Maybe that was a legacy of her mother’s woes, or her grandmother’s criticism. Maybe it was just that she’d been alone with women for so long that the concept of male companionship was . . . foreign and intrusive, like a weed in her garden . . . a big thorny thistle that she knew was going to hurt if you got too near.
Avoidance had been her best policy, but was she going to spend her life like this—all alone in the garden with nothing to keep me company by my mother’s pathetic roses? When she finally expired, would the garden just grow over her like some of the other things?
She sighed.
Just then, the garden store called: The ladybugs where in.
She wanted to go pick them up then, but the store was closing soon, and besides, she’d been drinking wine again. She didn’t drink often, and her grandmother enjoyed a good bottle of this or that now and again, especially with dinner.
Her mother drank much more than the both of them, but still, it wasn’t so much as to worry them.
Lyda went to bed, but dreamed of things crawling all over her—maybe she’d lay off the wine a bit sooner next time.
~~~
She slept in, but still woke with a headache. Lyda went early in the afternoon to pick up the ladybugs. She probably talked too long to the greenhouse manager too, but the man was cute. And given her contemplations of living a life of solitude before . . .
He was also married; she noticed immediately when he finally took off his gloves. She had a twinge of guilt for flirting with him. Lyda mentally apologized to his wife, which made her think of her mother and father again—especially how her father had cheated on her mother with anything in a skirt at his place of work.
No skirt here, she thought, just baggy old jeans and her favorite Henley work shirt, worn thin, with faded little pink and blue flowers and green leaves and stems. She pushed up the long sleeves in the warm weather, up to the elbows. The shirt had been as dear to her as if it had been an old dog.
Even so, she knew with her ponytail and work boots, men always had to say something. Why she didn’t know. Her mother tried much harder to look pretty, and from the pictures, her grandmother had been subject to the norms of the day and all that went with those—morning dresses, and dresses for tea, dress for dinner too, with hair done and jewelry draped artfully.
She thought about the opposites in her life—high society of her great grandfather’s world (the Admiral) and the piles of fast food remains in those high-tech cubicles.
Quite a contrast, she thought, but opposites are supposed to attract.
Lyda liked men well enough, but she had been hurt too many times growing up to trust them much—not hurt personally, but through her mother’s history. The fact was that while she hadn’t dated much, it hadn’t been much of a problem before.
But she had to admit now that work and her garden were not enough. She was lonely. Lyda saw plenty of them, but she didn’t have work friends—her job had her bouncing from one location to another as she tended the equipment in the hospitals, private practices and clinics.
She knew people at each place, but hadn’t spent much time with any particular one of them, and it again came back to not wanting to date someone she worked with. It wasn’t just a ploy—it was a rule she wished her father had followed as well.
Besides, what if it didn’t work out? What if she ended up hating them like her mother hated her father? Or vice versa? She wasn’t into dating through the Internet or social groups either, and she hadn’t met anyone in the grocery store or walking their dog like you see in those corny made-for-TV romances either.
Lyda sighed, wondering if she should swing by a grocery store in another neighborhood. Or maybe there was a park nearby—
As she slowed for a stoplight, something flew by her nose. Not big, but buzzing . . . like her nose had been brushed by the bubbles in soda pop, but not wet.
Then it happened again . . . and again.
She felt something crawling in her hair and reached to feel up there—it was moving!
She swerved, but then quickly realized what was happening—it was an insect attack. She laughed, but found it wasn’t a good idea to have her mouth open like that. She reached over and tried to close the opening in the packet from where all the ladybugs were crawling.
It didn’t help that so many had landed on her too—it tickled more than repulsed like something a spider might do—and she was trying not to laugh.
Her pickup slowed down, she knew. She hadn’t meant to, but with her swerving, she was careful not to cross the lines on the street. At least the traffic wasn’t heavy here on the weekend, but she didn’t need to add injury to this situation.
With the packet now shut—she hoped—Lyda had to deal with those ladybugs that had already escaped. She opened the windows in the truck, hoping they would eventually fly out again.
She wasn’t paying attention though, as she was pulling up to another intersection with a flashing light—caution required, and there was traffic coming: She had to yield.
Lyda laughed at that too, wondering if the people who put up the light had this in mind: Caution, ladybug crossing.
Ladybug . . . the lady part reminded her of her grandmother. Would the woman find this amusing?
Lyda thought she would.
But as she pulled ahead, Lyda had not seen what was overhead—a flock of birds, all kinds of them, including martins, swallows and crows. Some of them had landed at the back of the pickup when she stopped for traffic: all the same kind of birds now lined the tailgate, and she could hear others on the roof.
She looked back at the unexpected noise and the movement too, swerving again at the shock of what she saw so close. Another vehicle got spooked and laid on their horn.
That startled the birds, and some took that opportunity to swoop inside the pickup windows. They flapped hysterically at the confinement as they also picked at the ladybugs.
