Gregory went on, "I've never really learned to cook. I know it's important for self-sufficiency, but I'm afraid I'm pretty useless at it. I can cook each ingredient separately—boiling, usually—or eat them raw, but I've never really managed to make anything edible out of combining ingredients."
Abe shuddered. "That sounds terrible. Maybe I could teach you a simple stir-fry."
Gregory's grin was wide and genuine and made him look stunningly handsome. "If you're not afraid of burning down your house. I'm not kidding about being inept."
"Don't say such a thing." Abe, who was rather superstitious, shuddered. "Even in joking!"
"Sorry." He gave Abe's elbow a squeeze, then let go. "You're quite the enigma around here, you know. A successful business consultant who moved suddenly to the suburbs and started planting zinnias with a vengeance?"
"I'm not much of a mystery," said Abe. "It was the divorce. I needed to move."
Whether he'd needed to move here was still doubtful, but he'd had to go somewhere to lick his wounds in private and grieve without a public display or being surrounded by constant reminders. He'd been told before that he shouldn't run away, but he'd needed to. He'd need to survive the grief and loss before he could even think of moving ahead with his life.
"Divorce?" Gregory looked startled, but covered it quickly.
"Yes. It was rather hard, after..." He sighed and looked away, hoping Gregory wasn't going to want any of the sordid details. It still hurt to talk about.
Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly low, he would get out a bottle of wine and rage and cry and say all the things he wanted to say to Lenard but couldn't. Most of the time, he left the past where it belonged and focused on his life now. It was better that way. Zinnias and all. If he was sometimes quite lonely, it was still better than living a lie.
"I'm sure it must be." Gregory sounded constrained, even unhappy.
They were quiet as they walked along. Finally, Abe shook himself out of his mood. "Goodness, I'm not being very sociable, am I?"
"You don't have to entertain me." Gregory smiled, but it looked twisted and a little pained. He perked up when he added, "Although, if you want to, you could let me dig up part of your backyard and plant something useful—"
"No!"
They both laughed at how vehement that sounded, Gregory looking pleased to have gotten his goat, and Abe a little ashamed of himself.
They arrived at the community center in good spirits with one another. The door was unlocked, and no one was standing around outside impatiently. They went in together and joined the assembled people: most of the garden club, chattering loudly, as well as a few who had entered the contest but weren't members. Hannibal looked particularly flustered and on edge today, as if the entire meeting had gotten out of his control and he didn't know what to do.
"Ladies, please," he was saying in a pained voice, as if he were trying to quiet screaming teenage music fans when they were meeting their pop idol. "I'm sure Mr. Collin will give you all autographs in time."
Mr. Collin, whom Abe finally got a good look at as he turned his dazzling, and somewhat smug, smile toward his audience, did not look at all as if he would. He looked as if he'd prefer they fight one another for the privilege, destroying all bonds of friendship and community, and start lifelong jealous feuds over the few signatures he would graciously allow to the winners.
It was an odd thing to think, and Abe wondered at himself for being so quick to judge, even by his standards.
There was something about the man, though. He looked bigger than he did on TV, but somehow less real. His skin was too smooth, as if he'd had a lot of plastic surgery or wore some sort of stage makeup. His hair was a bit too bleached-blond, and his smile looked less genuine than Abe would have guessed anyone's could have. The ladies of the garden club didn't notice, however. Half of them seemed to be blushing or have stars in their eyes.
Goodness, thought Abe, the call of celebrity! I'm not swooning over him, anyway. He's not nearly as handsome in person as I thought he'd be. Plus, Abe thought there was a certain malicious gleam in the man's eyes that would make anyone less attractive.
"If we could just start the judging awhile," said Hannibal uneasily. "I'm sure there's time for...for anything more later."
Clarence Collin surveyed his fandom with a speculative look, as if trying to decide whom he would get the best use of. Abe shuddered. Goodness, he was feeling catty. Or else something about the man really was dangerous, and subconscious signals were pinging, setting off all of Abe's internal alarms.
Collin took the time to give out a couple of autographs, far fewer than the ladies wanted, and then led the way grandly from the building to take his triumphant walk through town and announce his benediction on the winner.
