The Memory Garden

by Mary Rickert

  Which is what they do, sitting in rockers in the shade, drinking sun tea and discussing the merits and deficits of various recipes. Nan says everything looks wonderful, but it’s important to consider how much kitchen time is involved. “I haven’t seen my friends in sixty years. I don’t want to be cooking all day.”

  They choose the chocolate lasagna, which can be assembled in the morning and baked off for dinner. They discuss what snacks to have available (fruit, good store-bought cookies, bread and jam for toast, also some of those chocolate toads Nan recently discovered), drinks (Coke, bottled water, red wine, prune juice, milk, coffee, and tea). Bay writes the shopping list, making several trips into the house to check ingredients against supplies. When she returns from her final check, having determined that they have plenty of olive oil, Nan is asleep. Bay watches closely to be sure.

  She still remembers the day at kindergarten when Thalia said, “Your grandma’s here.” Bay was excited; she’d noticed that other kids had grandmas, and she wanted one too.

  “Where’s Grandma?” she asked Nan, waiting with the other mothers.

  “I’m sorry, Bay,” Nan said. “She died before you were even born.”

  Bay cried the whole way home. Nothing Nan said could comfort her. It was Bay’s first experience with death. It didn’t matter that she never knew her grandmother; she felt the loss as sharply as if she had, but that wasn’t all Bay was crying about. Though she wouldn’t have been able put it into words at such a young age, and even now hardly dares to think it, Bay became acutely aware that Nan was old enough to be a grandmother, and this knowledge arrived with the unfortunate realization that grandmothers die. Bay checks to make sure Nan is breathing.

  As the car pulls up in the front of the house, a raven caws from its gabled perch, sounding mournful. Nan is still asleep, spittle drooling down her chin. Bay sits up, prepared to accept the shoe donation. The woman who emerges peers up at the house and pats her strangely solid-looking, penny-colored hair, then mumbles to herself as she searches through her purse, clasping it shut before she opens the car door, which emits an annoying beep. Nan is awake by the time the woman turns with a triumphant expression, keys in hand, measuring the house with small eyes set close to her narrow nose.

  “Oh!” Nan gasps.

  The woman, apparently still not having seen them in the rocking chairs, heaves a great sigh as she opens the car door to return to the driver’s seat. Nan perches on the edge of the rocker as the car windows rise; that done, the visitor emerges once more.

  “It can’t be,” Nan says even as she stands in such a rush that Nicholas, who had been lazing at her feet, runs down the stairs, followed closely by Nan, who stuns Bay by running (more or less) to the stranger, who lets out a yelp, opening her arms wide.

  “Ruthie, is it you?”

  Nan is laughing, and Ruthie (for apparently it is she, and someone had the dates mixed up) appears to be crying. She and Nan are hugging and making all sorts of noise while Bay walks slowly to join them, not wanting to interrupt. The women hold each other at arm’s length until, as though by mutual agreement, they part.

  “You must be Bay.”

  She has rouge circles for cheeks, and a mouth smaller than the pink lipstick it is meant to bear. Her eyes, too close to her nose, are made less mean by their color, delphinium blue. She smells good, like a lemon.

  “Bay, this is Ruthie.”

  Bay is surprised by the woman Nan described as of “healthy appetite,” slated for the sturdiest bed in the house. She’s tall, but skinny.

  “You didn’t drive all the way from the airport, did you?” Nan asks.

  Ruthie raises her eyebrows, glances back at the car, shudders, and nods. “As they say, the early bird catches the beetle, right?”

  Nan smiles.

  “The thing of it is, I’m quite early.” Ruthie opens her purse and fumbles through it, though when she closes it again, she is empty-handed, her pretty eyes extraordinarily wet.

  Nan pats her friend’s back, clucking softly. “There, there. Don’t worry. Don’t give it another thought.”

  Ruthie leans, as if to rest her head on Nan’s distant shoulder.

  “Come now; let’s get out of the heat. We can get your luggage later.”

  Bay follows the two women walking arm in arm up the sidewalk, stepping around Nicholas lying in a patch of sun.

