Copyright @ 2020 B. Coyne Davies
Published by Iguana Books
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Toronto, ON M5S 2R4
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.
The Buds Are Calling is a work of fiction. Names, places, events, occurrences and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination and/or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is strictly coincidental.
Publisher: Meghan Behse
Editor: Paula Chiarcos
Front cover design: TinyFleaArt
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77180-449-3 (paperback). 978-1-77180-450-9 (ebook).
This is the original electronic edition of The Buds Are Calling.
To the memory of M.A. according to our ancient agreement.
And to H. and P. who are considerably more lively.
PART ONE
Seeds
Sad Ones, do not banish us. Do not merely bury us. We sing of the great desire. We sing of suns and the myriad lights, the sweet songs of summer and souls. Of love, and the quiet heart. It opens and unfolds the clouds. A song to caress the shimmer of your tears. A song beyond the throb and sting. A song beyond the fall. We sing so gently and we hold you dear for all that comes to be. We root our care in the dark damp deep that murmurs, soft beneath your feet. Oh Sad Ones, do not cover us to rid your sight of this. Do not banish us. Do not seize your breath so tightly.
from Cannto III, Cannabidadas
Chapter 1
Ernie Kippett shook the daturas as he lifted them from the shovel’s blade. He wanted to get as much soil off the roots as possible. The bed had subsided over the years so all dirt was valuable. Tomorrow morning he’d be digging up hostas to replace everything. His friend Carl was demolishing one of the gardens over at the old Rosemore estate and had said Ernie could take all the hostas he needed for the terraces. The owner of the terraces, Mrs. Cranston, was a galleon of a woman with cannons ready. She had been unusually agreeable about the arrangement. Probably because of where the hostas were coming from. She was a stickler for status and was determined to preserve the terraces’ reputation. They were the “floral pride of Hullbrooke,” and Ernie was surprised she let him work on them. He had a hunch that Carl, with his lifetime horseshoe-up-the-arse gig taking care of the estate, must have put in a good word for him.
Daturas had been blooming in this bed as far back as Ernie could remember. Maybe Mrs. Cranston had grown something different in the intervening years when he was off selling his soul and being eaten alive by Lenore. But the white and purple trumpet flowers looked exactly the same as the ones he’d seen every summer from the time he was five. Why she’d decided to replant the bed precisely now — in July — seemed a little nuts. There’d been no problems for at least thirty-eight years. Maybe the old girl was battling dementia; paranoia too, lurking in there somewhere among the perennials. He looked at the growing piles of wilting plants in the yard bags and felt deflated. Hostas were okay, but the daturas were interesting. A little mysterious even. Definitely more colorful.
“The kids could get into them. Kids’re crazy now!” Mrs. Cranston said, skirt billowing in the wind. She’d thrown her hands up in disgust. “Stupid too. On their phones all the time. You know datura can kill people.” She’d turned to Ernie, vigorously wagging her finger. “They’d try eating or smoking it so they could film something. Share it. Post it! And hope it goes viral. You should see the idiocy my granddaughter gets up to.”
Ernie didn’t think kids were any dumber or crazier than he’d been. He dumped a bucket of water onto the bed and then headed up the terrace steps to the wagon. He came back with a couple of pots, surveyed the wet patch and focused on some white blooms, then picked up the shovel and sunk it in deeper than he had all day. He had to dig well below the roots. After levering the shovel load up and peering closely at the clump, he dumped it into one of the pots. Then he dug out a purple bunch in the same way and put that into the other pot. Carl had originally told him to ask Mrs. Cranston if she’d kept any seeds.
“Good heavens! Why would I do that? The seeds are even more dangerous.”
Carl had told him if he wanted to transplant some of daturas for his new digs above the Rent-All, he could leave them at the estate until he was ready to move. Ernie had no idea if they’d survive. He was relying solely on Carl’s expertise. Carl knew lots about everything, probably even that Ernie was living out of a station wagon, or he wouldn’t have offered to take the plants. It was a point of dignity though not to bring up certain things around here. Ernie had to laugh because the station wagon was an upgrade.