Abe stuck to the back of the group, hanging back, as near to Gregory as he dared stand. Somehow, he felt that the sturdy tweed suit would protect him from undue notice, as he looked quite commonplace and ordinary next to it. Still, he found himself wishing he'd found something to wear that would blend into the background even better, so there would be no chance of his being noticed by that predatory gaze.
No one else besides Hannibal seemed to think there was anything amiss about their great celebrity, though, so he wondered if he was being silly.
The garden judging started at the far corner of town, with some neighbors whom Abe didn't know very well. He was interested to see their gardens more closely, and what the celebrity judge made of them. One had a grapevine trailing elegantly over a trellis that Abe thought was quite pretty.
Interestingly, Clarence's comments never quite seemed to please the owners. He called the grapevine patchy. Abe couldn't see anything wrong with it; perhaps it took an expert eye. Then there were the rhododendrons from another entrant, which he called a pedestrian attempt.
Abe didn't know enough about plants to understand why he said these things, but the malicious glint in Clarence's eyes said it was not an accident. The man wished to make these gardeners uncomfortable, to make them feel that he was looking down on them—without necessarily letting anyone else realize that. On the surface, sometimes he even seemed to be complimenting, and yet nobody seemed encouraged by his words. Mostly, they looked discouraged, even crushed.
Abe began to wonder uncomfortably what Clarence would think of zinnias. He already had a feeling it would not be pleasant.
Hannibal, self-conscious about his aphids, was made miserable when the celebrity guest noticed them (and only them) in his garden.
Henrietta's blackberry bushes were "too wild and untamed," and, even if Abe privately agreed with that sentiment, he hated to see Henrietta so unnecessarily crushed. Collin seemed to have the knack of zeroing in on the one thing each gardener would feel worst about his mentioning dismissively.
When they reached Mary's place, there was no one outside. Clarence looked around dismissively, wrinkling his nose a bit at the scent of violets and herbs. "Terribly gauche," he said under his breath, and moved on.
Gregory, for the first time seeming to notice something was up, gave Abe a shocked look. Mary was everyone's favorite gardener, and even the mud king couldn't find fault with her herbs and flowers.
Under his audience's admiring eyes, Clarence's barbs grew markedly less hidden. At Fiona's next door, he uttered a derisive snort over the sad little vegetable plot and a few choice words about anyone who would choose to grow squash. Gregory had begun to stand taller, an alert look in his eyes, as he eyed Clarence.
They made it through the rest of the entry gardens. Occasionally, he would throw in a fulsome compliment that made people who had been denigrated stew and steam. But mostly, he was dismissive and show-offy, keeping the attention on himself and trying to make everyone else seem silly and irrelevant.
Winnie's dahlias were dismissed as overdone, showy, and a cliché. Abe ached for his friend, whose crushed look briefly flashed across her face before her smiling merry widow look was back firmly in place. "Ah, well," sh
e said, trying to look as if she didn't care a whit. After all, she was mostly into gardening for the gardener—but Abe could see that, for an instant at least, she really had been hurt.
Abe managed to hide behind Gregory for most of it, before Lorraine Lockwood turned on him and demanded, "What are you doing back there? Come up here with me so you can see!" She cast Gregory an unfriendly sort of look, as if he'd been blocking Abe's view on purpose. Abe wanted to sink into the ground, but he wasn't made of stern enough stuff to resist her orders, and he allowed himself to be pulled forward, into clear view of the garden just before the end: his and Gregory's places would be next, and last.
Keeping her arm hooked through his so he couldn't escape, Lorraine demanded, "Now, then, you must think well of these roses. Tell me you do!"
His next-door neighbors had a large backyard which Larry mowed to within an inch of its life (literally), and heaven help any weed or bug that tried to make a home for itself. They weren't terribly fond of Gregory's weedy mess either, although they'd found out quickly enough that there was nothing illegal about it.
Gregory had set them all straight on that before anyone else could try to make trouble for him. (This was confirmed later, to their frustration.) Abe, however much he might have been annoyed by the man's gardening techniques, should hope he was a good enough neighbor not to try to sic the law on someone for choosing to dig up their lawn. He didn't approve of their threat.
