Mourning Gloria

by Susan Wittig Albert

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ruby said compassionately. “You’ve got enough to worry about without Terry running off with the truck.”

  “Yeah.” Donna looked down and lowered her voice. “I’m sorry, too. I don’t know why I’m spouting off to you guys. There’s nothing you can do. Best I can hope for is that Terry will find a job and get another place to live. The way she’s acting, it’s clear that she doesn’t like staying at the farm. She’s even ticked Aunt Velda off, and that takes a heckuva lot of doing.”

  “How is Aunt Velda?” I asked. Donna’s elderly aunt is a character, to put it mildly. She was abducted by extraterrestrial aliens a few years ago and taken on a long sightseeing excursion around the galaxy. She might still be up there somewhere, lost in space, but she says that her hosts got tired of her sass and dropped her off at home. The last time I saw her, she was wearing the purple “I Am a Klingon” badge the aliens had pinned on her shirt. She says it’s her ticket to the next space voyage. She’s packed and ready to go whenever they come for her.

  “Aunt Velda?” Donna frowned. “She’s mostly okay, although Terry’s causing her grief. Terry keeps pestering her for money—and not in a very nice way, either.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “Oh, dear.” Ruby sighed.

  “Right. I really hate it when Terry is mean to her,” Donna said regretfully. “Aunt Velda is a big help, in spite of her age. She just keeps on truckin’.” She sighed again. “Speaking of truckin’, I’d better go. Jessica’s waiting to take me back to the farm. I just dropped in to remind you that the local food folks are meeting at the farm tomorrow evening. Hope you’ll be there.”

  “Stu reminded me,” I said. “I’m planning on it.”

  Donna turned to Ruby. “Why don’t you come, too, Ruby? Stuart and Margie have promised to hand out copies of the first chapter of their book.” She looked proud. “My farm is in it, you know. Maybe we’ll get some good publicity when the book comes out. Oh, and we’re having pizza—with Margie’s secret sauce.”

  “I’d love to come—if China doesn’t mind picking me up,” Ruby replied. “Amy’s using my car tomorrow to drive to San Antonio.” Ruby isn’t a convert to eating locally, but she’s interested, and she and Margie Laughton are longtime friends. She took a flyer from the counter and handed it to Donna. “Could you post this at the farm? It’s an advertisement for the lecture China is giving in my shamanic garden in a couple of weeks, for the Pecan Springs Garden Club. The public is invited.”

  If you’ve already met Ruby Wilcox, you know that—in addition to owning the only New Age shop in Pecan Springs—she teaches classes in astrology, Tarot, the I Ching, and runes. She’s also a grand master of the Ouija board. It’s no surprise that, earlier this year, she decided to plant a shamanic garden.

  Donna held up the flyer, reading aloud. “Magical, Mystical Plants. Come to Ruby Wilcox’s Shamanic Garden and learn about some of the many mysterious plants that have taken people on magical journeys. Tobacco, morning glories, datura, wormwood, Salvia divinorum, and many others. Garden talk by China Bayles. Guided garden visit by Ruby Wilcox.” She raised her eyebrows. “You two aren’t offering drug trips, are you?”

  “Of course not,” Ruby said, pulling herself up indignantly. “People are forever asking about plants that have been used for divination in different cultures. I thought it would be fun to plant a shamanic garden, and China agreed to help. And then Alison Hart—she’s president of the Garden Club—heard about what we were doing and asked if the club could visit.”

  “The garden is in Ruby’s backyard,” I put in. “We thought it would be safer there.”

  At first, Ruby had suggested planting it at the shop, where there are plenty of other herb gardens—culinary, medicinal, dye plants, and so on. But I pointed out that security might become an issue. If some of the local teens heard that we were growing psychoactive herbs, they might stage a raid. After consideration, Ruby agreed that the garden would be safer inside her backyard. If any unauthorized persons tried to climb her fence and score a big one, Oodles would sound the alarm. Oodles, who belongs to Ruby’s next-door neighbor, is a miniature poodle. He’s about the size of a four-legged football, but he has the bite of a snapping turtle and the heart of a pit bull. Bark for bark, he can shout down Rambo.

