The Rhubarb Patch

by Deanna Wadsworth

  But Scott kind of hoped they would get there.

  Grinning, he waved him inside. “Hi.”

  “Morning, Mouse. What are you up to?”

  “Posting on Facebook about my surprise gift from one of your chickens.”

  “What?”

  He pointed at the egg on the plate. “I heard some clucking outside, and a chicken laid an egg in my daffodils. I was gonna come over and ask you if it was safe to eat or if you wanted it back.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be safe to eat?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “What if there’s a baby chicken inside it?”

  “I don’t have a rooster, and last I checked, there’s no such thing as chicken immaculate conception.”

  “Ha-ha. Just for that, I’m keeping the egg.”

  “It’s all yours. Did you get your book finished?”

  “Not you too,” he groaned, rocking back on his chair. “It’s done, but I’m not happy with it.”

  “Now I feel guilty about what I was planning to invite you to do. Seeing as you’re supposed to be working.”

  “I am working. Being a writer is a 24-7-365 job. I’m always learning new words and new things. Plotting new stories in my mind.”

  “But it doesn’t pay the bills unless you write it down, right?”

  He blew a raspberry at him. “What did you want?”

  Phin held up the large rubber tub with two foam pads, knives, and gloves inside. “Would you like to harvest rhubarb and asparagus with me? Seeing as most of it is on your property.”

  Scott let his chair drop back onto four legs. “That sounds kinda cool.”

  Romantic, he’d wanted to say. It sounded romantic. Like being invited on a picnic!

  Screw the book. He’d email it to Sharon when he got back. Let her fix it. Wasn’t that an editor’s job, anyways?

  He followed Phin outside, then paused. “Should I put the egg in the fridge?”

  “Eggs are nature’s sterile rooms. It’ll keep several weeks on the counter, and five months in the fridge.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. As long as the shell is matte, rough-and-bumpy, not shiny, it’s safe to eat. Besides, you know when an egg’s gone bad.”

  Scott was learning so much from Phin.

  Sister Mary Katherine was outside, sniffing in his bushes where the chicken had laid her egg, and Phin gently redirected her to follow them.

  “I think she smells the chicken,” Scott guessed.

  “Probably. You ready to go picking?”

  “First, I have a surprise for you.” He rubbed his hands together in delight. “A birthday surprise.”

  Phin drew up short. “You do?”

  Grinning like a madman, Scott led him to the other side of the porch. “You’ll never guess what I found on my run this morning.” Beaming, he picked up the bucket and held it in front of him, the green curly leaves spilling three feet wide. “Rhubarb!”

  Laughter was not the reaction Scott had expected.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked, somewhat deflated. He’d assumed Phin would be thrilled, or at least grateful. Not buckled over in uncontrollable laughter.

  “Mouse,” he managed, clutching at his stomach and trying to contain his hysterics. “That’s not rhubarb.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, unsure. “Isn’t it?”

  “No, that’s a weed.” He laughed harder.

  “A weed?” Scott stared at the plant. “But it looks just like….”

  “It’s burdock. It’s… ha-ha… a weed!”

  Phin’s laughter was not funny. Scott’s face flamed, and his temper simmered. “I guess I’m just a dumb city boy to you,” he snapped, stalking off, bucket in hand.

  You try to do something nice for somebody….

  Phin grabbed his arm. “Mouse, wait. I’m sorry. I’m not laughing at you.”

  “Really?” he said, dripping with sarcasm. He dropped the bucket of weeds and crossed his arms, glaring at Phin.

  “No, honestly. I’m laughing because it’s burdock.”

  Scott shook his head. “How’s that funny?”

  Still chuckling, he pointed at the bucket. “When I first moved here, I wanted to grow a rhubarb patch. It takes a few years for them to get going, ya know? I was talking to the nurse at my doctors, and she had a big rhubarb plant she didn’t want. Said I could have it. I was so excited that I went over there and dug it up the next day. I put it in a nice sunny spot. I watered it, fertilized it. Then in two years, I had plenty to harvest.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Scott demanded.

