Manroot (7 page)

Chapter 6

The violets had started a new interest for Katherine.
The patch of earth eight feet by ten outside her window had been a hard, uncared-for, unsightly piece of ground in front of the ash pit. The trash men, always careless, left it littered. With Frieda’s permission, Katherine cleared it, dug it up, fertilized it with leaves, and after planting the first violet, she now spent her free time searching the woods for other wildflowers.

“
Silly,” Frieda pronounced it, “all that work. Them plants are good for nothing – can’t eat ‘em, nor use ‘em for medicine.” But she watched with interest as the plot was transformed.

To Katherine, this rectangle of earth was an anchor.
In beauty, it connected her to the place. The feel of the rich earth as she dug and planted, gave her happiness. Frieda’s reference to her green thumb made her feel pleased.

She had created beauty out of nothing.
Early in the morning, the garden was the first thing she saw. It refreshed her. The blooms of the flowers attracted bees and butterflies, and a small hummingbird was seen often drinking the nectar. It was a wild unplanned garden, and she ignored Frieda’s advice: “You should plant ‘em in rows – neat-like.”

She
’d nod, then continue planting just as nature would, at random – and if seeds fell, and new plants sprung out, that was okay; she felt she must let them live the same as they had in the untouched woods. Her garden, her flowers, they were free. She would not make them prisoners in clay pots or neat unnatural rows.

After supper, when the dishes were cleared and the guests had gone, Frieda released her and Katherine set out, when there was still daylight left.
Taking a sack and a small trowel, she made for the woods. When tired she would rest on a fallen log or rock and listen to the chatter of the birds as they prepared for nightfall. Used to her now, squirrels leapt from branch to branch overhead, and through the underbrush she saw the rabbits, with their soft, cautious tread. Occasionally, a small green garter snake would slither across her path, and turtles draw in their shells, to slowly re-emerge, watching her with curiosity. She disturbed nothing, she was part of the fabric of life in the woods. She belonged!

She found the plant b
y the stream; it was different from any she already had. Its furry leaves and the brilliant purple satin of its flower was like none she had seen before or gathered. Carefully, she dug the trowel deep, and lifted the clod of earth, noticing that the leaves did not shudder. She had gone deep enough; a fat earthworm – cut in half by the trowel – dropped to the ground and disappeared under the leaves to regenerate itself.

Cradling the plant in her apron, she made her way back.
In the west the sky was red with sunset and she hurried, for she did not wish to deny the plant. It was so special; she would plant it right away. She knelt at the corner of her plot and began digging.

“
Rhododendron,” she heard a voice call down to her.

She glanced up and saw Judge Reardo
n looking over the balcony.

“
I don’t know what it’s called,” she answered.

“
Rhododendron,” he repeated. On his weekend visits he had noticed the barren patch being transformed. Now he knew whose garden it was. That girl – the maid – the strange one who liked the stars.

Idly he watched her motions.
“No!” he shouted. “That’s wrong – not in that corner.”

She looked up, her hand shielding her eyes from the setting sun.
“What?”

It was ridiculous, shouting directions like this.
He came down the steps.

She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him.

“Not in that corner. It doesn’t like the sun – it must be in shade.”

He dropped to his knees and took the plant from her.
Small clods of earth fell unheeded onto his fresh gabardine trousers. He held the plant up – rotated it in his hands, admiring its healthy perfection.

In a low voice he began, “‘
In the spring I found the rhododendron hiding its blooms under the –’ There’s a poem written about it, you know. I had to memorize it in the fifth grade. I didn’t realize I still remembered it,” he grinned.

The plant was special.
She knew it, feeling a kinship with the unknown poet.

“
Wrong corner.” He rose and went to the other side, cleared a space. “Trowel?”

She handed it to him.

He pushed up the sleeves of the immaculate white shirt and began digging in the rich earth. “Pebbles – a handful. It should be well drained.”

He waited patiently as she searched the yard and came back with a handful.
He hollowed the hole and filled it with pebbles, sprinkling the dirt liberally.

She watched as he lovingly patted the earth around the settled plant.

“It should do well here,” he said. He gazed at her garden, and below she could just hear him listing verbally the plants he recognized. “Verbena, alyssum. This one’s rhododendron.”

“
Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t know what it was. I really don’t know what half of them are called, but I like growing ’em anyway.”

In the dusk he seemed younger.
A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, a streak of dirt lay across his cheek. With sudden realization, he looked down at his hands.

