Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  “What upset me more than anything else was your trying to tell me what I could and couldn’t do. It was your acting as if your work was more important than mine. I want to be your partner, Dew, not a servant who has to walk two steps behind you or an employee who has to say yes to the boss.”

  He strokes my hair, chin touching my nose, so he won’t have to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry if I made you feel that way.”

  “I did.”

  “I’ll try to do better.”

  He still can’t look at me, but it’s enough that he’s apologized. He’s a good man, not perfect, but good, and I believe our marriage will survive, maybe even thrive, because of what we’ve been through. And I’m strong enough to accept major change, if it comes to that. “I’ll go to D.C. with you if that’s what you want.”

  “I don’t want to anymore than you do.”

  “I know.”

  “I have a good feeling about the FBI position, but if it doesn’t come through . . .”

  “We should go where there’s work for you. I can get a job teaching most anywhere.”

  “We can always come back to visit, only a four-hour drive, more or less.” He lays his knuckles against my cheek, and noticing my impossible-to-miss anguish at the thought, adds, “Maybe we won’t have to. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “If we have to move, Trish and Bella could come with us.” It would still leave Mom alone with Poppy.

  “You can’t control everyone’s lives, Ange.”

  I know, but I want to.

  ~~~

  On March 7 the daffodils start to open their golden, cream, and rose-eyed blooms. Mom has a lovely array of both traditional and unusual bulbs. The blooms are a fitting way to mark the day we head back to our beloved classrooms.

  I arrive at school forty minutes before first period, the way I always do. To my surprise, Kev is leaning against the wall beside my door. Alert. Hair brushed. Fresh clothing.

  “Morning, Kev. What’s up?” I unlock my door. The air in my room smells slightly stale after almost two weeks of being unoccupied.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Fisher. Me and my friends picketed in front of the school one day. It was kinda cool, being part of the strike.” He follows me inside and deposits his backpack on his desk. “You teachers really showed those guys in Charleston. You got what you wanted out of them.”

  Not exactly, though that’s the way the media is playing it. We got some of what we wanted. A five percent raise. No health insurance fix yet. The Governor authorized a task force to resolve our insurance issues—I’m not holding my breath.

  “Appreciate your support, Kev. It’s important to stand up for what’s right, and we tried. I wish we could have accomplished our goals without the strike.”

  “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  I nod. He hangs around in front of my desk instead of taking his seat—or going back out in the hall to hunt down his friends. What does he really want?

  “Have things gotten any better at home, Kev? With your dad?”

  He looks out the windows. “I talked to the counselor, like you said, and we decided . . . well, I moved in with my aunt. Just until my dad gets straightened out.”

  “Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  “I still love him.”

  “Of course you do. I hope your dad gets the help he needs.”

  He lifts his chin once, acknowledging my words, and plunges out my door in search of his friends.

  ~~~

  I sit cross-legged on the floor of Mom’s living room, making silly faces at the most beautiful baby in the world. “TGIF,” I tell her, even though she has no idea what I mean.

  Mom overhears. “I can’t believe you’re already back to saying that. You were so eager to get back to work.”

  “Yeah, one week back with those kids and I’m already exhausted.”

  Bella smiles at me from her bouncy seat. I grab and gently squeeze her little feet. They are encased in tiny soft pink bunny shoes.

  “Bay-bee-boo, bay-bee-boo.” I cover my face with her blanket. “Where did Nana go?” I snatch the blanket off. “Peek-a-boo!” I cycle through this baby nonsense several times.

  Bella flaps her arms and responds with “Baa-baa-baa-baa!” to my delight.

  Her hearing aids work well as long as she is sitting with her head turned up. If she turns her head to the side, the aids brush against fabric or someone’s shoulder and it causes them to squeal. Th at feedback annoys her, so we only use the aids when she is awake. It’s difficult to find the right balance. Use them too little and she is cut off from the world through one of her senses and she won’t learn to vocalize. Too much feedback and she’ll learn to hate them.

