Bittersweet

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “Sam?” Ruby asked with a frown. “What’s going on with him?”

  “Heart trouble,” I said, and related as much as I knew. “He’s insisting that we carry on as usual,” I added, “so there’s no change in plans on this end. I’ll be back Sunday night—at least, if everything goes okay with Sam.” I paused, not wanting to think what might happen if things didn’t go okay.

  “I’m so sorry, China,” Ruby said. “Sam has been good for your mother.”

  “He’s been a lifesaver,” I said fervently. After a moment, I went on. “I hope you won’t be needing Mama over the weekend. I have a load of plants to take down to Utopia for Jennie Seale’s garden.”

  Big Red Mama is the used panel van we bought several years ago to haul our catering stuff, as well as plants. Mama’s former owner was a hippie artist named Gerald who was arrested for cooking crystal meth. The Hays County sheriff’s office impounded his van, and it ended up in the county’s vehicle auction. Ruby and I were attracted to Mama because she was cheap and because of the wild swirl of colorful Art Deco designs that Gerald (probably under the influence of a certain psychoactive herb) painted on her modest red sides. Ruby says that Mama looks like a cross between a Crayola box on wheels and a Sweet Potato Queen float on the way to a parade.

  “Nope, Cass and I won’t need Mama,” Ruby said. “You can take her.” She turned the large yellow orange wreath in her hands, eyeing it admiringly. “China, I absolutely love this. It’s the prettiest bittersweet wreath I’ve ever seen. Just look—it’s simply loaded with berries. I’m going to buy it for my front door at home.”

  “Hang on a minute,” I said, taking the wreath from her and examining it closely. “This is not so good.”

  “Not so good? What are you talking about?” Ruby snatched the wreath back. “It’s extra pretty, don’t you think? It’s kind of two-tone, with all those bright orange berries and pretty yellow thingies. It looks exactly like the one Martha Stewart made on her TV show. I love it. I want it. Your customers are going to want one, too. You just wait and see.”

  “They can’t have it.” I pulled a second wreath out of the carton and looked at it closely, and then a third, and then the rest. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Martha Stewart used the wrong bittersweet. All these wreaths are going back to the woman who made them. I’m recommending that she burn them.”

  “Burn them!” Ruby was staring at me, eyes wide, aghast. “But why?”

  “Because this isn’t American bittersweet. It’s Oriental bittersweet.” I pointed to a berry cluster. “These pretty yellow thingies? They’re the capsules that have dried and split open to reveal the orange fruit inside. If this were our native bittersweet, the capsules would be orange, too. And look at the way the fruits are positioned all along the branches, at the leaf nodes. In American bittersweet, the fruits only occur at the tips of the branches.”

  Ruby rolled her eyes. “Orange, yellow—so what? What’s so bad about Oriental bittersweet? You’re worried that somebody forgot to pay customs duties? Anyway, I thought these wreaths came from Michigan, not Asia.”

  “Yep, they do come from Michigan,” I said grimly. I was lifting the other wreaths out of the carton. When I had examined them all, I began putting them back again. “Which is really bad, because it’s illegal to sell or ship Oriental bittersweet in or out of Michigan—and several other states, as well. This plant is a thug. A bully. A ruthless, aggressive, nonnative species that was introduced as an ornamental around the time of the Civil War and escaped into the wild. It loves to climb up shrubs and trees and smother them. And it hybridizes with the native bittersweet, which makes it even more thuggish.”

  “Illegal?” Ruby pushed her lips in and out, considering. “Well, maybe. But aren’t you overreacting? There’s not a chance in the world that this dried stuff is going to smother the trees in my yard. It’ll just hang quietly on my front door and look pretty.” She picked up the top wreath and smiled at me. “I want this one. How much?”

  I pulled off a dried berry and held it up. “See that? What is it?”

  Ruby frowned. “So it’s a berry. So what? It’s not poisonous, is it?”

  “It’s a seed, Ruby. This pretty little package is a genetic time bomb.”

  “A . . . time bomb?” Ruby asked warily.

