“You might just have a future solving crimes, Pauline. You might be pretty useful.”
She laughed and said nothing. I could see that she was relieved to know the truth, and to have the contest finally over. Now we could just relax and enjoy our garden with the kids, and continue the endless process of maintaining it. As I realized, a garden is never finished. It is by its very nature a work in progress, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
8
It was about two weeks later, during our monthly faculty operational meeting, which is the boring name for what is usually a boring event. But that day was different. We discussed finals, NCAA stuff involving the basketball team, concerns about grade inflation, the need to lock our classrooms whenever we leave (there’d been some minor vandalism), and some other stuff. And then Catherine stood up and said, “Madame Gallard has an update on the Green Campus Competition, and some of the other events that have happened here this semester. Pauline, it’s all yours. Take it away.”
“Well, first, I would like to announce…” And here she took out a big framed certificate, “that we have won the National Green Campus Competition.”
The faculty erupted in cheers.
“And I would also like to announce that the case of the death of Jim Screbbles has been officially closed by the Cold Creek Police Department. He died in the garden here on campus…of a massive heart attack. He was with a woman who later identified herself as a member of the Green Campus judging committee, and they were here to sabotage my garden together. He was having a romantic liaison with this woman, and that night his wife, who had followed him here, confronted them both, and there was an argument, and she left, and he suffered a heart attack and died. That woman, who shall remain nameless, faked an injury to his head so that it would appear that I killed him. Still this woman wanted to sabotage me. However, now we have learned the truth. I know, this whole affair is like something you would read in a tawdry mystery novel. I could not make up events like this if you paid me.”
Of course there were questions. They attempted to carry on the meeting, having stupidly planned more housekeeping items after this bombshell, but it never returned to order, and Madame Gallard spent the rest of the time describing our investigation, the stupidity of the Cold Creek Police Department, and the sordid details of Jim Screbbles’s life.
ON the morning that we all signed our contracts for the next year, I emerged from my meeting, satisfied with same teaching schedule I’d had the last two years. I was at the point in my life when I didn’t really want a lot of surprises. Pauline was waiting in the hallway to go in after me.
“Wait here for me,” she said. I waited, though I knew they had no grounds to fire her anymore. Still I felt the old butterfly feeling in my stomach – and when she emerged, she couldn’t conceal her triumph, and she held up her contract.
“The usual two percent raise,” she said. “Same schedule. I suppose I am satisfied.”
“Is this the happiest I’ll ever see you?” I asked.
“Possibly. I owe you my thanks, Mr. Jenkins. Without your sleuthing expertise I might not have a job next year. And who knows what would happen to that garden?”
We walked out onto the empty campus and strolled along the lawn beneath the old oak tree. The kids had had a minimum day so we could have our meetings and do our paperwork, so the campus was empty and with the heat outside it already felt like summer, though it was still May.
“So who will look after the garden this summer, Pauline?”
“I was hoping you would help me.”
“I’d be happy to. I’ll need something to do anyways, to stay out of trouble. Maybe Katie can help.”
“No, I forbid it. A woman this much pregnant should not do gardening, Thomas. Shame on you. You must wait on her hand and foot. She is allowed to eat anything she pleases and drink only mineral water that you will buy from the store. And she will need foot massages.”
“You’re really putting me to work.”
“When is the due date anyway?”
“August 25th.”
“Oh, the week we come back. I suppose I will not see you then. You will have a substitute?”
“Yes, I have to find someone I can trust to teach the class for a couple of weeks.”
“But until then, we have much to do in the garden.”
We strolled over to the garden, which was pretty well established by now. There was even a little shade from the morning glories that were growing on the trellises, and the benches and tables were all set up.
“The garden will need constant vigilance, Thomas. Only with full attention can we prevent critters, pests, and excessive heat from killing what we have created.”
“Will there be any students here that can help you?”
“They are doing summer school, actually. I need to talk to Chris about that. To see if I can have my gardening club come in here for some credit. Maybe community service hours, no? Because already they have been asking if they can come work in the summer.”
“Your students are asking to come to school?” I laughed.
“Yes, of course. What else will they do? They cannot go back to their video games now. They want to be outside. I have trained them.”
