By Shane VanOosterhout
Peter Small stood
at the edge of his power-washed driveway, arms outstretched. “A man’s lawn is an investment and a
matter of personal pride. It’s a
shame when people don’t respect that.”
He gestured dismissively at his neighbor’s yard. “It’s ruined--sparse, full of weeds,
and they don’t give a damn.
Disgusting.”
The FedEx man
nodded. “I hear you. Sign please.”
Peter sliced open
the box and removed the bright green container of Milt’s Miracle
Mychorrizea. Minutes later he
paced behind his Agri-Spreader, dropping white powder in meticulous rows.
Elaine slipped
through the sliding door and stood on the deck, watching her husband from
above. Peter glanced up and
waved. “The fertilizer I ordered
finally came.”
“That’s nice. The beef is ready to grill.”
After dinner they
sat under the fringed blue porch umbrella, drinking Chardonnay. Elaine was in
the middle of a sentence when Peter sprang from his chair and ran down the
steps, causing her to spill cold wine on her bare thigh. “Peter! What on earth!”
She limped to the railing.
Peter was on all
fours, his head turned sideways, listening to the grass. After a moment he
rounded his back and stood up. “I
thought there was something. I had
to check.”
“You startled me,”
Elaine said sharply. “What something?
Moles?”
“I had to check,
that’s all.”
She squinted,
bunching the soft skin at the corners of her eyes. “Not again.”
“It doesn’t
concern you, Elaine.”
Pouting, she
returned to her chair.
At four o’clock in
the morning Peter woke and stepped onto the deck to stare at the glossy polish
of his lawn, flat as a gemstone beneath a white moon.
He descended to the grass, where his John Deere X749 had
surgically sliced every blade. A
dull noise—thrup-thrup-thrup—came from
the backside of his cedar fence: the neighbors had forgotten to shut off their
oscillating sprinkler. “Damn them, if I get fungus, I swear to God I’ll sue.”
In the back corner
the Small’s yard grew Elaine’s beloved purple Rose of Sharon. Peter hated it. Twice he had threatened to chop the
thing down because it cast shade, depriving the surrounding turf of sunlight
and nutrients. Elaine did not see
the difference between A and B.
“The grass looks fine to me.
Why can’t I have one thing to myself in this yard? No, you’re not cutting it down.”
He wondered,
seriously, how could she not see the
difference between the sickly color of the grass that grew in the shadow of
that damned shrub, and the rest of the lawn, which was so flawlessly
green? Besides, Rose of Sharon was
a calling card for the Japanese Beetles that came to feast on the flowers and
stayed for the filthy sex. Even
now, in the grey shadows of the moon, he swore he could see their libidinous,
quivering antennae. He crossed the
yard, entered the garage from the side door, and lifted the long-handled
loppers from their hook.
In the morning
Elaine’s face was wet with tears.
“Why would you do this?
Why?”
He remained
silent, listening to her sniffles.
“It had to be done. That’s
all.”
“Do you want
breakfast?”
“I ate early.”
She went to find a
tissue.
“I’ll be
outside. The lawn needs coring.”
“What? I thought you did that last month.”
“Now it’s this
month.”
When he finished
aerating, he gathered the slender grey soil plugs and covertly
tossed them into his neighbor’s yard where they landed, undiscovered and
leaking excess fertilizers, beneath an arborvitae. Minutes later Jason flung his muscular arms over the fence. “Hey, Mr. Small, how are ya? Can you believe how fast that bush is
growing?” He gestured to the
arborvitae. “I don’t do anything
to it and it’s getting huge. Isn’t
that awesome?”
“Yes, it’s awesome. Blocks my view of
your house.” Peter irrigated for
twenty-five minutes then checked his watch. Elaine appeared on the deck. "I made sandwiches, aren't you hungry?"
“I
have to keep my eye on how these heads are working. Might
have corrosion."
She uncrossed her
arms and went indoors, then returned with a plate. “I’m
putting a chicken sandwich on the table.
It can’t sit out, so come and eat.”
He briefly glanced
away from the hissing sprinkler heads.
“O.K.”
