Grime and Punishment

Middle East? Camels? Tribes?“
    “Dear, you’re just upset. We all understand. Steve’s demise has been a devastating blow to all of us. I fear my own health has been permanently damaged by the distress. Now, let’s don’t talk about this anymore.”
    That was as close as she ever came to admitting she’d lost a round. She hadn’t given up her campaign to have sole ownership of Jane and the kids, but she didn’t bring it up directly after that. Every month she sat across the table from Uncle Jim and glared her disapproval. He, bless his heart, found it amusing, and would occasionally wink at her just to see her blush with fury. Jane hoped he’d leave off this month, however. The day was just too nice for conflict.
    When the kids got back from church, Jane was sitting on the patio, hypnotically scratching Willard’s ears and quietly enjoying the smell of newly cut grass from the several lawns nearby. It would probably be the last Sunday for it. By next month, people would have stopped mowing for the winter, and there would begin to be the smell of burning leaves in the air. She’d observed that no amount of modern suburban restrictions seemed able to stop people from indulging in the primitive need to stand around a big outdoor fire on the first cool days.
    Then, next spring, there would be the odors of fertilizer, and weed killer, and good brown earth returning from the winter sleep. Jane had always liked that best, but had missed it last spring. She’d still been grieving too deeply to take much notice of anything outside herself and the immediate concerns of getting from day to day without letting the kids know how upset she was. Next spring, however, she’d make up for it. Maybe a nice garden—Steve had never approved of gardens. He was a lawn man, taking inordinate pride in an unbroken spread of lush green.
    The one thing Steve had hated about the house was the field behind it. The developers had apparently intended one more street between Jane’s and the main drag, but had run out of money—or enthusiasm—before the last street was completed. The field had remained a field, much to the delight of Max and Meow, who spent all their free time out hunting. Steve, however, had despised the weeds that grew there and were perpetually trying to invade his precious lawn.
    Jane got up and strolled around the yard, considering.
    Gardens had always appealed to her need for permanence. A garden meant you were going to stay someplace. You planted leathery little brown bulbs in the fall and didn’t see the results till spring. Then you put tiny seeds in the ground that wouldn’t bear fruit until fall. You had to stick around in the meantime. A garden said to fate, “You can’t get rid of me!”
    Yes, she’d have a garden! Daffodils and tulips and pussy willows—were there such things anymore? She hadn’t seen one since she was child. And forsythia. Great, cascading forsythia bushes along the whole west fence. And, in the fall, bronze and red chrysanthemums.
    Thelma arrived in her Lincoln, which looked like a metallic gray galleon under full sail. Jane didn’t hear her coming, and was surprised when Thelma caught her in the yard and said, “Aren’t you worried about chiggers?”
    Jane laughed. “I worry about a lot of things, but not chiggers. I was planning a garden.”
    “Oh, dear...“
    “What?“
    “Well, I know Steve wouldn’t have liked it. He was so proud of his lawn.“ She scuffed a well-shod toe against a clump of crabgrass. The message was clear. Jane was desecrating his memory by her disregard for the lawn.
    Steve’s not around to know or care! Jane wanted to shout. But there was no point in getting this afternoon off to a worse start than absolutely necessary. So she ignored Thelma’s comment and went on. “I’m going to dig up that section and have some vegetables. Corn and tomatoes and some beans to can.“
    “Jane, you wouldn’t! Home-canned beans are the most common source of food poisoning there is.“
    “Oh, did you think I meant to eat them? No, no, no. I just meant to bottle them up for the county fair display.“
    “Jane, I don’t find sarcasm very becoming in a woman. I’m sure Steve would have agreed with me.“
    “You’d be surprised—“ She stopped, midsentence. “Never mind, Thelma. Let’s go in. I need to stir the spaghetti sauce.“
    “How delightful. Spaghetti... again.”
    Fortunately, Thelma had pretty well lost interest in the murder next door.