Perennials

by Julie Cantrell

  “Who are you texting?” She says this more as a threat than a question. Then she leans over, reads my screen. “Is that Fisher?”

  I have not come home to cower to Bitsy’s bullying again. This time I draw a line. “Your brazen disrespect of my personal boundaries continues with age, I see.”

  “We’re having such a good day, girls. Let’s not do this.” Mother shifts to discuss the heat and the need for rain. Safe terrain once again.

  We do our best to keep the conversation neutral, but as I’m without a husband or kids of my own, no one seems to know what to talk to me about. They don’t know enough about Arizona or advertising to make a conversation of that, and yoga is equally as foreign. So we spend the two-hour drive home talking about Bitsy and her kids.

  With every detail I feel closer to my niece and nephew while trying not to resent the years away from them. In the end, I choose to focus on the good, grateful for this time we have together and hopeful Bitsy will let me see them soon.

  THIRTEEN

  “Going to check on Fisher’s crew. Join me?” Chief doesn’t say this to Bitsy or Mother. He speaks directly to me, and I accept the offer as a gift, following my father along the eastern boundary of our land. Together, we take the long way to the barn, exploring the riparian buffer where rows of red maples and sycamores crowd the river’s edge, their limbs fighting for light. Beneath these arbors the waters have always run dark and brown, but now they are spotted with oily rings, iridescent where the sheen meets sun. What once was a sacred childhood sanctuary is now clogged with agricultural runoff from farms upstream. I picture the clean mountain springs back in Arizona, where rock-bed creeks run clear and cold. What would Marian think of this?

  “Shame, isn’t it?” Fisher joins us riverside where we spent long, lazy days watching our fishing lines loop the currents. “They won’t stop pumping poison.”

  “Crop duster wiped out my bees again this year,” Chief says.

  “What?” I’m shocked. “We ate your honey with the pie.”

  Chief shakes his head and explains it came from the farmer’s market. “Second year in a row I got nothin’. Crop dust across the street. Wipes out our bees.”

  I am indignant. “You should be able to protect your own property.”

  “Doesn’t work like that,” Chief says. “Can’t keep the bees in. Can’t keep the chemicals out.”

  Fisher, too, seems bothered, shuffling his feet and looking across the street toward his childhood home. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna buy back my family land. We’ll make this whole stretch organic back here, give the bees room to roam.”

  Chief releases an appreciative chuckle. “If only I can hold out that long.”

  “It won’t be long,” Fisher says. “Haven’t told anyone yet, but . . . we’re working out a deal right now. Hope to close by year’s end. Granted, it’ll take some time to clear out all the toxins, but we gotta start somewhere.”

  Chief and I both step back in surprise, and Fisher keeps his gaze toward the land his grandparents farmed, then his parents. It’s a few thousand acres of rich bottomland, parceled off when his folks divorced.

  “I’ve been trying to buy that place for years,” my father says. “Never made it to market.”

  Everyone in town knows the story. The divorce got messy, very messy. The entire property ended up with greedy attorneys in lieu of payment. They’ve been leasing it to a farmer for decades, harvesting cotton, soybeans, corn, and sweet potatoes while they wait for the last of the pine stands to mature.

  “The house still empty?” I ask.

  “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” Fisher removes his ball cap with a frustrated tug. “Their hunting buddies stay there sometimes. Otherwise, sits unused. That home survived the Civil War but barely made it through that crazy divorce.”

  My father is quiet for a minute. Then he puts his hand on Fisher’s shoulder. “I’d like to see you get your land back, son. Maybe I can pitch in, help you seal the deal.”

  Fisher fumbles with his ball cap and nods with humble appreciation. “Thanks, Mr. Sutherland. I think I’ve got it covered.” From the shift in his eyes, it clearly wasn’t lost on him that Chief just called him son. Fisher’s own father flew the coop long before the divorce became final, bailing on nearly every adult responsibility in his life, including Fisher and Finn. Some say it was the fire that sent him away for good, that he couldn’t handle his son’s burns or the painful recovery.