  “Right,” Ruby said. “And China’s talk is entirely academic, all about how the plants were used by shamans in traditional societies. Then we’ll walk around the garden and look at the plants themselves. There’s no experimenting—and every plant is legal and can be grown right here in the Hill Country.”

  “Really?” Donna wrinkled her nose. “It’s legal to grow Salvia divinorum in Texas?”

  Salvia divinorum has gotten a lot of media attention lately, most of it negative. Unlike other garden-variety salvias, this species is highly psychoactive. Mazatec shamans, as part of their religious practices, used the plant to produce trance states and visions. You can eat it, drink it, smoke it, or take it as a tincture and it will make you high—although you can’t prove that by me. I use plants in all sorts of ways, but getting high isn’t one of them. I’ve never even smoked tobacco, which is one of the most mood-altering herbs available.

  “Of course it’s legal,” Ruby said huffily. “You don’t think I’d grow a prohibited plant, do you?”

  “It’s legal until the Texas legislature gets around to adding it to the Controlled Substances list,” I amended. “The proposed bills I’ve seen control only the sale of the plant, though. They’re not planning to make it illegal to grow the stuff—as long as you don’t harvest it.”

  Donna laughed shortly. “And just how do our good-doing legislators plan to enforce a no-harvest rule?”

  “Not a clue,” I replied. “I guess we’ll have to post a lookout for the garden police.”

  “The garden police?” Ruby opened her eyes wide, alarmed. “You don’t really think—”

  “Just kidding,” I said hastily. “We don’t have anything to worry about, Ruby.”

  “That’s a relief.” Ruby turned to Donna. “You’ll post the flyer, won’t you?”

  “Sure.” Donna sighed. “Terry will probably want to come to your program. She was saying she needed to find a supplier who could get her some pot.”

  “Uh-oh.” Ruby frowned. “Now, that’s illegal.”

  “Yeah,” Donna said sourly. “It would be all I’d need, wouldn’t it? Aunt Velda taking another trip around the galaxy and Terry getting busted—again—for possession. Why couldn’t I have normal relatives?” There was a honk outside, and she lifted a hand in a good-bye wave. “That’s Jessica, wanting to get back. On my way, girls. See you tomorrow evening.”

  When she had gone, Ruby turned to me. “Amy called a few minutes ago, China. She and Kate are cooking out tonight and invited Hark and me to come over for supper. I told her that you’re batching it this weekend, and she wondered if you and Caitlin would like to come, too. I hope you don’t have plans already.”

  “If we did, we’d cancel,” I said. “I’d love to come. And you know how crazy Caitie is about Baby Grace. She’ll probably lobby for a sleepover.”

  In case you’re new to our little group, Grace is Ruby’s eighteenmonth-old granddaughter—a real cutie-pie. Her mother Amy is Ruby’s wild child, and Kate is Amy’s live-in partner. To Ruby’s eternal credit, she didn’t bat an eye when Amy announced, before Grace was born, that she and Kate Rodriguez were a couple and had decided to live together. From the outside looking in, I’d say that Kate has had a distinctly calming effect on Amy—or maybe Grace has had a calming effect on both of them. Whatever, it’s always a pleasure to see the three of them together.

  The door opened and two women came in. “We’re looking for some fennel plants for the garden,” one of them announced. “Do you have any?”

  “I think so,” I said. “Let’s take a look.”

  While I was supplying them with potted fennel (dearly beloved by the swallowtail butterfly cater
pillars in our area), somebody else came in, looking for ideas for planting a culinary garden. I showed her the display garden, gave her a plant list, and she ended up buying two or three pots of every culinary herb I had in stock.

  The rest of the afternoon zipped past, with plenty of traffic in the shop and in the gardens. Caitie came back from the bookstore in time to help close, and when I cleared the register and made up the bank deposit, there was a gratifying wad of cash and an equally gratifying bundle of checks and credit card slips. Ruby reported that the Crystal Cave had done well, and the tearoom had been busy until after three o’clock. A successful Saturday all around. The Farmers’ Market was good for us. Good for the bottom line, too.

  I hummed a tune as Caitlin and I drove to the bank.