  “Just wait for it,” he insisted, palms raised. “When I made strawberry-rhubarb jam, the rhubarb wouldn’t cook down. It stayed firm and kinda crunchy. Had to toss the whole batch. I was pretty bummed, so I decided to cook the rhubarb in a crock pot the next time, to soften it up. It worked, and the strawberry-rhubarb jelly set perfectly. I sent it out for Christmas gifts to my whole family. Next spring I’m out fertilizing it, and Nancy wanders over. She looks at my rhubarb and says, ‘Why are you putting chicken shit on a weed?’”

  Scott’s eyes widened, and he pointed at the weed he’d spent all that time digging up. “You grew that?”

  He started laughing again. “No, Mouse, I didn’t just grow it. I landscaped around it with stones. I fertilized it! I made jelly out of it!”

  “Oh my God. Did you tell the people you gave it to?”

  He laughed harder. “Hell no! My cousin still asks me if I can make it that way again. Says it was his favorite.”

  Scott couldn’t help but chuckle. “You made strawberry-weed jelly.”

  “I did!”

  “It’s not poisonous, is it?”

  He shook his head, wiping at his tears. “No, but you shouldn’t eat it. It’s a diuretic.”

  “Are you sure this isn’t rhubarb?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” Phin yanked one stalk in half. “See how it’s hollow inside? And how it’s kinda fuzzy? That’s how you can tell the difference. Rhubarb is solid and smooth. But it’s a common mistake. I mean, I grew it for three years.”

  Still disgruntled, Scott glared at the dumb plant. “I thought you would be so happy.”

  “Did you really go out and dig it up?” He stared at Scott, smiling in disbelief.

  “Yeah,” he said, feeling perturbed and utterly stupid. “I wanted to make up for the one I killed.”

  “Mouse, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

  “I don’t know how nice it is, considering it’s just a dumb old weed.” He kicked the bucket petulantly. “Some birthday present.”

  Phin placed a hand on his shoulder, coming closer. “No, it truly is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you.”

  It was hard to be annoyed with those luminous blue eyes gazing deep into his own. He squirmed, feeling warm from where Phin touched him. “Well, you’re very welcome. You do so much for me…. I just wanted to repay you a little.”

  “I like doing things for you,” Phin whispered.

  They were so close now. Was Phin finally going to kiss him? He held still, unblinking.

  Please, God, let him kiss me….

  Instead, Phin cleared his throat and stepped away.

  “Why don’t you throw that burdock in the garbage? It took me years to get rid of the patch I was tending. Don’t wanna go through that again. But keep the bucket. There’s a lot of real rhubarb that needs harvesting.”

  Feeling discombobulated, Scott stomped to his garage and yanked off the garbage can lid. He dumped the giant weed inside and slammed the lid down. He sure as hell wasn’t putting this humiliation on Facebook! He didn’t know if he was more frustrated about his lousy idea to impress Phin and all the time he spent digging it up, or because he had no idea how Phin really felt about him.

  Why doesn’t he just kiss me already!

  Chapter Thirteen

  “THAT’S A big tub you got,” Scott observed, swinging the five-gallon pail Phi
n had asked him to bring. “Just how much are you planning to harvest?”

  “There’s a fair amount of rhubarb and a ton of asparagus back there. I’ll make this trip at least three times in the next couple weeks.”

  “You have all these things growing here, and you’re just one person. If the zombie apocalypse happens, I’m moving in with you.”

  Phin chuckled. “I like to grow my own food. It’s not cheaper for some items, but it is for others. But that’s not why I do it. Gardening makes me happy. It grounds me.”

  “Ha-ha, very punny.”

  “It does. Could be because I’m an earth sign.”

  “A what?”

  “I’m a Taurus.” Phin tilted his head and studied him. “What’s your sign?”

  He batted his eyelashes. “Don’t you think you should buy me a drink first before you use that cheesy pickup line?”

  They both laughed, and Scott answered, “I’m a Virgo. September 13.”

  Phineas stopped in his tracks to gape at Scott. “You’re an earth sign?”

  “Umm,” Scott said, dragging out the word. “I guess so.”

