Читать книгу Imaginings of a Dark Mind - James C Glass - Страница 10

MILDRED’S GARDEN

The little children in the neighborhood called her the flower lady. Her real name was Mildred Hanson, and she lived alone in a white frame house surrounded by a short picket fence separating concrete from a world of beauty and sweet smells. It was a world of flowers.

Narrow dirt paths lined with creeping vines provided the only access to mounds of earth covered with roses, anchusas, purple delphiniums, iris, daffodils, daisies, and phlox. Mats of glowing pink petunias and scarlet zinnias were arranged in curving rows like toy soldiers keeping watch over the place. In a hollow at the center of the colorful jungle, and surrounded by tall bulb plants from Africa, a small shed was filled with tools and sacks of peat and exotic foods. There were no insecticides or other poisons there. Mildred Hanson did not believe in using them. Her garden was curiously free of insects.

The ladies of the neighborhood thought well of Mildred Hanson. A good woman, though somewhat eccentric, they said. Never a cross word for anyone, including that horrid little Davidson boy who periodically invaded her garden to damage plants and make noises that terrified the poor woman in the darkness.

The plants had become the focus of Mildred’s life since Fred had died. She still missed her husband terribly. Her two children had left home long ago to raise families of their own, and they lived far away. Mildred rarely heard from them, and often wished they would visit so she could meet her grandchildren. That had not happened, so her plants had become her children, and she had something to love and care for again.

She arose early, when the eastern sky was colored orange with the promise of a new day. As the red disk of the sun appeared on the horizon she ate slowly at an oil-cloth-covered table by a window overlooking the garden. Each morning she watched her children awake sleepily, some of them opening up petal-lined faces to seek out the light and the warmth. She washed morning dishes in the kitchen sink, and dressed herself slowly and painfully with knuckle-swollen hands. The pain bothered her, but she didn’t resent it; there was a purpose for everything, she thought. She stood before a mirror to put a fine net over thinning white hair, and then added a broad-brimmed hat to protect her sensitive skin from another long day in the sunlight. Straightening her hunched frame, after studying its image in the mirror, she shuffled to the door and stepped out into the morning cold.

“Good morning,” she said aloud, listening for the faint rustling sounds from the garden.

It is a new day.

Mildred Hanson talked to her plants, imagined their responses in her mind. She knew it was foolish, knew the neighbors thought her eccentric because of it. But it caused no harm, and made her feel happy. She threaded her way slowly through the garden and out to the street, pausing to inspect the picket fence. It was intact.

There has been new mischief here.

“I know,” said Mildred. “I heard a loud crash in the night.”

No injuries this time

“I will tend to the problem when I find it.” She walked back slowly along the narrow path until she came to the rose bed. The roses were her favorites, standing majestically in the morning light. She knelt painfully in front of them, reached out a hand to touch a petal.

“How are my darlings this morning?”

We are well, mother.

She ran stiff fingers through the rich soil, loosening it at the base of each plant, and picked off some dead petals. “Some of you have dirty faces today,” she said, then cupped a withered rose in both hands.

I grow old.

“I know, dear. We all grow old; it is natural. Try to live each day as best you can, and think only about today.” She carefully released the aging flower, watched it droop over on its long stem.

I will try.

“Good,” she said, arose slowly and shuffled along the path to continue her morning rounds. She pulled a rare weed here and there, and an occasional flower that had withered and died after a full life. She stopped before a large snapdragon ensnarled by a neighboring vine, and bent over to touch it.

He will not leave me alone. His intrusion is constant.

“Naughty vine,” said Mildred, and gently unraveled fragile vine from the flowering stalk.

I seek only space in which to grow properly.

“Then I will give it to you.” She found an abandoned pole nearby, pushed it into the ground and carefully wound the vine around its base three times. “Now climb towards the sky,” she said, and away from me, she imagined the snapdragon saying.

She reached the center of the garden and the tool shed, where plants towered above her head. Huge flowers like mutant daisies gone wild peered down at her from thick stalks thrust up from round trunks the size of a large man’s waist. Other stalks drooped below the flowers, ending in closed pods, fist-like, covered with soft green fur resembling fine moss. Exotic plants, from Africa, the advertisement had said. Trifulus nunculadus. She had grown them with loving care from bulbs received by mail order from a company that had soon disappeared. She had nursed them through infancy, and agonized through times when it seemed they might die. But now they stood tall, proud and fresh looking, hovering around her protectively like giant sons. She loved them all, and their response to her left little to the imagination. When she touched these plants, they moved.

She stepped up to the largest plant, put an arm around its trunk and rubbed the velvet-like tissue with her hand. The plant shuddered; pods moved slightly, then relaxed. She spoke to it softly. “You’re such a big boy, now. I wonder how much more you will grow, how much food you will need.”

The blood meal has helped much, little mother. I’m doing well, now, as are my brothers and sisters.

