The First Gardener

by Denise Hildreth Jones

  She had heard enough. “Have a good day, Jeremiah.” She turned before he could respond.

  “I sure will. Seein’ you already make it perfect.” He paused for a moment. Then his words shot through the gathering darkness. “Miz Mackenzie, you know what a pink camellia mean?”

  “You already said. Something about a flame in my heart.”

  “Guess I did, but that what a red camellia mean. A pink one, it mean ‘longin’ for you.’” He paused. “That’s what I figure God be doin’ when we tryin’ to shut down the flame in our heart. He longin’ for us.”

  She stared at the outline of his figure for a moment longer, then turned again and headed toward the house. Heavy clouds had rolled in as she talked to Jeremiah. A snowflake skirted in front of her.

  She paid it no attention. Nor the hundreds that would fall before morning.

  I ain’t never forgot that smell ’round here after the Tennessee flood. The soil was soppin’. I wore muck boots just to get it all cleaned up. The boys and me worked so hard, pullin’ up dead things, transplantin’ wet things. Just stank like death.

  Kinda how it smell ’round here now. Like death.

  I’m always plumb near amazed at how tragedy can swallow people whole. I ’member that dark day for me almost thirty years ago. I thought I would die. I wanted to die. But I didn’t die. I lived. And when I knowed I was gon’ live, I decided to do just that.

  Live.

  Couldn’t change what happen. Couldn’t change the lies told ’bout me. Alls I could do was live the life I been given to live. I ain’t wanted to live it this way. This life ain’t looked like the picture Shirley and me had for our lives. But it what we get. And Shirley and me, we just dig in. We dig in for the pain, and we dig in for the healin’.

  But ain’t no healin’ ’round here right now. Them two ain’t doin’ nothin’ but diggin’ in to dyin’.

  Lord know good and well I ain’t got a lot to give. And he know good and well that there be days when I see Miz Eugenia stroll out here and wanna ax her what Sanford ax Esther. You know: “How you doin’? How you feelin’? When you leavin’?” Or tell her what Ralph always tol’ Alice: “I gon’ give you one right in the kisser.”

  So reckon I do got sump’n to give. It just ain’t what I needin’ to give. But I don’t know how to pull ’em up outta ’emselves. And Eugenia, she do try. She try harder’n most folks I know. She love that girl and boy so deep and so wide.

  Trouble is, Eugenia just a lot a woman to be lovin’ on anybody.

  She keep tryin’ that hard, might well smother ’em to death.

  Chapter 30

  Berlyn pulled Eugenia out the front door of her house. Eugenia slapped wildly at her hand. But Berlyn was a brute. She hauled Eugenia onto the sidewalk where Sandra and Dimples waited, then pointed her toward Main Street. Snow fell softly while they walked.

  Eugenia had come home to check on things and grab some clean underwear. She hadn’t planned on having to fight a seventy-one-year-old woman intent on kidnapping her.

  “We’re getting you out, and that’s that. You’ve been living at the mansion full-time for the last month, and it’s time for you to have a day for you. Plus, you’re getting skinny and I am not going to be in the healthy club all by myself.”

  “Since when did obesity become healthy?” Sandra quipped.

  Berlyn snapped, “Since when did full-figured become obese? I wish you would tell Marilyn Monroe that or Betty Grable. Or Oprah.”

  Sandra puffed, “You are no Marilyn Monroe or Betty Grable. And Lord knows you’re no Oprah.”

  Berlyn ignored her and tugged at the sleeve of Eugenia’s royal-blue coat. While Eugenia huffed down the street, Dimples was pulling up the rear, trying desperately not to take a tumble over her too-big black galoshes.

  “Get her!” Eugenia barked at Sandra, pointing to Dimples. “Last thing we need is her in the street.”

  “She needs egg salad,” Berlyn announced.

  Dimples instinctively licked her lips.

  Sandra walked back toward Dimples, taupe leather pumps squishing in the snow, matching handbag dangling from her wrist, and the mink collar of her taupe coat encasing her like she had a beaver wrapped around her neck. Franklin’s Main Street was bustling, its sidewalks crowded with people wanting to enjoy winter’s first snowfall in one of Tennessee’s most picturesque towns.

