The Memory Garden

by Mary Rickert

“Ruthie?” Stella licks her lips. “What exactly happened between you and your husband?”

  “Is this a meat stock?” Thalia asks.

  Ruthie shakes her head at Thalia at the same time as she says, “Let’s not talk about him.”

  “It’s my understanding that it’s important to talk about difficult times,” Nan says. “It helps with the healing.”

  “Really?” Ruthie looks up from her soup. “Then we should tell Stella everything?”

  Nan doesn’t understand. How did this happen? How have they traveled so quickly to this precipice?

  Across the table, Mavis’s eyes are two dark slits, venomous as a snake’s.

  “I don’t think this is the time,” Nan stammers.

  “Oh, why not?” Mavis scolds. “Have at me, why don’t you? You’ve blamed me—”

  “I have not blamed—”

  “Of course you have.” Mavis raises her arms in a gesture of supplication, her bracelets clanking. She looks up at the ceiling. “I have lived my whole life with your judgment.”

  “You’ve lived with my judgment?” Nan, aware of the wide eyes watching, tosses her spoon onto her plate, making an impressive clatter. Only Ruthie continues spooning her soup as though this was the most ordinary of dinner conversations.

  Nan can’t focus on what she has to say. The words are mixed up. She continues saying “you,” until Mavis rolls her eyes and says in that bored voice of hers, “One more ewe, and we’ll have a herd,” which is just what it takes to release the block in Nan’s mind.

  “It isn’t my judgment. It was your lack of judgment. Can you at least admit that?”

  “Finish your soup before it gets cold,” Ruthie says over the top of her spoon.

  “Maybe someone could fill the rest of us in?” Stella asks.

  “What are they talking about?” Thalia whispers.

  Bay shrugs her shoulder. Nan turns so quickly one of her flower-bouquet earrings falls into Ruthie’s bowl. “You need to stop shrugging like that.”

  “Well,” says Ruthie, frowning down at her bejeweled soup, reaching to pluck out the earring. “It’s clearly time for the next course.”

  Nan and Mavis sit glaring across the table at each other, until, incredibly, Mavis collapses, like a Thanksgiving balloon sprung a leak, diminished so incrementally it is difficult to measure as it happens, though the effect is obvious.

  “I thought you invited me here because—”

  “You know why I invited you.”

  “Yes. But I thought it meant you had gotten over it. And then we had such a nice time, upstairs in bed.”

  “Gotten over it?”

  Bay turns to assess her Nana closely. Upstairs in bed? Why does it seem like everything Bay thought was real is now only one of many possibilities? She frowns at her water glass as if it, too, were suddenly uncertain, half-expecting her hand to reach right through it, pleasantly reassured by the cool, damp feel against her palm.

  “Dates with lavender and goat cheese.” Ruthie returns to the table like a waitress, extending the serving plate with one hand. “Take two.”

  When Ruthie sits, Howard, who is displaying a curious and appreciative appetite that seems to have kept him too preoccupied for conversation, compliments her originality.

  “This has always been a favorite of mine, though I haven’t had them since the incident with my husband.”

  Bay looks at the dates on her plate, plump with cheese to the point of splitting, rolled in the tiny, rice-shaped lavender. She knows they are supposed to be pretty, but they look disturbingly insectlike.

  “Are you saying this is how your husband poisoned you?” Stella asks.

  “Well, who knows? He did make these for me a lot.”

  “Do you mean this could kill me?” Thalia asks, a half-eaten date in her hand, lavender and cheese stuck to the corner of her lips.

  “It’s not the stuffed dates that kill you, it’s the poison,” Ruthie reassures Thalia.

  “What?” Nan, Mavis, and Stella speak in unison.

  “Thalia was concerned about the dates. I was just explaining that they aren’t poisonous. Someone would have to put poison inside them, of course.”

  “I notice you aren’t eating yours,” Stella says.

  Ruthie sighs, picks up a date, brings it toward her mouth, then drops it as though stung.

  Nan gasps. “We have copacetic.” She pushes away from the table. “And I do believe there’s a spell, and—”

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Ruthie says, reaching once more for the stuffed date. With only the barest tremor, she pushes it into her mouth.