Leaving a fourth
of his sandwich unfinished, Peter returned to the yard, kneeled and lowered his
nose to the flat tips of Kentucky Bluegrass. He inhaled. The
odor was mostly correct, but something was not right. He stood up and dug his phone out of his pants pocket.
A woman
answered. “Milt’s Miracle Products
the place for a greener life this is Joan may I have your name sir?”
“Peter.”
“Very good Mr.
Peter and how may I assist you today?”
“I’m calling about
your Miracle Mychorrizae.”
“O.K. sir and is
that the Regular or Super Blast?”
“Regular.”
“O.K. sir please
hold while I transfer your call to a customer service representative.”
(Clicking, music,
clicking.) “Hello this is Thomas
may I have your first name please?”
“Peter Small.”
“And how may I
assist you today Mr. Small?”
“I put down some
of your Mychorrizae product. But
I’m not…”
“Regular or Super
Blast?”
“Regular. I
already told Joan.”
“I am sorry about
that sir. Now what can I help you with?”
“It doesn’t work.”
“And when did you
apply our product?”
“Two days ago.”
Pause. “OK sir? You do realize that all of Milt’s Miracle Products are
guaranteed to show noticeable results after thirty days of application?”
“Listen, I want a
refund.”
“Sir may I suggest
that you wait until thirty days have passed and if you are still not satisfied
you give us a call back? And I’d
like to remind you that Milt’s Miracle Products have been certified by the
American Lawn Association to be highly effective when properly applied to the
average lawn?”
Peter
snorted. “Average? I do not have an average lawn,
Thomas. I have the finest lawn in
this neighborhood!”
“Yes sir I’m sure
you do.”
“You people are
worthless.” Peter
disconnected. He lifted a foot to
check his clean white sneakers.
Red thread could be a serious problem at this time of the year. “Elaine!” he shouted. “I’m taking the truck over to my
storage locker. I’ll be back in an
hour or so!”
She came
outside. “Did you say
something? I had water running in
the sink.”
“I saw ants.”
“All right.” She eyed her pots of orange geraniums,
surprised at how they drooped.
Upon learning in
2005 that the pesticide Diazinon would be phased out, Peter had made a
retaliatory sweep of all the garden retailers within ninety miles, purchasing
five hundred bags of Diazinon. He
stacked the bags, warehouse style, in a rental. Elaine knew, because she had nagged the truth from him when
she saw the credit card bill. He
promised that if they ever needed the money, he could sell off the remaining
inventory on Craig’s list and “probably double” what he’d paid.
The storage unit
was hot and reeked of vaguely dangerous chemicals, like Elaine’s automatic room
fresheners. He wiped the sweat
from his lip and loaded two bags into the truck’s cab.
After sundown
there were a few rumblings of thunder, but the sky did not break. They sat in the TV room while Peter
watched tennis with the sound dialed down to a murmur. Elaine, curled on the sofa, read The
Alphabet Murders—M is for Maim. When the tennis match ended Peter
turned his head and saw that she had nodded off, her exposed cheek bathed in
light from the brass reading lamp.
He left the room.
Elaine woke at
midnight. Her ankle throbbed. She limped to the kitchen for two
ibuprofen and a glass of water.
Gazing through the window she noticed Peter’s silhouette hovering in the
center of the yard. She struggled
to push open the window—it always resisted—but finally decided to give up.
Peter remained
still, watching and listening. He
saw only one cricket, and laughed at it, knowing that it would soon be
dead. During the first seconds of
dawn he grew hopeful, thinking he had heard a sound coming from the grass—not
quite a whisper, but then the crows began cawing, and it slipped away. Suddenly he noticed the heat, and went
indoors to start the central air.
The house smelled
of eggs and tea. Elaine looked at
him broadly. “You were out there
all night for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes.”
“I hope you’re
going to take it easy today.
Forecast is for extreme heat.”
“Still got a
couple of things I need to do.”
“Peter …” She
handed him a glass of cranberry juice.
“I’ll get some
rest first.”
He napped,
showered and returned to his lawn, wearing only bathing trunks. Gripping a magnifying glass he crawled
across the grass, peering down.