  I don’t know if that’s true or not, but he’s the kind of man Chief has always described as “rich in harvest; poor in spirit,” or one who “can’t find his way through the eye of a needle.” It’s no secret Fisher looks up to my father as a mentor, and Chief feels equally fond of him.

  “So how about you show us this garden.” Chief turns toward the hill where Fisher’s truck and landscape trailer block any view of the secret that rests on the other side. Mother would only discover it if she hiked to the top and over, or if she came around back from the barn, neither of which she is likely to do before the party. Her regular flower gardens are down near the house, and the produce patches are scattered in sunny, raised beds between those blooms.

  The three of us climb up the hill where the higher, dryer hickories merge with white ash and winged elms. Then down toward the back path where Fisher’s crew is hard at work. The walk is nothing Mother can’t handle. It offers a gentle trail that weaves its way around and up to the shallow summit, making the majestic spires of Arizona seem a world away.

  “You can see here, the back side of the hill is a gradual slope,” Fisher explains. “Opens up to the field where we have full sun. We’ll use permaculture techniques to distribute water evenly across the landscape. Slow the flow with contours, letting it spread and sink as needed. This’ll give you less erosion and more natural irrigation.”

  “Excellent.” Chief is clearly impressed, and I am too. Behind the equipment trailer, Fisher’s crew is digging beds and filling them with compost-rich soil, a fertile base for the many flowers they’ve already delivered.

  “I followed your advice. Tried to represent the seasons of your life together.” Fisher speaks sincerely, as if the romantic notion isn’t lost on him. “We’ll wind the beds up from the sunny pasture, through the shady portions. Mix trees, shrubs, and flowers to create textured layers.”

  He goes into an in-depth explanation of permaculture forest gardens, describing the levels top to bottom with labels such as canopy, subcanopy, woody shrubs, herbaceous plants, ground cover, and the like. His words are music to my veins, the dialect of my soul. He, too, lights up as he points out the vines that weave through it all, and when he shows us the root layer, his hands scoop fresh soil as if it were gold.

  “We’ll form a walking path all the way up from the barn. It’ll end by winding around a labyrinth.” He stops at a freshly leveled ring atop the hill. “Here.”

  “Labyrinth?” I’m surprised by this.

  Fisher scratches his chin. “Something simple. I’m thinking a coil of stones with some pebbles mixed in, maybe some hardy grasses. Was hoping it could represent the cycles of life, like the garden itself. Too corny?”

  “Absolutely not,” Chief says. “Laurel will love this!”

  “She will,” I echo.

  Fisher exhales. “So we’ll include mostly perennials, scattering some annuals in for a little extra color. Make sure something will be blooming year-round. What do you think?”

  “Perfect!” Chief offers enthusiastic approval. “Lovey? Why don’t you run get some of those hydrangeas from the car. Your mother won’t notice a couple missing. We’ll leave the rest for her to plant down below.”

  “You still like to garden?” Fisher asks.

  “Of course.” I give him my best smile, nothing like the ones I’ve come to rely on back at Apogee.

  He gives his chin a quick dip. “I’ll find you some tools.”

  I hurry back to the house where Mother and Bitsy are poring over the menu for the anniversary
party. In the background a television plays quietly, airing one of the home and garden commercials Apogee recently released. Mother looks my way, trying to bring me into the conversation. “What’s your opinion, Lovey? Will the charcuterie board and marinated vegetables be enough, or should we add fruit too?”

  “Fruit,” Bitsy answers before I can say a word.

  “What else will you have?” I move to examine the options.

  “I’m thinking small plates served tableside,” Bitsy says smugly, offended I’m being included. “Duck sliders, shrimp ceviche, and crawfish tails with grit cakes. You know, tapas style.”

  “Some of this is out of season, but I do have my favorites.” Mother is alight.

  “Sounds incredible.”

  Bitsy shoots another phony smile, which makes me think she’s the one who needs to spend a little time digging in the garden with Fisher. He’s good medicine, and the dirt is too. She continues without asking for input. “Caprese salad with tomatoes and basil fresh from our farm.”

  “We’ll serve our peaches,” Mother explains, ecstatic that her favorite chef in town has agreed to whip these into delicate pastries. “Blueberries too, plus black bean cakes and smashed sweet potatoes. I’m drooling just thinking about it.”

