Mister Owita's Guide to Gardening: How I Learned the Unexpected Joy of a Green Thumb and an Open Heart (4 page)

Daddy was much safer here, and Mama was, too, but there was no getting around how sad this day was for Mama. She probably could have held on to the house if it weren’t for Daddy’s illness. But he’d taken to wandering any time of the day or
night, not to mention remarking on the size of women’s breasts. It was a startling development in a man who’d always been so gentlemanly.

My mother, even at eighty, was a smart, determined woman who could still put on airs of Scarlett at the barbecue if the situation called for it. It never failed to amuse me how, right in the middle of a conversation with someone, she’d excuse herself and leave the room. Then, after a minute or two, she’d return with freshened lipstick and hair. Mama could be fragile, as well I knew, but she was strong-willed, too, and it was obvious as the day wore on that this move had knocked the wind out of her. Mama and I spent the afternoon hanging some family photos on the walls of their apartment—or rather I hung while she directed me where to put things. Gradually, her enthusiasm fully drained away, and by early afternoon, she surrendered to a nap. I tiptoed out to go home and then collapsed on my own bed.

Today, I had returned to have lunch with them. My mother’s angry words an hour earlier were still ringing in my ears.

“
Just wait till you get old,” she whispered fiercely as she stabbed a bite of chicken with her fork. “You’ll see. A person’s home is everything.”

“I hope I get to
be
old, Mama,” I snapped back. Then I felt guilty for reminding her of their innocent mistake that couldn’t be changed. I had so aspired to being the perfect daughter in this situation, but apparently it didn’t take much for me to lose my poise. I wished that I’d been able to bite my tongue and remind myself that Mama was only angry at me because there wasn’t
anyone else to be angry at. She couldn’t blame Daddy for being sick. And even if she could, he was way past absorbing blame.

While Mama and I seethed over our meals, my father chewed his smothered chicken with mechanical precision. Swallowing mouthfuls of food and taking big, sloppy slurps of his coffee were all he seemed to care about. In the life before Alzheimer’s struck, he had always played the role of mediator and protector for my mother. Now he looked at both of us as if we were strangers he had encountered at a bus stop.

I reached into another of the boxes on my kitchen floor, flinging the top carelessly in the direction of the trash can. I was surprised to find a large black-and-white photo from my parents’ square dance days. I used to watch Mama and Daddy dancing with their wholesome group of friends on a summer night on the flagstone patio outside my bedroom window. I was sometimes allowed to join the grown-ups for bowls of homemade vanilla ice cream studded with nuggets of strawberries or fresh peaches, and they would pretend not to know I was up past my bedtime. I felt the joy of this as if it had happened last night.

During this walk down memory lane, I suddenly heard the ring of the doorbell. I jumped, as if I were just waiting for bad news. I pictured Daddy on the lam, having found my house with the help of a series of strangers. I imagined him striding into my foyer to announce that he was going back to Radford
right this very instant
,
and he wanted his car keys given back to him at once.

My rational mind took over and I checked the clock on
the microwave: 2:56. It was time for my meeting with Giles Owita.

I thought I had left a larger window of time for feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I splashed water on my face and pulled a comb through my hair as Rhudy trotted toward the foyer, issuing more of his “happy barks of warning.” I snatched an unused marble notebook I had found at the bottom of a box that morning. I also grabbed the list I’d made.

I opened the front door and rearranged my face into a pleasant look, but was surprised to find no one standing on our porch. I put Rhudy on the leash and stepped outside. On either side of me were sadly sagging boxwoods and no Giles Owita. A bright blue Neon was parked at Sarah’s house. Its driver was AWOL. Maybe I had imagined the doorbell ringing.

“Hello?” I called out.

Silence.

I closed my eyes. A gentle breeze lifted my hair. Soon a reedy, snapping sound floated toward me from the left side of the house where the azaleas were. Could Giles Owita have rung the doorbell simply to announce his arrival? Had he already plunged his shovel into the moistened earth to leverage an azalea from its hold in the ground, even as I looked for him?

