“Did she ever go to the school in town?”
“Yes, she was there until her mother died. Then your grandfather hired me to teach her. She was only with me about a year.”
I want to ask why Mom had to come to Mrs. Crump, but I’m afraid the question might sound as if I don’t think she’s a good teacher.
She must have read my thoughts, because she adds, “I’m not such a bugbear, am I?”
“Oh, no! You’re a wonderful teacher,” I tell her, even though I have no idea what a bugbear is. But my thoughts float back to the day Roy told me about the school letting her go.
She chuckles. “Well, I’m not sure everyone would agree with that.”
I wonder if Mom left when she met my dad.
“Daisy was also a wonderful photographer,” Mrs. Crump says.
“She took pictures back then?”
“Yes, she did. I used to like taking pictures myself.”
I think about the neat black-and-white photographs in her albums. Of course, I can’t mention that or she’d know I was snooping through them.
“I took a few classes,” she tells me, “but I never moved past amateur status.”
“Did you teach Mom?”
“Oh, I passed along what I’d learned. Your mom had natural talent. I have something you might like.” She pushes the atlas aside. Underneath is a folder. She hands it to me.
DAISY HIMMEL is written in large letters across the folder. I open it and find a makeshift book with a photograph of a window on the cover.
I’m captivated by my mother’s handwriting underneath the picture. It looks a little different from what I remember, bigger and loopier. Her i’s are dotted with hearts. I’ve done that before. When I look at the photo closely, I realize why it looks so familiar. It’s the window in my bedroom. Her bedroom. The shade is pulled up, and the pull with the circle dangles from it.
Mrs. Crump tells me, “I kept a copy because I was certain she’d be a famous photographer one day.”
“She loved taking pictures.” I can tell by the way Mrs. Crump smiles that she is pleased. We’re like spies trading information.
“She had this old camera that took film,” I say. “A couple of years ago she traded it in for a digital.”
Mrs. Crump flinches a little. “Did the old one look like that one?”
My eyes follow her finger, which is pointing to the top shelf of her bookcase. It’s filled with knickknacks. The camera is next to a small sombrero.
“It looked almost exactly like that one.”
“Well, I’m glad she was still taking pictures.”
I’m starting to put things together. “Did you give that camera to her?”
“I wasn’t using it anymore. And I had the other one. Which, believe it or not, at one time was the newest thing since sliced bread.”
I feel awful about telling her that Mom traded it in. “Mom loved her old camera, though. She was pretty stubborn about changing it. But developing film really adds up.”
She chuckles. “Oh, goodness, I’ve been around long enough to see a lot of things come and go.”
“Can I borrow the book with Mom’s pictures?”
“Consider it yours.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Crump.” I start to peek but quickly close it and tuck the book back into the folder. I want to look at it alone, to study each picture carefully.
Mrs. Crump leans in closer. “Now may I ask you a question?”
“Sure?”
“Was Daisy happy?”
Mrs. Crump blurs in front of me until she is a multicolored spot. With the back of my wrist, I try to catch a tear before it falls, but I fail. It lands on the folder.
“Yes,” I manage to say. “We were all happy.”
“I’m so glad to know that,” she says. Then she scoots away from the table and tap, tap, taps to her desk for the tissue box.
I have one last question. “Did you ever meet my dad?”
“No, honey. I’m sorry, but I lost track of your mom after she finished and I went on the African safari.”
“You went on a safari?” I try to envision her riding an elephant.
Mrs. Crump tilts her head. “You must not have made it through all my albums.”
Sow
Plant or scatter seeds in the earth
Chapter Twenty
VIOLET PICKS ME UP from her house at three thirty sharp. She needs to work at the desk for a couple more hours.
“How’s the bike?” she asks.
“Great,” I tell her, wondering how I’m ever going to be able to get rid of it. For a second, I wish I was the kind of person who could ditch the bike.
“Have you rung the bell yet? I used to love to ride up and down the street, ringing my bell. Everybody would wave from their front porches.”
