In gym shorts and gray T-shirt, dark with patches of wet, Quayle attacks the herb garden with his bare hands. He tears at weeds and crab grass. He snaps stems of rosemary, which has grown from a sprig to a shrub, crowding the sage and thyme. He yanks stems of oregano which sprawl yellow and brown. They come up roots and all.
Rich, black soil appears, damp from rain. A white edging emerges from the green tangle, a miniature fence of wire hoops to separate herbs from lawn, somewhat the worse for wear. Quayle ran over it with the mower one blinding sunny afternoon. Some green oregano stems bear little white flowers. A begonia smiles, flowering pink under long daylily leaves like bangs of hair on a forehead.
Sweat runs into Quayle’s eyes, and his arms are dusted with powder and small dry leaves. The lace on one of his sneakers works loose. His T-shirt hangs lopsided.
The sun rides low in the west, just over the neighbor’s board fence. Young Adam, with his wife Evelyn and two little boys, are away for Labor Day weekend at her parents’ beach house. Adam’s peach and plum trees overhang the fence. The season is past, and fruit rots where it has fallen in Quayle’s yard.
“There you are,” calls a voice from the back porch. Olivia, his wife of countless years. “Did you go to the gym?”
“Yes. Then I wandered back here. I was already soaked from exercise, so I figured what the hell. Summer was so hot for so long. The herb garden was a mess.”
“How long have you been out there?”
“I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Going on five. Come in and shower. The picnic’s already started.”
“Picnic?”
“Don’t give me that. The annual picnic at Rackham Farm. I made potato salad. You’re taking a six pack of Yeungling.”
“What’s the menu?”
“Ham and baked beans.”
“It never changes.”
“Why should it? You can’t improve on perfection.”
“I’m not going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anne Rackham is expecting us. This is her big event of the year. If we don’t show, I’ll never hear the end of it. Everyone will be there.”
“Everyone?” Quayle sounds sarcastic. Sweat stings his eyes and he grimaces.
“Yes, everyone. The Mathews, the Richardsons, the Seales, the Deavers. Maybe not the Vandevers—she was in the hospital, the last I heard. A broken hip. Stephen Rackham is visiting this weekend, their youngest son, the one who works for NASA. He always puts on a fireworks display. You remember.”
Quayle remembers. He helped one year. It was dry, like this year, and Vernon Rackham was worried about igniting the hayfield. They set up the fireworks on the far side of the pond, which was to serve as a reflecting pool. The Pfaltz dog jumped in the pond, paddled across and ran amok, wrecking Stephen’s carefully timed launching sequence. Quayle dropped his flashlight and scrabbled for it in the pollen-laden field. Some low-flying rockets went straight in the water and fizzled. One shot across the pond and into the crowd on folding chairs and blankets. No one was hurt, but it was a royal fiasco.
“It looks much better. The herb garden.”
“It couldn’t look worse. If you want some fresh-picked herbs, there’s plenty.” He points to a heap of stems and weeds. He did not separate them, made no attempt to save the good ones. Exhausted, he walks up the yard to the back porch.
The herb garden is a bed the length of the back fence. The soil is exceptional—crumbly, waxy, the color of coffee grounds. Humus, worth its weight in gold. Unlike the hard clay and sterile sand everywhere else. A hundred years ago, maybe someone had a garden where they dumped kitchen scraps and horse manure. Compost, except they would have called it something else—a midden. Or maybe topsoil washed downhill and accumulated.
Quayle planted at random, herbs and bulbs, whatever took his fancy. The bed is fragrant and unconventional, a mix of small flowers and subdued colors. An English garden? What is the difference between a flower and a herb, anyway?
He mounts the steps of the porch and stands near Olivia. With sandy gray hair, bushy eyebrows and broad shoulders, he is still a handsome man.
“You smell heavenly,” she says. “The rosemary oil got on your arms. And lavender and lemon balm. You’re a walking bouquet, a nosegay.”
Quayle grunts.
“It’s almost a shame to wash it off.”
“I’m not going,” he says quietly. “Not everyone.”
Olivia looks at him as a wife of countless years can. She is calm, thoughtful.
Pollard will not be at the picnic. They both know, but as if under a taboo, neither can say his name. The taboo that forbids speaking of the dead.
Pollard was Quayle’s friend, as close as one could be to a man who does not make friends easily. Buddies, they said, like a joke. They went fishing, canoed on the river. One week they hiked a section of the Appalachian Trial and came back lean, sunburned, suffering from beer deprivation. They had both dropped ten pounds and couldn’t stop grinning.
What did they talk about during those hours and days in the wild outdoors? Nothing much. Men can do that.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll make up an excuse for you. Do you mind?”
“No. You had better go. If not, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“The Rackhams are getting old. How much longer can Anne put on this affair?”