  “Exactly. It’s not very likely to go off here in Texas, since this isn’t the plant’s ideal habitat. But what happens if somebody buys this wreath in my shop and decides to give it to her sister, who lives in Arkansas, or maybe Missouri? The sister hangs it over her mantel until the pretty orange berries begin to drop off, then tosses it on her compost pile. The next year, a dozen little green seedlings pop up. The year after that, a dozen not-so-pretty green vines are twining around the nearest shrub. The year after that, Katy, bar the door. Once this hoodlum moves into the neighborhood, there’s no getting rid of it.”

  Ruby shook her head. “That is too bad. Really.”

  “Yes, it is. Very bad.” I put the wreath back in the box and closed it firmly, to keep those genetic time bombs from escaping. “I think I’ll email this woman and tell her that it would be simpler and cheaper if I’d just burn these here. It would save her some shipping. And I’m sure the state of Michigan would prefer never to see them again.”

  “I guess you know what you’re doing.” Ruby gave me a rueful look. “Speaking of bombs, I’m sort of in trouble, and I was hoping you could help.”

  “In trouble?” I chuckled dryly. “So what else is new? You’re in trouble at least three times a week.”

  “Don’t be that way,” Ruby said.

  “What way?” I pulled my laptop out from under the counter and booted it up.

  “You know,” Ruby replied, wounded. “That way.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, repenting. “That was uncalled-for.” True, but uncalled-for. And after all, she was babysitting my shop while I was gone. “I’ve got your back, sweetie. Tell me what I can do.”

  “You can go down to city hall and apply for a permit for the yarn bombing on Crockett Street.” She pressed her lips together. “The application was due early last week, but I got busy and forgot all about it. The Six Chix have been knitting up a storm, and we’re ready to start bombing, but if we don’t get that permit, we could get arrested.” She shifted uncomfortably. “I’d do it, but they don’t like me over there. At city hall, I mean. I’m sure they’ll like you better.”

  “Yarn bombing?” I was doubtful. “You have to file an application to bomb yarn? What are you bombing it with? Why are you bombing it?”

  “Yarn bombing is street art. Like graffiti, only with yarn.”

  “Yarn graffiti? Like, yarn instead of spray paint?”

  Ruby nodded. “Grandma graffiti. Guerilla fiber art. It all started over in Houston, when a boutique owner knitted a pink and blue cozy for her shop doorknob. People noticed. Then she knitted a leg warmer for the stop sign on the corner. A lot more people noticed that one.”

  “I’ll bet they did,” I muttered. I was looking for the wreath maker’s email address.

  “She bombed trees and bushes and traffic signs. And then the New York Times wrote about her and she began getting corporate commissions to do great big projects, like the Christmas sweater she knitted for a Prius a couple of years ago, and the parking meter cozies she knitted for a downtown shopping district in Brooklyn. Now lots of people are doing yarn bombings.”

  “A sweater for a Prius?” I asked warily. “I hope you’re not thinking of knitting a pullover for Big Red Mama.”

  Ruby shook her head. “No, we’re knitting tree-trunk warmers. You know, like leg warmers, except they’re for trees. And it’s not just me; it’s my knitting group. The Six Chix with Pointy Stix. We’re going to bomb some of the trees in this block of Crockett as a holiday project. Everybody gets tired of knitting sweaters and socks, you know.”

  “I s
uppose,” I conceded. Ah, there was the address of the lady in Michigan, where I’d ordered bittersweet. American bittersweet. “Once you’ve knitted one sock, you’ve knitted them all. And bombing sounds like a good way to use up your yarn stash.”

  “Oh, it’s that, all right,” Ruby agreed enthusiastically. “And I’ve got a ton of yarn, in all colors of the rainbow. Anyway, the other Chix and I thought we could just do it—as an art project, I mean. Something to make everybody smile during the holidays, especially the customers who are shopping on Crockett.”

  That would be our customers, and customers of the Hobbit House children’s bookstore next door, the Craft Emporium on the corner, and the restaurant across the street. Our block of Crockett is host to several attractive venues.