I could never ditch the bike.
When we arrive at the motel, I head toward my room and settle cross-legged on my bed. I open Mom’s photography book. At first I think I’ll look at every single picture. Then I change my mind because there’re only a few. I’ll look at one picture a day. Each one will be like a visit with Mom. I’ll take my time and learn what I can from them. I open to the first page. Shot from above, the picture shows someone’s legs from her knees down to her shoes. The legs must be Mom’s. The shoes are small, and Mom had little feet. I count the freckles on her knees, the only place she had any. Her calves are slender like mine, only hers are pale. I roll up my jeans and look for freckles. But there are none. I stare at that picture for a long time before closing the book and tucking it back into the folder.
It’s already four o’clock. If I’m ever going to plant a garden, I need to convince Arlo to take me to Gavert’s Plant Center. And I’ll need his help. Roy’s too. When I first started planning the garden, I thought of doing the whole thing myself. But that was stupid. Making a new garden is hard work. This is a three-day weekend, so it’s perfect.
Arlo is cleaning the lint out of the dryer in the laundry room. It’s especially humid today. The room smells musty and soapy. The words rush from my mouth as I share my plans with him and explain that I need his help.
He pauses a long time, making a baseball from the gray lint. Finally, he says, “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Stevie?”
I nod.
“What the heck—Winston has fired me twice before. What’s one more time?”
“He’s fired you?”
He slowly grins. “I’m still here.”
When Roy peers from around the linen-closet door, I jump. He’s wearing a red cap, and I don’t recognize him right away. He laughs. “You can count on me for the job. Winston’s never fired me. I need practice.”
And though they don’t seem worried about it, now I am. “I don’t want you to get fired. I just thought it would be a nice surprise.”
Arlo rubs his chin. “Uh, Stevie, just so you know, Winston doesn’t much like surprises, good or bad. He’s what you’d call a creature of habit.”
I think Arlo is wrong about this, though. Winston will like the garden.
In Taos, we had a neighbor who said she wished she could snap her fingers and her greenhouse would be clean. She’d let it pile up with dead plants and empty pots over the years. One day while she was visiting her sister out of town, Mom, Dad, and I sneaked over and cleaned it out. Then we stacked the terra-cotta pots in neat piles. It looked like a page in a garden magazine.
When she returned home, she was so happy, she cried. She kept saying, “You did this for me?”
The funny thing is, it took us only a couple of hours. That day, I realized doing small things for people can be a big gift.
Back at Violet’s house, I can’t fall asleep. The garden is heavy in my thoughts, and I’m excited thinking about how, with Arlo and Roy helping, the garden is going to happen. I toss and turn, and eventually I flick on the bedside lamp. It’s after midnight, so I decide to look at one more of Mom’s pictures.
The second-page photograph shows part of a sig
n—VERT’S printed in large dark letters. Below is nter in small italics. I try to think like Vanna White, that lady on the game show Wheel of Fortune who flips around the squares with letters that spell out phrases. Nothing comes to me, even after I go through the entire alphabet, but I’m finally sleepy.
* * *
THE NEXT MORNING, I crawl into Arlo’s truck and sit between him and Roy. A lot has happened since the first time I rode in this truck, and I’ve only been here about a month.
“We’re ready to get fired,” Roy says with his one-dimple smirk.
He must see my worry, because he winks at me. “I’m kidding! Anyway, if Winston doesn’t like it, I can always be a paperboy.”
Arlo glances around. “Just where are you thinking of making the garden?”
“Beneath and around the sign.”
“The Texas Sunset Motel sign?”
I nod.
“Interesting,” Arlo says.
Maybe he thought I was going to make the garden in the back of the motel. That wouldn’t do any good. The garden will attract customers. It can’t be hidden like a secret garden.
A few minutes later, we’re heading toward the edge of town. Fountain grass lines the road leading to the parking lot. Gavert’s Plant Center’s sweep of color makes my heart beat faster—red geraniums, salmon salvia, purple coneflowers, roses of all kinds. I plan to spend every penny in my wallet. Four hundred and sixty dollars. Well, maybe I should keep a little for pocket change.