“
I’ll get you a wet cloth,” she offered. Beyond her the door to her room was still open.

She entered the darkness, reached for the light switch.
In the basin she ran warm water over the cloth. When she turned, she saw him standing in the doorway, one arm up on the frame, looking about the room. She put the damp cloth down and with an unspoken invitation, moved away from the sink.

He entered the room, went to the sink and lathered up his hands ag
ain and again until they were clean. In the manner of men, he scooped water in his palms and splashed his face, finishing with a cold rinse that made him issue a ‘Brrr, Brrr,’ sound.

She held out the towel and he buried his face in it; the scent of warm su
nshine, fresh lemons and a faint tinge of natural flowers assailed him, and he felt a pang of nostalgia. The smell made him think of running through a field of sunflowers, coming home to a warm kitchen redolent with fresh lemon as his mother’s pies baked in the oven, the feel of her arms, her lips in his hair. ‘I love you, William – you’re my good boy.’ He hadn’t been lonely then – the emptiness was full then.

He stared over at Katherine.
What was it about her that dredged up these childhood memories?

She s
tood near the door, uncomfortable with his presence here.

He looked at the dresser; in the injured glass he saw that his face was clean.
He picked up the ‘God’s eye.’ “Hey, this one’s great! I remember making these in Boy Scouts. I was clumsy as hell, it took me two or three tries to make one and even then it was always lopsided. I forget now how we made them.”

She stepped closer and took the
‘God’s eye’ from him. “It’s simple. My mother and I used to make them back in Gallup. She sold them as Indian souvenirs. First you find two twigs and tie them together to form a cross, then you take a piece of yarn and wind it round and round until you can tie it off at the end. Then you take more yarn, a different color this time, and do the same thing, winding and changing colors until it’s done.”

He reached for it and held it up.
“It looks like a small kite.” He pointed to the middle of the triangle. “Your ‘God’s eye’ – it’s red, scary. I’d hate to think that God’s eyes are red,” he teased. She blushed with embarrassment, and he laid it back carefully on the dresser.

Next he saw the card, with Jesus.
“Are you Catholic?” he asked.

“
No, but my father was.”

“
I am,” he said. “Don’t go to church much, though. Don’t go to church at all.”

Again this faded card broug
ht back the scent of incense, the feel of the starched cloth of the alter-boy apron scratching his neck. For so many years he hadn’t thought of those things.

He saw the carefully clipped article on the dresser.

Reader’s Digest: Know your stars.

“
I promised you a book about stars. I haven’t forgotten,” he lied. He straightened up and felt the urge to run from this room, away from this strange girl. She, too, seemed reluctant, pulling back as he passed her and made his way back up the stairs.

Carefu
l, he must be careful, he thought. What would people think? His friends – his professional friends, those that talked of nothing but laws and bills and stock options, and his other friends – fair-weather friends, those he drank with, played cards with… to those he was the Judge, a cardboard caricature of someone, this person Judge William Reardon. What would they think of a friendship with a half-breed Indian servant? They could understand a drunken one-night-stand with her, but could they fathom the warmth of standing next to her in awe of the stars, or the joy of working in the soil planting a wild shrub?

He had forgotten to tell her:
he had a greenhouse. Foolish, he was being foolish. It was near his birthday. He was approaching fifty. It made him examine his life, and he found it wanting.

The next morning she found his cuff-link among the flowers
– in small diamonds, his initials W.R. She put it in the heart-shaped box, not knowing or caring for its value, but it, too, added to the parts of him she now possessed.

With patience and fear, she waited, for she knew before he did, that they belonged to each other!

Chapter 7

William came to Castlewood the next week as usual. After showering and shaving he rang for bourbon and spring water.

He would give the girl the book and be done with it.
He had said he would bring her a book; being a man of his word he had done so.

But this slow slithering friendship that was beginning with her would have to stop.
It made no sense.

Shortly after ringing, there was a soft knock on the door.
In answer to his, ‘Come in,’ she stepped inside.

Holding the tray unsteadil
y, she walked across and put it on the night-stand, knocking over Elizabeth’s picture.

He came out of the bathroom to see the blonde maid standing there.
Her jaw moved as she chewed her gum, waiting for her tip.

“
I thought – ” He stopped in mid-sentence and reached for a coin which he put in her waiting palm. “Thank you,” he said curtly.

In twenty-five minutes he tried again, ringing for more spring water.
Again the strong blonde brought the water, still chewing frantically on her gum.