“As long as she wants, I suppose.”
“Let me get another whiff.”
Before he can protest, she moves in for a squeeze and kisses him on the lips.
Rich, black soil appears, damp from rain. A white edging emerges from the green tangle, a miniature fence of wire hoops to separate herbs from lawn, somewhat the worse for wear. Quayle ran over it with the mower one blinding sunny afternoon. Some green oregano stems bear little white flowers. A begonia smiles, flowering pink under long daylily leaves like bangs of hair on a forehead.
Sweat runs into Quayle’s eyes, and his arms are dusted with powder and small dry leaves. The lace on one of his sneakers works loose. His T-shirt hangs lopsided.
The sun rides low in the west, just over the neighbor’s board fence. Young Adam, with his wife Evelyn and two little boys, are away for Labor Day weekend at her parents’ beach house. Adam’s peach and plum trees overhang the fence. The season is past, and fruit rots where it has fallen in Quayle’s yard.
“There you are,” calls a voice from the back porch. Olivia, his wife of countless years. “Did you go to the gym?”
“Yes. Then I wandered back here. I was already soaked from exercise, so I figured what the hell. Summer was so hot for so long. The herb garden was a mess.”
“How long have you been out there?”
“I don’t know. What time is it?”
“Going on five. Come in and shower. The picnic’s already started.”
“Picnic?”
“Don’t give me that. The annual picnic at Rackham Farm. I made potato salad. You’re taking a six pack of Yeungling.”
“What’s the menu?”
“Ham and baked beans.”
“It never changes.”
“Why should it? You can’t improve on perfection.”
“I’m not going.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anne Rackham is expecting us. This is her big event of the year. If we don’t show, I’ll never hear the end of it. Everyone will be there.”
“Everyone?” Quayle sounds sarcastic. Sweat stings his eyes and he grimaces.
“Yes, everyone. The Mathews, the Richardsons, the Seales, the Deavers. Maybe not the Vandevers—she was in the hospital, the last I heard. A broken hip. Stephen Rackham is visiting this weekend, their youngest son, the one who works for NASA. He always puts on a fireworks display. You remember.”
Quayle remembers. He helped one year. It was dry, like this year, and Vernon Rackham was worried about igniting the hayfield. They set up the fireworks on the far side of the pond, which was to serve as a reflecting pool. The Pfaltz dog jumped in the pond, paddled across and ran amok, wrecking Stephen’s carefully timed launching sequence. Quayle dropped his flashlight and scrabbled for it in the pollen-laden field. Some low-flying rockets went straight in the water and fizzled. One shot across the pond and into the crowd on folding chairs and blankets. No one was hurt, but it was a royal fiasco.
“It looks much better. The herb garden.”
“It couldn’t look worse. If you want some fresh-picked herbs, there’s plenty.” He points to a heap of stems and weeds. He did not separate them, made no attempt to save the good ones. Exhausted, he walks up the yard to the back porch.
The herb garden is a bed the length of the back fence. The soil is exceptional—crumbly, waxy, the color of coffee grounds. Humus, worth its weight in gold. Unlike the hard clay and sterile sand everywhere else. A hundred years ago, maybe someone had a garden where they dumped kitchen scraps and horse manure. Compost, except they would have called it something else—a midden. Or maybe topsoil washed downhill and accumulated.
Quayle planted at random, herbs and bulbs, whatever took his fancy. The bed is fragrant and unconventional, a mix of small flowers and subdued colors. An English garden? What is the difference between a flower and a herb, anyway?
He mounts the steps of the porch and stands near Olivia. With sandy gray hair, bushy eyebrows and broad shoulders, he is still a handsome man.
“You smell heavenly,” she says. “The rosemary oil got on your arms. And lavender and lemon balm. You’re a walking bouquet, a nosegay.”
Quayle grunts.
“It’s almost a shame to wash it off.”
“I’m not going,” he says quietly. “Not everyone.”
Olivia looks at him as a wife of countless years can. She is calm, thoughtful.
Pollard will not be at the picnic. They both know, but as if under a taboo, neither can say his name. The taboo that forbids speaking of the dead.
Pollard was Quayle’s friend, as close as one could be to a man who does not make friends easily. Buddies, they said, like a joke. They went fishing, canoed on the river. One week they hiked a section of the Appalachian Trial and came back lean, sunburned, suffering from beer deprivation. They had both dropped ten pounds and couldn’t stop grinning.
What did they talk about during those hours and days in the wild outdoors? Nothing much. Men can do that.
“All right,” she said at last. “I’ll make up an excuse for you. Do you mind?”
“No. You had better go. If not, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
“The Rackhams are getting old. How much longer can Anne put on this affair?”
“As long as she wants, I suppose.”
“Let me get another whiff.”
Before he can protest, she moves in for a squeeze and kisses him on the lips.
