All of her carrots, which had just begun sprouting, had been pulled and cut to pieces; likewise, her tiny cucumbers and lettuce heads. Her tomatoes, still small, yellow, and hard, had all been picked and stomped into a yellow mess in the green grass.
Her jaw tightened as she scanned the yard. She saw no one. Crack! She fired a warning shot into the air and screamed, “You’ll pay for this!”
Her heart felt like it was going to pound right through her chest. She needed to calm down. She took some deep breaths, turned and walked back into the house, locking the door behind her.
She sat up for a while in the dark living room, waiting and listening. Eventually, she fell asleep beneath her sofa afghan.
Now she had two wasted garden beds to fix.
But the following night, it was her Asiatic Lilies. They had been yanked out by the roots and left scattered across the lawn. To top it off, a rock had been thrown through the mud room window. Pieces of shattered glass had fallen inside Geraldine’s boots and sneakers.
She called the police. The county sheriff came out, viewed the damage, took her statement and filed a report. He said he would have a car come out and cruise by periodically.
* * *
Geraldine pulled the containers out of the shipping box. They were small flower pots whose clear plastic bubble lids protected the plants that protruded from the soil. Or maybe the lids were to protect people from the plants. The containers reminded her of the novelty Venus Fly Traps she’d seen before at pharmacies and dollar stores.
She examined one of the labels. “Amazonian Dart,” she read. “Grows rapidly, producing brilliant fire-red blossoms. Thrives in containers and in ground. Full sun. Water generously at least three times per week. Blah, blah, blah.” She read down further. “Use caution when tending to full-grown plant. Cover plant entirely with a cloth when in close proximity. Full-grown plant utilizes small darts to immobilize annoying predators; darts may shoot a distance up to approximately 2’. This reaction is triggered by heat sensors that are part of plant’s physical traits. Poison is extremely toxic and in some cases may be fatal, particularly to smaller animals. Keep away from children and pets.”
She smiled. “These should work just fine. Or at least, they’d better, at $250 each.”
She had lost another perennial bed by the time she put the darts in the ground. She planted them strategically and inconspicuously.
She wouldn’t let Scott scare her out of her home.
* * *
Geraldine yawned and stretched. Sunlight streamed around her window shade. She looked at her clock and was surprised to see that it was 6:11 in the morning. She had gotten her first full night’s sleep in weeks.
She made her way to the kitchen and coffee. Cup in hand, she stepped out the back door to view her gardens.
She paused when saw something lying on the grass in front of one of the dart plants. Curious, she grabbed a bath towel and a pair of gardening gloves. She approached the plant, tossed the towel over it and knelt to examine the robin. It had what looked like a needle poking out of its red breast. She picked the robin up with one gloved hand and held it at eye level for a closer look.
It wasn’t exactly a needle; it was a tiny clear quill-like cylinder, about two inches long. The end that protruded from the robin’s breast was dark brown. She pulled at it with her fingertips, extracting it easily. The tip that came out, red with blood, was pointed and looked extremely sharp.
“Tch,” she said. “So this is one of its poison darts. What a shame, poor little thing. Still,” she sighed, “I guess in a situation like this, there’s bound to be a little collateral damage.”
She took the robin and the dart to the bare bed of soil where Scott had mowed down her perennials. She cleared a hole with her hands about a foot deep, deposited the robin and the dart at the bottom, and filled it back in. “Rest in peace. I’m sorry,” she said.
She went back to where the covered plant grew at the Southwest corner of her house. She had read the package instructions further before she had planted the Amazonian dart flowers; she knew to stand behind the plant’s trajectory. According to the instructions, the plant didn’t actually “see”; it sensed heat and released its darts according to how warm the target was. Its trajectory was limited, however, as the part of the bloom that housed the darts was forward-facing.
She reached out and gingerly pulled the towel back just enough so that she could lean over and view the plant from above.
