in place by a vine looped several times around his face and neck. He felt large tendrils loop under his armpits, and then he was being dragged across the ground, screaming silently and thrashing against his bonds like a wounded snake until he lay beneath the monstrous plants by the shed, his eyes wide and staring up as thick stalks bent over flowered heads close to his face. Out of the corners of his eyes he saw plant arms moving pods towards his body, and they were opening up into yawning maws lined with rows of thorns like shark’s teeth and a horrible, putrid odor filled his nostrils, and something thick and wet was dripping on him. The vines binding him suddenly twisted, flipping him over on his stomach. There was a mind shattering pain as the pods bit into him again and again, and a gag of flowers muffled the sound as he screamed—and screamed—and screamed.
* * * *
The two policemen in the patrol car saw Jerry Davidson leap out of Mildred Hanson’s garden and lurch crazily across the street to his darkened house. A report of the incident was filed that night. The next morning a detective visited the Davidson home, informing the parents their son had been seen coming from the garden and that although Mildred Hanson had said nothing, there were several complaints from her neighbors and the boy would be arrested and his parents severely fined if there was any further vandalism. The boy was interviewed, looking pale and frightened, and admitted his guilt to the detective. The parents were furious, and Jerry’s father slapped him on his bottom and sent him to his room for the entire day. The boy screamed in agony when his father hit him. Must be feeling really guilty, thought his father. I didn’t hit him that hard.
In his room, Jerry pulled down his pants and used half a roll of toilet paper to stop new bleeding from several places on his bottom where chunks of flesh had been torn away.
Mildred Hanson was working in her garden when she saw the patrol car pull away from the Davidson house. Perhaps the boy has finally been caught for his mischief, she thought. I doubt he’s really a bad boy, and the roses are alive. There’s even a new bud since yesterday! She touched the tiny blossom, and then went to the shed for hammer and nails to repair the picket fence. The big African plants stood tall, holding their faces up towards the sun. She stroked the largest one, imagining its humming at her touch. “My big son looks very proud this morning,” she said.
The plant made a strange sound.
Mildred stepped back in surprise. “Well, excuse you,” she giggled.
The big plant belched again.
By late afternoon the garden was restored to Mildred’s satisfaction, and she began to plant new borders of flock and short marigolds. The most difficult task had been unraveling a twisted mass of thorny vines and parasitic plants normally considered intruders in a garden. But they were living things, and she allowed them a place of their own far from the delicate flowers. Overnight they had become a tangled mess, and she moved slowly to avoid breaking a fragile tendril. Her old hands were brushed by many thorns that moved aside without scratching her. She had never been struck by a thorn.
The garden was curiously silent. Perhaps she was tired, and her imagination was sleeping, but the plants were not talking to her, and she felt a twinge of loneliness. But when she passed the big Trifulus nunculadus with the digestion problem, she patted its trunk and it hummed to her, and then she was happy again.
She had just finished a flock border around a bed of white iris, and was struggling to stand when she sensed someone watching her. She looked up and saw the Davidson boy standing by the picket fence. Dark eyes looked back, then away from her.
“Hello, Jerry,” she said, and walked somewhat unsteadily towards him. He did not answer.
“Did you want to talk about something?”
No answer, then a quick look over his shoulder. In his house across the street, a window curtain moved. As she drew near, Mildred saw his tear stained face, lips pressed tightly together, and breath coming in near sobs. She suddenly felt sorry for him, and smiled, but he didn’t look at her at first, and spoke to a point on the ground near her feet.
“Do you need any help with the gardening?”
“That would be nice,” she said, and then suddenly frowned.
What are you doing? He is a murderer.
“Do you know how to work with plants?”
“I do the yard work at home,” he said softly.
“I need to move some dirt for a new plot, and it’s hard for me. You look strong.” She opened the little gate in the fence and saw a smile flicker on his face.
The thorn of a vine crawling along the fence stuck him on one hand as he entered the garden.
Got you. You’re not wanted here.
Jerry winced, and sucked blood from a punctured finger. “I am strong,” he said, and fought back tears. Walking away from him, Mildred didn’t notice his wound, and he quickly followed her.
There were rustling sounds in the garden. Mildred stopped—listening, and felt something creep into her mind.
He’s not coming in here. This is too much to ask.
But he’s sorry for what he did. He comes to help.
I’ll stick him if I get the chance.
Bad thought. Go away—please.
I’m getting hungry again. Bring him to me.
Mildred stumbled, but regained her balance.
Be careful, mother. We love you, but let us deal properly with the boy.
STOP IT!
Mildred stumbled again, backwards, one hand covering her face. Jerry rushed to catch her, held her upright, his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted desperately to run away, but Mildred leaned against him for support and her face was suddenly glistening with sweat. He moved her to a bench by a small forest of roses, and she sat down heavily, breathing deeply with her eyes closed. Jerry sat down with her, still holding on.
Now you’ve done it. Mother is hurt. Be quiet, all of you, or I’ll uproot myself and pinch your blossoms off.
The garden was silent again.
“I’ll be all right,” said Mildred. “I just need to rest a while. There’s a pile of black dirt back by the shed, and a wheelbarrow. The new plot is right behind us. Could you move the dirt there, and level it for me?”
“Sure,” said Jerry. He got up quickly and moved along the narrow dirt path. He had never felt so guilty. His imagination was running wild: voices in his head, and out of the corner of his eye it seemed petal heads turned to watch him, sending out green, ropy vines to snare his feet.
Leave him alone.
He filled the wheelbarrow with dark earth, working steadily, and dumped it on the plot Mildred had shown him. He repeated the task seven more times, and then raked the mound of black earth until it was level and smooth. Mildred went into the house, and a little later Jerry saw her watching him from a window. She probably doesn’t trust me, he thought. Why should she?
She’s a nice person who cares about all living things.
The guilt was still there; he would work hard to make up for the damage he’d caused. He still didn’t understand why he had done it, knew now that he had nothing against the woman or her garden. He liked flowers. They were pretty to look at. It was attention he wanted. His parents were always so busy with grownup friends, and his father was usually amused by his son’s pranks. Not this time.
You are lonely?
Yes, I’m lonely, thought Jerry.
When the work was finished, Mildred called him into the house for milk and a plate heaped with cookies, which he ate greedily.
“It’s nice to have someone here to eat my cookies,” she said. “My grandchildren are so far away. I hardly ever see them.”
“Why do you live alone?”
“I