  AMY and Kate live in a neat little house on Dallas Drive, on the east side of town. When Caitlin and I got there, everybody was already out in the backyard. At the grill, Kate was cooking hamburgers, hot dogs, and sweet corn. At the nearby picnic table, Amy was arranging bottles of ketchup and mustard and a tray of lettuce, pickles, and sliced tomatoes and onions. Ruby (who had changed into a swirly red-and-brown tiered skirt, a red spaghetti-strap top, and red cowgirl boots) was pouring lemonade. Hark Hibler, an orange UT Longhorns gimme cap pulled down over his eyes, was observing this domestic activity from a comfortable lawn chair in the shade of the willow tree.

  “Yo, China,” Hark called, tipping up the brim of his cap and raising his lemonade glass in greeting. “Got that article finished yet?”

  I plopped the big bag of non–locally grown potato chips (my busyday contribution to the picnic) on the table and stuck out my tongue at him. Hark is my boss—at least, he likes to think he is. I write a garden column and edit the weekly “Home and Garden” page in the Pecan Springs Enterprise in return for free newspaper ads. In my opinion, this is a very fair trade. Hark gets local garden writing for the newspaper and the shop gets great exposure.

  “I’m working on it,” I replied. “Don’t worry. I’ve never missed a deadline yet, have I?”

  I hadn’t told him that next week’s piece was about Texas plants that have psychoactive properties. I had helped Ruby with the research when we planted the garden early last fall, and I thought it would make a good topic for a column. I wasn’t sure Hark would be pleased, since the “Home and Garden” page usually showcases relatively harmless herbs, vegetables, flowers, and landscape plants. I’ll probably get a few letters from uptight readers who object to a feature about plants that have been used for mind-altering purposes, rather than feeding us or making our yards look good.

  On the other hand, maybe Hark will like the column. He says that a little controversy boosts circulation, and he’s always looking for more readers. Since he bought the Enterprise from the Seidensticker family several years ago, he has been trying to fetch it into the twenty-first century and make it at least as relevant as yesterday’s TV news. Which is definitely a change from the previous editorial policy. Until Hark came along with a journalism degree from the University of Houston and an insistence on covering all the news, good, bad, or indifferent, every story was pasteurized before it was printed, which left Pecan Springs looking like the cleanest, coziest little town in Texas.

  This was an entirely fictional portrayal, of course. Pecan Springs is picturesque and pretty, but on a per capita basis, there’s just as much insatiable greed, unbridled passion, and downright bad temper in this town as there is in any other small community on the outskirts of a modern big city. And since the town is halfway between San Antonio on the south and Austin on the north and crime tends to flow in both directions along I-35, we get the spillover from both cities. We also get some of the bad stuff that seeps north from the border counties, which are engaged in an escalating war with the drug cartels in Mexico and the coyotes who haul illegals across the border. Peek under our cozy cover, and you’ll get a glimpse of our darker side.

  Under Hark’s editorial direction, the Enterprise shines some light into this darkness. He tries to avoid the merely sensational, but he prints the stories that matter—and tell the truth about who we are. The recent corruption case on the city council, for instance, and the meth labs that Blackie closed down in the outlying county, and the chemical spill in the Pecan River. Naturally, this does not please those folks, like the Chamber of Commerce, who would prefer to portray Pecan Springs as a town so clean it squeaks. They’d like to see the Fire Department’s Taco Breakfast Fundraiser above the fold on page one, or the annual First Baptist Charity Rummage Sale. But Hark is stubborn, journalistically speaking. He tells it like it is.

  “No, you’ve never missed a deadline,” Hark said, patting the chair next to him. “Come sit beside me, China.”

  I sat. Hark is a Garrison Keillor kind of guy—rumpled dark hair, heavy build, sloping shoulders, soft speech, shambling gait. You wouldn’t exactly call him exciting: he goes to work at the Enterprise every day, shows up at softball games, and covers the Elks Club picnic and the Fourth of July parade. His only vice is an occasional game of pool, so far as I know, anyway. But while an electric personality may have a certain appeal in the short run, it seems to me that reliability, trustworthiness, and comfort count for more in the long haul. And where intellect is concerned, Hark is one of the sharpest guys I know, and definitely the most curious.