  “The girl at the airport thought I was an idiot.”

  “Oh, they have no idea,” Nan says.

  “Everyone else was quite nice and helped me work it out. I was halfway here before I realized how I would inconvenience you.”

  “Inconvenience? None at all.”

  “I could stay in a hotel.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Nan lets the front door close, apparently unaware of Bay standing there, feeling like a stranger on her own porch. She is trying to decide what to do when another car pulls up and parks behind Ruthie’s. Who could it be now? Bay enjoys the pleasant sensation of being part of a family where surprising things happen.

  When the elderly woman steps out of the car, Bay immediately suspects it is Mavis, with her bright slash of red lipstick, though her hair is entirely different than it was in her picture. She peers up at the house, a sour look on her face as she comes clicking up the walk in gold sandals, a bright accompaniment to the orange dress and lime-colored jacket, stopping short at the foot of the stairs.

  “You must be my Nana’s friend—”

  “Well, I’m not her pet rabbit,” the woman rasps, her voice deep and smoky.

  “I’m—”

  “I know who you are. You’re Cinnamon or Spice, or something like that. What are you staring at?”

  Her hair, which is lavender and spiky short. “Nothing, I—”

  “Bay, who are you talking to?” Nan holds the door ajar, peering around it like someone afraid of an intruder. “Mavis?”

  “Well, you going to invite me in, or are you just going to stare at me like you can’t believe the horror?”

  “No. Of course. Come in. I’m sorry. You took me by surprise. Do you have luggage?”

  “Of course I’ve got luggage. I’ve got one bag that has nothing in it but pills.” She turns to Bay. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and get my bags?”

  Bay wonders how her Nana ever became entangled with Mavis. What had Nan said about her? Bay wishes she’d paid closer attention. When she opens the car door, she gasps. “Smells like a funeral in here,” she mumbles, borrowing the phrase from Nan, who always says the scent of perfume reminds her of death.

  Bay struggles with the two large red suitcases on the backseat; they are heavy and bulky and seem entirely too much for such a short visit. There is also a leather bag on the front seat, which Bay grudgingly admires. When she picks it up, she hears the clacking of plastic bottles inside.

  Bay would never look in anyone’s purse, no matter how unlikable that person might be, but this is the sort of bag with a single snap closure. By merely looking down, Bay can see that Mavis was not exaggerating about its contents. One whole bag filled with prescription medicine. “She must be really sick,” Bay says, the notion softening her hard feelings.

  After Bay sets the bags down in the foyer, she follows the sound of laughter and scent of smoke into the kitchen, where the screen door is propped open with a small pile of shoes. Bay recognizes Mavis’s gold sandals and her Nana’s clogs. She assumes the pair of white sneakers belongs to Ruthie, who is sitting at the kitchen table, a half-filled glass of lemon water before her. Mavis, who has taken her jacket off, revealing fleshy arms heavily bangled with bright-colored bracelets, sits on a kitchen chair pulled close to the door, trying to blow cigarette smoke into the yard, a saucer balanced on her lap for a makeshift ashtray. Her Nana stands by the counter, drinking from a wineglass, the open bottle at her elbow.

  “And then, and then,�
� Ruthie says, quite loudly, “she goes, ‘We are not responsible for your senior moments.’”

  “No.”

  “She didn’t.”

  Ruthie nods. “She did. So I…”

  Suddenly everyone is looking at Bay.

  “Go on, Ruthie,” Nan says. “You can say anything here.”

  “So I said a prayer for her.” Ruthie bobs her head a few times, her small lips pursed.

  “Well,” says Nan, “a prayer?”

  Mavis frowns at the coughing Bay and tamps her cigarette out into the saucer. “Goodness, Pepper,” she says. “You are sensitive.”

  “What did you call her?”

  Mavis shrugs. “Pepper?”

  At this Nan and Ruthie burst out laughing, and after a moment, Bay joins them. It feels good to laugh. It feels especially good (in spite of her need for an entire bag of prescription medication), Bay thinks, to laugh at Mavis.

