The Garden

* Hey writers! I’m posting my newest short story in the hopes that some writers still check in every so often. If you do read, please critique. Don’t be afraid to be especially harsh, as probably only very few will comment. (Beware the purple prose—please point it out if you spot any!) If anyone else has written anything, they should post as well. Hopefully we can get this blog back up and running J. *

Mara Williams wiped the sheen of sweat off her brow with the back of her right hand. She was careful not to smear on her flushed skin the dirt lodged in the crevices of her palm or embedded under her nails. She had been toiling beneath the sweltering afternoon sun for hours, an uneven burn her reward. Her skin was red and tender to the touch. It was but a minor discomfort.

All the flowers had faded during the summer night. Her prized amaranth peonies were twisted and hunched. Their graceful petals no longer curled and fluttered in the gentle breeze. Mortality had possessed their vibrancy; now they were wilted and browned, and they sagged as if already in decay. Her myrtles and orchids had shared the same regrettable fate. Mara mourned the circumstances that had turned her beloved garden into a graveyard.

She extracted the dead flowers with cautious efficiency and laid them to rest in the hand-woven basket nestled on her right. She was careful to dig only deep enough to secure a grip on the roots. It was an unnecessary precaution, one that had become an unbreakable habit since the previous weeks.

 Mara shifted her grip on the trowel as she removed the final patch of orchids. Her scraped knuckles were still stiff from their old wounds and the rough parallel slices on her left palm had yet to heal. The trowel remained a silent testament to her pain. No metal gleamed beneath the benevolent sun; flakes of dried blood dulled the tool’s original shine. Mara’s hand clenched the trowel handle at the sight.

Mulch and hardened dirt mingled in the naked flowerbed. Destitute of its intended occupant’s vitality, the barren garden was horribly exposed. Mara shivered in the heat and began to replant the flowers with renewed vigor.

The sun had made its torpid journey across the horizon by the time she stretched her stiff back. Clouds were painted with harsh, sharp brushstrokes of pink and orange. Cool wind chilled the sweat on her neck and chest. It felt heavenly against her fevered skin. She relished the escape from heat.

The spigot released its water jealously. Mara coiled the hose around her forearm like the rope of a noose and sprayed the garden with a gentle shower. Cold water was sucked from the surface by greedy roots. She watched the flowers drink with maternal affection.

Upon its creation Mara had not expected to enjoy the garden. It had merely been another demand, and chore a proper housewife did to satisfy her husband.

Not since her had friend introduced her to Reuben Williams four years ago had she met a more charismatic person. Breed in wealth since childhood and spoiled with abandon, Reuben had acquired the arrogant confidence of a powerful, rich man. His volatile personality at once intimidated and captivated his audience. He knew when to argue, plea, and cajole. Dynamic and inescapable, Mara had been drawn to him from the quick. Three short months of courtship passed before their engagement.

The gardens had been one of the first requirements of their marriage. Affluent real estate brokers had magnificent gardens tended by their wives, he argued. Therefore, as his wife, it was her duty to create for him a garden unrivaled by any in the county. She had assented without complaint and designed for him a lush expanse of garden surrounding the front entrance. That one she attended with mechanical indifference.

It was the flowerbed in the corner of the backyard she nurtured. In her husband’s ambitious eyes the smaller garden was of no consequence. His disdain was liberating. She nurtured the garden with zealous care, doting on her humble collection. Now she watched the revived garden with pride and a curious desperation.

Soon the flowers could drink no more and a puddle formed around the stem. Mara did not turn off the hose even when the flowers began to sag under the weight of the water and droplets fell from petals to the dirt like tears.

There came a soft cough from behind. Mara’s heart convulsed painfully. She whirled around, not releasing the hose in her haste. Two men stood a sensible distance away. The younger of the two had clear blue eyes still bright with ignorance and an innocent rounded face. Something in the structure of his cheeks, or perhaps the open curiosity and kindness in his expression, gave him an aura of honest warmth. His partner held no trace of such naivety. Deep lines creased the skin at the corners of his eyes and his harsh slash of lips had the propensity to curve down.

Both men hastily backed away from the spray before they could become too wet. The middle-aged man scowled and rubbed at the wet spot on his shoulder. His counterpart smiled apologetically, as if he were at fault for standing too close.

In a voice laden with a deep Southern accent, the younger man said, “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Gradually Mara’s heart slowed its frenetic pace. She offered a weak smile and released her grip on the hose. The water stopped.

“My name is Detective Agnes and this is my partner, Detective Collins. Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”

 She glanced at the waning sun. “It’s awfully late for that, isn’t it?”

“Yes’m, it is, but we both had to testify in court today, and this was the earliest we could come. Do you mind? This shouldn’t take too long.”