Just before
she shut the door he said, “Wait.” She stepped back in the room, her face slack now; surprise had stopped her chewing motion.

Embarrassed, without looking at her, he said softly, “
The other one, Kathy –“

“
Oh yes, sir,” she chirped, and ran noisily downstairs. Breathless, she found Katherine and gripped her hands. “Guess what?”

“
What?”

Sally giggled, and grabbed her close and whispered in her ear, “
The Judge is asking for you.”

Frieda
’s sharp voice interrupted them. “What are you two giggling about? You’ll disturb the guests.”

“
Nothing, Frieda,” Sally said. Sally was used to hiding things. “The Judge wants more spring water,” she lied.

“
More water? What’s he need more water for?”

Saucily Sally said, “
I don’t know, Frieda. Maybe he wants to take a bath in it,” and she snickered hysterically at her own joke.

Frieda shoved the bottle of water toward her.
“Take it up and stop that cackling.”

Sally handed it to Katherine.
“Please, you take it. My back’s hurting from running up and down the stairs so much. My aunt’s visiting, you know.”

Katherine blushed at Sally
’s brazen mention of her period.

Frieda disgustedly went back to the kitchen muttering to herself, “
Hare brain. That girl’s lazy and hare-brained to boot.”

Katherine took the bottle of water up to William
’s room. He looked with surprise at the third bottle of spring water, then realized the blonde had a knack for conspiracy. He placed it next to the two unopened bottles on the nightstand and smiled at Katherine. “I brought the book.” He held out the large picture book about stars to her.

Her brow knitted as she smoothed the glossy cover; she opened it and saw the simplistic drawings of the heavens, realizing it was a book for a child.

Instantly he, too, perceived his mistake. He had assumed her simple. Hurriedly, he explained, “I’m afraid it’s the only one the bookstore had. It’s not bad for a beginner. Why, I often read children’s books when I want an overview of a subject. I’ll keep a lookout for something more suitable.”

“
Thank you. This one is just fine.”

It was the silly uniform, or something cold that stood between them now.
The feeling of friendship was gone, or maybe he had imagined it in the first place. Somehow it was important for him to know her better.

“
How’s the garden?” he asked.

“
Fine.”

“
The rhododendron – ”

“
It’s growing, it’s good.”

“
I’d like one for my greenhouse!”

She looked up; was he asking for hers?

“I mean, if you find another one…”

“
For the greenhouse?” Deciding to be genuine she asked, “What’s a greenhouse?”

“
Oh! It’s a building all made of glass, small panes. It attracts the sun, keeps things warm and moist. You can grow anything in it, even out of season,” and he pictured the greenhouse now, knowing it was full of empty pots and withered stalks. The only thing alive in it now was the Bonsai tree.

“
In pots? They grow in pots in the greenhouse?”

“
Yes. Why, I even have a tree.”

“
A tree growing in a pot?” She couldn’t imagine a tree in a pot. Sad enough that they stayed rooted forever in one spot on the earth, let alone in a pot.

They had the same love of things, she knew that, but his was bound in some way.
Never mind, she thought, she could teach him. He could learn the freedom.

He felt words rushing within him; he had gotten past the starched apron and black unifor
m. Yet how could he invite her to sit down so they could talk? He was hungry to know her mind. He was certain it was not filled with organza curtains or mail-order kitchen gadgets, like Elizabeth’s…nor with curlers or mascara or black filmy nightgowns like the whores at the Eagle’s Nest.

He was hungry to know this lovely woman
’s mind. He felt a surge of happiness spring from an unknown source.

“
Is that all, sir?”

They were maid and guest again.
He turned away from her. “Yes, that’s all.” He did not tip her; he thought it unseemly now.

He heard the door click softly behind her.
He poured a glass of whiskey, drank it neat, dressed and went to the Eagle’s Nest to drown his unease. He selected the dark one, the girl by the jukebox. He insulted her, for he wanted to turn off the light and lose himself in animal passion. Once spent, he gagged at her cheap perfume, left her the money, and stumbled out into the cool night.

As he walked back to the hotel, he looked up.
The sky full of stars blinked at him. He thought of her; he had been fooling himself. Yes, he wanted to know more of her – he wanted to know her thoughts, her mind. In their tentative friendship, he liked her, still it had not escaped him – and with surprise he realized this – her smooth skin, dark liquid eyes, the satin flow of her hair… They had registered somewhere within him, and he faced it fully now:
he desired her.
A painful throbbing want overcame him. He felt like a silly schoolboy with his first crush.