  Ruby was continuing. “But then we found out that we had to get a permit at city hall, and when I went to get it, the woman who handles the permits—Mrs. Dillinger—had never heard of yarn bombing. When I told her about it, she decided it was vandalism.”

  “Ah,” I said.

  “Or littering. She said she’d never issue a permit for something so adolescent. She was really quite insulting.” She made a face. “That’s when I got . . . well, sort of excited. I was rude. I . . . yelled at her.” When Ruby gets excited and yells, she is awesome.

  Ruby went on. “The next day, one of the Chix went to the city council and showed them some photos of yarn-bombed fire hydrants in Seattle and park benches and statues in Chicago. The council overruled Mrs. Dillinger and said that yarn bombing isn’t vandalism, it’s art. They told her to accept our application.” Ruby’s shoulders sagged. “I was supposed to get it in by last Friday, but I forgot. And I was . . . well, pretty rude. I’m afraid she’s going to hold it against me, personally. She’ll use my being late as an excuse to deny the permit.”

  “So what you want me to do is—”

  “Go over to city hall and talk to her. Apologize for being late. Explain that the Chix are ready to start and we really need that permit. And be very nice, would you? Being nice would go a long way toward easing the situation.”

  “I can be nice,” I said, and finished typing my email. It was polite but firm. “Maybe I’d better call first, though, and make sure Mrs. Whatsit is going to be in the office.”

  “Dillinger, as in the bank robber. Oh, and tell her that you’ll be paying the twenty-five-dollar fee. I’ll give you a check.”

  “Works for me.” I hit the Send button and the email flew off into cyberspace. I was bending over, looking for the phone book under the counter, when I heard the bell over the shop door tinkle. “Sorry, we’re closed today,” I said, without looking up. I must’ve forgotten to lock the door when I came in.

  “It’s just me,” a light voice said.

  “Oh, hi, Amy,” Ruby chirped brightly. “I thought you’d be at work this morning.”

  I straightened up, the phone book in my hand. “Hello, Amy,” I said. “Nice to see you.”

  It was Ruby’s wild child. Amy, now nearly thirty, is her mother’s look-alike, although she isn’t quite so tall and has many more piercings than Ruby, and several more tattoos. (Actually, Ruby has only one, a fern and flower tattooed across half her chest, where one breast used to be. She sacrificed it to a mastectomy several years ago.) When she was still a teenager, Ruby gave birth to Amy out of wedlock and—at her own mother’s behest—gave the baby up for adoption. But when Amy grew up, she did an adoptive search, located her mother, and came back into Ruby’s life.

  And that was just the beginning, for it turns out that Amy, an animal activist and active conservationist, never does anything the easy, conventional way. It wasn’t long before she surprised us with the announcement that she was pregnant and had decided to keep the baby. Ruby was still coming to terms with the fact that she was about to become a grandmother when Amy declared that she was moving in with her friend and lover, Kate Rodriguez. Wild child indeed.

  But Amy’s relationship with Kate has settled her down. The three of them—Kate, Amy, and Grace—are a family. Kate owns her own successful accounting business, and Amy works as a veterinary assistant at the Hill Country Animal Clinic. The wild child has grown up.

  “I’m going in late because I have to work late this evening,” Amy said. “Listen, Mom—I wonder if you’d mind keeping Grace this weekend? Kate has to drive up to Oklahoma City for Thanksgiving with her mother, and I’d like to see a . . . a friend in San Antonio. I’ll be back on Sunday.”

  “There’s nothing I’d like better, dear.” Ruby spoke without hesitation. “I’ll be here at the shop on Saturday, but Grace can come with me. Miss T will be here, and she’s always a big help.”

  Amy grinned. “I like Miss T. I wonder what color her hair will be this time.” Sharon is quite a character. Her hair has been white since she was in her twenties, and she changes the color almost as often as some people change their minds.

  Ruby nodded. “You’ll be with us for Thanksgiving, won’t you? Shannon and her fiancé are coming, and I’m roasting a turkey for the gang. But for you, dear, I’m baking a vegan Thanksgiving loaf with lentils, millet, and rice. And a very tasty vegan gravy.”

