CHAPTER 8
I wasn’t prepared for company, but my guests didn’t seem to mind, especially my new friend Mykia. She’d taken one look at my backyard, and then announced she needed to eat before she could think about where to start with my small ecological disaster. After a quick trip to her truck to grab some produce, Mykia began to familiarize herself with my kitchen.
“Are these spices from this century?” she asked, holding up some jars I barely recognized. “I think they’ve permanently adhered to the side of the jar.”
I squinted at the labels. “Coriander and marjoram? When were those ever a thing?”
“They’re always a thing. You can’t mix up herbes de Provence without marjoram, so how would you make herbed pork loin or roasted goose? And could you imagine making Moroccan tagine without coriander?”
I couldn’t imagine cooking any of those things because I never had. But I didn’t admit that to Mykia. “I thought you were a vegetarian,” I said, changing the subject.
“What gave you that idea? I like everything. I eat everything.” She surveyed the pantry, stopping at the tower of tuna. “Are you a pescatarian?”
“Those are my son’s.”
“You have a son? Where is he?”
Mykia was probably just curious, but her question gave me pause. She was a stranger. I had a stranger inside my house, going through my things, talking about my son.
I crossed my arms over my chest, sending what I hoped was a clear message. “He’s out with my husband,” I lied. The lie felt strangely comforting.
“Cool,” was all she said, and she got to work setting pans on the stove. She washed the veggies and then began to slice them, a peaceful, satisfied look on her face. She hadn’t asked us what we wanted for dinner. She hadn’t asked for help. I felt petty and mean, my judgment getting the best of me.
“So,” I began, telling myself I was initiating small talk, “do you have any ownership stake in the farm you work for?”
She smiled faintly. “Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t.” But it did, though I couldn’t put a finger on why. Did I need to feel superior? Did some better part of me want her to have something of her own?
She gestured outdoors, toward Glynnis and Jackie, who sat companionably on the patio. “Do those gals have a stake in the company you work for? Have you ever questioned it, or is it just who I am that’s bothering you? You’re skittish as a cat having me in your house—”
“That’s not fair. I know them. I’m happy to have you over, but I don’t know you.”
“No,” she said, after an uncomfortable beat. “You don’t. I’m sorry. I’ve got a small chip on my shoulder. It wasn’t placed there by me, but for some reason I can’t get rid of it. It’s probably implanted itself by now.”
“I’ve got one, too,” I admitted. “I’m not from around here originally. I guess that feeling never quite goes away.” I knew for sure that feeling never moved on. Jesse always felt the past was something we had to outsmart—if it got the best of us, we’d find ourselves struggling to survive in the world of poverty, drug addiction, and violence that beset both of our families. He succeeded in this by playing by the rules of suburbia, a society that made sense to him. We had good jobs and a nice home, we paid our bills on time, and we gave back to the community in small but significant ways. The one time Jesse let something lapse, it ended in catastrophe—when he died we were in the process of changing insurance companies, and we’d decided to hold off on life insurance policies because I felt we could shop around for a better deal. Taking such a risk truly bothered him, but I’d said it was only a matter of a few weeks. What could happen? So much could happen. Death could happen. I’d apologized to him a thousand times in my head. For Jesse, security was the best thing he could give us, and I’d taken that away from him.
“Your mind is a million miles away,” Mykia said, her voice full of wry humor. Something in her eyes told me she knew what I was thinking about wasn’t all that funny. She began to chop an onion, methodically, precisely. “So, my father is from Jamaica. My mother was German. I’m a halfsie.”
“Was?”
“She’s passed on,” she explained, “but my father is still around. He wants me to go back to dental school. On his dime.”
“You were in dental school?”
“I’m going to ignore how surprised you sound.”
“Sorry,” I said, my face growing hot with embarrassment. “I’m terribly judgmental. Can’t help it.”
She smiled. “There are worse things.”
I thought about all the part-time jobs Jesse and I worked when we were young. How exhausted we were, and how fearful. “Why would you say no to someone footing the bill for college?”
“Because I’m saying yes to this,” she said, gesturing toward the vegetables brightening my countertop.
“It’s tough to get into dental school. You just walked away one day?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I know what’s what.”
What? I wanted to shout. What is what? I felt like I had no idea what she was talking about, and I desperately wanted to know but didn’t know how to ask without sounding foolish. Instead, I asked, “Did you leave before they could fix your tooth?”
Mykia laughed. “I pulled my own tooth, because it would probably need it eventually, and I wanted to see what it felt like. I haven’t gotten around to doing something with it.”
I just nodded. Usually, when someone said something that highlighted how starkly different we were, it made me take a step back. With Mykia, I wanted to get closer, to keep peeling back the layers of her personality. She was bold enough to yank out a tooth. She was confident enough to call me on my bullshit. I thought she was exactly the right person to help me with the backyard of destruction.
I watched as she worked her magic, taking a box of pasta, some cream I hoped hadn’t gone sour in my fridge, an egg, and a random mix of spring vegetables, and turned it into savory Italian goodness.