  MacKenzie comes out of her bedroom in a dark rose blazer, charcoal pencil skirt, and stiletto pumps, ready for the big day, a foray to the lawyer’s office to finalize her divorce. Every detail of her appearance is perfect—still trying to impress Ted.

  I bounce to my feet. “You look absolutely stunning. Eat your heart out, Ted McNeil.”

  She turns a critical eye on the black slacks I’d worn to work. “Let me grab the lint roller for you.”

  I’m tempted to snap at her, inform her I don’t give a darn what she and Ted think of me and my cheap, lint-laden slacks, but I accept the roller. Mac insists on loaning me a New York designer sweater; the Walmart top I’d worn to work has been washed too many times to pass muster with the Fashion Queen. I fetch my black flats.

  Once underway, Mac admits she is petrified. “My lawyer says Ted has agreed to everything I wanted, but what if he changes his mind again? I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

  “Can’t imagine,” I lied.

  “Think he’s having second thoughts about the divorce?”

  “You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Not at all.” Her quavering voice belies her words.

  “You’re doing the right thing. I bet your kids talked him into treating you right.”

  Her demeanor brightens at the mention of her children. “That’s probably it.”

  The paper signing goes smoothly, anticlimactic after the bickering. Everyone behaves decently—and I feel better about the indecent role I played in a Charleston restaurant.

  On the way home, Mac seems despondent. “Now that I’m not Ted’s wife, I’m not sure who I am.”

  “This is your chance to become anyone you want to be, do anything you want to do in the second half of your life.”

  “What do I want?”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  As soon as we’re home again, I kick off my shoes and change into jeans and a sweatshirt. I drop back onto the floor with Bella.

  Mom’s front door opens and Dewey charges in and crosses over to stand behind us. “Did I hear my little princess?”

  “You did. Bella is doing real good, aren’t you, Baby Boo?” I pump her tiny legs again.

  “Baa, baa, baa,” she babbles.

  Everything about Dewey oozes happiness, his stride, his stance, his expression, the light in his eyes. “Guess what? The FBI gig came through.”

  “Fantastic!” I hop to my feet and kiss Dewey’s cheek. I’ve dodged a bullet. As the initial rush of joy passes, I try to wrap my arms around the changes coming our way.

  “Can we look for a house of our own again?”

  “Soon.”

  “Can we aff ord it?”

  “Don’t see why not. Good salary, good benefits—and at least the federal government isn’t likely to go out of business any time soon.”

  I pace through the living room. “Do you think Trish and Bella will want to stay in the RV or move in with us? And what about Poppy? Will we need to hire someone to help Mom with his care?”

  He takes my arm to halt my pacing. “Angie, Angie. Chill, darlin’. You can’t control all of our lives. We’re not part of some science experiment.”

  He’s right, yet I long for the certainty of knowing I’ve m
ade the best decisions for all of us, based on available evidence.

  “It will all work out,” he says.

  Mom pauses in folding a napkin as she sets the table. “That girl’s always been a worrier. You can’t change that, Dewey.”

  “Part of my DNA like my big nose.” I can tell myself to let go of the big stuff, that it’s out of my hands, but I’ll always have the urge to shape my family’s future. Just like Dewey will always be more of a go-with-the-flow kind of guy. He concentrates on what needs to be fixed right now; I try to analyze all the possibilities the future holds to plot the best way forward. Two different kinds of intelligence, both useful. We make a good team.

  A buzzer goes off in the kitchen, signaling the beef burgundy with homemade egg noodles is ready. I open a bottle of champagne and we all gather in the kitchen.

  I hold up my glass for a toast. “Two reasons to celebrate. Here’s to a fresh start for Mac and a new job for Dewey!”

  Chaos and laughter break out as we all talk over each other. Even Bella joins in with “baa, baa baa.”

  “Three reasons to celebrate,” Trish says. “Bella can talk!”