  “How can you be so disconnected from it, then?”

  Scott got a little defensive. “How am I supposed to help that I grew up in the city in an apartment? The last month, I’ve been kinda down with this whole gardening thing. I watered your plants, didn’t I? And none of your chickens died on my watch. I even tried to get you a new rhubarb, like a fricking idiot.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. And I really do appreciate you doing that for me. Please don’t feel bad. At least you didn’t send weed jelly to your whole family. I was just surprised you’re a Virgo. Taurus and Virgo are… well, never mind.”

  “They’re what?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  Though he let it go, Scott wondered what Phin had intended to say. He made a note to google Taurus and Virgo later.

  The rhubarb along the barn had gotten quite large, bright red-and-green stalks shooting up proudly and holding up big green leaves. The spot on the corner where Scott killed the first rhubarb was sadly empty.

  Phin had brought heavy foam pads for them to kneel on, and he handed one over. “You’ll need this.”

  After taking the pad, Scott crossed his arms and studied the plants. “They look exactly like what I dug up,” he said, still put out. “Well, maybe a couple of yours are redder.”

  “Yeah, I have about four varieties. The green ones are sweeter, and they do resemble burdock. That’s why some folks call it wild rhubarb.” He knelt on the pad and smiled up at Scott. “Well, come on down here.”

  That adorable smile pushed away Scott’s embarrassment, and he joined him, maybe a little closer than necessary, but Phin didn’t seem to mind.

  Phin showed him how to yank the outer stalks and cut off the poisonous leaves. He held out a juicy green one. “Try it.”

  “It hasn’t been washed,” Scott protested.

  “God made dirt and dirt don’t hurt.”

  “What are you, seven?”

  Phin laughed.

  Reluctantly he took it. “Okay, peer pressure wins.” He took a big bite and almost immediately his cheeks cramped from the sour tang. “Oh man! That’s so sour!”

  “Needs sugar, eh?” Phin teased, as if he’d been hoping for Scott’s reaction.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “When my brother and I were kids, we’d spend a couple weeks every summer with Aunt Nina at the convent. It was our parents’ free babysitter, I realize now. But the nuns loved us, and we liked going. Nina would fill a piece of foil with sugar and take us with her to pick rhubarb. We’d dip a stalk in the sugar and eat it while she entertained us with stories about Daniel and the lion pit, or Noah and the ark. Maybe how Peter walked on water but sank because he didn’t trust the Lord to help him. It was a very effective teaching method.”

  “Sounds nice.”

  “It was.” A wistful look crossed his face. “It wasn’t quite the same after we lost Edmond, though. And once I was in high school, I was too busy to spend as much time with her. But she taught me everything I know about gardening and God. I remember every story she told me. The only thing I remember about Sunday school was writing lines and getting spanked by my dad when the priest told him I talked too much in class.”

  Scott laughed, picturing Phin as a kid interrupting Sunday school. “I can’t imagine you talking too much.”

  “Hardy har har,” Phin returned. “Aunt Nina was wonderful. I like to think I’m more like her than my parents. They’re good to me, but they’re kinda self-absorbed. I used to think they got that way after Edmond died, but they were always like that. Aunt Nina was the most open-minded, generous person I’ve ever met. When I came out to her in college, she said, ‘The Lord doesn’t make mistakes.’” He grew quiet, then brushed at his face with his forearm. “That meant the world to me.”

  Scott smiled, watching the emotions play across Phin’s face. “That’s awesome. My mom was cool about me coming out too.”

  At fourteen he had written Mom a letter and left it on her dresser before school. It had said, Mom, I think I’m gay. Please don’t be mad. Love, Scott.

  He’d been terrified all day, throwing up twice between classes. But when he’d walked into their apartment, Mom had greeted him with the biggest hug and kiss. Then she’d said, “Thank you so much for telling me, Scotty. Why would I be mad? I love you!”

  And that was that.

  Mom might have her faults, but not loving Scott wasn’t one of them.

  “When my aunt died,” Phin continued, his voice trembling. “Yeah, that was rough. To this day, I’m more interested in living up to her expectations, making her proud, not my parents. Is that weird?”