She had already seen the bouquet of red blossoms. The shape of each bloom resembled that of a daffodil, except there were several blooms on each stem, as opposed to one. She hadn’t previously seen the darts, themselves, and was curious as to how they grew. The anatomical structure of the flowers had not been included in the package information.
It looked as though, where a daffodil had an anther atop a filament, these flowers had the needle-like cylinders, or “darts”, and, similar to the daffodil, there was a tiny pod atop the dart that seemed a parallel of the anther, which held the pollen in the daffodil. There was one dart per each bloom.
The plant’s toxin must be stored in the pod at the tip of the dart. And the pod apparently stayed behind in the body of the target predator when the dart was pulled away.
But where was the pollen stored? How were the flowers pollinated?
She shrugged. She supposed it didn’t matter.
She grasped the corner of the towel and backed up a couple of large steps, holding the towel in front of her, just in case she stepped within range of the plant’s sensors.
At least she knew the plants worked. Purchasing items from an 800-number on a television commercial, in her opinion, was a foolish thing to do. But after what Julie’s husband (Geraldine would never call him son-in-law) had done to her gardens, she had to see for herself if these flowers were for real. And they were perfect. Sitting innocently in her garden, looking lush and beautiful, they would deliver a surprising and painful message.
Satisfied, she went into the house to clean up for dinner and relax a little in front of the television.
“Still a pity about the robin, though,” she said as she closed the back door behind her.
Except that it didn’t stop with the robin.
Two days later, Geraldine found a dead rabbit lying on the ground a couple of feet in front of the second dart flower. This time, when she examined the rabbit, she found three darts lodged in the body: two in the chest, one in the left cheek.
Her eyebrow furrowed as she removed the darts. “More darts for larger animals?” she murmured. She looked at the darts in her palm, then at the limp rabbit.
She didn’t particularly like rabbits, and there were plenty that liked to come and steal from her vegetable gardens. Garden fencing usually took care of the problem, though, and she did like to look out her kitchen window and see the wildlife that frequented her yard.
Three darts, though.
She would have skinned and cooked the rabbit, but she didn’t know if the toxin would affect her, so instead, she buried the rabbit beside the robin. She had already decided to leave the ravaged plot alone for the remainder of the season. She would plant bulbs there in the fall.
She heard the faint sound of her phone ringing, and hurried inside. “Hello?”
“Hello, Mother.”
“Julie,” Geraldine acknowledged.
“I was just checking up to see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.”
“Oh, because we had heard something about break-ins or vandalism out around where you live, and we were kind of worried.”
“Really?” Geraldine tried to sound surprised. “Well, I’m perfectly fine, and I haven’t heard a thing.”
“Okay. I just want you to know that we’re here if you ever need us.”
“Wonderful, Julie, thank you.”
They engaged in brief small talk . . . how are you doing, etc.; then Geraldine bid her daughter goodbye and hung up.
As if she was e
ver going to allow Julie’s husband back on her property.
Her mouth set in a thin, grim line, Geraldine dialed her attorney’s number. It was about time she changed her will. If she had any say in it, Scott would never have a piece of this house or property.
Her attorney wasn’t available; he was with a client, so she just left a message.
* * *
Geraldine sat up in bed. She had definitely heard a noise through the light rain that tapped on the roof.
She grabbed her robe, and instead of her slippers, she pulled on her rubber gardening boots in the mud room. She stepped out the back door.
The flood lights came on, illuminating the back lawn, sparkling wet with rain. She heard a moan, a familiar female voice. She scanned the yard.
There. The floodlights glowed against a halo of blonde hair. Someone was lying on the ground at the corner of the house.
Geraldine gasped. “Julie?” She ran down the steps and along the back of the house. “Oh my God, he sent you to do this!”
She reached the inert form.
Julie was dressed in black jeans, boots, and dark brown rain coat. She lay on the ground, moaning. In her fist, she clutched a handful of stems. Amazonian Dart stems. Bright red blossoms lay scattered on the ground.
