PLACES; Eight Place Stories
Page 5
*****
Marge and Ed heard the big truck arrive at 8 a.m., April 1. She’d just come into the kitchen to fix her oatmeal. Ed had been up since six, and was about to go out and set stakes in the garden. They froze for an instant at the sound. Then a quick look out the window confirmed the worst. A minute or two later, the bulldozer was backing off its trailer.
“Well. Happy April Fools day,” Ed said. He went out to the garden.
At lunch, Marge fussed at him. “I know you’re upset at what’s going on over there. So am I. But that doesn’t mean you have to be such an old bear. How are the peas doing? And the potatoes?”
For her sake, he managed to talk garden for a few minutes until the sound of the bulldozer shutting down brought back the immediate issue.
“That thing has been ripping up trees all morning,” Marge reported. “Already, the light in our front yard is different.”
“What’s he done with the trees?”
“Pushed them into a pile just on the other side of those pines you planted along our north property line. You suppose they’re going to burn the pile?” Marge asked. “Right there?”
Ed jumped up. “If they singe so much as a needle of my pine trees . . . .” He stamped out to the road. The bulldozer operator was eating lunch in his truck and listening to country music. He didn’t turn it down or get out when Ed approached.
“What about that log pile? Are you going to burn it?”
“What?” He finally turned down the radio. Ed repeated, and added. “My pine trees there would light off if you try to burn those logs.”
“Naw, it’s too wet. They’ll let the logs dry out first. Maybe when they come back for landscaping.”
“Be sure to pull the pile back from my trees before you . . .”
“Won’t be me, probably.” He turned his radio back up, signaling that the conversation was ended from his point of view.
Ed walked back to the house, seething. Snotty punk.