Sometimes he stopped, wrinkled his brow and plucked a single blade,
which he studied with the nervous concentration of a forensics detective. Then he would toss it aside and
continue crawling, searching for damning clues.
Elaine stayed
indoors, hovering at the windows, wishing that Peter would quit. She pounded on
the glass to get his attention, and then called his phone and begged him to
come in, but he said he had to finish.
At 9:30 AM the yard was in full sun. Peter lay chest down on the lawn with his arms neatly at his
sides. Elaine yanked open the door
and sprinted into the crushing heat, ignoring the awful pain in her ankle.
Peter’s mouth moved
slowly. His eyes were half open.
“Can you hear me?” She rubbed his shoulder.
“Yes…it’s OK. Yes, I can hear you. I understand now.”
“It’s me, it’s
Elaine. I called 911.”
By the time the
two paramedics arrived Peter had roused and was leaning against his wife. “I’m OK guys,” he said. “Sorry you had to come here for
nothing.”
“He fainted,”
Elaine said angrily, moving away from him. She was soaked in sweat. “Don’t you boys dare leave without
checking my husband over from head to toe.”
“Mr. Small we need
to get you inside. Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s take it slow now, OK?”
Elaine instructed
them to put Peter on the sofa. She
brought cold towels for his burning skin while they took his blood pressure and
asked him if he knew the president of the United States. “Not personally,” he
joked.
“You’ll be fine,”
the paramedics reassured, “as long as you hydrate and get your body temperature
back to normal. You over-heated
like crazy.”
Elaine was on the
verge of tears. “I kept telling
him to come inside.”
“Don’t blame
yourself, ma’am, this happens a lot around this time of year. Your husband’s a little stubborn, am I
right?”
She wept, nodding
in relief. “Yes. He never listens to me.”
“Just make sure he
drinks a lot of liquids. Anything
he likes. Except alcohol, of
course. Soda, juice, water—it’s
all good.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re
welcome. Boy you sure do have a
nice lawn, by the way.”
“I’ll be sure to
tell my husband you said so.”
Peter slept for
three hours. When he woke he was
in good spirits. He ate three
turkey sandwiches that Elaine had made for him and he gulped four cans of
Pepsi. “I feel good,” he told her. “Really good.”
“I put the
thermostat at 65,” she informed him.
“Is that too cold? I was so
worried. The paramedics said that
if your temperature had been just three degrees higher they would’ve taken you
to the hospital. But once I got
those wet towels on you it seemed to come down pretty fast.”
“Feels good in here.”
“Look at me
Peter. No more going out in this
heat, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been
thinking, maybe we should hire a lawn service.”
He stared at the
sliding door and bit down. “Let’s
not get into that right now.”
That night when
they crawled into bed, Peter apologized for causing a scene with the paramedics,
as if he had perpetrated a hoax.
In the cold, dry bedroom Elaine applied moisturizer to her arms and
legs, accepted her husband’s apology, and switched off the lights. He lay awake, listening for her breath
to change to its familiar sigh, and then slipped out of bed to answer the
whispers that called from the yard.
The heat engulfed
him.
Elaine woke hours
later, pushed her pillow aside and screamed. Peter’s body was twisted, his neck exposed and his head
flung back. She reared from the
bed, damp sheets clinging to her legs, and tore open the blinds, flooding the
room with light. Then she saw what
was really there: a knoll of dark green stuff, rising from the mattress like a
heaving mound of turf. The
lampshade, carpet, walls and ceiling, the framed photograph of seashells, they
were tinted as pretty as chlorophyll.
Sobbing, she
hobbled along the edge of the room toward the door. “Peter?”
A whisper.
“Where are
you? What are you saying?”
But the whisper
did not come again. She left the
room and shut the door tightly.
For the next two
days Elaine did not open the door.
Finally she knocked, called Peter’s name, and entered when he did not
answer. The swollen mound of green
was still heaped on their bed. “You look dry,” she said to it. “I’m going to give you a drink.” She
got her watering can from under the kitchen sink and gave the mound a generous
sprinkle.