Detective Collins spared her no smile. His bushed eyebrows were drawn in determination and his fierce expression clearly said he would not be deterred.

“Of course not. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable on the patio while I put away a few things?”

Detective Agnes shifted uncomfortably. “Would you like to go inside instead? Once the sun drops it’ll going to become pretty cold.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, will it?” Mara said. “After all, this won’t take too long.”

Reluctantly the detectives took their seats around the heavy oak table beside the modest fountain. Mara quickly gathered her trowel, small rake, and knee mat. She turned the spigot off but left the hose uncoiled.

The wooden shed stood at the perimeter of the property mostly concealed by trimmed hedges. Only the door was visible, hand carved with an elegant pattern of swirls that mimicked the ceaseless flow of a river. The interior was far plainer, functional rather than decorated. It was outfitted with shelves to contain the tools and a long carpet rug to protect bare feet from the bite of chilled wood in the winter. A sliver of light caught on a shovel dangling from the wall. She shuddered and returned the tools to their shelves with a loud clatter.

The detectives were waiting impatiently for her return.

Detective Agnes asked, “Is everything alright? We heard a loud noise.”

“Oh, that was nothing. I just dropped the trowel in with the other tools and they clanged together.” Mara sat and rubbed her bruised knuckles. “Now, what questions do you have? I assume this is about Reuben.”

Detective Collins answered. His voice was brisk and sounded like gravel. “We were hoping you could tell us what happened.”

“Why? I’ve already told the other detectives, Scotts and Chung, what I know.”

“We’ve decided to give them our aid. Your husband was a well-liked man in this community and we know everyone is anxious to learn what happened to him. You, especially.” The younger detective said with a guiltless smile.

She scratched at the scab on her left palm. “Of course I do.” Her tone was defensive.

Detective Collins studied her with jaded eyes that saw too much. He put a voice recorder on the table. “Do you mind?” Mara shook her head and he pressed record. Then he and his partner procured a small notepad and pen.

“Why don’t you start from early that morning.”

She sighed but dutifully replied, “Reuben woke up at five thirty for his morning run. He returned home about forty, forty-five minutes later. I made him a cup of coffee while he checked his email and watched the morning news. He went to meet with a couple interested in the Snow Valley Manor at ten.”

“What time was the meeting?” Detective Collins asked.

“Eleven.”

“Snow Valley Manor. Isn’t that only a forty minute drive?”

“Reuben loathes tardiness,” she explained. “He always gives himself at least twenty minutes of extra time in case something unpredictable happens.” The detective nodded for her to continue. “He returned from the meeting a couple of hours later.”

“Do you remember the exact time?”

“Sometime around noon. Maybe twelve thirty. No later than that.”

There was a flurry of pens as the detectives wrote the time. “And then…” Detective Agnes prodded.

“He was disappointed. Agitated. Said the couple backed out.  He made some phone calls to other interested buyers. Called potential clients. Mostly work-type things. I minded my own business. Made lunch like usual, watched a few of my soaps. He left for game of golf with his business associate at four o’clock. That’s the last time I saw him”

“Can you tell me the business associate’s name?”

“Vincent Schreurs.”

More scratches of pen on pad. Then Detective Collins said, “You last saw him Tuesday afternoon, but you didn’t report him missing until Thursday morning. Why?”

The way he hurled the question made her sound guilty. She stiffened her spine and forced herself to meet his mercurial, jaded eyes. “Reuben didn’t have the best temper. Sometimes when he was angry or frustrated, he would go to the bar until the early hours of the morning and be too drunk to drive home. Then he would stay with a drinking buddy for the night or rent a room at a nearby hotel.

“I thought he had worked through afternoon. It’s not uncommon and he frequently has meetings during lunch, in which case he’ll buy something to eat. When he still didn’t return by dinner I was worried, but I thought he might have gone out to drink again. In the morning, when he still wasn’t home, I called his cell phone and got his voice mail. He never has his phone off, even when drinking. When I couldn’t reach him, I called around, asking if anyone had seen him, if they knew where he was, etcetera. No one had or did, so I reported him missing.”

They nodded and hastily scribbled some notes. She studied the sky. Day was nearing its end. The temperature had indeed dropped and Mara shuddered. What had once been delightful now was frigid and cutting. The sweat on her pink skin had sunken into her pores and left her smelling faintly of labor, earth, and heat. The red light indicating recording was in progress seemed harsh and gruesome to her eyes. She was seized with the sudden urge to run inside and scrap all the dirt from under her nails.

Detective Agnes glanced up from his notepad. “Do you know of anyone with a grudge against your husband? Anyone who might benefit from his disappearance?”