Ernie put the newly potted daturas in some shade under a lilac bush and finished digging up the rest of the bed. It took him another hour or so in the hot sun. Mrs. Cranston’s compost was at the far side of the house, and he had to lug the bags of expiring plants up nineteen stone steps. When he finished he was dripping with sweat. He slid his eye patch up and wiped his face with a spare T-shirt from the station wagon, then slid the patch back into place over his right eye. As he came back down the steps he hunted for his water bottle and found it right about where he’d been digging before lunch. As he went to pick it up he noticed the great fat toad.
Mrs. Cranston had told him about it. “Make sure you don’t hurt the big mother toad. I think she lives in the datura bed. She’s part of the family you know.” Since Mrs. Cranston had birthed a substantial brood, Ernie was impressed she’d keep track of a toad. Did the mother toad have a name? Ernie had inquired.
“Oh, she’s had a half-dozen names. I forget what the kids called her. Gladys maybe. Yes. Gladys.” At any rate the toad was ancient by toad years. She just sat there warty and occasionally blinking. At one point she shifted slightly and tucked her hind leg a little tighter under herself. The notion occurred to Ernie that a toad living among the dangerous datura roots would have a remarkable constitution or at the very least was going to miss tripping out now. And he didn’t bother telling Mrs. Cranston that toads can pack a pretty nasty toxin of their own. She might order the execution of Gladys, along with the daturas, if she knew.
Ernie took a slow drink of water and started tidying up. Tomorrow would be a long day but a payday. Mrs. Cranston, especially if you listened sympathetically to her indignations, various complaints and grim analyses, always added a little extra. Really nice thing about people around Hullbrooke — cash agreements were a matter of course.
It hadn’t even occurred to Ernie to come back to his old hometown. His family was gone now, his mother dead from lung cancer, his brother married to a painter and living in Portugal. He figured he’d be sitting tight in Brooklyn for the rest of his life. But Lenore had given him the idea. She was on and on about LA, how their relationship had ruined her dreams, and now it was all too late and he’d never appreciated that. He’d suggested delusional ambition was making her miserable and would for the rest of her life, so maybe she should try getting a handle on that. At which point she’d said, “Oh, why don’t you just go back to that little bumfuck nowhere town you came from.” And so, by golly, he did.
Ernie decided he was doing pretty well, considering. At least he was making a little money and he did have a rust bucket he could sleep in. Mostly he tried to sleep outside, often on top of the ve
hicle. But when it was raining, like it would be tonight, he scrunched up his six-foot-six self to fit inside the old Volvo. Not only did the exercise make his bones ache the next morning, it stunk in there. The previous owner had big dogs with poor digestive systems and lousy control at both ends, Ernie guessed. He could spend the night at the Two Trees motel but he’d rather not get in the habit while it was still warm out. Plus he needed to save his money. With luck Gerry would get the old office over the Rent-All cleaned out in the next few weeks so Ernie could set up house in it. A place where he could put a stove, a really good one, because cooking might be the only thing left that gave him pleasure.
After sweeping and hosing off the terrace stairs where he’d been working, he filled up his dented plastic water bottle and stashed it in his tattered knapsack. He picked up the two pots of daturas and climbed the nineteen steps again. Before driving away he made sure to turn off the faucet on the side of the house. Mrs. Cranston had relayed dark and unpleasant tales about previous negligent yard help.