Just then, a siren blasted, scaring the heck out of her too. Instantly, she swore and stomped her brakes—an overreaction, and the highway patrol cruiser almost rammed into her.
She could hear the screech of brakes, but that wasn’t her immediate concern. The birds—there were a few of them inside now, and they were pecking at the ladybugs that seemed to be all over—including all over her!
Lyda knew something was being broadcast on the cruiser’s loudspeaker, but she didn’t catch it in her hurry to get the heck out of there. She opened her door and ran around the front, leaving the driver’s side door open. She rushed to open up the other door as well.
Just out of the corner of her eye, she saw the trooper behind his open car door—crouched, gun drawn and pointed at her. Behind she heard another siren, and from in front, saw another cruiser speeding towards them too.
But the birds were still attacking her, and worse, she tripped and rolled into the wide and deep ditch with a bit of a damp spot at the bottom of it. It must have looked like one of those old Hitchcock movies, as the birds were still pecking, but strangely, it didn’t hurt.
An image flashed through her mind—what it must look like with her arms flailing and her head ducking and bobbing, and she then burst into laughter as she continued to roll to the bottom. Wet soaked into her clothes, making big damp patches that felt colder and looked darker than the rest.
Some of ladybugs had definitely found refuge under her clothes, working their way into her underwear too. She sat up and stripped off her shirt, and then started digging them out of her bra and the girl’s sleeveless tee shirt she wore on top (it had a decal of Wonder Woman), but Lyda stopped when someone kept shouting something—
Oh right, public place, and highway patrolmen, with guns.
No public nudity appreciated.
That sounded a little insulting.
They shouldn’t get so excited—no way was she going to do the same thing with her pants as she’d done with her shirt—what were they thinking? The notion made her laugh all the more, and the birds made such a cackling sound t
hat it all just blended together.
On reflection, it made it all sound a little . . . hysterical.
She managed to get into a kneeling position, even while waving her hands to scare off the birds. They didn’t go far, and there were still some in her truck she could tell—eating all her outside contractors still left in there.
She yelled, “Damn it!”
That didn’t help, and worse, the troopers were on her by then—she hadn’t even noticed them coming. They grabbed her arms, twisting them behind her back and forcing her face down on the ground again.
She didn’t resist, it felt kind of good—though she was sure they hadn’t meant to scratch her itches like that.
At least it scared the birds away.
She said as they pulled her back up in handcuffs, “Hey, can you guys get those freeloading birds out of my truck? I paid for those ladybugs.”
They searched all her pockets—Swiss Army knife, cinnamon gum, tissues and some more ladybugs.
Ingrates, she thought, as those ladybugs flew off. Of course, given the alternative with the birds (as in being bird-lunch), she decided she couldn’t blame them. How could they know she had some lovely plump aphids waiting in her mother’s rose bushes back home?
The troopers talked amongst themselves; she supposed they said something to her too, but she wasn’t that attentive for worrying about the diminishing supply of ladybugs and the bird poop that was bound to be inside her truck by now.
Wonder if there’s enough to use that as fertilizer too?
She mumbled, “When life gives you lemons, make fertilizer.”
They gave her sobriety tests:
Count down from this to that.
(Did she go the right way, counting down and not up? Did she slur the s in sixty-something or the f in fifty-something?)
Say the alphabet from here to there.
(Did she recall the proper sequence, starting somewhere in the middle, or start singing like that little song about A-B-Cs?)
Balance on this leg, walk along that line.
(It was surprisingly hard to do with ladybugs in your underwear.)
Now blow into this tube.
She passed all of them.
They searched her truck—plenty of candy wrappers and the remains of fast food drive-thru. She too was a geek; she just didn’t let them collect in her cubicle at work.
Besides, the stuff in the truck was only a week’s worth—she usually cleaned it out on Monday morning before she left for work again. When the troopers opened up all the bags, she wondered how often they had to do something like that.
She had nothing illegal—she could have told them that.
Overhead on the power lines and nearby on the road signs, she could see the birds perched and still watching with great interest. Some were making noises too, and she figured they were laughing at her.
She smirked, couldn’t help it. She had become the birds’ drive-thru for junk food. Maybe those ladybugs were like popcorn chicken or French fries for birds.
But the troopers—there were half a dozen by now, seemed disappointed that she was not some sort of criminal—did they really wish she was a bad girl? The notion appealed to her, but this was not one of those old movies where the soiled dove has a heart of gold, or the mob doll falls for the cop.
Besides, some of them turned to go.
Serves me right, because maybe just like those geeks at work and Chester in the nursery were boring to her, maybe she was boring to these cops too.
Was this how it felt?
She sighed.
But a few had stayed on, including the one who first stopped her. He was very good-looking, she finally noticed.
Did he know that? Probably, she thought, most of them do. Put a good-looking man in a uniform, and there’s no talking to him.
He said, “So tell me what’s going on today, miss.”
As she examined her elbow, which had been scuffed in the fall, she said, “My ladybugs got loose. I’m fine, no, I don’t need medical attention, even though this is blood.”