  We hear, and life is good.

  ~~~

  On Saturday morning Mac helps Dewey and me hoe and pull weeds that have popped up in Mom’s vegetable patch over the winter. We finally get around to transplanting pansies started in the cold frame to pots on Mom’s front porch.

  Mac firms soil around an apricot pansy with a tiny golden eye. “I always loved Mom’s pansies,” she says.

  “Me, too. Such cheerful little faces!” I lean over and tug out a weed encroaching on the fading hyacinth blooms by the front steps.

  Mac has a smudge of dirt on her chin and a smile on her face. “I’d forgotten how good it feels to garden.”

  After showering, Dewey and MacKenzie babysit. Mom, Trish and I drive out Rt. 50 until we reach what used to be the Krause family farm. I want to see the land, even though it’s a subdivision now. A lone maple shades one yard, and I wonder if it could be the same tree that inspired Rosella’s vase. On a vacant lot beyond the homes, metal arms of fracking wells pump natural gas to the surface. A transmission pipeline, inches above ground, traverses the same path used by overhead electrical lines. I can’t tell if they are on what once was Krause property or not.

  A riot of orange tiger lilies bloom in the ditch alongside the road out of the subdivision. An old apple tree with gnarled limbs remains in one small patch of undeveloped land. Suddenly time bends in on itself, and I catch a glimpse of Rosella Krause traipsing along with her sketchbook dangling from one hand and a box of colored pencils in the other, a basket handle looped over her arm. Her dress gives off a hint of lavender from the sachets her mother tucks into drawers and hangs in closets. Little Timmy lags behind, dragging a stick in the dirt. Ro tells him to hurry up. They are going to pick apples from two long rows of trees, the boughs laden with green and red fruit. Bees buzz and hover over the “drops,” attracted by competing scents of ripe fruit, fermentation, and rot. Timmy’s job is to pick up the ones that aren’t too far gone for cider. Ro’s job is to select ones from the tree suitable for applesauce simmered with cinnamon, but soon she is sketching the bees instead. Th eir mother hollers from the front porch that it’s time for dinner.

  I shake my head slightly, and the figments of my imagination are gone. So are the orchard and the front porch, long gone. I take a deep breath, surprised at how deeply my mother’s research has affected me. I see more clearly how families come in many forms. The ones we are born into. The ones we make for ourselves. What matters are the ties that bind us together, the shared histories, the love, even the arguments.

  Next we drive into Clarksburg to find the vacant lot where Aunt Elizabeth’s house—and later Ro’s house—once stood. It is overgrown with Bahia grass, plantains, nutsedge and nettles. I’m picturing Jack showing up here and little Michael—my great grandfather—charging outside with the shotgun.

  So many terrible things happened to Rosella when she was young. With all the illness and deaths, she must have felt as if her life had spun totally outside of her control. And yet in the end she found a measure of contentment. I can understand her so much better than Jack.

  “How could Jack leave Rosella after all she’d been through?” I ask Mom.

  “Some folks don’t handle grief too good, especially being around other people’s. Makes them uncomfortable. He couldn’t stop her from hurting so he ran off where he wouldn’t have to witness that pain anymore.”

  My mother surprises me with another piece of Ro’s story. “You know Jack, for all his faults, was a hero in that fire. He was the first to smell smoke and ran down the hallway of the Grand Star Hotel alerting the other guests. Everyone on the second floor got out safely, including one woman he carried out unconscious and a man he went back for on a second trip. Those on the third floor weren’t so lucky. At least three died in the conflagration, including one man Jack had played poker with the night before. A cowboy who drifted from ranch to ranch. That’s whose name he took after the fire.”

  Can’t help it—I’m still glad I’m descended from Val Martin instead of Jack Joyner. Even if I am stuck with Val’s nose.

  ~~~

  Our whole family goes to walk along the river at Veteran’s Memorial Park, Bella swaddled in a baby wrap across Trish’s chest. The air smells faintly of fish and rotting leaves, the smell of life’s endless cycle of death and renewal, the conversion of one form of energy into another. We feed the ducks, an activity which amuses Poppy. His favorite is the one we call “Peg Leg.” No one seems to know how it lost its leg, but the loss doesn’t hamper its movements. It has adapted. MacKenzie seems to be adapting too.