She shook her head regretfully. “No.”

“Did your husband drink often?” Detective Collins asked abruptly.

Mara stared at him and squeezed her left hand. “Pardon?”

“It’s not a trick question, Mrs. Williams. Did your husband drink often?”

“Not, uh, not terribly often. I mean, just when he was mad.”

“And your husband had quite the temper, didn’t he? Tell me, Mrs. Williams, did he every hurt you?” The detective scrutinized her expression as he delivered the question without any false sympathy.

“That’s ridiculous,” she protested weakly.

Detective Agnes flipped a page in his notes. “Is it, Mrs. Williams? March 16^th, 2010, 8:49 p.m., dispatch received a call for a domestic disturbance. When they arrived at the scene the wife met them at the door, convinced them it was all a big misunderstanding, and sent them on their merry way.” He caught her eyes with intensity incongruous with his naïve innocence. “The caller was you, Mrs. Williams."

She took a shallow breath. “As you can see from the transcript, Detective, the call was a mistake. Reuben said a few uncharitable things and I blew the argument out of proportion.”

“That’s the thing, Mrs. Williams. We would have dismissed the call as just that, if not for your medical records.” He paused a moment, as if hoping Mara would fill the silence. She remained mute. “March 17^th, 2010,” he continued, “you fell down and broke your collar bone. The day after the nine-one-one call.”

“Coincidence,” she mumbled through numb lips.

“Police don’t believe in coincidences. We looked through your medical records. August you lost control of your bicycle and got a severe concussion. Oddly enough, you managed to bruise not only your jaw, but both your eyes as well. Skip ahead a few months and you dislocated your shoulder falling off a ladder. The pattern continues for the next two years.” He sighed. “No one falls down that much, Mrs. Williams.”

“What can I say? I don’t have the best balance.”

“Did he abuse you, Mrs. Williams?” Detective Agnes persisted earnestly. “Did he attack you Tuesday and you struck him in self defense? No one would blame you if you had. There are laws in the court that protect battered women. You don’t have to be afraid. If you’re a victim, we can help.”

She squeezed her left hand hard enough to bruise. Felt the soreness of her muscles and the two parallel scabs on her palm. “I am not a victim,” she whispered vehemently.

“We’ve talked to your friends and family,” Detective Collins added. “They all say the same. That Reuben controlled you. Told you who you could and could not associate with. That he had, on more than one occasion, physically harmed you.”

Mara stared at him, chest rising and falling rapidly, and said nothing.

Detective Agnes said, “No one would blame you, Mrs. Williams. If you had a hand in his disappearance, that is.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She intoned without inflection.

“Don’t you?” the older detective, the one with the keen jaded eyes that saw too much, said. “You are the one to benefit most from his death. No more abusive husband, not to mention his life insurance payment and the entirety of his estates.”

The solemn accusation weighed heavily in the air. The wind had ceased its sweet caresses. Twilight had full reign of the sky, that eerie hour where day neither died nor night fully lived. The small oval fountain squirted water, but its descent was muffled and not nearly loud enough, and yet at the same time far too loud. All else was silent, such a familiar oppressive silence. Some days the consuming quiet was a roar that threatened to swallow her into madness. For years she had been confined to the expansive manor and its two mile long driveway, its nearest neighbor a thirty minute jog away. Loneliness often stole her mind and she was forced to project the affection she could never demonstrate on the flowers under her care.

“Mrs. Williams—” the young detective with the rounded face and southern drawl began.  

She stood. Her chair scraped loudly. The detectives did the same. Their assent was much more controlled, and their chairs did not make a sound.

“I would appreciate it if you would both leave.”

“May we look inside the house, ma’am?” Detective Agnes asked.

 “No. I have an appointment in an hour and I still have work to do in my garden. I trust you can escort yourselves out.”

“Of course. We apologize for taking up your time. Please let us know if you remember anything or ever want to talk.”

Mara promised to do just that and returned to her garden. Water had dripped from the nozzle of the hose onto the ground. She coiled the hose around her forearm and released a gentle spray on the flowers.

“Call us anytime, Mrs. Williams.” Detective Agnes said. He gestured to the garden with a tip of his head. “You might not want to water those flowers too much. Looks like you’ve got quite a stream going already.” With that the naïve detective nodded once more and left.

Mara studied the small streams of water winding through the mulch and dirt. She imaged the water had the faintest hue of pink, as if the flowers were dispelling an unholy taint. She shuddered, and continued to water her precious garden.

* Well, there you have it. Did you understand the plot? Was I too subtle? Too blunt? Did the characters make sense? Were they realistic? Did the dialogue flow? Again, please critique. Happy writing! *