As I walked along, I pictured the stubborn roots giving way, but not without a fight. I was happy to think of Giles Owita applying all his strength, acting on my request and then waiting for me to join him to discuss different options. Or maybe he was planning a surprise. I didn’t want to spoil the moment, but
perhaps he didn’t realize how long it would surely take him to dig up just one of those azaleas with their deep-reaching, fibrous roots.

When Rhudy rounded the corner of the house, the mystery was solved. He gave a single, urgent bark and entered his version of a pointer’s stance. Soon I caught up with him, and oh, dear. It was Giles Owita, all right, wearing his navy work suit and occupied with the azaleas, as I’d hoped. But the shrubs were hardly under full assault. In fact, Giles Owita lovingly tended to the first azalea with fingers that carefully plucked away the crisp, dead leaves and dried debris that had fallen from the overhanging trees. His feet were planted firmly on the sloping, moss-covered ground, and his eyes were warm with concern as he inspected the healthy green parts now becoming visible on the azalea. On some level, I realized I should have been grateful for these efforts. Secretly, though, I felt like the birthday girl whose candles had been blown out by a darting guest whose mother hadn’t taught him proper party etiquette. Any gratitude I might have felt for Giles Owita’s hard work dissolved into frustration and bubbling anger. I hated azaleas, and I was entitled to hate them. I wanted them out of my yard, and I was paying this man to remove them. What could he be thinking right now? Did he actually believe he was there to follow some internal drive to minister to each and every plant on earth and make it healthier?

Absurd.

I saw two plastic containers sitting on the ground beside the
shrubbery. It was even worse than I’d thought, because a nozzle was attached to each, for spraying. These must have been the chemicals that he had referred to in his letter.

Was he being defiant? Or had he been merely pretending to understand when I told him what I wanted?

I pointed at the buckets and tried to keep my voice steady. “Fertilizer?”

“Yes, and an anti-fungal,” Giles Owita informed me in his earnest way. “Your plants are in need of both. But soon they will be blossoming!” Then he offered me a smile that was like a sunrise—and all of my anger and petty annoyance melted away.

This wasn’t anything to get angry about, I told myself. I just needed to be clear, to assert myself. This man was my employee, after all, and I shouldn’t have to be shy about having things done my way.

“I thought we agreed those shrubs are coming out,” I said in the firmest, clearest voice I could muster. “All three of them. Remember? I’ve never liked azaleas, as I think you know by now. They’re pretty on a golf course, maybe, but at home, the blossoms don’t last long and when you try to cut them back . . .” My speech trailed off and I found I had nothing left to say. Giles Owita looked blankly in my general direction.

I was sure we’d moved beyond the tipping point about the azaleas. I bit my lip, trying to call back the anger I’d felt a moment before. I should have been able to conjure it again, after all I was completely justified. But when I tried, the feeling didn’t even start to happen. There was something so innocent and en
dearing about this man who worked so eagerly. Or was he simply clever? Charming? Stubborn?

Endless seconds passed. Giles Owita maintained his stance, with one foot planted in a spot between the brittle branches of that first azalea, and the other settled firmly on a patch of the soggy moss that always seemed to flourish on this side of our house. A Leyland cypress separated us from the smaller house next door. As I looked up into the feathery limbs, I thought of Sarah Driscoll’s perfectly landscaped yard and of all the other yards on our street. Dick and I had a mess here. Maybe I had to relinquish control and let Giles Owita prescribe the solutions. I had the sudden fleeting, illogical thought that this moment with Giles Owita in my yard was something that I had been waiting for all of my life.

Still, I wavered. Stay firm, or give in?

Giles Owita glanced up at me. Concern was etched across his brow. He was going to plead his case, I feared. (“They will be beautiful!” I could almost hear him say.)
Don’t let him win,
I told myself.
Stick to your guns
.

“How are your parents doing in their new apartment, Mrs. Wall? My wife and I have prayed they would weather their move with a minimum of stress.”

I took in a sharp breath.

My parents? Giles Owita had time to pray for someone else’s parents?

I searched his face. He was either utterly sincere, or a very good actor. I took a small step back, but my foot began to slide
as Rhudy’s leash zipped through my fingers. I started to fall. The azalea trembled as Giles Owita leaped to grab me by the elbow. My right hand grasped the sleeve of his navy work suit and my other hand found the roughness of brick on the side of my house. It was one of the few times I would ever touch Giles Owita.