Ernie drove along the tree-lined street with the upscale houses and then steered his car down the hill into Hullbrooke’s diminutive downtown. He parked along the main street and took himself into Chelsea’s, where for a couple of hours he coddled a beer and chatted with the locals. Everybody was in high spirits. The state, arcane and impenetrable as ever, had finally passed the new weed regulations that very afternoon, right about the time Ernie had met Gladys the Toad. Not that it would make that much difference. Anybody who was registered — for medical reasons of course — could already grow six plants. For lots of people, depending on the yield of their plants, that could be more than they could use. So it was easy enough to score some, even if you weren’t sick or racked with pain. Hell, it was always easy to score some. Ernie’s smoky high-school days were long before medical use was state sanctioned. The new laws would just allow for commercial production and apparently they got rid of the whole indictment-for-possession-of-small-amounts insanity. Everybody at Chelsea’s agreed; legal recreational use probably wasn’t long in coming.
When Ernie left the bar he sauntered along the main street for a few blocks and picked up an egg salad sandwich and a bottle of German lager at the deli.
“See you workin’ on the terraces today. Nice! She pay you good?” The plump Greek woman, whose brother had owned the deli for years, winked at him.
“If I do a good job.”
“You do good. Sure. I know. You just like your dad.”
This woman mentioned his dad so often, Ernie could only wonder what exactly had gone on between them. According to his mother, Ernie’s tall, dashing father, Alejandro, was a prize prick. She claimed Uruguay specialized in them, and Alejandro was out of the picture by the time Ernie could walk. In spite of all that and his pure Danish blood from the distaff side, his mother had christened him Ernesto, for which he was very grateful. But he did regret he’d never met the man. Too late now. Alejandro, felled by an aneurysm, was only charming the daisies these days.
The rain started to sprinkle as Ernie left the deli. He made his way back to the car with his purchases and then drove about fifteen minutes out of town to the old Lusteadt Side Road, a series of potholes with encroaching vegetation and even the odd washout. But at a leisurely fifteen miles an hour or so, he could navigate it. No one would bother him. About three miles in, after the rock cuts, there was a wide shoulder where he parked and had a view of Little Silver Lake. It wasn’t bad and a quiet unobtrusive dip after a day’s work or in the morning was good for maintaining personal hygiene. He’d parked in the exact same place the night before and watched the moonlight on the water. But tonight, all he could see was rain sluicing down over the windows. By the morning the clouds should have moved on and then he could pretend he was in a motel with a private lake.
Ernie finished up his egg sandwich and beer, then crawled into the rancid back of the station wagon, being careful not to knock over the daturas. It wasn’t easy given his length. He pulled a little reading lamp out from the side-door pocket, settled himself in a ratty sleeping bag and groped for the paperback that was digging into his knee. There were about ten or so books scattered throughout the car. He’d bought them at a yard sale, a buck a book. There were even two on gardening. But damn, the batteries on the lamp were dead. He was exhausted anyway. He lay there uncomfortably. Without fail Lenore came to mind.
Ah yes, his lost love Lenore. Except she wasn’t lost. He knew exactly where she was: Miami, her hometown, spending the money she’d cleared from their joint savings account before she took off. It wasn’t much, mind you. She probably used it all just moving everything from Brooklyn to Florida. But her sneaky stinginess rankled.
She didn’t play fair. Not ever. That part right before she suggested he go home? The cruelest part where she’d called him a stupid crazy fucking wall-eyed asshole? That was below the belt and a head wound combined. He’d never forgive her for such a cheap schoolyard shot. She’d probably been saving it ever since she read the damn article. He’d read it too. To summarize: People with exotropia — the broad stroke of strabismus that turns the misaligned eye outward — were more likely to have low IQs and/or psychiatric disorders. But Ernie was neither stupid nor crazy. No. He was impressive. With all that height, half the world figured he’d been an NBA hopeful. And with his eye patch and stoic dignity, the other half thought he was a veteran. Lenore was just mean. She’d say anything to keep herself center stage. Dis his friends if they didn’t compliment her enough. Lose it if he had so much as a conversation with another woman, even if she was a colleague. Sure, criticize his work but demand luxury. He couldn’t even read a book without her complaining. He should have left years ago.