They were not friends, yet now Lorraine was holding on to him as if he was necessary to her happiness. No doubt she wanted Abe to witness her triumph and perhaps wish that he had been clever enough to marry a woman who could grow roses.
"Oh, yes, roses," said Clarence with a malicious look. "I've never seen a rose before, especially not such a pedestrian collection of Walmart two-for-ones. They're nearly as pretty as plastic flowers."
Lorraine drew in an audible breath, staring for a moment, bug-eyed. "Well!" was all she could think to say.
Abe took the moment to escape her grasp, shuddering inwardly at the thought of what might have happened if Larry had accompanied her today. The man would certainly have punched Clarence, and that was not what any of them really wanted the gardening club to be known for.
Abe felt a cold feeling go down his spine as Clarence's gaze landed on him, that cold-eyed laughter. He looked Abe over, mocking and dismissive, as if he could see every bit of Abe's conceits and insecurities, his frailties and strengths, such as they were—and every single one of them was pathetic. Abe froze like a rabbit in headlights. He realized he felt a bit light-headed and short of breath. He was no stranger to being looked down on. An openly gay man was not always welcome, and he had had years of misery at school growing up. But it had been a long time since he had felt quite this frightened in someone's gaze.
Gregory stepped forward, between Abe and Collin. "My place next," he said in a kind of firm, cold voice, a bit like Hannibal when he was settling in for a long battle with aphids that he knew he mightn't win, but which had to be fought anyway.
Clarence took one look at his suit and laughed aloud. It was not a pleasant laugh, but Gregory endured it, straightening up a bit taller, to his full height. Clarence was much taller than he, still, but he didn't back down. Abe suddenly thought that Gregory was really rather brave. Most of the rest of the garden club laughed along with Clarence, sounding uncomfortable and not sure why they were laughing.
"Yes, by all means," said Clarence. "Are you those dreadful zinnias, or the mud patch?"
"The mud patch," said Gregory evenly.
No one had anything to say to this. By now, Abe felt that the grim mood had overtaken the entire party, as they were each beginning to doubt whether Clarence was as nice as they'd thought, and perhaps realizing that his rudeness wasn't their imagination, and they weren't the only ones being made uncomfortable.
As Clarence began to describe the lawn-destroying garden-in-progress of Gregory Gallop, Abe found himself feeling a bit sorry for Gregory and wishing he could defend him. Really, just because it wasn't very nice-looking now didn't mean at least some of his grand plans wouldn't work out. When it came down to it, what was one oddball backyard? Most of the neighborhood stuck quite precisely to grass and a few flowers or veggies, and they all looked the same. Would it be so terribly bad to have one backyard be entirely different?
"If you were going for the war zone look," finished Clarence triumphantly, "then I would say you have admirably succeeded. It looks like a wasteland of habitat destruction."
"Permaculture is a lifelong pursuit," said Gregory, though he sounded shaken. "Of course it doesn't look as good as it will in a few years' time—but it is not a wasteland. It will be useful—and perhaps beautiful as well."
It was a good defense, considering everything, but it made no difference to Clarence or to most of the gardeners, who had probably thought all the same things themselves. But it made a difference to Abe. He suddenly realized that this weird, obsessed neighbor really did think he was going to help save the world in some small way—and it mattered to him intensely.
Abe looked at him sympathetically. Really, if digging up his lawn and planting fruit trees and odd vines made him happy and gave him a purpose in life, who was Abe to judge? He, after all, grew zinnias and hung out with gardeners.
"Now, then," said Clarence, rubbing his hands together in a mimed excitement. "Last, and almost certainly least, those dreadful zinnias!"
Abe shuddered inwardly. He had a feeling that, after today, he would not be able to look at the zinnias in his backyard without feeling ashamed. He eased closer to Gregory as the rest of the gardeners followed Clarence into Abe's backyard. He touched Gregory's tweedy sleeve. "I don't think it's a wasteland," he said quietly.