She touched a pod, felt it recoil and relax again as she petted it. There was a buzzing sensation in her head, and the giant plant seemed to be humming to her. “You must be an adult by now. Are you hiding babies in these pods?”

There was no answer, and the plant continued to hum.

She stroked the pod, and suddenly noticed the tool shed door ajar. She hurried over to the shed, opened the door and found chaos. Tools had been pulled off the walls and lay in a tangled heap in one corner. Food sacks had been ripped open, contents thrown in every direction to mingle together on the floor, and two bottles of liquid food had shattered against one wall, staining it in red and green.

The boy was here again last night. Something must be done about him.

“Why does he do things like this?” she cried out. “I have never done anything to hurt him.” She began to pick up the tools, hanging them on the wall again and wincing with pain from the bending and stretching. “I don’t want to talk to his parents about this. They really don’t care about anything he does.”

He must be punished. The thought seemed to come from every direction in the garden, but for the moment she dismissed it as a vengeful thought of her own, and did what she could to repair the damage. By evening the shed was clean again. She ate a bowl of soup and some crackers for dinner, and fell into bed exhausted. Her sleep was deep, and in the night she did not hear the crash of a picket fence splintering, or the deep, sucking sounds. Peaceful in a subconscious state of quiet dreams, she did not hear the screams.

* * * *

Mildred Hanson opened her eyes, startled by a shout in her mind. Mother, come quickly. We’re hurt! “Angela?” she called out, and then she was awake. Silly woman, she thought. Angela was a thousand miles away with her own husband and children. A dream, perhaps, but something was wrong and she had overslept. The sun was high in the sky. She pulled on a robe and wandered towards the kitchen, worried by the jumble of thoughts exploding in her mind. Outside, some of us are dying. Mother, please, help us. She opened the kitchen door, looked outside, and saw the roses.

“Oh, dear God—NO!”

She stumbled down the porch steps and along the dirt path to the rose plot, dropping to her knees in front of it and holding her face in her hands as the tears came. The rose bushes lay on their sides, pulled cleanly from the ground, blossoms wilting rapidly in the heat. Beyond, a section of the picket fence lay flat on the ground, splintered into pieces. And Mildred cried over her garden.

He came in the night, and we stuck him with our thorns, but he reached below the thorns and pulled us from the ground, and now we are dying.

“NO!” cried Mildred. She stood up too quickly, pain knifing through her knees, and hurried towards the tool shed. If she worked fast the roses would not die; she stumbled crazily along the dirt path, almost running, trying to suppress the terrible thoughts and feelings that suddenly surged upwards to her consciousness. The boy has gone too far. He must be dealt with severely. Her breathing was rapid, and then she was gasping for air and there was a tight feeling in her chest. We must make a plan to trap him, and punish him ourselves. She felt her knees sagging as she lurched ahead, seeing the shed surrounded by tall, flowering sentries.

If the roses die—the boy should be killed.

“Oh,” she cried. There was suddenly a terrible pain in her chest and arms. She dropped to both knees before the door of the shed, clutching at her chest and closing her eyes as she sucked in deep breaths of air. “Lord, don’t let me think like this,” she panted. “It’s evil to have such thoughts. Take them away from me. Please!”

You are ill? Do not hurry so much. There is time.

She leaned up against the shed door, breathing deeply, and forced herself to relax. The pain subsided, was gone, leaving only a dull ache in her chest. The dreadful thoughts were also gone. She grasped the edge of the door and pulled herself up, found tape, strings, watering can and a small shovel. The walk back to the rose bed was slow and deliberate. She filled the watering can with cool water, got down on her knees and began to work. Several roots were damaged. She bound them up with tape and string, dug new holes and reset the plants with gentle hands. The task consumed her; she thought of nothing but the work. She picked up a Peace rose bush lying forlornly on its side, half-opened buds beginning to wilt in the heat of the day. I’m hurt badly, she thought. I don’t think I can make flowers again. “But you live,” said Mildred, setting the plant carefully into its new home, “and that’s the important thing.”

When she finished her work, it was dusk. After putting her tools away, she urged her aching body slowly to the house, heated a can of soup as the sun disappeared, and ate slowly by the window overlooking her garden, wondering about the reasons behind the brutal acts of the boy, and what she could do to stop him. That night she went to sleep without any answers to her questions.

* * * *

Jerry Davidson waited impatiently for the lights to go out in the little white house across the street from the bushes he was hiding in. The old lady was staying up late tonight. Perhaps she was watching the garden, trying to set a trap for him. Probably not. She wouldn’t be expecting anything tonight—not three nights in a row. He would have to stop for a while; it was getting too dangerous. The business with the roses had even enraged his mother, and she’d questioned him suspiciously about it. He’d denied any involvement, of course, but he was certain she didn’t believe him. The ladies in the neighborhood wouldn’t speak to her anymore. That’s what really made her angry, he thought. And his father thought all the fuss about the old woman and her flowers was just plain silly. A crazy lady who talked to flowers, and walked around with a perpetual smile on her face belonged in a rest home, he said.

