The Garden

The house was quiet. Too quiet, in fact. Like it had been for so many years since her husband had left her. The cat, rubbing against her legs, now offering the only companionship. Sometimes it was too much to bare, being reminded by the incessantly ticking clock above the kitchen sink of the moments to be spent in loneliness. But she endured, as she always had, by making her time in the garden out back.

She enjoyed the time spent outside working the ground, planting the seeds, pulling the weeds, watering the soil and creating life. By losing herself in the chores at hand, she could forget that she no longer had anyone to care for, nor anyone to care about her in return. No one, either, to keep the house from falling quickly into disrepair as it had done after the passing of her husband. Lately, though, it was becoming more of a task to keep up the garden, as she was finding it harder to get around, the pain in her joints becoming increasingly worse with each new day. And it instilled in her the fear that this latest endeavor might be her last. If that were to be true, she knew she couldn't bear to go on. Because, that would mean there would be nothing left in her life to give it any meaning; and she felt when that became the case it would be better to die and join her beloved husband rather than to continue living out what she would view as a hopeless existence. For now, though, she would manage as best she could, prolonging as long as possible the arrival of such a dreadfully impending fate.

-----

I remember her as the "crazy old witch woman" who lived by the swamp at the end of the road in a dilapidated shanty hidden behind dying scrub brush. All the younger kids in the neighborhood lived in fear of her. Not because of anything magically evil she had ever done, but because of what we let ourselves believe she was capable of doing. With our imaginations running rampant, we figured if got too close to the house she'd get us, throw us in her dungeon, and we'd never be heard from again. At least that's what we thought until we were old enough to realize she wasn't a witch at all. Just an elderly curmudgeon who seemingly despised kids and shunned society, and who most likely wanted nothing more than to be left alone.

Of course, that never happened.

Because when that age of enlightenment was finally reached -- somewhere around eleven- or twelve-years-old -- that's when the older kids on the street took to harassing her and tormenting her relentlessly. For the most part, it was for no more of a reason than because she was alone and vulnerable. An easy target. That, and to get revenge on her for all the times she'd made our lives miserable by calling the police or our parents to say we were causing trouble when we weren't, or by unleashing her bulldog on us to chase us away when we were playing in the woods behind the swamp.

Like some rite-of-passage that paved the way to adolescence, everyone took his turn at paying her back in his own way. And, in keeping with tradition, it was no different for me and my closest friends at the time when we eventually decided to make good on our own debt owed her. We hadn't planned it. If we had, we probably never would have gone through with it, our own fears of getting caught preventing us from carrying out our attack. Instead, it was simply a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing. A seemingly innocent, childish whim. But what did we know? We were just kids. To us, it was going to be fun.

-----

The cat purred in satisfaction as she lowered the plate of freshly-opened tuna to the floor for him to indulge in. It was her way of thanking him for the small way in which he eased the aching that filled her otherwise empty heart. She had no doubt that he was a godsend, wandering into her yard cold and lonely one bitter winter morning so many years before, after the loss of the only other friend she ever knew. That being her pet bulldog; the one who stood loyally by her side and protected her after his master was no longer able to do so.

She rubbed the cat's head and scratched behind his ears, and he purred louder his thanks in return. Thanks, she figured, for her having taken in him, for feeding him, and for giving him a home, even though it wasn't really much of a home. At least not the home it used to be, having once been filled a long time past with laughter and happier days. Now it was not much more than a half-standing, wooden shell offering whatever shelter it still could. Shelter from the harshness of the elements, and of life -- the cruelty of the neighborhood kids still a mystery to her.

Despite the house's lesser standing as a true home, she still did her best to brighten the place and bring to it a certain warmth as much as she could. She did so by adorning the crooked, dusty shelves and splitting sills with flowers she grew out back. In fact, as she stood at the sink, now rinsing the cat's plate and looking out the window, she realized it was just about time she got around to restocking the multitude of vases with a new batch of fresh cuttings. The days-old ones sitting next tot he half-green tomatoes before just above the sink already had begun to wilt and brown. Yes, she definitely would have to replace them, and she would do just that after she laid down to her anticipated mid-afternoon nap.