  Eugenia had always loved living in Franklin. Long before it was featured in Southern Living, she’d known the town was a treasure. Something about it always felt soothing to her. And now, walking down Main Street with her friends, she realized how much she’d missed being home. She’d almost forgotten there was a world outside the walls of the mansion. Her soul needed this so badly.

  They walked past Chico’s, where most of Eugenia’s wardrobe came from. She had tried to get Berlyn in there. But the low-cut floral pantsuit Berlyn wore under her bright-pink coat was proof that if it didn’t come from the Tacky Palace, Berlyn wouldn’t wear it. The pantsuit was orange and fuchsia, for goodness’ sake! Frederick’s of Hollywood was conservative to Berlyn.

  They crossed Main Street, and Eugenia could see bubbles floating outside the homemade soap store. Maddie had loved that bubble machine. The thought made her heart ache. Just as it had ached since the moment she first got the news about Maddie.

  Had that really been six months ago?

  The pain had been so great at times she wasn’t even sure that she was going to survive it. She’d never tell them, but if it hadn’t been for these three crazy women, she wouldn’t have. Their calls, notes, meals, even their bickering, renewed her. They could drive her to drink, but she’d have died without them. And without their intervention today, she wouldn’t have been able to tear herself away from the mansion. She was afraid of what she might find when she returned. The thought made her shudder.

  When they walked through the door of Merridee’s Breadbasket, the smells of butter and yeast accosted her senses. The warmth of the place seemed to press against the perpetual chill she had been living with. She closed her eyes and let momentary delight overtake her. Standing here now, basking in it, she realized she’d forgotten what delight even felt like. Her soul was grateful for the distraction and eternally grateful she had a place like Merridee’s to visit.

  The shop’s founder, Merridee, had been destined for the baking business. Her grandmother had once been a baker for Pillsbury. And everyone in Franklin rejoiced when she decided to bring her baking gifts to this Southern town in 1984. The place was a carb lover’s dream. And Eugenia and her friends had always loved carbs.

  “I’m only eating pie today,” Berlyn announced as she finally let go of Eugenia’s arm.

  Dimples braced herself against the counter and stared into the glass-paned display case. “Me too. Just sweets today. We’re on the doorstep of death, and I haven’t had my own teeth in years, so why not enjoy myself?”

  “You’re drooling, Dimples.” Sandra pulled at the fingers of her leather gloves. “I’m having a salad.”

  Berlyn stared at her in disgust. “You’re going to die without ever enjoying life.”

  “At least when I get to heaven, I won’t get scolded for having abused my body.”

  Berlyn’s eyes widened, and she leaned her head back. “Excuse me, but just about every time I read about Jesus in the New Testament, he’s somewhere eating. So I’m thinking he’s going to tell you that you wasted a lot of wonderful opportunities to enjoy yourself.”

  Eugenia ignored them and focused on the cashier. “I want a double egg salad, a bag of chips, a fruit cup, and a piece of rhubarb pie. And I want these women to pay for it. They’ve driven me crazy in less than three blocks, so they should have to foot the bill.”

  Eugenia turned to look at Sandra, whose expression went as tight as Berlyn’s thong—or at least the thong Berlyn tried to convince Sandra she wore. Sandra scurried to the counter. “Oh my . . . well, now . . . I think we’re going to have Berlyn here pay for it—” she
motioned toward her—“because she was the one who decided we all needed this outing. I will have the chicken salad on lettuce with your strawberries and house dressing.”

  Berlyn moved up to the counter and scooted Sandra over with a push of her ample right hip. “Oh, phooey . . . just put it all on mine. I’m on Social Security, and there won’t be any left in there soon, so let’s live it up now. If it weren’t for me, they’d all be six feet under by now, anyway. Or sitting in a nursing home, gurgling and hoping someone rolled them over.”

  The poor cashier must have been new because her face registered horror.

  “I’ll have a piece of your chess pie and a piece of your chocolate pie,” Berlyn announced. “And Dimples here wants your mint fudge brownie and a piece of pecan pie. We have both decided that life is better if you lead with dessert.”