She twirled the pasta around a fork and held it out to me. “Try it.”
Wow. Just like Mykia, the dish was a multilayered miracle of taste. “That’s pretty incredible.”
She smiled, self-satisfied. “Uh-huh.”
I helped myself to another bite. “You’re going to help me, aren’t you? With this garden.”
“I don’t exactly know why, but I’m going to try,” she said through a mouthful. “It’s not looking too good.”
Someone rapped on the French patio doors. Jackie stood there, frowning, her French-manicured index finger tapping at the glass. When I opened the door, she said, “There’s some people here to see you. And they don’t look happy.”
Mr. Eckhardt led the charge, followed by a ruddy-complexioned, barrel-chested Willow Falls police officer and two women of about retirement age, one dressed head to toe in symbols—Tory Burch, Chanel, Michael Kors—and one wearing sensible sandals and khakis. Both frowned at me, lips curled in disgust as though I were the dog who pooped on their expensive carpet. Mr. Eckhardt shook with barely controlled fury—it would have struck me as funny had I not been the focus of his outrage.
“Unacceptable,” he spat, gesturing at the dirt pit. “Completely unacceptable.”
Jackie moved next to me, and Mykia was on the other side, so it was a fair fight.
“This is private property,” I said. “My property. If I want to dig, I can dig.”
“You just need to watch out for the gas lines,” said the police officer. He looked faintly amused. “Call Nicor, and they’ll send someone out.”
“It’s not that simple,” the label lover said. Her voice, smooth and confident, had the assurance of someone who didn’t question herself and expected others to follow suit. She placed one hand on Mr. Eckhardt’s forearm, much to the alarm of the khaki-clad woman. “We are longtime members of Willow Falls. This community has standards that were established long before you bought this house. You must abide by those standards.”
Miss Khaki, red faced but determined, stepped to Mr. Eckhardt’s other side, and placed her liver-spotted hand on his forearm. “There are rules,” she said. “And there are consequences for not following them.”
“What kinds of consequences?” Mykia said. Her voice matched her opponent’s—cool and unperturbed.
“Do you live here?” the khaki-clad woman asked.
“Does it matter?” Mykia countered. “I’m just talking sense.”
Label Lover addressed me. “You have a corner house. Anyone walking by can see this eyesore. It’s not good for the community, and we take the well-being of the community very seriously.” She reluctantly removed her manicured hand from Mr. Eckhardt and placed it on my shoulder. “I take our citizens’ well-being seriously as well. Bill has filled us in on your tragic situation. If you need financial help—or if you need to speak to someone—my husband, bless his departed heart, was a renowned therapist. I’m well versed in grief.” She glanced at an uncomfortable Mr. Eckhardt and added, “Though the past is past and I do feel moving forward is important, in every way.”
Her concern oozed over me like a BPA-filled plastic film. I couldn’t stand her false pity, so I looked down, my feet at the edge of the dirt pit. I leaned slightly forward and let my shoes sink into it.
“Well?” she said. “Are you ready to talk solutions? Are you ready to let us help you?”
“Help me?” My brain suddenly felt fuzzy, my thoughts muddy as my shoes. “How would this help me?”
The silent pause that followed was brimming with awkwardness. The two women pretended I hadn’t said anything and looked at me with feigned compassion. Mr. Eckhardt seethed. Jackie went off to have a smoke. Glynnis began to fold into herself for protection from their scrutiny.
“Can I ask you to step over to my vehicle?” The cop’s voice was raspy, but still it sounded too loud.
“What?” Was I being arrested? Should I ask someone to grab a phone and start recording? I scanned his chest for a body cam.
“She doesn’t have to do that,” Mykia said. There was steel in her voice. The cop smiled, revealing crooked teeth. His eyes twinkled. With his red hair and bristly red beard, he resembled an overgrown, slightly chubby leprechaun.
“I’m not hauling her into the station . . . yet. I just think a private conversation at this point would be most productive,” he said, and gestured for me to follow him to his copmobile, parked in front of my house.
“I’m recording you,” Mykia said, holding up her phone. “It’s not illegal to do so.”
“Go right ahead, ma’am,” he said.
“I’d prefer all conversations to be had in front of everyone,” Mr. Eckhardt said, using his voice of authority.
“Sir, I think it would be more productive for me to speak with Miss . . . uh . . .”
“Mrs. Moresco,” I said. “And if you give me your word you aren’t going to try to bully me, I’ll talk to you.”
He placed three fingers over his heart, like a Boy Scout. “You’ve got my word.”
“Every move you make,” Mykia called out as we walked toward the squad car. “Every single move you make. I’m recording everything!”
Once out of earshot, Officer Leprechaun started laughing, a great big guffaw. “Lady, what the fuck are you doing?”
My mouth dropped open. “Did you just swear at me?”
“I did. Your friend’s phone won’t pick that up, so you’ll have trouble proving it in a court of law,” he said, still laughing.
“I’m having trouble figuring out the source of your humor.”