  “But, Ruthie?”

  “Yeph, Howar?”

  “Why would you serve something that has such painful memories for you?”

  Ruthie swallows, laughing as though this question is the funniest thing, but she laughs alone. Finally, wiping the corner of her eyes with her napkin, she says, “It’s the Flower Feast”—and seeing that no one understands her point—“the feast of forgiveness.”

  “It is?” Mavis and Nan ask.

  Ruthie bites into another date; the white cheese leaks out of the back and sides, making a bit of a mess, which she licks, revealing the surprisingly nimble point of her pink tongue.

  “I think it would be hard to forgive someone who tried to poison me,” Thalia says.

  “Forgiveness isn’t about the other person. It’s about freeing yourself,” Stella says. “Besides, it’s probably easier to forgive someone for something you yourself have done.”

  “What are you talking about?” Ruthie asks.

  “Listen to our little Oprah here,” Mavis says. “‘Forgive and you will be free.’” She rolls her eyes.

  Nan knows that Mavis is mocking Stella, but can’t help liking the idea of being set free. Why does the (even mocking) idea of forgiveness make Nan feel lighter, as if, in fact, she has been caged by her skeleton all these years instead of supported by it? “It’s not you,” Nan says, suddenly realizing the truth. “It’s me I can’t forgive.”

  Bay has been listening to this conversation with increasing confusion. What are they talking about? Her mind sorts through the various disconnected bits and lands on the only piece she recognizes. Ruthie’s husband tried to poison her. Poor Ruthie. Bay is against revenge, in theory, but she knows what it’s like to be tormented. No one should kill anyone under any circumstances, of course, but she can’t blame Ruthie for wanting to hurt the husband who tried to kill her. “Did you forgive your husband?” Bay asks.

  “Oh, no,” Ruthie says, shaking her head. “It’s much too soon for that. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “But you said—”

  “Isn’t this fun? I’ll just be a few minutes with the next course.”

  Bay feels like they’ve been eating for a long time but have not yet tasted anything that would account for the diverse smells that filled the house. Also, she is still hungry.

  “Your Nana’s friends are really different,” Thalia whispers.

  Turning a honeysuckle blossom between thumb and forefinger, Bay nods. Her Nana said something about the copacetic, but then she also said something about a spell, didn’t she? Bay thinks she must have heard wrong, but what if she didn’t? What if her Nana is a witch after all? Bay pretends to be playing with the honeysuckle, but really she is eyeing her Nana.

  Ruthie returns, carrying a tray laden with small bowls. “Elderflower sorbet,” she says brightly, “to cleanse your palate. If there is any bitter taste left in your mouth, this should take care of it.”

  Bay loves the little spoon, small enough for fairies, though she doesn’t believe in them any more than she believes in ghosts. The sorbet is quite refreshing, cool, not terribly sweet, but she’s too distracted to enjoy it. She wishes everyone would leave so she could be alone with her Nana again and things
could get back to normal. What did she mean about a spell?

  Nan spoons the sorbet but can’t taste it, the flavor lost to all this unfinished business. Her spoon clanks against the little dish as though furiously seeking solace, until she stares into the empty bowl. Elderflower sorbet? When will she ever have a chance to taste it again? Why does Mavis have to ruin everything?

  “That was a totally great meal,” Thalia says.

  “But we haven’t had the main course!” Ruthie pushes away from the table, pressing so hard that the candles tremble.

  Bay is surprised when her offer of help is accepted. She follows Ruthie into the kitchen where the aromas of chocolate and curry mingle with a yeasty scent and the flowers’ perfume that drifts from the vases and glass jars on the kitchen counter and table, crowded next to the computer monitor. Nicholas, curled in the chair, opens his eyes to watch.

  Ruthie hums as she works at the stove while Bay unloads the tray, causing blossoms to drift to the floor. Bright yellow daylilies bow from arched green stems in a glass jar, a few blossoms littered among the honeysuckle and red tear-shaped rose petals. Lavender, in a bouquet tied with string, hangs from the cupboard handle. Every time Bay passes, she enjoys the familiar aroma.