When we get out of the truck, the sweet scent of honeysuckle vine floats around us. A prickle travels from my elbow to my wrist. This smells just like the farm in spring. The FOR SALE sign flashes in my thoughts, but I push it away. The farm will wait for me.
Arlo gets a flatbed cart. “What’s it going to be, boss?”
“We’ll need topsoil, compost, and mulch,” I tell him.
“How many bags?” Roy asks.
I should have figured that out before now. Just as I’m about to admit that I don’t know, a familiar voice says, “Hello, Stevie-Named-After-Stevie-Nicks!”
Nancy wears a green apron with GAVERT’S across the bib and yellow gardening gloves. “Got spring fever?”
“Hi, Nancy. This is—”
“Arlo and Roy Fulton,” she says, holding her hand out to Arlo. “How the heck are you, boys?” She gives him a firm shake.
“You know each other?” I ask.
Roy laughs. “This isn’t Dallas. We know everybody in this town.”
“So what are you three outlaws up to?” Nancy asks.
“We’re building a garden,” Roy says. “A Texas Sunrise Motel garden.”
“Oh…,” Nancy says. “Wait a second, Stevie. Is Winston your grandfather?”
I nod.
“Daisy is your mom?!” She pauses a second, then says, “Oh, gosh, Stevie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know about … Your mom was a nice girl. I’d graduated by the time she even got to high school, but everyone liked her.”
A lump is growing in my throat. I want to ask a million questions about Mom. I clear my throat, but that dang lump won’t go away.
Arlo comes to my rescue. “We’re trying to figure out how much topsoil and compost we need.”
“How big of a garden are you planting?” Nancy asks.
Arlo looks at me. I still can’t speak.
Roy walks about, forming an oblong-shaped outline. “Oh, about yay-big.”
“I think I can fix you up. Plus, you can always come back for more if it’s not enough.”
She starts handing over to us sacks of soil and compost. We pile them on the flatbed cart.
I swallow and manage to speak. “We need mulch too.”
“Of course!” Nancy says. “Gotta have mulch.”
When I pick up a shovel, Arlo says, “We’ve got a couple of those.”
“A hoe?” I ask.
“Nope, not that.”
“There’s a lot of grass to remove,” I say, grabbing three, one for each of us. But when I notice the price, I put two back.
“You mean weeds,” Roy says. “When you mow them, they sorta resemble grass.”
We pile another flatbed cart with plants. I’m overwhelmed with the choices, and I choose two needlepoint hollies. They’re small now, but they’ll grow and can be the background of the garden, with the knockout roses and some dwarf mock orange in the front. I remember how Dad would say, “Flowers are our business, but the evergreens are for us. They give us something to look at all year round.”
We grab a few Shasta daisies, agapanthus, marigold seeds, and about a dozen fountain grass plants. Their amber plumes will wave to the cars from the road. I look long and hard at a concrete birdbath, but it costs eighty bucks.
“That’s an awesome birdbath, isn’t it?” Nancy is standing behind me with the notepad. “I love how it’s shaped like a giant daisy. And it’s shallow enough for little birds.” There probably won’t be enough money left for that.
After Nancy writes up our purchases, the guys head to the truck with the carts and I head over to the register to pay. “Were you friends with my mom?” It keeps amazing me how I can talk to Nancy about anything.
“No. When you’re a kid, a few years’ difference in age can seem like decades. But she was really nice. I guess you know she loved taking pictures. She sometimes took pictures at the garden center. So should I invoice Winston for all this?”
“No, I’m getting it.” I pull out my wallet and take out the hundred-dollar bills.
Nancy takes the cash and gives me the change. She motions one of the workers over and tells him, “See that truck with those two guys in the parking lot? Load up that birdbath for them.”
“What?” I’m not sure what to say.
“In honor of your mom,” Nancy says.
That lump comes back big time, so I give Nancy a quick hug. “My pleasure,” she says.