  The young cashier rang the order up quickly and turned gratefully to the people behind them. Eugenia and her friends waited until their names were called, grabbed their food from the counter, and found a six-seater over by the window. Neither Eugenia nor Sandra liked to sit too close to other people. Eugenia’s excuse was hot flashes. She’d been using it for twenty years. Sandra’s excuse was germs.

  Sandra sat down and immediately informed them it was time to pray. They complied as usual, though Berlyn always kept her eyes open to torment Sandra. Sandra was convinced Berlyn was the biggest heathen she knew. Yet Berlyn was the first person Sandra called whenever she wanted company.

  As soon as the amen was given, Berlyn grabbed five packets of Splenda from the tabletop dispenser and stuck them in her purse.

  “That’s stealing,” Sandra snapped.

  “Mind your own business, old woman.”

  Sandra sniffed and turned to Eugenia. “How is Mackenzie?”

  Eugenia’s fork played in her fruit cup. She watched as a strawberry tumbled over cantaloupe. “Pitiful. I don’t know what to do. I feel like a failure as a mother.” Her voice cracked.

  Dimples reached across the table to take her friend’s arm. She missed by a mile in her first attempt but patted her hand around until she safely landed on Eugenia’s arm. “You’re a wonderful mother, Eugenia. We don’t even want to hear that nonsense. If it weren’t for you and her jewel of a husband, the poor child would have wasted away by now. You are doing all that you can.”

  Berlyn pulled a bottled Coke from her handbag and popped off the cap with her bottle opener. “Have you considered a shrink?” she asked right before a big bite of chocolate pie and meringue entered her mouth.

  Eugenia snorted. “My child doesn’t need a shrink.”

  Berlyn chewed just enough to make sure none of the pie spewed from her mouth when she talked. “It’s not time to be self-righteous, Eugenia. It’s time to be realistic. Mackenzie and Gray have both been through hell. And when you go through hell, sometimes it helps if you have someone other than a family member to talk to. That’s all I’m saying. We may not have grown up with all that counseling stuff, but—” she looked at the three women surrounding her—“that might be the reason why y’all are all screwed up.”

  Eugenia’s back softened against the wood lattice behind it. She was still mulling over Berlyn’s previous statement. “Mackenzie barely leaves the house. Her doctor, Thad, has her on these antidepressants.”

  Sandra sniffed again, and Berlyn eyed her suspiciously. “What are you turning your nose up at now?”

  Sandra wound a strand of pearls around her neck tighter. “I happen to think that depression stuff is nothing but nonsense.”

  “Well, some people think uptight old women are nonsense too,” Berlyn retorted, “but it doesn’t make them any less real.”

  Eugenia spread her napkin over her lap. She ran her hands across it as she spoke. “You aren’t saying a thing I haven’t thought, Sandra. That’s just not how we were raised—to take pills when we had problems. I even begged Thad and Gray not to give that stuff to my baby.”

  Dimples picked up her fork and stabbed at the pecan pie in front of her. She caught a smidgen of the edge.

  “But he told me that depression is kind of like potholes in the brain.”

  Dimples never looked up. “A pothole in the what?” She stabbed at her pie again and managed to get a forkful.

  “In the brain, Dimples. The brain. Now will you eat your pie and let me finish?”

  Dimples already had a mouthful, but she smiled and nodded. Eugenia went on. “Thad said that when a person suffers trauma, what it does to the brain is sort of like a pothole. And—”

  “Oh my stars! Sandra, now we finally know!”

  Sandra furrowed her brow. “What in the world are you talking about, Berlyn?”

  “We finally know what your problem is. When your mama dropped you on your head, it made a pothole in your brain. That’s what is wrong with you.”

  Sandra’s eyes squinched up. “If I weren’t a lady, Berlyn . . .”

  Eugenia threw her hands up. “That’s it! I can’t even have a normal conversation with the three of you because y’all are incapable of having one. I don’t know why I thought I could do anything normal with crazy people.”

  Berlyn shifted her large bottom in her seat. “Go ahead, Eugenia. We’re listening. But I just couldn’t help it. It was such a revelation.”