  The back door is open, giving a full view of the yard in the long light of summer when everything looks polished, all the green grass and shoe flowers shimmering. Even the grass looks incandescent.

  Ruthie bends over the oven to remove a chicken, which she sets between simmering saucepans on the stove.

  “You know,” Bay says, “I think you could teach me some things.”

  Ruthie hums softly as she carves the chicken, then, suddenly, as though startled, drops the utensils, opens the oven door, and pulls out a large sheet of biscuits, which she sets on a rack to cool. Still humming, she dips the spoon into a saucepan, blows on it, and asks Bay to taste.

  “Rose petal sauce; what do you think?”

  “It’s beyond delicious, it’s better than a taste. It’s like eating summer, like a spoonful of summer.” Bay thinks she sounds stupid, so she clamps her mouth shut.

  “Is it bad?”

  “Oh, no. It’s, it’s…I…”

  Ruthie dips the spoon into the pan, blows on it, darts the tip of her tongue into the sauce, then wraps the spoon with her entire mouth, slowly pulling the utensil out. “Well, now there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?” She drops the spoon into the sink.

  Bay lines the breadbasket with cloth napkins for the biscuits, which are steamy with a sweet, vaguely familiar aroma.

  “The thing to remember,” Ruthie says, returned to carving the chicken, “is that kitchen mistakes have kitchen remedies. Too much salt? This seems like a tragedy, until you know about lemons.”

  “What about lemons?”

  “First,” Ruthie says, “lemon, and then, just a little sugar to counter the sour flavor. Works every time.”

  Bay thinks she should put lemon on some of the kids at school. If only it were that easy. She wonders if Ruthie wishes she could squeeze lemon on some people too. After all, she has done a lot of work for this party. “I’m sorry about my Nana and Mavis fighting,” Bay blurts out. “Something about Mavis gets on her nerves.”

  “Oh, they were always like this.”

  “They were?”

  “Well, they didn’t have a past then, of course,” Ruthie says as she plates the chicken. “The past makes everything complicated. Don’t worry about it, dear. They’re behaving just as I expected.”

  “They are?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Forgiveness is often preceded by anger. I’m furious with my husband, for instance. So that’s a good sign.”

  “Just so you know, I don’t blame you for what you did.”

  “What did I do?” Ruthie asks, ladling pink sauce over the chicken.

  “Your husband.” Bay lowers her voice. “Stella told me you shot someone. I wasn’t supposed to say anything.”

  “Well, you see,” Ruthie says, not looking up from her work, “there are opportunities for forgiveness everywhere.”

  Bay walks to the back door, so close that the view on the other side is hatched by the screen. She doesn’t know what draws her there; already the light has changed, the polish replaced by the blue hour. Karl stands closer to the house than he’s been before, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if against a chill only he feels in the warm night.

  “You better get those biscuits in there, honey, while they’re still hot.”

  ***

  After Bay and Ruthie clear the sorbet bowls into the kitchen, there is a long, awkward silence that Nan suspects she should fill. This is her house, after all. These are her guests. But she is at a loss as to what to say, her mind stuck on the past. Why, the past has almost been a life source, Nan thinks with a start. She doesn’t like the sound of that, as if she were somehow nourished by tragedy. No, she doesn’t like the thought of that at all. The dead are not meant to be a life source. She frowns at the empty wineglass before her.

  Nan walks to the sideboard and peers into it, selecting two bottles of merlot. She has no idea if it is right for the main course, as she doesn’t know what that is, but it’s her favorite, so she reasons it’s right enough. She feels better as soon as the wine is uncorked. As long as she’s not expected to actually forgive Mavis or herself, it certainly isn’t too soon to begin the process, and she’s going to begin by not pursuing the subject further. What point is there in all this bitterness, anyway? Eve has been dead for a long time…a very, very long time.

  Nan circles the table, filling the empty wineglasses. Was Ruthie just going to ignore them, or had she forgotten this detail? No matter, Nan fills the glasses near to the brim. This is not a half-full wineglass sort of occasion.