  Everyone is laughing so hard that when Mavis speaks, in spite of her commanding tone, they don’t hear what she says until she raises her voice, like a woman in community theater. “There seems to be a young man lurking about in your garden.”

  “No there’s not,” Bay says too quickly.

  “A handsome lad,” Mavis says.

  Ruthie sets her glass on the table and walks with quick feet over to the open door, leaning above Mavis to look.

  “Oh my, he is a good-looking one.”

  Bay pretends sudden and compelling interest in her fingernails.

  “He’s coming. Act real.” Ruthie poses behind Mavis in a most unnatural way, her hands clasped behind her board-straight back.

  “Mrs. Singer? I’m Howard. I thought I’d just stop by to confirm the airport transportation.”

  Howard? Bay looks up, thrilled that her secret about Karl is safe.

  “Oh, Howard! Well, my goodness, you didn’t have to drive all the way out here. Why didn’t you call? Come in, come in.”

  When he steps into the kitchen, Bay feels herself go still. He is a very good-looking one, almost perfect but for the faint blush of a birthmark on his cheekbone. Nan introduces him to her friends, absentmindedly waving in the direction of Bay, quickly veering into a cheerful account of the early arrival of her guests, during which his demeanor changes from pleasant to sullen. When he tilts his head to listen to Nan, Bay realizes it’s not a birthmark at all, but a bruise.

  While Mavis and Ruthie were impressed with his looks, they seem quite uninterested now, absorbed in a separate conversation about their bunions. How could they? Don’t they feel it? He walked into the kitchen and changed everything. Even the air is different! Bay can hardly breathe. The temperature has changed as well; it is suddenly hot. Even at this distance, Bay can feel the heat rising from his body.

  “You have the shopping list, don’t you?” Nan says.

  They are all looking at her, apparently expecting some kind of response.

  “Bay, Howard is going to take you and me to do our shopping. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mind? Of course not. It would all be so perfect had not Mavis announced that there were a few things she needed as well, which reminded Ruthie of her toiletries confiscated by “those horrible security people.” Howard says they don’t have to make up stuff for him to do just because the people he was supposed to transport have already arrived, at which Mavis and Nan offer their wineglasses as proof of the need for a designated driver, while Ruthie says she simply cannot get behind the wheel of a car so soon after her harrowing trip from the airport, if ever again.

  Bay reconsiders going along but can’t deny herself his company. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t seem the least bit curious about her. It doesn’t even matter that she is squished between the lemon-scented Ruthie and Mavis, with her horrible death perfume, in the backseat of Howard’s small car. It doesn’t even matter when the three women start singing some song from an old TV show which, surprisingly and much to their delight, Howard sings along with. What matters is him.

  So carried away is Bay by the sweetness in her heart that she finds herself nodding vigorously when Ruthie invites Howard to join them for dinner.

  “Don’t embarrass the boy,” Mavis scolds. “I’m sure he has more interesting things to do than spend the evening with a bunch of old ladies.”

  And me, Bay thinks.

  “Of course he does,” Nan says. “He’s already going out of his way as it is. He only stopped by to confirm the schedule for tomorrow, now we’ve got him taking us to the grocery store. I’m sure he has plans for the evening.”

  “Well, I just asked. He’s a big boy. He can say no.”

  “You’re putting him in an awkward position.”

  “Goodness, how awkward can it be? I mean, really, Mavis—”

  “Actually, I think it would be nice,” Howard says.

  “What?”

  “I think it would be nice.”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you sound just like Marlon Brando?”

  “Yeah, I get that sometimes.”

  “You must have other plans.”

  “I don’t. My parents moved here after I started college. I don’t know anyone local. I think dinner would be nice. If you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, not at all!” Ruthie says in her sing-song voice, while Nan says something about how his presence will make it even more of a party.

  “We’d love to have you,” Bay says too loudly and out of sync with the rest.

  “Yes,” Mavis drawls. “We couldn’t be happier.”