  When the rest of the family walks ahead, she takes something from her jacket’s pocket. I watch as she pitches it into the muddy waters of the West Fork River.

  “Was that the—”

  “The ring,” she finishes for me. “I pried the diamond out and donated it to the Alzheimer’s Association.”

  “Good for you.”

  “I’ve decided to take classes in nonprofit management,” Mac says.

  “Heck, Mac, with your experience, you could teach those classes.”

  “I may make some changes in my life soon, too,” I confess. “I’m thinking of running for the state legislature when I retire. I’m already shaping a platform around education and the environment. Both get short shrift around here, if you ask me.”

  The whole country needs to do a better job tackling these issues, but I have to start somewhere.

  Mac approves. “Good for you! Who better than a science teacher to tackle those problems?”

  Several of my students are scattered through the park cataloguing the life forms in their assigned corners of the world. Marla, my budding scientist, is one of them. I smile when I see her mother has tagged along. Learning is lifelong; it happens across the generations as we each teach each other to see—really see the web of our world in all its wondrous intricacy. I brush my fingers against little Bella’s cheek as she sleeps against Trish’s chest, and I amble on down the trail, holding Poppy’s hand.

  When I think no one is looking, I sneak a pinch on Dewey’s backside. Instead of playing our game, he makes a big show of smacking my hand.

  “Angie, have you no shame?” He flips his head toward Mom and Trish. “The woman can’t keep her hands off me.”

  I smack his arm. “You rat!”

  Mom, Trish, and MacKenzie laugh, and even though Poppy has no idea what’s going on, he joins in. I have to laugh, too. “You got me back butt good,” I say. “B-u-double t, pun intended.”

  A couple of teens walk by, cutting their eyes sideways at us. Probably think we’re crazy people, what with all the hooting and hollering.

  Dewey tears off a bit of stale bread and gives it to Poppy to toss to Peg Leg. They follow the goose on down the path. Trish with her little kangaroo pouch goes with them.

  Mom, Mac, and me si
nk onto a bench shaded by what I think is a Horse Chestnut. I will have to look it up in my tree identification book later.

  “So Angela’s birth mother’s name is Deborah Wellington Springer,” Mac says. “What do you know about her?”

  Mom chuckles. “Grandmother Adams sure had it all wrong. Angie’s mother was hardly a drug addict. She came from a wealthy family in Philadelphia. Her great sin was falling in love with a boy her parents didn’t approve of. When she became pregnant, her parents refused to let her marry the father.”

  A boisterous family group passes our bench, the youngest children bickering in a playful way. I wait until they move on before asking something that’s been bothering me.

  “Mom, I’m curious. You did so much research, I’m surprised you weren’t able to find out who my birth father was.”

  “Oh, I know who he is.”

  Mac and I exchange a look. He must be a monster. “Well, who is he?” she asks.

  “Actually, you both know him. He’s an Italian born to a relatively poor family, and the Wellingtons considered him an unsuitable prospect, so they sent Deborah back to Philadelphia to live with a great aunt until she gave birth.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Mom, out with it—who is my father?”

  “Mr. Esposito.”

  The bag of bread crumbs I’ve been holding slips from my grasp. No way! I am picturing his salt and pepper slicked back hair, the middle that’s thickened over the years I’ve known him, the khaki pants he wears to work with polo shirts, mostly blue, our school color. I conk my head on the bench arm as I raise back up with the crumbs.

  “The principal?” Mac says. “You’re kidding, right?”

  I massage the bump on my scalp, not sure which hurt I’m trying to ease. Has he always known who I am? Did he never think of reaching out?

  “He was only sixteen himself, poor kid, and terribly in love— aren’t all young people, though? At that age, we think every clutch and kiss are life and death.” Mom chuckles again. I am having trouble finding humor in the moment.

  “He has kept an eye on you all these years. He could have retired two years ago, but I think he delayed because he likes knowing what is going on in your life.”