She did need dry clothes though, as the wet had soaked completely through, and she was convinced there were still ladybugs in her undies too.
He didn’t like her tone, which was contempt for having to state the obvious. He also had his hand close to his Taser, and this buddy had his hand next to his pepper spray canister, and so she amended, “Did I do something wrong?”
“You were swerving.”
She was insulted. “I know, but I stayed in my lane, I made certain of that.”
“Well, true, but you were creating a hazard.”
“To who?”
Another trooper handed over Lyda’s shirt and said, “Better put this back on, that breeze is getting colder.”
She pointed out the obvious again: They had put her in handcuffs again while they talked, even though she had passed all their tests. That seemed a little persnickety, she thought, which meant they knew she wasn’t drunk, but could still be under the influence of drugs.
Not even if she used inorganic fertilizers could Lyda get that kind of a buzz. The trooper who first stopped her took off the handcuffs, but his mouth was still a tight line of disapproval.
She suddenly noticed why too—with the cold and wet, she had some points of interest poking out on her chest. Lyda was embarrassed, but distracted too.
Close up, the trooper was even cuter—freckles just under the brown eyes and some dark stubble on his face that looked very Miami Vice. She also noticed the back of his upper arms had tattoos.
Maybe he had been in the military first; they did things like that—couldn’t have tattoos that were too obvious.
She shook out the shirt first, inspected the inner seams for intruders, and then did as instructed. She took her time doing it too, because despite what happened, she kind of liked the attention, as they were all still looking at her—birds, but troopers too.
Lyda hadn’t met this many new men since she’d first interviewed for her job. Those were geeks though, arrogant and distracted with their unnatural love of the electronics of which they were speaking. These troopers didn’t seem to be lacking in self-esteem either, but it was of a different sort.
Was it getting hot out here? That sounded like a pickup line from a bar—a bad pickup line. Then she did get hot, and red from embarrassment. No wonder she hadn’t had a date since . . . Heavens, she couldn’t remember.
One of the other troopers said, “Why you got all the bugs?”
“I have aphids.”
It was clear he didn’t know what that meant.
She amended, “I have aphids on my roses.”
The first trooper said to the others, “Ladybugs eat aphids, so people buy them to put in their gardens when they don’t have enough of them naturally around.”
She said, “They are like hired help. I call them my contractors because . . . well, never mind.”
Geek.
The other troopers stared for a minute, but one finally said, “So why didn’t you put them in a box or a jar or something.”
Stupid question, she thought, but had wised up to her place in the world just now. Translation: She didn’t want the handcuffs again.
She explained, “They need to breath, and they arrived in that packet, but we, I mean the guy at the garden store and me, we inspected them to see if they were still alive, and I guess he didn’t shut it again properly.”
The first trooper—his nametag said D. Christoferi—said, “That doesn’t explain why you were swerving.”
Fair question. She said, “First I was trying to shut it up again—the packet, I mean. Come to think of it, that would be easy to squish. I should tell that company they need better shipping methods. Anyway, I didn’t notice until they started crawling all over me—I was watching the road, like a good driver should.”
The others smirked, but then one got a call and had to go. He did so reluctantly, trying to listen to as much as he could has he walked away.
She continued, “By that time they were all over me and it tickled, and then at the intersection, the birds got in.”
The other trooper said, “How’d the birds get in?”
She sighed.
Trooper Christoferi said, “You opened the windows to let out the bugs.”
The other trooper said, “Oh.”
Trooper Christoferi said to him, “I got this, Joe.”
The other trooper left, reluctantly too, but he looked in her truck again as he left. He called back, “You still got lots of bugs in there crawling all over the place.”
She called, “Thanks.”
Lyda wasn’t very enthusiastic. She’d have to drive home like that, and who knows how long ladybugs last . . . then it would be dead ladybug bodies for months . . . or worse, some could have laid eggs and it would be ladybugs in her truck until Kingdom Come.
She sighed again.
Trooper Christoferi called out, “Open the windows a bit—just enough so the birds can’t get in, will you, Joe?”
Joe did, and then saluted with a lopsided grin as he said, “I’ll be just down the road, Dalton.”
Then he drove off.
Trooper Dalton Christoferi said to just her then, “You were screaming and then you were laughing and all the time flailing every which way. You can see we didn’t know if you were on drugs or mentally unstable or what.”
Context was everything; was he trying to apologize?
She said, “Was that screaming? I suppose it was, for me. I guess because I thought about that movie where the birds are pecking out people’s eyes.”
He made a face, then wiped at his mouth as if hiding what was coming out there. He also looked down so that she could not see his eyes . . . his brown eyes, warm and golden when the sun hit them just right. They reminded her of those gemstones—tiger-eyes.
Lyda mentally shook herself. Maybe he didn’t know what she meant. She explained about Hitchcock and old movies.
He said rather stiffly, “And the laughing.”
A Little Romance: Stories for Hopeful Hearts Page 11