It was dangerous, this n
ew feeling. She was too young, too naive, too trusting – one does not have casual affairs with a woman like this. He was certain she was a virgin. No good would come from getting involved. Wherever these stray, random thoughts came from, they must not be allowed to flourish.

He was a man of control,
in
control. He controlled many lives, he could control himself. He would never pass that boundary again. The invisible line would be re-drawn, putting her in her proper perspective. She was no different from the clean towel in the bathroom, the tray of spring water – all brought for his comfort. She would be placed among these inanimate objects. She was the hired help, he the paying guest.

That ni
ght he saw her, bathed in moonlight, her smooth brown body perfection, fragrant soft hair falling about his face, shielding out the world, the warm, moist touch of her lips, inflaming his. He heard the soft murmur of his name repeated as she whispered in his ear, her hot breath sweet.

It was not like anything he had known with any other woman, and in the dawn he awoke, appalled that he had had a wet dream.

In the morning, Frieda excused Katherine from duties, telling her gruffly, “
You help Sally pack. We have to get her on the train. Mr. Taylor thought she was already gone – he’s not much for giving free room and board.”

The girls enjoyed the day, ironing and folding Sally
’s fancy clothes. “Don’t know when I’ll next be by an iron,” Sally said, although they both knew the carefully pressed garments would crease as Sally had only one large suitcase.

Although close in age, the girls were two very different people.
Katherine’s naivety sprang from a lifetime of growing up with no one. She had shared the road with her father, but they had been total strangers to one another and she could not think back on any of the pleasant memories without that last terrifying one entering her mind. She knew so little of men. They usually frightened and confused her as if they belonged to a different species, yet she trembled with love for the Judge, without even knowing what the love between a man and a woman should be. Sally ranted and raved, cursing the hotel, cursing Castlewood and Mr. Taylor. She hadn’t saved any money, and when it was time to go, it was the last weekend when Justin, the salesman, came this way and stopped here. Sally told of his generous tip. Now she could finally be on her way.

“
Lookee here,” she said, holding up an embossed silver square. “He gave me his card and told me to call him anytime.”

Katherine took the card and read it:

Justin Tique

Nature
’s Way Products

Laxatives Tonics Cosmetics

“He loves me,” Sally proclaimed. “He told me that he loves me.”

Handing back the card, Katherine said simply, “
That’s wonderful.”

Carefully, Sally put the card in her purse.
“And iffin he doesn’t work out, I just might take me a train to California – Hollywood, that is. Justin said I look just like Carole Lombard.”

She studied herself in the mirror, fluffed h
er bleached hair, and leaned forward to see if the dark roots were showing. “Katherine, do you think I look like Carole Lombard?”

Not wanting to displease her, Katherine replied, “
I’m sure you must if he said it, but I’ve never seen her!”

“
God, you are a hick, never seen her in the movies.” She realized she was being sharp with her so she changed the subject. “You still liking the Judge?”

Katherine blushed; she had regretted a thousand times telling this to Sally, but today she would be gone and the teasing
would stop. She didn’t answer the question, for Frieda called up to them: “Bruce is here to carry the bags.” They heard his slow, careful tread on the stairs.

“
Wait, I have to leave you something,” Sally said. She re-opened the bag, dipping through it carelessly, leaving the carefully packed clothes a mess, and brought out a blue silk camisole. “Here, take it.”

Katherine felt close to tears.
They had nothing in common, yet she liked her. Sally was warm and generous.

“
I couldn’t take it…it’s so lovely.”

“
Sure you can. I’ll get lots more in St. Louis or maybe even in Hollywood.” She winked. “Wear it for the Judge.”

Bruce came in and picked up the heavy suitcase.
He wore his normal blank smile; he was happy.

Sally looked around the room for th
e last time. “Oh God, I forgot about the dummy…I can’t afford much.” Then, getting an idea, she took off her rhinestone earrings – a couple of stones were missing anyway. “Here, Bruce.”

He took the earrings, and his smile widened as he saw the lights chang
e in the glass. “Oh – I’m going to give these to my mother. They’re so pretty,” he said.

Katherine would have liked to go to the train station with them, but she followed them to the porch and stood waving vigorously every time Sally turned around.
She knew she had to be in the kitchen soon to make the tea for Mr. Taylor’s arthritis.