“It’s just I haven’t seen that trio so worked up since that homeopathic doctor opened her doors downtown.”
“Oh. So, I’m off the hook?”
His expression turned more serious. “They weren’t blowing smoke when they said there are ordinances. I’m not well versed in the bylaws of this particular subdivision, but I do know people who stop mowing their lawn or put a car up on blocks are soon convinced to change their habits ASAP. I don’t even think they allow garage sales.”
“Who stops them? You?”
“Not me.” He glanced over at Mr. Eckhardt, who was sandwiched tightly between the two elderly women. “However, I do need to come when they call the police, or else I’ll hear about it from my sergeant. And I wasn’t kidding around when I said you need to call the gas company. You start digging seriously and that could go wrong pretty quickly.”
“A garden,” I said quietly. Suddenly my plans felt foolish. “I want to plant a garden.”
He whistled. It was an old-fashioned sound, and I smiled despite myself. “Have you ever heard of starting small?”
“I’ve always started small,” I said. “I figured it was time to go big.”
“That’s a good attitude, but fair warning—you’re going to have a battle with them. They don’t give up easily, and they’re always convinced they’re right.”
I smiled up at him. “I’m learning to deal with people like that.”
He smiled back. “And how’s that going?”
“Not good,” I said. “But I’m optimistic.”
“I swear that tasted just like a bowl full of heaven.” I sprawled over the lawn, full of food and satisfied, and stared up at the darkening late-spring sky. We were all stretched out over some old blankets I’d found in the linen closet. Somewhere in the pantry Mykia found a tray Jesse’s aunt Tess had given us, and it made a nice centerpiece, citronella candle burning away in the middle. Still, we alternately swatted at the early mosquitoes sucking our blood, enriched as it was with the sweetness of the strawberries Glynnis had bought at the market.
“I told you,” Mykia said. “When it comes to food, I’m a genius.”
“Alchemist,” I said as I poured us all some more wine. “That’s what you called yourself. I like that better, turning something boring into something spectacular.”
“I’m not sure what that means exactly,” Jackie said, “but that was amazing, and I don’t even like vegetables.”
“Anyone can do it,” Mykia said, her voice growing soft. “Like anything else, it just takes a little effort.”
“I don’t know,” I mused. “You planted those vegetables. Cared for them. Plucked them at the right time and made something incredible from them for us to enjoy. Circle of life right there.”
Mykia turned on her stomach. She toyed with one blade of grass, not snapping it, but not letting it go, working it between her fingers. “You’ll do the same, in time. That’s the goal, isn’t it? Some kind of subsistence garden?”
“I don’t know. I started digging because I was feeling shitty and it felt good. Then I kept digging because I liked the feeling. The idea of actually planting something came later. I didn’t seriously start thinking about it until I saw your stuff at the market today.”
Mykia nudged me with her foot. “I always tell my father that gardening gives me endorphins. You know, like a runner’s high.”
“I believe it.”
We grew silent for a moment, taking in the great gaping hole of dirt, which suddenly seemed to beckon with possibility.
“Well, you have to do something with this,” Jackie said. “It seems a shame to sod it over, and I don’t even know why. This is a fancy suburb. It does look awful. That snobby lady was right about that.”
It didn’t look awful to me. The dirt was dark and rich and teeming with worms. That should have grossed me out, but it didn’t. “I’m not going to cover it up. I’m going to keep digging.”
“It’s not too late to plant this season,” Glynnis quietly contributed. “My mom always put in tomatoes late, and peppers, eggplant, zucchini. It usually worked out.”
“That’s not the way to do this,” Mykia said, shaking her head. “You should do raised beds, maybe build a small greenhouse on one side of the yard. This requires planning. You can’t just dig up your yard and drop in a few plants.”
“How much would the raised beds cost?” I had no idea.
She thought for a moment. “You could fit about six here, maybe eight. Fifteen hundred dollars? And that’s conservative.”
“I don’t have the money for that right now.”
Mykia took her time before she spoke again. “Well, I guess dirt’s dirt. If you’re not going to resod that hole, then you might as well do something with it. We’ve got some guys who work at our farm. I can send them out with a rototiller if you’re serious. I’ve got some scrap wood, and they can squeeze a few raised beds out of my stash. It’s not going to be pretty, though.”
“And how much will that cost?” I asked, expecting the worst.
“About a hundred bucks.”
Jackie’s head whipped up. She raised an eyebrow at me. Mykia was obviously giving me a deal. I wasn’t above taking it.
“Okay. If I toss in another fifty, can they help me get more of this lawn up?”
“Done.” Mykia grinned. “This subdivision is full of perfect lawns and Stepford wives. Your neighbors aren’t going to be happy.”
“Nope.”
“See if your association will give you a permit,” she added, her smile widening. Mykia was getting a kick out of this. I had the feeling that thumbing her nose at authority revved her up.
“You sure about this, Paige?” asked Jackie. The voice of reason. But I wasn’t feeling particularly reasonable.
“No,” I answered. “I’m not. But I’m doing it anyway.”