Here’s another advantage to being the new members of the family,” Lyle whispered to his friends. “We’re in the shade back here, not in direct sunlight. Some of those bald heads will peel in a few days.”

  “Maybe that’s why some old guys are still sporting their ancient mortarboards. They provide the only available shade.”

  The ceremony followed a predictable pattern—the invocation, calling down blessings upon these young graduates; a welcome from the president, pointing out what a beautiful place this was to honor these beautiful young people; several introductions of dignitaries in the front row; the announcement of those receiving honorary degrees; and the guest speaker who passed along old advice about where to go from here. From one side, the undergraduate choir members led the graduating seniors in singing their alma mater for the last time.

  And then came the moments everyone had been awaiting. Row by row, the graduates stood and made their way to the platform. One by one, they hesitated and then climbed the steps, hoping they wouldn’t trip. But once on the platform, a magical transformation occurred. Their backs straightened and their chins came up. With firm strides they approached the college president who handed them their diplomas and shook their hands. They moved on to greet the dean and tipped their heads down so that he could drop their new baccalaureate hoods over their robes. At the top of the descending steps, they paused again, and flipped their tassels from right to left. Some acknowledged the applause, but most fastened their eyes above the heads of both classmates and family. It was time to move on.

  At the end of the line came a young woman in a motorized wheelchair, accompanied by a golden retriever guide dog who also wore a miniature mortarboard. With the help of an attendant, the young woman stood and mounted the steps where she and the dog made their way across the platform. When the dean himself came over, flipped the dog’s tassel, and placed a miniature diploma between his jowls, the audience erupted with cheers. The joyful bells once again rang out from the clock tower as the last of the graduates left the platform. These were the adolescents who had populated her classes—now grown before her eyes into adults facing the waiting world with confidence.

  As the new graduates stood again and marched up the center aisle, the audience began moving toward the side aisles, all hurrying to greet their loved ones, to take those family pictures, to capture one more photograph with a roommate or a mentor. The faculty waited until the last graduate made her way into the crowds before they stood to march out. Sarah caught her breath as the enormity of what had just taken place hit her. Despite the heat of a late morning in May, Sarah felt a chill run down her spine. The first year of her teaching career had ended. The students departed, leaving their teachers behind to await the next batch of young people hungry for knowledge. She felt both empty and fulfilled. She waited for the lines ahead of her to move, hoping one more time that she wouldn’t trip on her robes going down the steps.

  And then she saw him. He was standing at the back of the amphitheater, watching the faculty depart. After three weeks in the hospital, his face was pale and his hair long and shaggy. From the left, his suit and white shirt looked normal. Then he turned, and she saw that his jacket hung loose over his right side, his shoulder and arm still encased in plaster although no longer supported by the metal braces in which she had last seen him. Their eyes met, and for a moment, she thought she might never breathe again.

  At last Beth’s voice broke through to her consciousness. “He’s here for you, Sarah. Go to him. As soon as we reach the last row of seats, you can break away. Lyle and I will move at the same time but in the opposite direction to distract attention from you. Go, Sarah. David needs you.”

  She moved toward him as if quicksand mired her feet. And yet their hands reached for each other. She heard her own voice, speaking as if from a great distance.

  “Should you be out of t
he hospital?”

  “So the doctors tell me. They also say I'm ready for the next round of repairs, and then I can go back to work, so long as I keep up with the physical therapy.”

  “But you’re still healing from the wounds themselves.”

  “I can do that without lying in a hospital bed. Besides, I had to see you, and Julia said—”

  “Julia? You’ve seen her?”

  “She and Bert came by the hospital last weekend. She wanted to warn me that you were considering leaving Smoky Mountain. I knew this might be my last chance.”

  “Your last chance? To do what?”

  “To change your mind.”

  “She shouldn’t have done that. I don’t want you to feel pressured to . . .”

  “Sarah! Shut up and listen to me. I have a speech all memorized, and you’re stepping on my lines.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’ve had three weeks to do nothing but think and plan how to rearrange my life—our lives.”

  “You already said you are going back to work . . .”

  “Pay attention. First, I need another round of repairs. That means a complete shoulder replacement, for which I need the services of surgeons at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. They are experts moving beyond the typical ball joint replacement to the rebuilding of the entire scapula. They predict three to five days in the hospital there, followed by several weeks of intense physical therapy under their supervision.

  “Then I can return to Birch Falls—and normal employment—but not as a cop. I'll have a new job. The Internal Affairs people ruled that I had to turn in my badge and my gun. It seems they require policemen to have two good arms, and I no longer qualify. But the chief suggested a new position, and the city mayor bought the proposal. I’m to be the new Justice Department Liaison Officer. I keep my police rank and my salary level, which preserves my retirement status, but I won’t . . .”

  “You’ll still be a cop.”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t even be working in the department. I'll have a new office, with a personal secretary and a law clerk. My office will be in the City Office Building, one floor up from the district attorney’s office and just one floor below my father’s law firm. My job will be to help prosecutors work in cooperation with the police department. I can help them understand what the police can and cannot do in the course of an investigation. I can also advise the police department on what kinds of evidence the prosecutors need to pursue a case. If I can help the two departments communicate with each other, we can all feel that justice is being better served.

  “Do you understand, Sarah? This job puts my law degree to good use and still allows me to feel like someone who protects the public. It’s perfect. My father is so thrilled that he’s talking about pushing his own firm into taking on different types of cases—prosecuting corporate liability instead of protecting corporations that are breaking the law. Mother is ecstatic about my no longer carrying a gun. And Hannah is already planning more family dinners because I’ll be working regular hours. Now all I have to do is convince the woman I love that I’m husband material.”