  “Of course I’ll be there,” Amy said with a grin. She was wearing her favorite bloodred Meat Is Murder T-shirt, advertising her animal activism. In fact, I first met her when she was trying to shut down an animal experiment at CTSU, along with other protestors from People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. “And that lentil loaf sounds terrific,” she added. “Want me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself—and Grace, of course,” Ruby replied. “Who’s your friend?” she added in a studiedly offhand tone that didn’t quite conceal her curiosity. “The one you’re going to see in San Antonio.”

  Amy colored. “Oh, just . . . just somebody I met through PETA,” she said vaguely. “Nobody you know.” I got the impression that Amy wasn’t anxious to name her friend, but she probably just didn’t want to feed her mother’s inquisitiveness.

  “Well, okay,” Ruby said with a little be-that-way shrug. “So I’ll see you and Grace on Thursday. And I’ll keep Grace over the rest of the weekend. We’ll have all kinds of fun.”

  “Thanks so much, Mom. I really appreciate it. You’re a peach.” Amy gave her a quick hug and turned to me. “Will you and Mike and the kids be at Mom’s for Thanksgiving?”

  I shook my head. “We’re going down to the ranch.” I held up the phone. “Right now, I’d better make this call. I’d hate for your mom to be arrested before she can whomp up your vegan loaf.”

  “Arrested?” Amy turned to look at Ruby. “Arrested for what?”

  “Bombing yarn,” I said, and went back to the phone book.

  “Yarn bombing,” Ruby corrected me. “Street art,” she said to her daughter. “Grandma graffiti. China is going to get a permit for the Six Chix with Pointy Stix to knit trunk warmers for some of the trees along Crockett Street.”

  Amy blinked. “O-kay,” she said slowly. “If you say so.” She headed toward the door. “Have a good one, you guys. And thanks, Mom, for keeping Grace over the weekend.”

  “I’m glad to,” Ruby said cheerfully. But when the door had swung shut behind Amy, she turned to me. “I’m not getting good vibes about this, China,” she said uneasily.

  “About what?” I asked absently, running my finger down the list of city phone numbers, looking for Mrs. Dillinger, in the yarn-bombing department.

  “About Amy’s weekend plans. I don’t like . . .” She gave me an apprehensive glance. “I don’t like this friend. This guy she’s going to meet in San Antonio. He’s got dangerous ideas. There’s going to be trouble. Serious trouble.”

  I looked up from the phone book, curious. “How do you know he’s a he? Amy didn’t say—”

  “She didn’t have to.” She gave me a long look, as if she might be about to tell me something, but sighed and turned away.
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  I understood then. Ruby’s gift had given her a glimpse of something she didn’t want to see, something that she was afraid might happen over the coming weekend.

  But I wasn’t going to ask her what it was. To tell the truth, I’d rather not know.

  Chapter Two

  Rifle in hand, Mackenzie Chambers opened the passenger door of her state-issued Ford F-150 and whistled for Molly. Pink tongue lolling, the blue heeler loped from the bushes where she’d been taking care of her early-morning business and jumped eagerly into the truck. An Australian cattle dog bred to keep the herd moving in the right direction, Molly had a heavy-duty sense of responsibility. She knew when it was time to go to work and had to be reminded when it was time to quit—a little bit like herself, Mack reflected ruefully, as she shut the truck door. A personality characteristic that her former husband, Lanny, hadn’t liked and one of the reasons they were now divorced.

  Mack walked slowly around the dark green Ford pickup truck, noticing that there was mud on the grill and a big splash on the Texas Parks and Wildlife logo on the driver’s door. There’d been rain the previous weekend, and her night patrols had taken her down some sloppy roads. She probably ought to run the truck through the car wash—Utopia’s only car wash, at the Pico convenience store, Utopia’s only gas station. After a couple of weeks of unseasonably warm temperatures, the November air had a frosty bite, and the clipped grass of her small front yard was glazed with silver in the last light of the full moon that was setting over the wooded hills west of town. The thermometer had dropped to just below freezing during the night.