"Thank you." Gregory still looked rather stunned. He seemed diminished by Clarence's carefully chosen cruel words. None of them, by themselves, would have been so terrible if he'd meant to help rather than mock. There was very clearly a lot that needed done to the property before it was pretty, or particularly useful. No doubt a professional gardener such as himself could have offered helpful tips, had he chosen to do so, and perhaps gently steered Gregory away from a few excesses. Instead, he'd chosen to belittle the entire project and the passion behind it, simply because he could.
"Come on," said Abe, trying to smile. "Aren't you going to come and see what he says about my zinnias?"
Gregory smiled a bit, at last, and took his arm. "I'm sure it'll be an entirely reasonable and helpful critique," he said dryly.
Abe laughed, feeling for the moment as if he could face even this.
Unfortunately, it was not as easy as all that. The cruel gardener had taken his measure pretty quickly, and made him sound like a repressed, frightened little man who had to keep everything very neatly in order, the zinnias in sterile, bleakly regimented rows, their leaves not touching. He made Abe sound neurotic; he made Abe sound like a closeted and pathetic little man who was frightened of nature, the world, and his own desires.
He didn't get everything right—his interpretation was certainly meant more to hurt than to tell the truth—but it made Abe feel small and wretched, a failure as a man and a gardener. It made him feel like a fool for planting his zinnias right out there in the open, where anyone could see and tell exactly what he was like, how worthless and stupid he was.
Gregory gripped his arm rather hard, as if he was afraid Abe would fall over. Abe felt as if all the blood had drained from his face, but he stood it as long as he could. "I suppose I haven't won, then?" he managed at the end, in a shaky voice. He got a couple of laughs for that, awkward laughs, but real ones. Perhaps someone else had wanted to stand up to Clarence, and this was the nearest they could come.
"I doubt you've won anything in your life," said Clarence, giving him a sweeping cold glance up and down. "No, this certainly won't be the time." Then he turned away, leaving Abe trembling and feeling sick.
"Nonsense," said Gregory gruffly, close by his ear. "He's a f
ool."
"Oh, dear. A fool who knows a great deal about—about gardening." Abe heard his own voice begin to break as he turned away. He was quite ashamed of himself. He looked at the repulsive blooms as he passed a hand back over his hair. It was thinning, just a bit. The other day, he'd seen a few gray hairs. He felt old and fragile and like a useless fraud. "I suppose I had better tear them up."
"Don't you dare. Don't let him win." Gregory sounded quite firm on the subject, but Abe couldn't meet his gaze—not just yet. Was that how everyone saw him? A pathetic, frightened little man?
"Oh, dear. I just remembered—I've left the—the refrigerator running," said Abe desperately. Or had he meant the stove? "Excuse me." He pulled away and headed indoors. He couldn't face any of them, not like this.
It took a while for the trembling to subside. He had a strong cup of coffee and sat down to bury himself in work. At least he wasn't useless at that.
There was a knock at the door after perhaps half an hour, but he couldn't bring himself to open it. He didn't want to see anyone. He was too ashamed.
"OPEN UP," SAID GREGORY, beating on the door some time later with what sounded like either a large fist or a massive mallet. "I'm not going away until you do. Also, someone has left you a zucchini out here."
Abe eased to the door and opened it reluctantly. He'd changed out of his Mr. Rogers outfit and into some cropped chinos and a golf shirt. He felt small and skittish, but he couldn't leave Gregory pounding away out there. The man had some serious muscles; he might break down the door.
"Oh. Hello," Gregory said when the door eased open, and stopped his knocking. He was holding a spaghetti strainer filled to the brim with tomatoes, lettuce, and spinach. On the doormat sat a rather large, knobby-looking zucchini. "These are for you." He thrust the strainer into Abe's hands, then bent quickly to pick up the zucchini.
"That must be from Fiona. Is Mary doing any better?"
"What's wrong with Mary? First I've heard."
"Oh. She was upset and couldn't come to the garden judging. Fiona stayed with her. I wonder if His Royal Highness Clarence said something rude to her yesterday? Or even this morning? I don't know how anyone couldn't like her garden," he added sadly. He couldn't bear to glance out his windows at the zinnias; hadn't been able to all morning and into the afternoon.
The Body in the Backyard Page 3