After a few days
the mattress sagged and reeked of algae, an odor that crept through the rest of
the house. She installed air
fresheners in every room—Vanilla Summer, Lavender Morning, Strawberry
Sunset. Then a grotesque,
yellowish slime appeared and spread into the carpet, which was the last
straw. Besides, she was sick of
sleeping on the couch. There was
nothing left to do but call a service.
“Can you take a look at my yard?”
She inquired.
When a man named
Tony arrived she led him through the house to the bedroom and paused before
opening the door. She had been
rehearsing this: “You might think
this is weird. I’d rather not explain.”
He nodded.
They stood at the
edge of the expanding wet stain oozing across the floor.
“Here it is,”
Elaine said. “Can you move it to
the backyard?”
“I could get some
guys over this afternoon. We could
shovel it into some pails and dump it outside.”
She shook her
head. “It has to be moved in one piece.
You know…transplanted.”
“No way we can get
it outside in one piece unless we cut a hole clean through the side of the
house.”
She looked him
earnestly. “Then that’s what we’ll
do. Do you know a good
contractor?”
A week later Tony
returned with his three taciturn sons.
They heaved the soggy mattress and its green passenger through the
bashed bedroom wall, onto a hydraulic platform, and lowered it to the ground. Next they moved it to the corner of the
yard, where her purple Rose of Sharon had once grown, and they slashed away the
ruined mattress with box cutters, leaving only the strange dark lump of stuff
that was once Peter Small. Elaine
put the hose on it, but only after first refreshing her geraniums.
The carpenters
tore out the bedroom carpet and set out heaters to dry the damp from the
sub-floor. The wall was reframed for a large picture window that provided a
wider view of the yard. Elaine
bought herself a fancy chair with deep cushions—a bright floral print, and a
generous matching ottoman, so she could sit and look out whenever she pleased.
The mound faded to
dull green. But after a few weeks
in the sun and a twenty-minute soak every morning, its color improved. In early fall Elaine dialed down the
irrigation system from once per day to once per week. Chickweed crept in but she didn’t bother to spray it. Ants marched through and crickets sang
at night.
In
October the Flower Haus ran a fifty percent discount on all remaining flowering
shrubs and trees. Elaine purchased
eight Rose of Sharon and set them in the backyard, abutting the fence. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a
loosely buttoned shirt, she retrieved the long-handled shovel from its hook,
and began digging.
“Hello Mrs. Small.” Jason leaned over the fence.
“Hi Jason.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Oh, much better,
thank you.”
“Was something the
matter?”
She stuck out her
foot and wiggled it. “Had a
terrible sprain when my husband left the string trimmer lying on the ground
this spring—didn’t see it there.
But now, good as new.”
“Cool.” He grinned. “So where is Mr. S. these days? Weird not to see him mowing and stuff. You guys have such an awesome lawn.”
“He’s away.” She smiled politely. “So I’m tending the yard now.”
“Ah, I see.” His eyes scanned the yard. “Looks like you’re more the natural
type.”
Elaine struck the
earth with the tip of the shovel, forcing it through the turf’s roots with
swift shove from her foot. “Did
you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Sounded like
shouting.” And then she laughed,
mysteriously, with her eyes closed.
Jason shrugged.
“Eh, maybe that couple next to us--they argue a lot.”
“How is your wife,
Jason? That baby must be due any
time now.”
“Charlotte? She’s
terrific, thanks for asking.
Although she can’t stand being outside since the pregnancy—makes her
feel sick. But now that it’s
cooled off I keep trying to get her to at least walk around the block. Problem is she’s so darned huge!”
“She’ll be back to normal soon, I know I
was.”
“I’ll tell her you
said that. Hey! Looks like you
just did some remodeling.” He
pointed at Elaine’s bedroom window. “Charlotte and I were just talking about
adding on.”
“I’ll give you
their number.”
“Thanks. So, you need some help with those
plants?”
She glanced at the
row of shrubs in black plastic containers. “Rose of Sharon—my favorite. I thought I’d do a whole hedge of ‘em, right here by this
lump.”
He stared. “Funny. I don’t remember that being there.”
“Moles,
probably.”
Jason climbed over
the fence. “Just tell me where to
dig.”
The End
Shane VanOosterhout is The Passionate Gardener.
For more garden inspiration, you can follow him on Facebook.
