The Naked Gardener (16 page)

“Shakers maybe,” I suggested.

“You mean the ones who didn’t use buttons or anything and pray in silence?” asked Roz.

We skirted the uprooted tree.

“No that was Quakers. The Shakers were the ones who made all the very simple furniture and didn’t believe in procreation. So they died out.”

“Oh that’s a helluva religion.”

We were giggling by then. As we walked it was clear the storm had ravaged a huge swath of the whole area.

“Jeez, look at that.”

Someone pointed to a tree that looked as if it had been twisted like a corkscrew.

“Tornado.”

“Yeah.”

“Will must be worried sick.”

“Lewis must have meant the phones are all out from the storm.”

“Maze is going to kill me when we do get back.”

“Must not be any electric either.”

“Oh God, the one thing I really wanted was a hot shower.”

“I’m starving.”

“And someone smells like pee.”

“Her hands are still shaking.”

“Maybe we should get her to a doctor.”

“How exactly?”

“The roads must be a mess, too.”

“I’ll be okay. They’re getting better.”

“That was some scary canoe trip.”

“I don’t know. Now that it’s over I think it was kind of fun.”

We stopped at the top of the grassy slope that led to the house and looked back at the river. It rushed on, wild, murky, foamy, roaring with power.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE OLD WOMAN

We stood on the back porch for a moment. My legs felt like jelly and I held onto the porch railing for support.

Although the railing and the porch floor had an old coat of gray paint, pealing here and there, the house itself was constructed of dark gray granite blocks that gave it an austere, permanent stature. Sloping gently down to the dock, the carefully tended lawn was a deep green. I imagined the old man who had pulled us out limed it every spring and rode one of those giant mowers up and down in summer during the growing season, his knobby old knees poking up above the seat. Our canoes sat on the wet grass. The river roared behind them. Downed trees, broken limbs, and general debris from the storm lay over everything. But the three story stone house, flanked by enormous old oak trees and forest all around was impassive, solid and unyielding to momentary passing events. At one time, people must have flocked to this house I thought.

Tall leaded windows on the ground floor gave the house a solemn, gothic look. On the second and third floors, smaller windows had little balconies overlooking the view to the river. The way the house had been sited, once you climbed the steps and stood on the back porch, you could see downriver to the mill and dam beyond. Whoever designed the house and built the mill obviously wanted to be able to stand here and watch what went on downriver.

I tried to imagine what it must have been like to live here when the mill was in operation, the water wheel turning constantly, the big mill wheel grinding flour, workers loading it into sacks, horse drawn carts carrying them over the bridge to the store in town. It must have been quite a hub for this remote area.

Life always seems simpler looking back. In one hundred and fifty years people will look back at us as living in simpler times with fewer problems. One day far in the future our era will be as far removed from humans then as we are from our seed gathering ancestors who roamed the plains when the earth was cooling down and giant animals roamed at will. I think I must have taken to the garden in order to feel connected with that inexorable march of time. And there I stood, on the steps of that old house, which will be there long after I am gone, wondering what it must have been like back when this old woman’s great great great grandfather built the mill, the town, the house, took down the trees, planted this lawn, carved out an existence. But the women were chattering and my attention snapped back to them.

“We made it anyway.”

“I had doubts when I saw that water. I’d never have believed we could paddle like that.”

“You were right, Katelyn. Better than sitting around waiting.

“Anyway it was exciting.”

“Will is probably camped out at the police station.”

“It’s going to be ugly when I get home to Maze.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“This house looks a little ghoulish.”

“I hope the bathrooms are working.”

“I feel completely disgusting.”

“We all do.”

“What I wouldn’t give for a hot bath.”

* * *

“I put a few pots of water to boil as soon as the power went out last night.” The old lady stood at the door, squinting in the afternoon light. “Well, come on in,” she made a sweeping motion with her cane as she stood back to let us pass.

We were all a bit tentative, as if we expected to find a steaming cauldron in the kitchen and dried toads’ feet hanging from the rafters. I must say we weren’t far off,because inside the house, with its extra high ceilings and old furniture in dimly lit rooms, was dark and a bit creepy. Although the leaded windows were huge, they faced east and now that the sun was in the west, and with the oak trees shading the house, even on a sunny morning that house would be dark. I remembered my grandmother’s house by the river, with shades drawn against the weak rays of sunlight that managed to break through the leaf canopy and actually peek in a window. In those days, every woman was afraid of two things, moths and sunlight. God help the woman who let light fade herfurniture or moths chew her rugs.

