by Wall, Carol
“Are you still miffed about your azaleas, Carol?”
“Well, not ‘miffed,’ but I . . .”
She gave a small chuckle. “When Giles is working in a retail setting, it’s totally different. He has no cause to go off-script, because no roots have been put down, and everything is up for sale. But when he works in my yard, I do have to watch him.” She lowered her voice before continuing. “He doesn’t like to take things out unless he’s found a home for them. At first, I thought it was really strange. It kind of made me mad because it seemed like he was being stubborn. But it has also made me think twice about a few things, myself. Is it right to tear out specimens because we’re bored with them, even when we know that some TLC will bring them back around? Please don’t tell Melanie I said this. It’s hardly good for business. I’m not going to say this to another soul. But, you know, maybe it makes me a better person to accept what I have, and not always feel like the perfect yard is just out of reach.”
“I think I know what you mean. Once, Giles offered to bring me some flowers from a lady who had an overstuffed greenhouse. I think I might have hurt his feelings by declining the offer.”
“Recycling. That’s his policy. He can’t imagine no one wants them,” Sarah said.
“I never thought of it that way. ‘Recycling.’ That makes us modern. Ethical. Responsible Keepers of the Planet. I like the sound of it.”
Sarah picked out some yellow mums for me to use on the front porch. We each carried a pot as we walked toward the third greenhouse, which housed the cash register. Sarah kept talking a steady stream. “Melanie was saying just last week that if we had a full-time opening for a horticulture specialist, with decent benefits and so forth, we would offer it to Giles.”
“You would?”
“Absolutely. In a heartbeat. But why do you look so surprised?”
“Oh, I’m not surprised at all. I’m just happy to hear that you admire him as much as I do. I just think it’s amazing what he’s learned over the years, working in people’s yards.”
Any further words stuck in my throat because of the look of shock on Sarah’s face. “Carol, didn’t I tell you about Giles’s background?”
“What are you talking about?” The tenor of my voice spiked uncomfortably, and I had the horrible sensation that I’d gotten something terribly wrong. Sarah asked me to wait a moment, and told me she’d be right back. Standing there, alone and braced against my racing thoughts, I felt off-balance.
Sarah returned, slightly out of breath and holding a piece of paper. “Here. I printed it out. His application. Read it, Carol, and you’ll see that he could talk a million years and not convey the half of what he knows. He’s gifted, yes, but this comes down to plain hard work and academic prowess. He wrote a very technical dissertation about the canopy of the Yukon Gold potato. He’s done many projects in the field. What on earth have you been thinking, crazy girl? Where have you been?”
I took the paper from her hand. I skimmed the list of academic honors, college teaching, working for the government in horticultural and agricultural research in Kenya, and lastly, attaining his doctor of philosophy in horticulture from Virginia Tech, where I had spent my first two years of college before Dick and I were married, some thirty-five miles removed from where I stood, disgraced, in the here and now. The school was known internationally for its programs in horticulture. In fact, its horticulture students were the pride and joy of the university.
I finished reading and remained silent for a moment. I remembered that day when I read to him from the gardening guide, and quizzed him on his familiarity with pruning that particular species of tree. Somehow I’d known that day of the tree pruning that I was making a mistake. I’d felt it creeping up on me, but I’d ignored the little voice inside telling me to watch out. What a fool Giles must have thought I was. Lord, Carol, I thought to myself, you’ve gone and done it again.
It was like a near-death experience, the way scenes of my various social embarrassments flashed before my eyes. Prior to this, the worst of my faux pas had occurred early in my marriage to Dick, when he was a young lawyer. His senior partner’s wife, Dorothy, was a prominent member of local society and she invited me to be a docent for the house tour that she was hosting. She stationed me in her bedroom, and I was supposed to explain the origins of the various furnishings. The one thing she hadn’t told me about, though, was the portrait that sat on a table by her bed. The woman in the painting had tightly permed hair, but otherwise she looked exactly like Dorothy’s husband, John. She must be John’s mother, I thought to myself. Once the tour was over, the docents and our hostess all gathered. An introvert by nature, I was often socially awkward, plus I was a good thirty years younger than she and already feeling like a fish out of water. In a doomed attempt to make conversation, I said, “Dorothy, that is such a good painting in your bedroom, and it looks so much like John that it’s just got to be his mother.”