“Julie!” She dropped to the ground and gathered her daughter into her arms, pulled her onto her lap, oblivious to the lethal plant just beside her.
“M-m-m-mother, it wasn’t Scott . . . it was me . . . h-h-hurts . . .”
“Where did it hit you?” Geraldine leaned back to look at Julie. The front of her rain coat was littered with protruding darts. “Oh, no . . . oh no . . .” She pulled one out with her bare fingers. The tip was red with blood. She pulled another and another. They had all pierced Julie’s rain coat and the light sweater she had worn beneath. There were at least ten. The plant had released all of its darts.
Geraldine’s eyes stung with tears. She shook her daughter, whose head lolled limply. “Julie! Julie! Do you have your cell phone? Where is your cell phone?”
“P-p-po . . . p-p-pock . . .”
Geraldine rifled through Julie’s coat pocket and pulled the phone out. She dialed nine-one-one with dripping fingers.
“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“Julie, Julie’s going to die, she’s poisoned, help us!”
“Okay, try to be calm ma’am. Who is Julie?”
“Julie’s my daughter.” Geraldine’s breath was coming raggedly, and pain was spreading across her back.
“Okay, what is your name?”
“Geraldine.” More pain.
“And what is your address?”
Geraldine collapsed on top of Julie, the cell phone falling from her hand.
“Hello? Geraldine? Geraldine?”
* * *
Scott stood in Geraldine’s backyard and surveyed the gardens that had been so precious to her. He held Susie in one arm and an umbrella in the opposite hand. The rain fell down in fat, sloppy drops. He sighed. The listing papers had been signed; the “For Sale” sign was firmly planted next to the front walk.
He had never cared about Geraldine’s property, but it had driven Julie crazy that her mother “hoarded” it – or so, Julie had thought. She felt she deserved the house and the 15 acres that came with it. Scott was just as satisfied with their apartment. It was a nice apartment, spacious, clean, well-maintained, close to stores and the community playground. He never thought they needed more. And if they had, he would have wanted them to buy a new place, one that they could make their own. But Julie kept trying to get her mother put away so that they could move in here.
Now, he wanted no part of it. Because of his wife’s greed, his mother-in-law’s stubbornness, and both of their vindictiveness, he had lost his wife. Susie had lost her mother and grandmother.
He had already purchased a new home for himself and Susie with the funds he had inherited from the mess. He was taking his little girl home to upstate New York, where he had grown up and still had family.
As he turned to leave, he noticed the large patch of soil where he had mowed down Geraldine’s flowerbed. Several new green shoots protruded from the otherwise bare patch of dirt.
“I don’t see why she made a big deal,” he said to his daughter. “Looks like those flowers I cut down are growing back, anyway.” At the same time, looking out over the colorful blooms and ornamental grasses, he kind of understood Geraldine’s reaction to what he had done – even though it had been an honest mistake.
He shook his head. It didn’t matter to him, now. “Well, this is it, Susie-Q. Let’s go.” He bounced the baby in the crook of his arm as he walked away.
Joy
Lauren drove down Blackberry Lane, slowing to steer her car carefully around the big moving van parked on the right side of the street in front of the dilapidated house that stood opposite of her own residence. She edged forward, her view of the sidewalk obstructed by the van. She saw the ball first: a big yellow beach ball adorned with a single red stripe and the cartoon face of a dark-skinned girl sporting a pageboy haircut and a backpack. Lauren stepped on the brake as the ball bounced slowly into the street, and she waited patiently for the ball’s owner, a little girl in a dirt-streaked pink sundress, to retrieve it. The girl looked fearfully at Lauren, who smiled and waved at her.
“Lainie!” A high-pitched voice screeched. Lauren winced as the unpleasant sound reached through her open car windows. The voice was followed by a bony, hatchet-faced woman, who glared at Lauren as she grabbed the little girl’s arm and yanked her roughly to the curb. Lauren waited for a few seconds after the two had disappeared behind the van before she proceeded the last few feet to her driveway on the left.