  “No,” Scott said at once. Had everyone this man loved died? He cleared his throat. “I love my mom, but it doesn’t mean I wanna be like her. I mean in some ways I do, but not in others. Make sense?”

  “Yeah, it does.”

  As Scott listened to the vibrant childhood portrait Phin painted, he began to see the complex layers of the man he’d grown fond of spending time with. Phin’s family was made up of Catholic Republicans, but they’d always been supportive of his sexuality. Many of his stories involved his parents—who were living in a condo in Boca Raton these days—and summers with Edmond at their Aunt Nina’s convent.

  “Are you religious?” Scott wanted to know.

  Phin paused, a big juicy red stalk in his hand. “I believe in God and the Bible. I have faith, a moral compass, if you will. But I’m not one for organized religion anymore. I’ve seen enough of it, honestly. Some need that kinda order, but I don’t. I find God in nature.” He gestured around to the heap of red-and-green rhubarb. “Are you religious?”

  Scott yanked out another stalk of rhubarb, contemplating the question. “I believe in a higher power. But I never went to church, and since most religious people seem to hate us homos, I’ve kinda avoided the whole thing.”

  Phin chuckled. “I can see that.”

  He studied him. “But you aren’t bothered by the way Christians treat us?”

  “Sure I am,” he was quick to say. “I call myself Christian, but I’m appalled by what some do in the name of the Lord. That’s why I talk to God out here. I don’t need an idol-filled holy place with a man in a robe to talk to God. I can feel Him right here. In the earth, the soil, and on the air.” Smiling to himself, he cut the leaf from the rhubarb in his hand and tossed it in the pile. He put the stalk in the overflowing bucket. “We better rinse these before we head out back.”

  Phin had a colander inside his bucket, and he rinsed the rhubarb with his garden hose. While he placed their bounty on his back porch, he asked Scott to dump the water in the bucket on a small six-foot tree by his mailbox, saying, “Waste not, want not. That guy needs a drink too.”

  With a second colander in the bucket, Phin gestured to the back of his property when Scott returned. “After you.”

&
nbsp; Scott wanted to take Phin’s hand as they took a leisurely walk out to the back of the property, but he didn’t. He felt very comfortable with him, but not sure enough to make a move. He’d never been in a situation like this before. Usually he met a guy, they danced, flirted, screwed, then bam! They were a couple.

  Not exactly the most successful way to get a good boyfriend. But it was a lot less frustrating. Scott had never had bluer balls than when he started this twisted tango with Phin. He didn’t want to chase Phin because A) he was done being the desperate, needy half in a relationship, and B) what if Phin was only interested in friendship?

  They walked slowly, Sister Mary Katherine setting their pace. She was slow but determined to snap at a few butterflies, sniffing the whole time she walked. The way she sniffed noisily at the ground reminded Scott of that dog in the Alice in Wonderland cartoon, with a broom for a head that swept away her trail in the forest.

  They reached the fence, and Scott was surprised to see eight to ten-inch-tall sprouts of asparagus growing right in the middle of the grass. It was like Dr. Seuss himself had stuck the spears in the ground.

  Phin showed Scott how to cut the asparagus carefully at the base. “It’s different than pulling the rhubarb. And you only cut every third one that’s tall enough.”

  “How do you know all of this?”

  “Trial and error. But mostly I listen. I listened when my aunt taught me to hand-screw the tomatoes, I—”

  “Wait! What?”

  Phin chuckled. “You can pollinate any flowering plant by gently touching all the blossoms. You gotta use your ring finger, though, because it’s the weakest finger on your hand. Kinda doing the bee’s job. It means more fruit. My aunt—”

  “The nun?” he clarified.

  “Yes, sir,” he chuckled. “Before we knew what the word screw meant, Aunt Nina taught us to hand-screw the tomatoes. I guess it was her idea of being rebellious. It wasn’t until later we figured out what she meant. But I do it every year and think of her. And Edmond.”

  Not wanting Phin to become sad thinking about all the people he’d lost, Scott chuckled. “Hand-screwing? Now I’ve heard everything.”