wasn’t like she didn’t have her own garden to work in. Ralph had installed a perfect rectangular lawn and had laid the water lines for flower boxes designed to disguise the sprinkler heads he had installed. “You can plant whatever you’d like” he allowed her, “just nothing messy. It wrecks the system.”
But Callie wasn’t a neat gardener and begonias in pots reminded her of sick people, her great-aunt Daphne stuck in a hospital bed surrounded by thick dark green waxy leaf plants that seemed to thrive on fever and the smell of decay.
It’s not as if Ralph would care that she was gardening across the road. He had bought her all those garden tools. He remembered all the things she told him about her grandpa and he was thoughtful that way. Ralph tried to get her interested in his little projects, and he even brought plants home for her once in a while, boring pansies and daisies that she left to wither. Callie sometimes wondered if he even cared what she did all day, as long as she was happy to see him when he came home.
And she enjoyed the secrecy, the feeling that she had a life without him, even if it was something as silly as poking around in an old abandoned pile of weeds. The place was all hers as long as he didn’t know about it. That’s what mattered.
Callie had worked things out pretty well for herself, she was proud to acknowledge. Her ears were well tuned to the smooth sound of Ralph’s engine making the hard turn at the end of the road. By the time he approached their driveway, she always managed to meet him out front, like she was just coming in from a walk, and it was a lot like the old days, him honking, her whirling into his car and off they’d go to nowhere in particular. She used to love those days back in high school, and this was as close as they came lately, meeting him outside their house with the baby in the late afternoon. She still felt the thrill of his truck hitting its brakes when he’d pick her up, so she could lift her skirt high and hoist herself in, swinging her legs around, her hair a bit tousled from the jump. She could still do that, even with a baby in her arms.
The thought of tonight’s pot roast dissolving in tomatoes with sprigs of thyme she collected and dried from across the road made her feel pretty damned good about herself. She gathered up the baby’s pacifier and quilt with one arm, strutting about like someone with somewhere to go. She was wearing her bright pink polka dot t-shirt, the one that was too tight across her breasts so even with the thickness of her nursing bra, her bold nipples announced themselves through the fabric. The lavender shampoo had flavored the skin around her neck and shoulders and she felt proud of those huge, shameless nipples. The morning shower had done her a world of good.
“Come on pumpkin, we’re going for a walk,” she told the baby, and the two of them headed out, stroller wheels bumping along the gravel path, causing the baby’s head to bobble and bounce, while Callie’s hips swerved and turned to the beat of her own satisfaction. Callie didn’t much care about Ralph’s garden plans with this private field all to herself. The place was aching for her touch. She grabbed packets of nierembergia and phlox, they came free with either the twenty-five anemone bulbs or ibex-gloxinia mixture and she bought them both, unable to resist the colors in the catalogue. Ralph and his stupid lawn.
Today Callie planned to cut back more of the spindly ground cover and transplant (carefully) what green there was of the scented thyme bed over to more compatible ground. It would be an iffy job and depended on the baby sleeping. She remembered to bring the trowel this time, and the loppers, and a big plastic bag to store any stray seeds or other potential survivors. She even remembered the coping saw in case the madrone limbs were too thick for her loppers, and felt proud of herself, though there was nobody she could brag to. It was a private kind of pride. Something she was starting to get used to.
New circles of color surprised her every day in and around the scrub oaks and rock beds and tumbleweeds. The mixed seed packets should start opening by early spring if she got them in soon enough, and if the sunflowers ever opened, it seemed like this place would be more hers than the place she lived in. She spread her tools around, splayed her legs out so her skin absorbed every single scent and prickle of ground, and started clipping.
The Queen Anne’s lace came apart in her hand. She blew on the remaining tufts and made a wish. White dust flew wild into the air and a few droplets landed on Daphne’s head, seeping into her hairless fuzz.
“Let’s take a bunch of these,” she whispered to Daphne, who was reaching out with chubby hands to the free-floating pollen. Callie snapped off another stalk, then another. She stuffed them beneath the stroller on top of the extra blankets and plastic baby toys. She knew she was being silly, hiding them like she was afraid of getting caught. But that was part of the fun. She’d never seen another soul along this dusty stretch of road and who would miss a few sprays anyway? Besides, even if she was trespassing, the flowers were hers, she was the one who had scattered the seeds.
The stroller wheel crunched over a dead patch of columbine, one of her favorites. She wondered if they’d return next spring. So mysterious, what came up and what didn’t. Farther down the driveway, the path seemed to pull the wheels without her guidance, down into a clump of rocks and brush, at the porch steps now, farther than she usually strayed, trespassing now, no question about it. She had great plans for the coffins of planter boxes that were precariously balanced on the broken porch. Last year’s weeds had all but dissolved into a dust of dead leaves and she inspected them carefully, hoping to recognize them. Every day, either intentionally or by the whim of a wheel from Daphne’s stroller, some new green thing would announce its life, giving her more reasons to return.
Callie tested the porch steps carefully, glad the baby wasn’t old enough yet to move around. What would she do then, with splinters and rocks and rose thorns everywhere? She found the shaded front porch of the shack to be a perfect spot for nursing. She set down her tools, feeling at home in this abandoned refuge. The air was so sweet it made her close her eyes and breathe deep, in time with the squeaking satisfaction of Daphne suckling at her breast.
Ralph would definitely have a fit if he ever found her like this. He had made a point of warning her about this place. He said it used to belong to a dope dealer, the guy was supposedly in prison, but he could get out any time. Be careful, he had warned her, stay away. But Callie didn’t pay him any attention. There were all kinds of rumors about the abandoned property, not just from Ralph, but also at the market, the hardware store, people around here talked. The rumors came out in whispers mostly, about the drug guy and his friends. The motorcycles. But as far as she was concerned, that was so long ago it didn’t matter any more. You just had to look around to see nobody had been here forever. For her the land was a private paradise. Let them all talk.
It was the Realtor who told Ralph about the guy who got busted. Callie never trusted that Realtor, never trusted this fancy house he sold them in the middle of nowhere would amount to anything. He got them in for practically no money down. Some kind of low interest loan and property values were starting to go through the roof he said. Ralph showed her all the numbers, practically guaranteed to make them rich by the time they spruced it up a bit to sell. The lawn was the Realtor’s idea, come to think of it. He assured them they’d be long gone by the time the interest rates changed, with enough profit to buy something really big.
Daphne was sleeping quietly. This promised to be a productive afternoon. Callie snapped a few seeds from the Queen Anne’s lace and then noticed how the dirt was soft at the base. Using her five fingers as a trowel, she whittled away at the edge of the root ball, extricating a nice little hunk. She had no idea how it would take the transplant but decided to put it near the lavender. Something to surprise her when and if it decided to bloom.
Callie backed the stroller out of the dirt, thought she heard some footsteps off in the distance. The stroller was heavy, weighted down with Queen Anne’s lace plopping out from the side, and now the penstemon, heaped gingerly over a couple of salvia branches she had broken off a ways back. Bring peat pots, she reminded herself for next time, and maybe a bag of fertilizer.
Better get out of here, she decided, as she backed the stroller up toward the road, feeling guilty and giddy all at once. Hurrying up the hill she got snagged once again when the front stroller wheel slipped into a patch of soft earth, nearly tipping it on its side.
The