-----

It was a warm, late-summer afternoon and another school year was already lurking around the corner. Kelly, Marc and I had spent the apparently endless days the way we always did: Getting into ballgames at the local playground; running bike races down the side streets and through the backyards of the neighborhood; or waging "war", as were then, amongst ourselves amid the hardwoods, pines and thickets at the swamp's edge. They were simple, carefree times. Times that you wish could last forever, but don't; and, in the end, you know in your heart they never really could have.

"Hey, guys! I've got an idea!" Kelly exclaimed, as we each searched about for acorns and small stones with which to restock our arsenals.

"What's that?" I called out from behind my makeshift fort of plywood, branches and brush.

"Instead of throwing these things at each other, let's really use 'em."

"For what?" Marc asked, curious.

"We'll attack the old bag across the swamp. Whadda ya' say?"

"I don't know," I ventured cautiously.

"Me, either," Marc agreed. "I mean, I don't like her, but I don't want to pelt the crap out of her with acorns and rocks."

Kelly sighed impatiently. "I'm not talking about hitting her with 'em."

"Then what?" I questioned, my interest piquing a little as our plans slowly took shape.

"We'll peg 'em off her shack! Try to break some windows. What's left of 'em, anyway. We can even keep score."

Marc and I looked across at each other with uncertainty. Each of us unsure of whether or not we should actually do it. Each looking for some sign of approval from the other.

"Well?"

Marc and I both looked at Kelly, who was fidgeting with anticipation. Then, we looked back at each other and Marc gave in. "Sure, why not? It's about time we give her what's coming to her."

Marc collected his bucket of ammunition and went to join Kelly as I simply stood watching, still debating with myself over whether or not I should do it. I mean, I wanted to as much as they did, but...

"Well? You comin', Brian, or not?" Kelly asked anxiously, as he and Marc headed towards the swamp through an opening in the brambles.

"Yeah, I guess so. Wait up."

In a matter of minutes, after trudging through the muck on our trek around the swamp, we'd taken up our position behind the severely weathered and now uninhabited doghouse. Wasting no time, we bombarded the tarpapered shelter with all we had on Kelly's count of three.

"Take that, you old bag! Ha-haa!" Kelly piped up excitedly.

The sharp cracking of acorns and dull thud of stones bouncing off the walls filled the still air triumphantly. No sound of breaking glass, though.

-----

Having been suddenly jarred awake by the loud snapping of something seemingly hitting off her bedroom window, she managed to pull her tired bones off the bed and made her way slowly across the room to see if she could find out what was going on.

-----

"Get down!" Marc bellowed. "She's in the window!"

We ducked down instantly, afraid it might already be too late, afraid we'd already been seen. But we hadn't been. We found this out only after a few long minutes as the back door creaked open on its rusted hinges, and we heard the woman call out weakly from across the yard in a soft, cracking, fragile voice.

"Who's there?"

We didn't answer. But I managed to muster up enough boldness to take a chance at peaking my head around the corner of the dog house to spy on her. I had never really gotten a good look at her before then. She was always a half-hidden, mysterious figure peering out from behind her blinds. Now, though, in the daylight, she didn't appear all that ominous. Instead, she appeared pale and frail. Pitiful.

"Is there anybody there? Come out, if there is. I'll have the police here."

We still didn't answer; and after a few more seconds, we heard the door slowly shut again.

-----

Probably just a squirrel or chipmunk on the roof, she told herself -- convinced herself, actually -- as she tried to calm her nerves. At least, she hoped that's what it was, and nothing more, because she no longer had the strength to deal with the kids of the area when they assaulted her with their pranks and taunting as they trespassed across her land on their way into the woods.