At the truck, I tell the guys, “How about ice cream? My treat.”
Roy slips his arm around my shoulders. “I’ll let my rich new friend treat me to a milkshake.” He quickly removes his arm, but I can still feel his touch.
“Your almost-broke new friend,” I tell him. As we pull away, I stare at the Gavert’s sign in the rearview mirror. Something about it looks familiar. I hold my hand up over part of the letters. Now I know why. VERT’S—GAVERT’S. nter—Plant Center.
We head to the corner drugstore that still has its original soda fountain. Arlo asks about my parents’ farm.
“That’s nice that your mom got to grow flowers and herbs. I’ll bet that made her happy.” I know Arlo is being polite, but it feels good that someone has asked about my parents.
At the register, I pull out my wallet, but Arlo pushes it away. “This is my treat. We can’t have you broke, now, can we?”
I let Arlo pay and decide I’ll put the change from the garden money in the Australia jar.
* * *
VIOLET GREETS US WHEN WE ARRIVE back at the motel. She circles the loaded-down truck and says, “Oh, my! Who’s going to plant all this?”
“We are!” I say.
Ida and Horace are by the pool, but they put their wheelchairs in forward and head our way. Arlo crawls into the truck bed and hands our purchases to Roy and me. He begins to hand one to Violet, but she says, “Someone has to look after the desk.”
“Afraid to get a little dirt on your hands, Violet?” Arlo asks. Violet starts toward the office and says, “I need to dress for the occasion.”
Arlo laughs. “So digging in the dirt is an occasion.” As she disappears, he asks me, “Am I dressed for the occasion?”
“Perfect,” I say. “Except you might want to put on a tie.”
A few minutes later, Violet appears in a pair of Levi’s jeans and a gingham blouse that is tied at her waist. She’s wearing a pair of running shoes, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail.
“Where did you get those clothes?” I ask.
“The Lost and Found Department.” She says it wit
h such seriousness. I should know by now Violet believes in the motto Finders keepers.
Violet looks adorable. And I glance over at Arlo and realize he must think the same. His face turns the color of strawberry jelly. When he realizes I’ve caught him studying Violet, he begins examining the hoe in his hand like it’s a foreign object. He scrapes his fingernail against the sales sticker.
I stare out at the patch of ground where the garden will be. It’s nothing but weeds and sparse grass, but I can see the garden. I see it thriving.
Arlo and Roy use shovels while I use the hoe to loosen the grass.
“We should have bought another hoe,” Arlo says.
We pull the grass and weeds. Arlo takes off his gloves and hands them to me. I remember Dad lending me his when I was about six. Back then, I wanted to be in the garden. The next day, Dad presented me with a pair that fit perfectly. “You’ve officially joined the family business,” he said. Do you see me now, Dad? See? Everything you taught me about growing plants didn’t go to waste. And here’s what’s even funnier—I like it.
The sun has climbed high in the sky and Violet goes back into the motel. I’m beginning to wonder if she is quitting, but then she comes out wearing a ridiculously large straw hat. I’m sure any romantic thoughts that Arlo may have had for Violet earlier will evaporate when he gets a glance of her. I must be staring too long, because Violet touches the rim and says, “This was Mother’s.”
* * *
GRASS REMOVAL TAKES most of the afternoon. The sun shines bright on our little garden, and I feel pride swell inside me. And we haven’t begun to plant. After breaking for late lunches on our own, we return to the garden. The whole day, my mind fights back the thought that Winston might not like the garden. That I’ve caused everyone to go through a lot of trouble for nothing. And what if he does get mad? Would he fire Arlo and Roy?
“The large shrubs should go in first,” I say. “They’d do best here in the back.”
Arlo and Roy dig the holes. Sweat drips down from their faces. They have the hard part. I add the compost. When I open the sack of worm castings, Roy grabs a big handful. “Worm castings? Sounds like a fishing category for an earthworm convention.”
Blooming at the Texas Sunrise Motel Page 8