The seconds that followed were like the electricity-filled moments before a lightning strike, when you know something bad is about to happen. And then it hit me. The “woman” in that painting was John himself, during an ill-advised flirtation with a perm. In my defense, he looked ridiculous, with hair so tall and stiff it was like a bouffant. But there’s no defending what I did next. In a rush of fear-induced adrenaline, I said, “Well, that painting sure needs a haircut.”
I went home and stayed in bed for a good several days after that. But even that mortification was nowhere near what I felt now, recalling just how condescending I’d been to Giles.
“Not once did I ever suspect or venture to ask about his education,” I finally managed to say to Sarah.
“I’m so sorry, Carol, I just assumed you knew. He and Bienta came to the States fourteen years ago, in large part so they could both go to graduate school here. Bienta has her own Ph.D., in human nutrition. Neither of them has been able to find jobs in their fields, though. That’s why Bienta is nursing. I feel so badly for them. The whole reason they left their daughter behind in Kenya was so they could build a big new life here, and it just hasn’t worked out for them. Their boys were both born here, though, so that’s one blessing. And Giles just keeps working in that uncomplaining way of his. If we bring up anything even vaguely personal, we’ve noticed he’ll soon find a chore that takes him to the far side of the property.”
I put my head in my hands, just shaking my head.
“Oh, Carol,” Sarah said. “You worry too much. Giles doesn’t care about things like that. He’s not looking to impress anyone. I’ve seen the two of you chatting in your yard. He seems so relaxed, and his smile is broad and genuine. It’s more than the stylized, reflexive smile he tends to give out in other settings. It’s so rare what you have, as if you and Giles reached out across the Atlantic Ocean and whatever other barriers might exist between you and simply said, ‘Let’s be open. Life is short. Let’s be friends.’ Sometimes, as I’m driving by your house, I catch a glimpse of the two of you standing on the porch. I’ll bet you haven’t noticed, you’re so engrossed in what you’re talking about. It lifts my spirits whenever I see you like that. If I’m in a bad mood, I start feeling better, on the spot.”
I thought back to the twinkle in Giles’s eyes. I hoped Sarah was right, and that even though I’d acted like a goof and a dummy, he was more amused than offended. “Well, I’m going to begin by apologizing to Giles. I should have been addressing him as ‘Doctor Owita’ all along.”
“For Lord’s sake, Carol,” Sarah said. “Giles respects you. He would never think . . .” She snatched her sunglasses off her head and stabbed the air for emphasis. “Don’t you see that your courtesies are a two-way street? Don’t you consider him a good judge of character? He knows you better than you think.”
“We should be addressing him as ‘Doctor,’” I said again. I couldn’t get this omission off my mind.
Sarah shrugged. “He told us not
to call him that, right at the get-go. And, listen. Does it really make a difference, in your friendship or your yard?”
I wondered. Would it have made a difference? Would I have acted differently toward Giles at any point along the way if I had known?
Honest answer: Absolutely yes.
Reading to him from a book, indeed!
Instructing him on how to prune a river birch, for heaven’s sake.
I got on my high horse and tried to teach him things. And he met my foolish efforts with humility.
“What’s he doing working in my yard?” I managed to say. “He’s spent his whole life preparing for something better.”
“I think jobs in his field are hard to come by. A friend told Melanie that Giles gets interviews, but in the end, he never seems to get the job. Maybe it’s his accent. I’ve also wondered if the way he looks away from people might be misinterpreted.”
I pictured a committee of people assuming they could judge a man like Giles through formal conversation over herbal tea or lattes. What they really needed to witness was the way he led by example. I’d learned more about plants from him in just a few months than I ever could have learned from that gardening guide—or any other book, I imagined.