“Oh. Thank you. I almost fell.” I let go of his sleeve. My balance had been restored, but my pulse was still racing. Rhudy was pacing nervously nearby, the purple leash trailing behind him. “You and your wife have prayed for my parents? That’s so kind. I’m humbled.” My voice broke as I said the word
parents
, and I thought of them grieving yet another loss in their long life together.

“It is our joy to pray for them,” Giles Owita said.

He seemed so sincere. I searched his earnest expression for signs of cynicism or duplicity. He continued staring off into the distance.

“I appreciate those prayers,” I said, “and I’ve been praying for Lok.” I added the last part with a liar’s special emphasis on every word. But even as I said it, I suddenly knew that I needed it to be true, and I resolved to get down on my knees on the subject, starting tomorrow, at Mass. “Was there any news of her this week?”

He shook his head. I gazed up again at the Leyland cypress and tried to conjure the delicate shape of the face of a faraway daughter who loved roses.

“Do you have a picture I could see?” I asked.

“At our house, there are many pictures. I will try to remember
to bring one with me, next time. Our Lok is a beautiful girl. We have treasured her, from the day she arrived.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’m sure you have. Is there anything Dick and I can do to help? He’s a lawyer, you know. So, if you decide . . .”

“We will continue to wait and hope,” he said.

As I stood there watching him, Giles Owita continued his work on the azaleas, and I decided to let him do as he wished with them without further fight. His work on the second bush went quickly. He didn’t seem to mind that I hovered close by while he pinched off debris to find the healthy parts. I took advantage of the chance to ask him further questions about his family. He told me that his wife’s name was Bienta. His expression brightened as he spoke of her. They were of the Luo tribe, second largest of more than forty tribes in Kenya. Bienta’s name was “a Luo-cized version,” as he put it, of the French name Bernadette.

“She was born on the mainland, near Kisumu,” he explained. “While I was brought into the world in more rural circumstances on the tiny island of Rusinga, in Lake Victoria.”

“Well, I hope to meet Bienta soon,” I said.

“You will,” he quickly agreed. “Sometime, I will bring her by your compound. She is reserved and proper, but not shy.”

My envious nature bubbled up to the surface. I wondered if Dick ever wore such an adoring look when he spoke about me. I felt deflated to recall a petty argument we had had not long ago. We’d screamed at each other until our faces were red. Dick had
made another of his misty-eyed comments to me about how many life lessons we had learned from my cancer treatment. Instantly, I’d wanted to slap him silly. We made up in the end—we always did—but no one won, and nothing, really, was resolved. In counterpoint, and as a form of self-torture, I imagined Giles Owita and Bienta holding hands before a meal. Their boys (as I pictured them) sat opposite. They all bowed their heads in prayer. Their house was small, but well kept. Roses magically bloomed at the door in all seasons. As they repeated their so-far-unanswered prayers for Lok, they remained generous of spirit, concerned for other people. I thought of Paul’s letter to the Galatians, where he instructed that we should “not grow weary in doing good.” The Owitas clearly did not tire of doing good. In fact, they took the time to lift two strangers, my struggling parents, to the tender mercy of God above.

Then I found myself wondering something. “Your Luo tribe has its own religion, true?”

Giles Owita seemed unhurried and relaxed, as if completely open to a teaching moment, even as our other projects waited. In fact, he looked pleased at this invitation to revisit the way of life he learned as a child. I brought him a bottle of water from the house and he paused in his work for a moment.

“Tribal beliefs are based on a reverence for ancestors,” Giles Owita began. “In our culture, the elderly, whether living or deceased, are revered. We’re taught that our ancestors live below”—he pointed to the ground—“and are our foundation. From this place, they offer special wisdom. If I were to dream
about my father, I would not say I dreamed
about
him, but rather, that my father
has brought a dream.
Our ancestors are still actors in our lives, a source of wisdom and protection. Such dreams are shared with others in the village, with everyone giving an interpretation. In my father’s time, some food and drink would even be sprinkled on the ground before a meal. Given the state of medical care and the fact that disease and death are commonplace in our part of the world, it is considered an achievement to have reached the stage of life your parents have attained, Mrs. Wall.”