The Rockstar Chronicles

The Garden

I hesitated. My parents warnings of not entering the houses of strangers came into my mind. “I don’t know…,” I started.

Mrs. Crabtree grinned, shaking one finger at me. “Smart girl. You don’t know me from a hole in the ground. How about I get myself a glass of sweet tea and you can join me on the porch?”

I nodded silently and she disappeared into her shadowy house without another word. I edged forward, approaching the gate. It wobbled, creaking open with a loud squeal of protest. I paused, surveying the garden in astonishment.

It was large and haphazard. I wondered if it reflected the owner and caretaker in that manner. It was obvious the small plot of land could not contain all the beauty Mrs. Crabtree wished to heap upon it and so everything was crowded.

Long flowering stems and grasses spilled over onto the brick sidewalk leading up to the house, which was two stories tall, but long and low. A wide, deep porch stretched across the house with a wooden swing covered in yellow cushions taking up most of the right side. Two rocking chairs stood nearby and the opposite side of the porch was crowded with buckets, brushes, and an easel.

It felt as if I were crossing into another world, a safe, quiet place, as I entered Mrs. Crabtree’s sanctuary, closing the gate carefully behind me. The tall shrubs blocked out the rest of the world, with some help from the heavy trees. I climbed the massive concrete steps to a concrete slab porch. It felt sturdy and strong and I liked it at once.

Mrs. Crabtree appeared in the doorway, two glasses of tea in hand. I accepted the offered drink, but did not take a sip. I still don’t really know this woman, I thought.

“How about a seat?” Mrs. Crabtree asked. She flipped on a switch and a porch fan began to swing lazily, stirring the still air. She collapsed against her cushioned rocking chair and, reaching into a flowered fabric pocket hanging on the side, she fished around before pulling out a fan triumphantly.

As she flicked it open, I almost gasped in amazement. It was gorgeous, a perfect picture of Minnie’s flowers. She waved it in front of her face as she rocked, her hands filthy with dirt and her nails caked and dirty. They stood out against the gorgeous fan and I found myself worrying she would dirty it.

Time seemed to stand still. I settled on the rocker, pushing myself back and forth idly with one foot. Mimicking Mrs. Crabtree, I pressed the cold glass against my neck. The icy condensation felt good against my hot skin.

She closed her eyes, fanning herself slowly while taking a long sip of her tea. She didn’t pester with me questions, but we just sat there, enjoying each others company. I liked it.

Finally, she spoke. “Well, what do you think of my garden?” She said it as if she didn’t really care, in an offhand, flippant manner. But her eyes told a different story.

She peeked at me over the rim of her glass, watching my reaction.

“I love it,” I said and I meant it with all my heart.

Her eyes lit up and she chuckled, glancing around her garden with an expression of deep affection. “I do, too. Some people say it’s too messy, but I don’t have enough room to give all the plants a chance to grow if I lay it out any other way. It seems wrong somehow, to keep the seeds in their little dark packets another year. I’d rather give them their day in the sun.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind messy. Mom says I appear to thrive in it.”

Mrs. Crabtree smiled again. “Sounds like my mother. Boy, was she tough.” She laughed, long and loud. I had never heard an older person laugh like that before.

“Yeah,” I rocked back and forth, my eyes traveling over the wide expanse of color. Pointing to the easel, I asked, “Do you paint?”

She nodded. “Yes, I paint. It’s a hobby of mine. What do you do for fun?”

“Sing, dance, act,” I replied automatically. It was my usual response at auditions, but today I left off the fake smile. It seemed like it would be wrong somehow in the beautiful garden. As if the truth would be immediately revealed.

Sometimes Mom had me add reading or horseback riding or drawing, depending on what I was auditioning for. Truth was, I did enjoy reading and horseback riding and I was a terrible artist. But they didn’t need to know these things, if it wasn’t pertinent information. And besides, I rarely had time to participate in these activities anyway.

“Really?” Mrs. Crabtree asked, gazing at me shrewdly. “You enjoy these hobbies?”

I was shocked. My foot thudded against the concrete, stopping the swing. It rocked crazily, but I only stared at her. “I…. Yes, I do,” I said.

No one had ever asked me that before. I wasn’t sure what to think. Of course I like singing and dancing and acting. Why would I do it, otherwise? I bit my lip to keep from saying these words. I knew how rude they sounded.

Mrs. Crabtree only nodded as she finished her tea. “Well, why don’t we look around the garden and then you can help me for a bit? That is, if you want to?”

I leapt from the swing, happy to have a distraction from my thoughts. But during the tour of the garden, my mind kept traveling back to her questions and my responses.

It must have been because I didn’t smile, I decided. But a niggling worry kept bothering me, like a gnat buzzing around my head.

I had the feeling that if I had smiled, Mrs. Crabtree would have known for sure.

What she would have known, I pushed away, burying it deep inside.

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