Like the one she had just meekly uttered, she had nothing left now but weak threats with which to fight back. Since she could no longer afford to keep the phone connected, she couldn't have called the police if her life depended on it, and that scared her more than anything. That feeling of being trapped and unable to reach out for help if needed, and of being cut off with no one to talk to.

Although she was still sleepy and was up earlier then she had planned, she decided not to wait and began getting ready for her daily gardening routine right then. After all, she wouldn't have been able to fall back asleep now anyway; she was still too on edge from having been awakened like she had. But, she did need desperately to relax, and she knew the garden would be the best thing for her.

Because she had long ago stopped bothering to go through the painstaking motions of changing into a separate outfit for the task, she simply put on her sun bonnet and went over to the basement doorway to where, just inside, the few tools she used were kept. She reached for the rusted watering pail and, along with that, took out a dented and nearly-crushed bucket in which she gathered her flowers and which, at the moment, contained all of a well-worn hand trowel and a more-than-dull pair of old garden shears. She was starting to feel better already just thinking about being outside; and, with gear in hand, and with less effort, she headed toward the back breezeway and the pleasures that, at least for now, still awaited her.

-----

"We're out of ammo. So, now what?" Marc asked uneasily.

"I say, we get out of here before the cops come," I suggested, without hesitation.

"Are you kidding me?" Kelly asked irritably. "I've been waiting for this day for too long. Besides, that old bag doesn't have a phone anymore. I heard she's too damn cheap to pay for one. So, how 's she calling the cops. Go, if you want. I'm staying."

"Me, too," Marc chimed in.

"Alright," I reluctantly conceded. "Count me in."

With our allegiance in tact, Kelly gathered his courage. Slowly rising up, he peered over the roof of the doghouse and strategically surveyed our newly-christened battlefield.

"Let's go," he said softly, leaving the security of our cover, venturing slowly out into the yard.

Marc and I followed not-so-bravely behind him; Marc asking along the way, "What now, Kelly?"

Smiling deviously, Kelly explained, "We're gonna do some gardening, that's what."

With that, he headed for the old woman's vegetable and flower garden and wasted no time in tearing into it wildly.

For a second or two, Marc and I watched in disbelief as a variety of half-ripened vegetables, brightly blooming flowers and clumps of dirt rained down across the yard. Then, as if every bad memory of every rotten thing she'd ever done to us came flooding back in that instant, Marc and I decided -- without words -- that we wanted a part of the action ourselves. We rushed to join Kelly on the front lines, our hands grabbing aimlessly for whatever we could get a hold of. Forgetting ourselves in the false satisfaction of the moment, we started hooting and hollering victoriously. Until, that is, the old woman returned to the door, aghast at the sight before her.

"Oh, no! My garden... my flowers. What... what are you doing? Stop... stop. Oh, no... no..."

We didn't hear any more than that. Before she'd had the chance to get a good look at us and figure out who we were, we disappeared back into the woods on the other side of the swamp.

Successful in our retreat, Kelly and Marc took to reveling in the hollow accomplishment we'd managed to achieve. But I didn't join them. I couldn't. All I could do, from a distance, was look on in silence at the devastation we'd caused. And the heartbreak.

And suddenly, standing there in the growing shadows of that reddening afternoon, I didn't feel so victorious anymore. In fact, as I watched the old woman amidst the remains of her labors, with her spirit broken, I started to feel guilty. At first, that is. Then I felt sad and sorry. Sorry for what I'd taken part in doing to her, because for the first time in my life I didn't see her in the same light that I had for so long. I saw, instead, a lonely, rightfully bitter, but caring, nurturing soul who, at the end of her years, probably wanted nothing more out of life than the solace and simple joys she found for herself in the confines of her garden.

Now, she didn't even have that. She had nothing. All of what she'd put of herself into that little plot was lost. In less time than it had taken her to plant the seeds, we had violently ripped our her heart and destroyed all that she was, without regard.

For that, I felt sad.

And I felt sad for myself, too; because on that day, as I could sense then and later came to fully realize, I'd forever lost a part of who I was as well.

*****