  “I’m not saying another word.”

  Dimples gnawed at her pie. “No, seriously. We want to hear, Eugenia.”

  “The only way I will speak again is if none of y’all open your mouths until I’m through.”

  Dimples ran her fingers across her lips as if she were zipping them. Berlyn followed suit. Sandra just sniffed one more time and stuck a bite of chicken salad in her mouth.

  Eugenia pointed two fingers at her eyes, then back at them. “Like I said, trauma creates potholes in your brain. And when you keep going through difficult things one after the other, it’s like your body can’t fill up those holes fast enough, so you get depressed.”

  Dimples looked up from her plate. “Fill ’em up with what?”

  Berlyn rolled her eyes. “With asphalt, Dimples. What do you think?” But she looked expectantly at Eugenia. Obviously she didn’t know either.

  “It’s this brain stuff—Thad called it serotonin. He said the antidepressant kind of fills in the pothole until your body can produce enough serotonin to take over. And I don’t know—” she lowered her head—“it just made sense to me. My baby needs some help filling her potholes. If those pills help do that, then I’m for them.” She lifted her eyes and fixed them on Berlyn, who was opening her mouth. “And I don’t want to hear one wisecrack about anything I just said.”

  Berlyn’s mouth closed slowly.

  “How is Gray?” Sandra asked.

  Eugenia’s eyes moistened again. “Hurting. And brooding, it seems. He’s not himself. And he still hasn’t officially announced he’s running for reelection.”

  “He’s got time,” Sandra responded. “And this state loves him. They know what he and Mack have been through. Plus, people respect what he’s done with the budget. It had to be done. I know the politicians are behaving like juveniles, but no one needs money spent on how to teach college students to watch television. Did you know some senator from Knoxville actually had that in his budget request for UT? I was in education for forty-five years, and I assure you the kids had no problem watching television. I’m glad Gray has been willing to do the difficult things. Truth is, we need him.”

  Eugenia shook her head. “Well, not everyone thinks he is a hero. And I know he’s a smart man and he’s been a wonderful governor. But honestly, I don’t know if Gray and Mackenzie can handle a reelection campaign. I’m not sure they should try. My children need to grieve and they need to heal.”

  Dimples hacked into her napkin before she spoke. “Mackenzie has been a wonderful first lady. What she’s done for that rescue mission has been just beautiful.” She smiled, chocolate from her brownie covering her top teeth.

  “Well, I’m voting for Gray, e
ven if he pulls out,” Berlyn announced. “I’ll write his name in if I have to.”

  “You can spell?” Sandra quipped, a gnawed lemon between her fingers. She kept her eyes on Berlyn.

  Berlyn stabbed her fork into her pie. “Have you ever been hit, Sandra? I mean right-smack-dab-between-the-eyes, stars-flying-over-your-head, bells-ringing-in-your-ears hit? Because that is what the experience is going to be like when my fist comes up against the side of that French twist of yours. Just because you were a school librarian doesn’t mean other people don’t read.”

  Sandra patted her hair. “You’re a Neanderthal.”

  “No, I’m a little redneck and a little Southern, which means I could deck you and then offer my hand to help you back up. The delight will be the same.”

  Chapter 31

  The alarm went off by Gray’s head. He reached over and pressed a button on top of the clock. A green fluorescent light backlit the numbers.

  Six thirty. He thought he had set it for seven. He was tired these days. He hadn’t seen five thirty in over a month.

  He looked at Mack. She was sleeping. It used to be, when he woke up first, he’d slide over, slip one arm under her head and the other around her waist, and just hold her for a few minutes. He’d loved that sense of closeness in the first moments of his morning. But he hadn’t touched her in weeks. And if he was being honest, he didn’t want to. When she shut him out this time, it had felt too much like a betrayal. She knew he needed her too, and yet she acted as if she was the only one who had lost anything.

  He wanted to shake her out of it. Make her respond. Make her feel . . . something. Even if it was anger, maybe that would bring her back to the land of the living. Back to him.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t shake her. So there didn’t seem to be much that he could do.