  “Man, I feel sorry for the people who aren’t invited,” I tease.

  “I’d invite the whole town if I could. The more the merrier, I always say.”

  “We can swing a bit more.” I look toward Bitsy for backup. The two of us are footing the bill for the party, our anniversary gift to Mother and Chief. Thanks to Whitman’s investments, Bitsy has very deep pockets and could easily pay for an expanded guest list, but she doesn’t offer, doesn’t even acknowledge the chance, so I don’t press and Mother handles it with her usual tact, making a comment about how there really isn’t room for more anyway. I do my best to change the subject. “What do you plan to give Chief? For a gift?”

  “Nothing big. Besides, at our age, the only thing we really need is more time.” Mother’s voice becomes solemn now, and she looks down to talk to Dolly P. “Sure do wish I could give him that.”

  I offer her a quick sideways hug and explain that Chief needs my help in the barn. Then I slip upstairs to change. When I come down in shorts and a T-shirt, Bitsy stares. Clearly, my toned physique has drawn shock.

  “You’re looking so fit and trim, Lovey.” Mother offers praise. “Yoga must be your calling.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. But it’s the only kind of exercise that’s ever really hooked me.”

  “I wouldn’t call it exercise.” Bitsy stabs again. “You sit. You breathe. You stretch. How hard can it be?”

  Mother points toward the back of the house where a sunroom full of gym equipment has perched mostly untouched for years. “Maybe I should give yoga a try. If it weren’t for my yard work, I’d probably weigh a ton by now.”

  “Speaking of weight . . .” My glance finds Mother’s collarbones as Bitsy continues to side-eye me, smiling only when Mother looks her way, always putting on a good act when someone else is watching. “You’ve lost a lot.”

  “Oh, you know. Old age. It happens.”

  Once again, she dodges the issue. When they turn their attention back to the menu, I make my escape, grabbing a few of the potted hydrangeas and heading for the memory garden. I pass Chief along the way, and he thanks me for keeping this surprise under wraps.

  “Of course.” I take pride in the fact that he trusts me. “And speaking of secrets, please don’t tell Bitsy I’m working with Fisher.”

  He laughs and agrees it would be in everyone’s best interest to stay mum.

  FOURTEEN

  At the top of the hill, Fisher is on his hands and knees eyeing the ground. “What d’ya think, Lovey? Look level to you?”

  I step back and walk the ring that will form the labyrinth. After viewing it from every angle, I nod. “Wouldn’t shift an inch.”

  “Now that’s what I like to hear.” He stands, dusting the knees of his faded jeans. They look as if they’ve seen a decade’s worth of wear, a down-to-earth appearance that suggests he still harbors a humble heart. The kind of man who is all things opposite of Reed, and all things good for my wounded spirit. As he makes his own loop around the labyrinth, small clouds of dust jet beneath his booted steps, reminding me of a bedtime story Mother used to tell us when we were young. It was about a man known as a cloudmaker.

  Bitsy and I would climb into bed with Mother snuggled between us, our heads tilted against her chest. Her breath always smelled sweet like warm apple cider, her shoulders soft from lavender lotion. She would prop against the pillow, holding the book between Bitsy and me so we could both see the pictures while she read aloud.

  Spring 1977

  “Cloudmaker had a special power.” Mother reads with her quiet voice, which is her way of telling us it’s time to settle down. “But the townspeople didn’t much care for this strange man who walked around stirring up clouds all the time.”

  “They’re mean to him.” I point to the picture. Some boys are throwing eggs at the cloudmaker, laughing like it’s funny.

  “You’re right, Lovey. They called him names and told him to bring his silly clouds somewhere else. So one day, he got tired of everybody being mean to him, and he got up and he walked away. Nobody even bothered to tell him good-bye.”

  “Show us the party.” Bitsy turns the page before Mother gets the chance.

  “The people were so happy the cloudmaker was gone, they threw a party to celebrate,” Mother reads. “The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the people cheered. But they didn’t realize what they had done.”

