Garden Bed

WINIFRED sections her garden into quarters: perennials, biennials, annuals, and herbs. Her dress pools around her ankles as the grass digs into her bare knees; sharp blades cut her skin. She leans back on her heels with a trowel in one hand and a pile of dirt in the other, feeling her palms tickle with the legs of invisible insects. She plans to plant daisies, Sweet Williams, hydrangeas and peonies, knowing that they return year after year regardless of hostile conditions. A box no larger than her fist sits beside her with a stinging nettle settled against the lid.

THE FOX watches the woman with the trowel dig in the dirt. He has smelled her many times. Her face is wet but she smells like calmness. She doesn’t know that he has marked this spot. He will dig up her flowers and carry them away with him.

HARRY sits at the kitchen table remembering their conversation: these things happen, he’d said, there isn’t much left to do. He refrained from saying no use crying over spilt milk, recognizing the callousness she’d rightly accuse him of. But he also heard his mother’s voice creeping into the phrase the way weeds circle around roots in the garden and take hold. From his seat at the table, he watches her in the garden with her back to him. Her hair blows out in wisps like dandelion seeds when the breeze pushes her. It’s too quiet in the kitchen and he can’t get the sound of his mother’s voice to leave his ears. He turns on the radio. From the speakers, a woman’s voice sings: a fox is a wolf who sends flowers. He turns the radio off.

WINIFRED deadheads the remnants of last year’s growth and pulls decaying flowers out at the roots. As they release and give way, she places them in a pile on the grass next to her. She tugs the dandelions and weeds that grow in seemingly spontaneous patterns. She tried to plant flowers and bulbs in pots for inside the house, but the leaves dried even though she watered and pruned. She lifts the earth with the trowel as pressure builds on a blister growing on her right thumb. No one told her how much it would hurt.

HARRY remembers the way her fingers ran around the rim of the wine glass at the restaurant. She had dipped her finger in the water and traced the lip with her wet fingertip, making the glass vibrate until it sang. He’d finished his glass of brandy and swirled the remnants of ice cubes around the bottom. He knew he’d finished his drink but he kept bringing it to his lips, forgetting that it was empty. The couples around them turned when Winifred’s glass sang and she stopped, feeling their eyes digging into her skin. It’s just the way it goes sometimes, he’d said, trying to fill the space that remained in the absence of sound. He sat with his middle and pointer finger against his mouth, as if he were holding a cigar.

THE FOX moves a few feet closer; the woman has not seen him yet. He is wary of dried leaves crunching under his paws. He lost the tip of his tail in the cold and he cannot find it. Slowly, he lies down on his belly to feel the sun warming his back. He yawns and decides to sleep. She will still be there when he wakes up.

WINIFRED has already packed. The box with the stinging nettle is her last step. She has not prayed since her years in Catholic school and she does not pray now. She says only to herself, I gave all to you, and blows the nettle from the lid. Emptying the contents of the box into the space she’s opened in the earth, she lifts her trowel and shovels in wet dirt. With mud caked beneath her fingers, she packs down the dirt and wipes her hands on her dress.

THE FOX waits until she stands up and goes inside. She comes back out and gets in the car. When he is sure she’s gone, he digs in the earth until his paws are blackened like her hands. He thinks that maybe the tip of his tail is underneath. He marks all four corners of the garden to make it his own and strides away with plants and seeds between his teeth. His tail is not there.