But the sex. Damn! It was like an addiction — no, it was an addiction. He’d never had a beautiful woman do things like that with him. He’d probably pawn the station wagon to have sex with Lenore again. Yeah, he would.
Maybe he did have a low IQ.
It occurred to him as he dozed off that in place of Lenore, he was now cuddling up with two pots of daturas. Given their reputation for producing hallucinations, nausea, hyperthermia, tachycardia, confusion, temporary paralysis and possible death, he felt right at home.
Chapter 2
Lydia Rosemore dropped her eyeliner. “Shoot!” It rolled off the pale oriental onto the hardwood under the dressing table. “Oh my gracious.” She bent down and fished for the errant tube, grimacing at her reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t an angle of herself she was used to: head sideways, cheek flattened on the milk-glass tabletop, an ash-blonde lock flopping the wrong way over her forehead, her face sinking in a forest of brushes, cotton swabs, bottles, tubes and pots of cosmetics. She noticed a tiny gap in the normally perfect array of eyelashes over her left eye. For Lydia, eyelash implants were the key to being acceptable under all circumstances with the least amount of daily effort. Perfectly curved, perfectly colored, perfectly aligned. Little wonders they were, and they saved her from facial drabness. Mostly. Middle age, and perhaps fifty-four in particular, was not that kind to her. As she continued to grope around, the notion of getting “real work” done came to mind again. Her first mother-in-law had managed two facelifts before she reached fifty. But Lydia found the thought of going under a knife that way rather repulsive.
When her hand finally landed on the eyeliner, Lydia snatched it up and applied it with maximum proficiency. Normally she’d skip the mascara but not this evening. Not with those gaps. She picked up the closest tube — taupe — and applied it with equal speed. Corinna at the spa was right: Black or navy mascara was always more dramatic with blue eyes, but the taupe would have to do. She was running late. She finished up with a light coating of lipstick and the blush was minimal to go with it all. Caldwell couldn’t complain. “Aren’t you the rosy-cheeked cherub today, Lydia,” he’d say. As if he knew anything. He did pay attention to details though and she liked that. He made her feel energized and desirable again. And finally, a man her own age. A
man who was as tall and trim as she was. With a full head of hair! And my gracious, just the most distinguished dash of gray streaking through all that dark chestnut. He knew how to dress too. Other women looked at him. They certainly did. And he told jokes. She’d never laughed so much in her life. And what was life without these things?
When Caldwell Porter and Lydia Rosemore had officially announced they were a couple, it had not gone down well with the friends and associates of either of them. Although to be fair, those on Caldwell’s side — what few remained after his business adventures — were considerably more understanding. “Money,” they agreed. Lydia had tons of it and Caldwell none. Never mind she was an airhead. All the better maybe.
Lydia’s friends, on the other hand — actually there weren’t many of those either — shook their heads. Her own daughter viewed the relationship with increasing alarm. She asked her mother how she could be turning into such a doormat, and Lydia remembered then that her own mother had often been called a doormat. She had always felt her father loved her mother though and that was the important thing wasn’t it? Wasn’t that worth the odd emotional bruising? Love was the basis of everything. It was the ground you built on. And if you didn’t have love, well, then you didn’t have anything.
Lydia’s lawyers and accountants, the ones her second husband, Jordan, had recruited with great foresight, had taken a particularly dim view of the relationship. They suggested the mismatch of means was not seemly. Lydia would protest that Jordan, God rest his soul, would want her to be happy. They agreed of course he would; he’d taken very good care of her for over twenty years. So Lydia would point out that Caldwell made her very happy. He paid attention. He talked to her. The presents he bought her were “so touching,” and he’d taken her on “super holidays to exotic places.” Yes, but all with her money, they’d pointed out. Lydia did not see the issue. Caldwell loved her deeply and she would have him. So the lawyers had drawn up the pre-pre-nups and the accountants had capped her expenditures. Jordan had prepared them for every possibility and this was simply an implementation of Plan F. They were disappointed but well instructed from beyond the grave.
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