  “Because the sky stayed blue!” I already know the ending.

  “Right again, Lovey,” Mother says. “Next day, no clouds at all. And the next and the next. Soon, the flowers started to die. Then the vegetables stopped growing. Then the fruit trees too. The people tried and tried to give the plants enough water, but no one could replace the rain.”

  “They need the cloudmaker,” Bitsy says, and I say it too.

  “They sure do.” Mother leans close to Bitsy, then to me. “That’s when the people finally realized they had made a very big mistake!”

  “Big!” we shout.

  She turns to the happy-ever-after part and reads with a quieter voice, so we won’t get all wired up again. “They all set out to search for the cloudmaker, but they couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t at the beach. He wasn’t at the park. He wasn’t in the woods.”

  “He’s on the mountain.” Bitsy says this.

  Mother keeps reading anyway. “But then someone saw something they hadn’t seen for a very, very long time.”

  “Clouds!” I say, and Bitsy points to the picture.

  “Right again, girls. There, at the top of the highest mountain, were some clouds. And guess who was sitting up there under those clouds?”

  “Cloudmaker.” I yawn as I answer.

  “Yep. He was sitting up there making tiny little clouds just for himself. So the people climbed and climbed, all the way to the top, and when they finally reached him, they said they were . . .”

  “Sorry.” Bitsy and I fill in the blank.

  “They were sorry for being so mean, and they begged him to come back to the village so he could make it rain again.”

  Then Mother switches to talk deep like the cloudmaker man. “‘Well, have you learned your lesson yet?’”

  I turn the page to show the answer.

  Mother smiles, like she always does when we get to this part. “The cloudmaker surely could have said no. He could have left the villagers to live without rain forever. He could have been mean to them, like they had been to him. But instead, he chose to be nice. He said, ‘Now you understand. Every person is here for a reason. Even me.’

  “‘Especially you,’ the people cheered, finally seeing the cloudmaker’s worth.”

  My eyes start to droopy-close while Mother reads the last two pages. “When all the people got b
ack to town, they threw another party. This time the cloudmaker was the guest of honor. Everyone brought him presents and ate cake, but the best part was that they all became friends. The cloudmaker was so happy, he danced. And when he danced, his boots made clouds. The clouds made rain, the rain made flowers, and the farmers grew food. No one was mean to the cloudmaker ever again.”

  “The end!” I say, opening my eyes big and giving Mother a hug. She squeezes me tight and kisses me before turning to do the same for my sister.

  “Now say your prayers.” Mother climbs out of bed. She stands in the doorway for a long time, watching us count our blessings before she turns off the light. She is wearing her thick, comfy robe with little pink roses on it, and her hair is pinned back because she has already washed her face. Mother says our smile is our superpower, and she’s got a big one. “I love you, girls. Bunches and bunches.”

  “Love you more,” we both say at the very same time. So, of course, Bitsy calls jinx and says I owe her a Coke.

  As these tiny clouds rise beneath Fisher’s boots, they put a whole new spin to the old folktale. I haven’t felt this kind of attraction since, well, since Reed. Maybe Brynn is right. I am forty-five now, and time is ticking. It could be crazy to fathom the fantasy, but I find myself wondering . . . would Fisher dare to go there again after all this time? And if so, would I?

  I offer him the French hydrangea cuttings I’ve brought from the car. “Where should we plant these?”

  He takes the plastic pots and moves them to a tilled plot of soil that’s sure to receive a dose of sun each day. “I’m thinking we’ll plant a few limelights here too. Maybe some lacecaps and oakleaf. Create a hydrangea room with a few varieties.” He shares the same hill-country drawl as others from these parts, with a tinge of university speak that is only surface level, at best. One beer or a heated discussion, and he would be right back to full-on twang. Everything about him feels like home.

  Behind us Fisher’s crew is busy unloading a large supply of perennials from the trailer. I lend a hand, carrying black pots stamped #1P or #3P depending on size. The larger ones I leave for the landscapers, who are far more muscular than I will ever be. Fisher does his share too while supervising the whole operation, calling out names as he gives directions: dahlia, gladiolus, gardenia, just to name a few.