We filed in one at a time and followed her through the main hall, past the living room, which looked as if it hadn’t been used in decades, into the kitchen. This was obviously where she did most of her living.

On the floor by a huge fireplace – the kind where before there was electricity people used to hang iron pots full of food over the fire – a golden retriever lay on an old blanket. He thumped his tail when he saw us, but didn’t move from his spot. A small fire kept the room overly warm for July but the rest of the house we’d walked through was as cool as if it had been November. I wondered if this house even had central heat and when I saw the gigantic wood stove in one corner of the kitchen I had my answer. I figured bow legged Lewis must be busy all year long to keep this place functioning.

“However did you girls get caught out in the storm?” Mrs. Ward asked.

Erica started to explain what had happened but Mrs. Ward bustled around the kitchen hauling pots of hot water from the wood stove, replacing them with others, and didn’t seem to hear her. So Erica offered to help her but Mrs. Ward was not a woman who accepted help easily.

“Here,” she handed Hope a big bucket. “You go on out to that hand pump to the right of the porch and fill this one up. “And you,” she handed one to me, “take this one and do the same.”

The way she said it meant no discussion would be tolerated so we took the buckets. I looked sideways at Erica with raised eyebrows as if to ask, “What am I supposed to say?”

She shrugged and smiled at Mrs. Ward.

“Go on,” she waved us off. “If you girls are going to wash up you’ll need enough hot water for all six of you. With the storm the electric pump’s out. We ran out of water this morning so you may as well use a little elbow grease.”

“That’s Wally,” she pointed at the dog as we headed for the door. Wally’s ears perked up. He cocked his head when he heard his name but after a second laid it down and sighed deeply. His eyebrows arched a little and he looked at all of us as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this invasion but it was just too much effort for him to investigate.

We pumped the water, something I had never done. But Hope seemed to know what she was doing and we filled the buckets.

“We had a well and hand pump in Africa,” she whispered. “My parents helped the villagers dig and install it when I was a little girl. I grew up pumping water by hand. It was a big deal in a village to get a well.”

“Do you think she’s senile?”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Ward.”

“Oh no. I think she’s lived alone so long she doesn’t have any patience for the social niceties anymore is all.”

“If she ever did,” I mumbled as we hauled the heavy buckets back up the porch steps.

* * *

With us following like a Brownie troupe, Mrs. Ward thumped through the main floor of the house, using her cane as a pointer.

“I stay on this level nowadays,” she explained. “You.” And here she motioned with her cane at Charlene, “can use my bathroom. Careful you don’t spill anything or break anything now. There are fresh towels in there.”

She pointed at what I assumed was a linen closet.

Charlene leaned over to me and whispered, “I think she must have smelled my pee stained shorts. Nothing gets past prison matron.”

I poked her in the side to shut her up.

“Now what about those clothes? I suppose you all want to get into something clean.”

“That would be wonderful,” Erica nodded and again tried to engage the old woman in conversation.

“You see we were out camping and … ”

“Don’t want to hear about that now. Got some old clothes and robes and things in a room upstairs. You,” she pointed at me, “go on up to the first room on the right and see what you can find. Look in the closet and in the old trunk in there. Don’t care what you wear in this house. Nobody’s coming calling anyway. And who knows how long it’ll be until they get this power back on.”

“Do you have a car?” Valerie asked.

“What’s that? A car? Course we’ve got a car. But the bridge is out and the roads are covered with trees. Where do you think you’d be going?”

“Oh,” said Valerie. “I just thought maybe that man who helped us could take us somewhere that had a phone so we could call our families. They’re probably worried sick.”

“I doubt Dr. Recon is worried sick about much of anything,” Roz told her.

“Won’t do any good to concern yourselves about others. They’ll find out in good time that you’re all right.”

She thumped her cane over to the wooden staircase and pointed up.