His parents were out again, so he could take his time getting home. But he wished the lights would go out soon so he could get it over with. The trick would not work once she was asleep. He pulled the tic-tac from his pocket: thread spool notched at the ends, wound with string and a large nail for the axle. When she was nearly asleep, he would press the spool on her bedroom window and pull the string hard. The racket would be terrifying in the dead of night. If he did it right, she would probably mess her pants.

The lights went out.

Jerry waited for a moment, heart pounding with excitement, then looked up and down the street before leaving his hiding place. Thin and fragile looking, he was quite small for an eleven-year-old boy, but more than made up for it with courage and fighting ability. The other boys at school had found that out the hard way. How many of them would have the guts to do what he was about to do? But now it was time to move. He poised for the attack, flexing slender muscles in his arms and legs, then slid out of the bushes, padded cat-like across the street and flattened himself in the tangled mass of flowering shrubs and vines near the tool shed. He lay there for a while, listening to his pounding heart, wondering if the old woman was watching from the darkened windows of the house. A light breeze was blowing, and he thought it strange here were no rustling sounds from the garden—no movement of the plants. He began to pull himself forward slowly on his stomach.

He had crawled only a few feet when he realized his choice of route had been a poor one. The place was a tangled mess of prickly shrubs and sticky vines that pulled and tore at his every move. Every place he put his hands seemed to be covered with sharp thorns that stuck his flesh and sent waves of pain up his arms. Some kind of nettle struck him, and he felt a numbing sensation move across a shoulder blade and up towards his neck. To turn around now would take too much time. He pressed his lips tightly together, and moved straight towards the shed, towards the giant plants silhouetted like sentries with flower-heads and skinny, outstretched arms ending in huge pod-fists. The vines were sticking to him, now, winding around his legs and chest and pulling at him. His breathing came hard, and he fought off sudden fear in the darkness as the garden seemed to move around him, without sound, encircling him with thorny vines and rope-like tendrils pulling him flat on his stomach.

He crashed down on his chin, vines crawling on him, pulling his arms to his sides. He kicked with both feet, and found his legs suddenly bound together. He reached to free them and the vines around his body tightened in a crushing embrace, and then he was thrashing around on the ground, worm-like, bound tightly from head to foot and suppressing an urge to scream. Looking up towards the shed, he saw vines snaking out towards him, searching for him, moving together as if part of a single organism, and then the giant plants by the shed were turning, flowered heads shaking, reaching out invitingly with big pod-fists. He knew that they wanted him, and he opened his mouth to scream.

It was a silent scream.

Something velvety soft, sour tasting and smelling sweetly was suddenly crammed into his mouth, filling it tightly and held 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 prefer it that way since my husband died, and I’m getting used to it. I have my house and books, and the garden. The plants are my company, and they give me something to care for. It’s not a bad way to live, but sometimes I think the plants are talking to me. Isn’t that silly?” She laughed.

Jerry didn’t say anything. He didn’t think it was silly.

“I talk talking to people,” she said, “whenever I have visitors. Like you, now. But it isn’t often, so I talk to my flowers, and it makes me feel good, like I have small children again.”

“I hurt them,” said Jerry, and he couldn’t look at her.

“That’s over and done with, now. You were a big help today, Jerry.”

“I like doing it.”

“Could you help me some more?”

“Sure.”

“I could pay you a little something.”

“Whatever,” he said, and jumped a little when she put a hand on his shoulder.

“I start early in the morning,” she said.

“I’ll be here.”

At breakfast the next morning, Mildred saw him waiting for her in the garden.

They worked together, digging and planting under a hot sun. For Jerry, the insanity in his mind came only when Mildred had gone in the house for rest from the heat.

Monster, why are you really here?

I told you to be quiet.

I’m hot and dry all over.

Jerry watered a bed of petunias.

First I’m thirsty, and now I’m drowning.

Quit complaining. He’s learning.

Jerry walked past the largest Trifulus by the shed and jumped to one side when the big plant suddenly shuddered. He remembered the bud-fists opening up, descending on him, the horrible stench from the tooth-lined maw, and the pain.

No fear. She likes you, and we begin to understand. Come rub me, and I’ll sing you an old song.

The thoughts continued throughout the day, becoming more pleasant towards dusk. Mildred sensed the changing tone. Perhaps she really had been angry with Jerry, and her mind was now purged of bad feelings. At dusk she asked if he would help her the rest of the summer, and he happily agreed to do that. He turned to leave, and she went into the house, then remembered a cake pan she had left in the shed, and went to retrieve it. Midway along the dirt path she suddenly stopped. Jerry was standing near the shed, rubbing his hand gently up and down the velvety trunk of a Trifulus, and smiling.

There was a loud humming sound in the garden.