  Bay casts a sideways glance at Mavis, who sits staring straight ahead, a slight smile playing at the corner of her red lips. Bay suspects she is being mocked. She folds her arms across her chest and leans, ever so slightly, closer to Ruthie. Bay has discovered that Ruthie smells like lemons, Mavis smells like death, and Nan smells the way she always does, like lavender, but Howard smells like melted brown sugar and butter, which Bay thinks just might be the best scent ever.

  HONEYSUCKLE Sometimes referred to as “Love Bind,” the honeysuckle’s flowers look like intertwined lovers. Its heady fragrance induces dreams of love and passion. Honeysuckle protects the garden from evil and is considered one of the most important herbs for releasing poisons from the body.

  Everything is going rather well, Nan thinks. There was a point there, in the car, when Bay seemed annoyed at Mavis, but Mavis at her best is annoying. Nan can’t really worry about that now. Everyone has to learn how to cope with Mavis until they fall in love with her.

  “Tell us what you are studying in school, Harvey,” Mavis says, serving herself another piece of lasagna.

  Earlier, after he moved Ruthie’s and Mavis’s rental cars from the street to the driveway behind the house, Howard helped Bay bring another card table up from the basement; the tables, pressed together and covered in white linen topped with the silver candelabra, make a pleasant setting on the front porch where the moonflower blossoms trail up the railings, luminescent in the candlelight. Nan is pleased that their sweet scent obliterates the stench she’s noticed this summer arising from the backyard.

  Howard wipes his mouth with the cloth napkin, smiling behind the flickering flames. “I’m majoring in biology.”

  “Oh, are you going to be a doctor?” Ruthie asks.

  “Might be.”

  “These things don’t happen by accident,” Mavis says. “What is your intention?”

  Howard looks taken aback. Nan worries the pleasant mood is ruined. Mavis has always been good at ruining things.

  “This isn’t a complicated question, Harold. Do you intend to be a doctor or not?”

  “His name is Howard. Howard. Not Harold or Harvey. How hard is that to remember?” Bay asks.

  Nan feels an odd combination of panic and pride at Bay’s rude behavior. Luckily, Mavis appears completely unperturbed as she slowly dr
aws the spoon between her lips. “This sauce is delicious,” she says, dipping her spoon into the casserole dish again, scraping it against the sides for more. “I do need to work on remembering names better, Sage.”

  They are all laughing, even Mavis, though she looks slightly confused, when the car comes down the road, slowing in front of the house.

  Nan is proud of her shoe garden, pleased to have it admired in front of her friends, but when the driver sticks his head out the window, she immediately suspects he has not come with compliments.

  “Hey look, it’s a witches’ party,” he shouts, making an unidentified, but almost certainly obscene, gesture, before speeding away with his hooting passengers.

  “What did he say?” Ruthie asks.

  “Just kids being silly,” Nan says. “You know how they are.”

  Mavis stops spooning sauce to study Nan, who pretends not to notice.

  “I also write poetry,” Howard says, refilling his wineglass. “But that won’t pay the bills.”

  Mavis turns away from scrutinizing Nan to address Howard. “Life,” she says, “is not a bank account.”

  Bay, who looks oddly like she’s just swallowed a bug, stares at Mavis, the disturbed expression replaced by something like wonder.

  So it begins, Nan thinks with a thorn in her heart. After all these years, Mavis still has the power to charm, which is what Nan hoped for, isn’t it? Even Howard looks as though he is reassessing. Nan isn’t so foolish as to imagine there is any sexual element to Howard’s new interest in Mavis, but how shocking is it to discover it doesn’t matter? Once, Nan believed that when Mavis lost her sexual power she would be left completely depleted, but this is not the case.

  After dinner, Mavis, Howard, and Bay sit on the front steps, chatting. Nan’s bones are too stiff for such a posture, especially with all the cleaning she did to prepare for her guests; she remains at the table with Ruthie.

  “When I go to Africa,” Mavis is saying to her young audience.

  “Oh heavens,” Ruthie whispers, “she’s not still talking about Africa!”