“All this time, I thought myself the academic. Isn’t that pathetic, Sarah? Wait. Don’t answer that. He’s far surpassed us all. Let’s simply leave it there.” And with that, I gave her a sad smile and drove away.
When I got home, I pulled out my marble notebook. Like an ill-behaved student called to the principal’s office, I sat at the kitchen table, turned to a clean page, and began to write.
1. Is the willingness to do manual labor incompatible with holding an advanced degree?
2. And DO YOU NOT REMEMBER how the “farmer’s field” in Blacksburg was used to showcase the work of the school’s top-flight aggie and horticulture students?
3. Were there stereotypes at play? Dick and I are baby boomers, after all. We are supposed to be enlightened!
4. Letter of apology:
Dearest Giles (Dr. Owita, I have learned):
I’m sorry. Even if I knew how to say those words in Luo, Swahili, and all the tribal languages of Kenya, it wouldn’t be enough.
A friend has told me that you want to be a college professor. Until the day you get that job, I’d like to be your unofficial student. Here’s what I’ve learned from you already:
—that intuition is a subset of intelligence (or maybe it’s the other way)
—to count all persons as your equal and never make assumptions
—to nurture from a place within your soul
Signed: Your Very Humble Student on Mount Vernon Road
I ripped out the letter, folded the paper twice, and put it in a business envelope addressed to Dr. Giles Owita. Out of habit, I started to put the envelope in the letter slot, but something stopped me. It wasn’t fitting that Giles should have to fish my apology out of the mail slot this time.
The next day, I saw the mailman walking up Mount Vernon. He had already passed our house and our regular mail was in the box. Quickly, I found a stamp and wrote out Giles’s address, which I had fortuitously recorded on the inside cover of my notebook.
I opened the door.
“Charlie,” I called out.
The young mailman looked back at me. I held up the envelope.
“I want to mail this in the proper, dignified way that befits a friend’s accomplishments. Know what I mean?”
He removed his cap and scratched the top of his head. “Oh. All right. We can take care of that.”
After taking my letter, he continued walking up Mount Vernon. I felt that I’d made a wise decision. From now on, I was going to hold myself to certain standards.
Three days later, I was surprised to find the corner of my own envelope protruding from the little mail slot to the left side of my door. I pulled it through. Giles had marked his name out with a heavy line, replacing it with: Mrs. Carol Wall.
My hands shook. I tore open the letter and read:
Dear Mrs. Wall,
Thank you for your note. You honor me by giving me the opportunity to tend your yard. No titles are needed. Next spring, I believe we need to plant more hostas on the riverbank. Also, I am going to mix some chemicals to treat the spruces, with their stubborn spider mites. Your neighbor, Mr. Robert Maxim, has requested a consultation on his backyard problem. I will call on him next week, as soon as I complete some work on behalf of our grounds committee at Saint Benedict’s. I am helping with the construction and design of the new koi pond, in memory of the children of our parishioners who have “gone back.” Though this volunteer work on the committee’s Memorial Pond will take much of my free time, please remember there is always a spot reserved for your yard on my schedule. I will await your call. As always, I am available to install more flowers in your yard.
I celebrate your listening ear and understanding heart.
Sincere regards,
Your friend (“osiepa,” which means “friend” in my part of the world),
Giles Owita
8.
Every Yard Must Have Its Flowers
A few days later Sarah e-mailed me the first six pages of Giles’s dissertation. It was a scientific tract about potato canopies with lots of graphs and charts. There was no poetic swooning over flowers. I felt more embarrassed than ever.
I started avoiding Giles, telling myself that I was giving him space to complete the memorial pond that he’d agreed to design for our church. I immersed myself in schoolwork and taking care of my parents.