  “I’m not sure what to say. I’m overwhelmed.”

  “All I’m asking, Sarah, is that you give me another chance before you abandon Birch Falls and Smoky Mountain forever.”

  “I don’t want to steal your thunder, but I’d already decided to stay in the Falls. Yes, I considered leaving because it would be easier to run away than to stay where I had painful memories. But this morning’s ceremonies made me realize how important my job is and how much I love this school. This garden? It's my home. I’m staying, no matter what happens.

  “As for our relationship, the questions remain open. Can your family and I reconcile our differences? Will you enjoy this new job? Is it a long-term solution? Can we be friends—best friends—before we become an official couple? Can we build bridges between the courthouse and the campus—a way for our separate careers to complement each other rather than causing conflicts? I have to believe that we can do all that, but it will take time—time that I’m willing to spend, if you are.”

  “Not one to take a chance and leap off a tall building, are you? All right, then. We’ll take the stairs—or maybe an elevator. I meant what I said. All I’m asking is a chance, starting now. I know a great little mountain restaurant that serves the best Saturday morning brunches in Tennessee. Will you have lunch with me?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “There’s just one catch. I can’t drive yet. But if you have your car here, I’m willing to play navigator and tell you where to turn.”

  “Sounds fair. If we’re to be best friends, our roles should be interchangeable. Give me five minutes. I need to change out of this academic get-up and sign the letter of ‘Intent to Stay’ that’s waiting on my desk. Then I’m all yours.”

  “From your lips to HaShem’s ears.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Sarah's Family Recipes

  CHALLAH (Braided Bread)

  Every Rosh Hashana dinner will feature some kind of challah, either plain, as suggested here, or flavored with raisins or a variety of seeds. To gain the full blessings of the challah, the batch should be very large--made with at least five pounds of flour—so that there is enough to carry out the full blessing and share the extra loaves with friends or neighbors. In deference to the size of small kitchens, the recipe below is for a single loaf. Challah is usually braided, but may be twisted into a knot for Rosh Hashana.

  Ingredients:

  2¼ teaspoon dry yeast (0.25 oz)

  1 teaspoon sugar

  1 cup warm water

  1 egg

  ¼ cup honey

  3 tablespoon oil

  1 teaspoon. salt

  4½ cups flour

  For the egg wash:

  1 egg

  2 tablespoons honey

  1 tablespoon vanilla

  Directions:

  Dissolve yeast and sugar in ¼ cup warm water in medium-sized bowl.

  Let sit about 15 minutes until thick and frothy.

  Add the egg, honey, oil, salt, remaining ¾ cup of water, and 3 cups of flour. Mix until soft batter forms. Add rest of flour in small amounts. Go slowly towards the end, adding only enough flour so that dough is soft but not sticky. Once dough has enough flour, knead it for a couple of minutes, either by hand or with mixer.

  Cover dough with a wet towel or plastic wrap and put it in warm place to rise for 1 to 1½ hours. Dough should double in size.

  Punch dough down and let it rest for 10 minutes.

  Divide into 3 portions and roll out each to about 12 inches long. Braid as you would hair. Tuck ends under.

  Place on lightly greased baking sheet and let rise for 30-40 minutes.

  Beat egg with the honey and vanilla and gently brush over the loaf. Bake at 375° for approximately 35-45 minutes. Loaf should be golden on top, and firm on the bottom.

  APPLE KUGEL (Sweet Noodle Casserole)

  Because Rosh Hashana is a festive occasion marking the beginning of the Jewish New Year, there are few dietary restrictions and much emphasis on sweet dishes, particularly those that feature apples and honey or sugar. Kugel may appear as a side dish or a dessert.

  Ingredients:

  1 (8 ounce) package egg noodles

  2 tablespoons butter, melted

  3 Macintosh apples, sliced

  3 eggs, separated

  1 cup white sugar

  ¼ cup golden raisins

  2 teaspoons ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract

  Directions:

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Cook egg noodles in large pot of lightly salted boiling water, stirring occasionally, until cooked through but firm to the bite, about 5 minutes. Drain. Stir melted butter and noodles in large bowl.

  Mix apples, egg yolks, sugar, raisins, cinnamon, and vanilla extract into noodle mixture until well blended.

  Beat egg whites in large bowl until stiff peaks form.

  Fold egg whi
tes into noodle mixture; pour into greased 2-quart baking dish.

  Bake in the preheated oven until browned, about 40 minutes.

  NEW YORK-STYLE BAGELS

  For the Jews of New York City, no food is more iconic than the traditional bagels that adorn tables and deli counters from morning until night. Those who grow up eating them will always recognize them for the sweet tang of barley malt, for their unique soft yet chewy texture and their golden crust. Sprinkle them with a mixture of black and white sesame seeds, poppy seeds, garlic and onion flakes, and a healthy dose of kosher salt, and there is no finer eating anywhere.

  Dough Ingredients:

  5 cups high protein bread flour (King Arthur or Red Mill)

  1½ teaspoon instant yeast

  3 teaspoons sea salt

  1 teaspoon barley malt syrup

  1½ cups water

  Poaching Liquid:

  8 cups water

  1 tablespoon barley malt syrup

  1 tablespoon baking soda

  1½ teaspoon salt

  Directions:

  Mix dry ingredients to blend. Stir warm water and syrup to blend. Then add wet ingredients to dry and mix or knead until a smooth dough forms. Let rest for ten minutes.