“You can take turns in the big tub. Don’t go to the third floor. Nothing much up there anymore. Now go to the stove and take some potholders and carry the big pots of hot water to fill the tub. You’ll have to pump some cold to mix with the hot. And you go on and get some fresh clothes for yourself and the others. Look in the closets and the old trunk in the east bedroom.” She nodded to me.

The old house was like a labyrinth. The wooden staircase creaked but it was as solid as the stone walls. It wound around in a quarter circle and lead to the middle of the upstairs hall. Once on the second floor, I could see doorways to my right and left. Now which one was the bathroom and which was the east bedroom? I poked around from doorway to doorway and realized there was a familiar scent about this house like my grandmother’s house on the river so long ago.

Upstairs I moved from room to room until I found a walk in closet with many clothes inside. It looked as if the closet had been added long after the house was built because it protruded out from the wall half the width of the room. On either side bookcases had been attached floor to ceiling. These were crammed with books of all sizes stacked vertically, horizontally, and stuck in at odd angles. The room faced the river. There was a large old trunk at the foot of a four poster bed that sat so high off the floor, there were petit pointed footstools on either side. When I pulled on the brass hasp of the trunk and opened it just a hair, the scent of camphor sent me reeling back and again I thought of my grandmother’s house, her dark closets, the camphor against moths. Even these little memories of daily life evoke the inevitability of change. I couldn’t hang onto the past forever, no matter how good or bad it was.

The others were all busy carrying pails of water, filling the tub, washing their tired bodies. When we were all clean, we picked through the clothes I laid out on the big bed and assembled some odd outfits for ourselves. I wore an old pair of men’s overalls, the legs rolled up to my ankles, and a long sleeved faded blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled past my elbows. Erica chose a loose, printed cotton dress that snapped down the front and Roz opted for torn jeans that had obviously belonged to Mrs. Ward’s son when he was about twelve. She added a T-shirt that said Camp Eagle Feather in faded green letters. Charlene, Hope and Valerie picked through what was left and walked downstairs wearing variations on old pants and shirts, a belt that Valerie found to hold her loose khakis from falling off her slender hips and we all walked around with nothing but socks on our feet as we’d washed our sneakers at the well pump and left them on the porch to dry. Even Roz’s Teva’s had taken a beating in the mud from the storm. We felt better being clean, ill fitting outfits aside, and when we were done, we found Mrs. Ward in the kitchen cooking a big pot of soup and there on the table were two loaves of Erica’s bread with butter and cheese and jams and a big urn of hot coffee. This didn’t seem bad at all.

* * *

“I may not get out much but I still know what’s going on,” Mrs. Ward told us as she watched us wolf down her food. She seemed as if she hadn’t had anyone to take care of in so long she was as hungry for company as were for food.

“So,” she added, “you decided to take a canoe trip and camp out by the river. Well, just your bad luck this storm came up out of nowhere.”

“We were doing fine,” Erica started to say, “until the morning after the storm.”

“Where did you camp last night then?” It was the first time she seemed interested in an answer. The others looked at me since I had chosen the spot.

“I’m not sure I can explain exactly where it was. But when we got up the whole forest looked like it had been hit by a bomb.” Had it only been that morning? It seemed like weeks ago now.

She didn’t try to find out any more. “The whole area got hit hard,” She didn’t say any more. Just shook her head. She stood up and began to clear the table. Erica and Charlene stood also. They carried plates and bowls and silverware over to the old soapstone sink.

“Please, Mrs. Ward,” Erica said. “Let us at least do the dishes. You’ve been so kind.”

“I know who you are,” Mrs. Ward turned to face her squarely and leaned a little to one side on her cane. “You took over the town meetings. The council. After the men quit. Bunch of ninnies.”

“Us or the men?” asked Charlene.

Mrs. Ward let out a howl of laughter.

“Both I guess,” she said and sat back down at the table. “Go ahead. Clean up if you want to. Seems it’s what you like to do anyway.”

Roz spoke up. “Would you have let the town go under without even a fight to save it?”

This seemed a rude response and I was ready to hide under the table, afraid Mrs. Ward might kick us all out of her house and send us back down the river and over the falls. I was also feeling a strong urge to strangle Roz for being so outspoken. Couldn’t she ever keep her thoughts to herself at all? I was about to apologize to Mrs. Ward when she turned to Roz.