  Hark and Ruby have been dating since before last Christmas. She’s finally begun to pull herself out of the spiral that sucked her down after Colin died, and for that, Hark deserves some of the credit. For all of her adult life, in every relationship I’ve known anything about, Ruby has loved the guy more than he has loved her. With Hark, it’s the other way around. He cares more than she does. Unfortunately, Ruby has gotten into the habit of thinking that unrequited love is the only kind of love there is, and I’m not sure she’ll settle down with somebody who seriously loves her. But for now, she seems content to hang out with Hark, he seems happy, and I’m glad.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “Anything exciting on the journalistic horizon?” Hark has two staff writers who handle the local news, plus one or two interns from CTSU and the usual gaggle of unpaid “correspondents” from various clubs and organizations. But as he often says, reporters can’t make the news—all they can do is report it.

  “Exciting?” Hark chuckled wryly. “This town is as dull as a bachelor bull with no cows in sight. Just to show you how bad it is, the Farmers’ Market is gonna be the headline in the next issue.” He eyed me. “Unless you can come up with a thriller of some sort. Got any good ideas?”

  “How about a prepublication review of the Laughtons’ new book on the importance of small farms?” I offered helpfully. “Stu is speaking at tomorrow night’s meeting of the Local Food Society. Margie is making the pizza sauce. I could do a write-up.”

  “Whoopee,” Hark said. “A real thriller. Anyway, it’s already assigned. Jessica is covering the meeting. Writing the review, too.”

  Jessica Nelson is a grad student in the CTSU agricultural journalism program and a summer intern at the Enterprise. I met her at Mistletoe Creek Farm last summer, where she was getting some hands-on experience in the operation of a market farm. I liked her because she has a lively enthusiasm for her work, and over the following few months, she began to hang around the shop. She also helps Donna with the Farmers’ Market and volunteers with the Local Food Society. From Hark, she is learning how a small-town newspaper operates, with the hope that one or two rural newspapers will still be hiring when she finishes her master’s degree. I hope so, too. Jessica is smart and nosy and stubborn, three traits that make for a good reporter. She’s the kind of writer we need these days. At the rate newspapers are going under, though, she may have to look for another line of work.

  “Jessica will be here a little later,” Amy told us, on her way to the table with a plate of shortcakes. “She’s bringing strawberries.” To Hark she added, “I met her when she was writing that story on that awful puppy mill over in New Braunfels.” Amy, an
animal lover, is a veterinary assistant at the Hill Country Animal Clinic.

  “Jessica is a hard worker,” Hark allowed. “She has a tough time staying objective, but that’s something you learn over time. And once she sinks her teeth into a story, she’s ruthless.” He shrugged. “Of course, there haven’t been a helluva lot of stories worth the effort lately. Not so good for a competitive reporter who wants to make her mark in the world of journalism. I tell her it’s not too late to move her internship to San Antonio or Houston, where things are happening.”

  I grinned. “How about turning her loose with a romantic scoop? ‘Local Police Chief and Adams County Sheriff Plan September Wedding.’”

  “Again?” Hark pulled his dark eyebrows together. “I’ll believe it when I see folks tossing rice after the ceremony.”

  “They don’t toss rice anymore, Hark. It’s not environmentally friendly. They toss birdseed. Or grass seed.”

  “Whatever.” He paused. “Do you really think they’ll do it? Sheila and Blackie, I mean.”

  “Dunno,” I said thoughtfully. “They certainly seemed happy enough this morning. She was showing off her diamond, which is big enough to choke a horse. He was looking smug.”

  “Breaks my heart, you know,” Hark said with an exaggerated sigh.

  I patted his hand. “Poor Hark. Love lost, and all that.”

  “Tell Ruby she needs to help me take my mind off Sheila’s defection.”

  “You tell her.”

  He made a wry face. “She doesn’t listen to me.”

  “She doesn’t listen to me, either.” I pointed to where Ruby was holding a yellow buttercup under Baby Grace’s chin in the age-old childhood game, to see if she liked butter. The little girl, her hair as red and curly as her grandmother’s, was giggling and snatching at the flower. “There’s our competition. Ruby is totally besotted with that child. You and I might as well be on the moon.”