Pulling in, Lauren noticed her neighbor, Rita Williams, standing on her front porch. Her red-lipsticked mouth wearing a thin grimace, Rita jerked her head toward the house across the street, then shook her head, rolling her eyes. She had apparently seen the brief incident. Actually, she’s probably been watching the new neighbors move in all day long, Lauren thought.
She smiled as she exited the car. “Hey, Rita, what’s happening?” she called over.
Rita returned her smile, her plump face crinkling up in a pleasant web of lines and wrinkles. “Why don’t you come over for a glass of iced tea when you get settled? I’ll give you the gossip.” She winked at Lauren, who laughed.
“Sure,” she said. “Let me get Mop settled, and I’ll be over.”
At the door, she could see her daughter’s English shepherd jumping up and down on the other side of the window. She unlocked her door and pushed it open. “Down, down!” She shouted, laughing. When Mop was excited to see her, he jumped up to face level, licking her face at the crest of his jump.
Lauren kicked off her pumps, roughed up Mop’s fur, and hugged his sturdy, warm, wriggling body. She ran down the hall to the kitchen in her stocking feet; Mop chased her joyfully. Knowing the drill, he launched himself through the back door when Lauren held it open for him. She propped the screen door so that Mop could come in through his doggie door when he was done with his run around the fenced-in back yard.
Meanwhile, Lauren ran upstairs to change out of her skirt and blouse into a comfortable pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She stopped to blow a kiss to the photograph of Michael and Allie, then grabbed Rita’s plate from her dish drainer and headed next door.
“Here’s your plate back! Thanks so much for the cookies, they were awesome!”
The older woman took the plate. “You’re so welcome, dear! Have a seat, I’ve poured you a glass of iced tea.”
“Thanks!” Lauren dropped into one of Rita’s porch chairs and stretched her legs, propping her sneakered feet up on the porch railing. She turned her head to check on Mop in her back yard; he was on his back, squirming and wriggling on the lush green grass. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, inhaling the fresh autumn air. It was good to be out of work, sitting outside in the warmth of the September day. The porch roof
provided relief from the bright sunshine.
Hearing the sound of an approaching vehicle, Lauren looked down the road. The posted speed limit on that part of Blackberry Lane was 30 mph, but the dark blue car moving toward her was going substantially faster. It zoomed past, swerving around the white moving van.
“Jeez,” Lauren said, shaking her head.
“What’s that?” The screen door slammed as Rita returned from taking the plate inside.
“The traffic on this road is stupid. They completely ignore the speed zone. Someday, someone’s really going to get hurt.”
“Oh, I know. We need a yellow blinking light at each end to help slow people down. Whew, it’s a lovely day, isn’t it? It is just a little hot for me, though.” Rita lowered her powder-green polyester-clad behind into the other chair and fanned herself with that day’s newspaper. She held her foggy glass of iced tea against her forehead, then took a swig from it, leaving a red lip-print behind. “How’s Lauren today?”
Lauren shrugged. “Eh. You know. You been over yet?” She nodded at the ramshackle brown house across the street.
“No, I’m waiting a day or two. Let them get settled in a little, first. Though from what I’ve seen, my visit may not be appreciated.”
“No?”
“That woman is a terror. I’m almost afraid to go over.”
“Oh, the hell you are!”
“You know me well. That old skinflint doesn’t bother me.”
Two more cars, the second one close on the first one’s tail, raced down the road, swerving around the moving van. The two women fell silent. A slight breeze touched their hair and carried the sound of voices to them from across the street.
“Mack! Git yer ass out here and help me carry this dresser! Don’t be slobberin’ before dinner, you lazy slob! I ain’t havin’ a meal wasted cuz you already gorged!”
Blood and Bone: A Smattering of Unease Page 12