But the interlude didn’t last long. One late afternoon about a week later, I pulled my living room curtain back in time to see my “professor’s” Neon cruising past. Intrigued, I opened my front door only a crack, peering out. Giles parked at the curb in front of Sarah’s. He pulled some tools from the trunk and disappeared around the far side of her house, toward the entrance to the meditation garden. Dick wasn’t due home for several hours because of a late appointment, so it was an open-ended evening, with takeout waiting on the kitchen counter in a bag. I heard our furnace kick on for the first time this season. Just the sound gave me a cozy, nesting feeling.
It looked like no one was home at Sarah’s house. Her porch light was on. A brief chat with Giles would fit perfectly into this lonely corner of my day. Afterward, we could both reclaim our dignity and I could pretend that my terrible faux pas had never happened. I pulled on a hooded jacket.
I walked to Sarah’s, pausing in her front yard. Her house was the largest and most elegant in the neighborhood, with a charming garden gate on each side of the lot. The entrance closest to us had a delicate trellis where the climbing roses had established themselves and appeared to be doing well. It was the first time I’d been in Sarah’s backyard in quite a while, and I felt how the garden seemed to have a soul of its own. On this autumn evening, spotlights illuminated the ghostly forms of primrose and gardenias, mulberry-colored autumn sedum, orange and yellow daylilies, and coneflowers, with their petals pointed downward, set on wiry-looking stems. A quarter moon darted in and out of the clouds.
Giles was working at the far end of the lot, near the creek, and I called to him. “Doctor Owita.”
“Mrs. Wall. It is you!” Giles said. He sounded genuinely happy to see me, and relief washed over me. I had made so many missteps on my way to being friends with Giles, yet I knew in this moment, and without asking, that Giles forgave me. “I should have been addressing you as doctor, all along,” I quietly insisted. “You didn’t tell me, Giles. I feel so bad about it. I hope you didn’t think I was being disrespectful. Why, in Rusinga, they would have voted me off the island!”
His laugh was rich and sincere, and it ended with a sympathetic clucking sound that I’d grown to associate with him. Oh, how I had missed that million-dollar smile. More than I realized. “Should s
uch a small thing matter, Mrs. Wall?”
I had planned to make a little speech, in penance. I was going to mention how I’d read to him about the river birch, citing how arrogant I had been and how I made assumptions based on biases. But the words evaporated in the cool night air. My explanation would have taken a long time, and even in a picture-perfect yard like this, there was much to do. I fleetingly wondered if Giles had brought an extra pair of gloves. I shouldn’t stay, I told myself. But Giles didn’t seem in a hurry. He leaned his rake on the back of one of the two wrought-iron benches, which were situated opposite each other, near the gate to the creek.
“I have been working on the children’s memorial pond today, at church,” he told me as I took a seat opposite where he stood. “The plaque has just been installed. It reads, ‘For the children of Saint Benedict’s who have flown from our arms to the arms of God.’”
“That’s beautiful,” I said. “We gave a contribution. In memory of someone. Have the fish been added, yet?”
“No koi. Not yet. We are still adjusting the various elements of this new ecosystem that will symbolize so much for grieving parents. It cannot be a casual matter, balancing this system and keeping the fish alive.” Giles began to pace. He raised his eyebrows, and his expression grew brighter still as he explained that an overgrowth of algae blocking the sun was the reason that the pond was not doing well yet. “Right away, I saw the need for things like cattails and some ornamental grasses to deprive the algae of sunlight. I will drive to Blacksburg to get the water hyacinths and cattails, at the greenhouse. My wife and I will pay for them, if necessary, though I know the cost will not be much compared to all the good that will be gained.”
“I’m so happy that you’re doing this,” I said. “There are many who have suffered for years over the death of a child. This will be a chance for those parents to honor their children, and to show how they’re always remembered.”
“This is what I said at the first committee meeting. I think they may have wished me to stay on topics relating to pond environments. Some of them had heard about Lake Victoria and knew that it is called ‘the Sickly Giant,’ due to algae forming and blocking the light. When I began to talk, I chose instead to speak to the committee as a father, trying to imagine the pain that loss of a child might bring.”