She walked over to one of the planters.
“Already the kale is ready to be harvested, you see?” She picked a leaf of kale and chewed it. “Yes. This is ready. This will make a good salad.”
“Will you be here during finals week?” I asked.
“Yes, for the French classes. My AP classes, I told the students not to come. There is no need – they have already taken the test.”
“Well, I’ll see you in the garden, then.”
“Yes. We will work out a summer schedule to come and tend it.”
“Definitely.”
I walked away and left her there, surrounded by her plants, in the Eden she’d created out of an old storage yard.
ARTHUR Thomas Jenkins was born at 2 in the morning on August 27th, the week I was supposed to go back to school for the fall. It was a long, crazy delivery and the first few weeks are a complete blur, but one thing I remember is that Pauline was the first person I texted when I knew Katie was going into labor. She texted back something like “Wonderful! Be strong! Your wife needs you!” But what stands out the most is that when we got back from the hospital there was a grocery bag at our front door with a note from Pauline, telling us that she had made us some ratatouille and fresh bread, and that we should let her know if we needed anything. We ate the ratatouille ravenously, and the first week or so we were inundated by a constant stream of Katie’s family, who visited and oohed and ahhed and took lots of pictures.
Finally Pauline came by the house one evening on her walk, when I was outside with Arthur, giving Katie a rest from nursing.
“Look at the petite mignon!” she cried, and she spent a few minutes telling me how cute he was. I thanked her for the food she’d left.
“Remember,” she said, “the first few months will be a mess. Expect nothing else. But there will come a time when you are holding your child, and you realize for the first time that you are a parent, and it will be a very gratifying feeling.”
“It’s just exhausting!” I told her. “We’re both like zombies right now.”
“Yes, yes,” she laughed. “I remember this. It is very tiring. But I am glad you chose to have children, even in the world we live in with all of its problems. It is optimistic to have children.”
“Like planting a garden.”
“Yes, like planting a garden. But remember, all the same rules apply. A garden must not run wild, Thomas. It must be tamed, controlled, weeded, and allowed to grow in a healthy way. It must not be deprived of water or sun. Only then will the garden prosper.”
“Well, you’ll have to teach him how to garden, Pauline. I want him to grow up with a green thumb.”
“No, you can teach him,” she said. “You are being too modest.”
“Well, you’
ll have to teach him French.”
“Yes, that I will teach.”
With that she said she was going to the Farmer’s Market tomorrow if we wanted to come, and she went on her way.
WHAT Pauline told me was true; it was a sudden moment, several months after my son was born, that I first felt like a father. It was one of those nights when I was on duty, since Katie had been doing all the regular feedings at two-hour intervals for the past 24 hours, and she needed a night of uninterrupted sleep. I had gone back to work and was also exhausted, and I would have done almost anything to avoid getting up – just to get five or six hours of sleep. But there he was, crying at two, or maybe three in the morning, I didn’t know. I didn’t look. I got up, took him out of the crib, changed the diaper, got the bottle out of the fridge, and wrapped him in a blanket took him out on the porch to feed him so he wouldn’t wake her up. It was a cold winter night and the stars were out, and as I looked up I could see Orion, crouched up in the middle of the sky with his sword and shield.
Arthur fussed and cried, and he kept moving around and crying and refusing the bottle, and after about ten minutes he latched onto it and drank. He drank and drank and drank, looking up at me occasionally and smiling. When he was done his lips relaxed and he let go of the bottle and his eyes closed and I put him on my chest to burp him as he gurgled and sighed. When I was done burping him, his little hand closed around my finger and he settled his face against my neck, where I could feel his little breaths going in and out. I couldn’t believe how totally dependent he was on me.
I was probably the only person on my street who was awake right now, and I had the feeling that I was the sole witness to some infinitely beautiful miracle. Katie and I were on this miraculous path together, but there was probably a part of the journey that I had to take alone. There was nowhere I would rather be – not even in my bed, asleep.
I took him out into the yard to walk around and rock him to sleep. As I walked with him I could feel his heart beating softly against my chest, and I realized that I wasn’t tired anymore.
Murder in the French Teacher's Garden Page 13