  “Biscuits!” Bay enters the dining room, carrying a cloth-draped basket. “Sorry, but we’re having chicken,” she whispers to Thalia.

  “I don’t care,” Thalia whispers, “this is the best party ever.”

  Ruthie enters the dining room, carrying an enormous tray she sets on the sideboard. “Our main event, ” she says, “is chicken with rose-petal sauce and curried daylilies. Thalia, Bay told me you aren’t eating dead animals. You get extra lilies, and the rose-petal sauce is divine, so I put some on the side of your plate. Bay already brought in the calendula biscuits. Now, I think we need a toast.” Reaching for her water, Ruthie jerks away from the merlot, as though bitten.

  Nan knows she should feel bad, but she can’t. It’s all she can do not to giggle. She just wants to get on with this toast so she can eat. She’ll worry about everything else later. She is determined to taste this food and not let it get past her the way the sorbet did.

  “To the cut flowers,” Ruthie says, raising her water glass.

  “To the cut flowers!” Nan responds, perhaps a little too loudly.

  They raise their glasses and tap one another’s, then finally, they eat. They can deal with death later. They can fight later. They can forgive later. This is time to savor. Stella murmurs with pleasure. Thalia licks her lips. There is the sound of silverware, knife, and fork against plate, the spoon Bay uses to scoop the sauce; they are nearly finished before anyone speaks.

  “Ruthie,” Mavis says, “judging by this meal, I expect your future includes opening a restaurant?”

  “Oh goodness, no.” Ruthie shakes her head and purses her lips, apparently trying very hard not to be pleased.

  “You should,” Bay says. “You’re a totally great cook.”

  “I’m not.”

  Everyone compliments Ruthie, who shakes her head, embarrassed, though obviously enjoying the praise. Seeing this, they continue complimenting, and Ruthie continues squirming until the mood at the table is quite elevated. Mavis proposes a toast in honor of the cook, which is heartily cheered. When glasses are returned to the table, the assemb
led gently push away the empty plates, beaming at one another as though they have all had a great success.

  Ruthie announces dessert, to which everyone exclaims, as though the idea had never occurred to them. “I hope you saved room,” Ruthie says. “Some people say dessert is what I do best.”

  “You have the coolest family,” Thalia whispers to Bay, who smiles and nods but wonders what she’s talking about. After all, these people aren’t her family; she’s only just met them herself.

  “Mavis,” Nan hisses. “Pass the wine.”

  Mavis hesitates, then passes the bottle as Ruthie returns with a dessert-laden tray. Thalia gasps and giggles, Mavis’s eyebrows swoop, Stella’s mouth drops open, and Howard cheers. Bay wishes she felt happier, but ever since the subject came up, she has been distracted by the question. Is Nan really a witch?

  “I don’t know if I can eat all this,” Nan says.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just so beautiful.”

  “Well, don’t be silly.” Ruthie smiles at her own full plate. “We have violet truffles, pound cake with blueberries and lavender syrup, and vanilla ice cream with black-pansy sauce. I couldn’t decide on just one.”

  It is too much, on that they all agree. Yet, in spite of their full stomachs, with only the occasional pause for delicate burps behind napkins and murmured threats of never being able to, they eat, finally leaning back, moaning softly, the plates empty but for puddles of milk, a black-pansy smear, a bit of syrup, the occasional errant blueberry.

  The candlelight haloes each satisfied face with gold, and for a long moment the party does nothing more than digest, until Ruthie says, “Well, that’s that then. What are you waiting for?”

  The young people: Bay, Thalia, Howard, and Stella, push back their chairs and rise, rubbing their stomachs, closing eyes and licking lips, dreamily shuffling out of the room, speaking softly about how delicious the food was, how full they are, stopping for a moment to consider what to do next, agreeing to go outside, leaving Ruthie, Mavis, and Nan eyeing each other.

  Almost warily, Nan thinks.

  “It was always you two,” Ruthie says. “When we lost Eve, I lost my best friend. Or so I thought. I thought she was my best friend, though apparently she could not confide in me.”