Sunday Gardening

It really does help, making things grow.

I thought it was just an exercise at first, something she'd given me to do because she was out of ideas and I wasn't any better. I'd lied to her at first, telling her I'd done it and it hadn't helped, but she knew I was lying, and told me to go back and do what she'd said, or she'd make me come in five times a week instead of three. I did, and the first thing I bought was a set of four potted flowers. All you had to do, the instructions assured me, was stick them in the ground deep enough so they didn't fall over. And water them.

So I did.

The change was drastic and a bit frightening, to be honest. I thought I would just water them and forget about them, but I didn't. The moment they were in the ground, set in a small brown patch of plain dirt where I'd dug away the grass, I knew things were different, that I was moving, doing. The very next session, I told her what I'd seen, what I'd really seen, and she hugged me at the end, and told me I was going to make it, now, she was sure of it.

The potted flowers had grown into bushes after a few months, but died after an especially nasty frost. I bought tomatoes after that, then green onions, and then something called Swiss chard, that looked like lettuce but tasted strange. Soon I had three rows of corn and had planted pumpkin seeds. They still haven't come to anything, but the man at the nursery told me they can sometimes lay there for years before they sprout. So I haven't given up on them, slow as they are.

There's a bench in the garden and I'm sitting on it, watching my tomatoes. There's a garter snake winding itself around one of the stems. He's lived here for a few months now, but I don't mind him. He doesn't bother the plants, and since he's been here, neither does anything else.

I look at my watch. It's nine seventeen. At nine twenty, I'll get up from the bench and go inside. I'll lock the door behind me and set the alarm, and I'll sit down at my kitchen table. My apple tart is waiting there for me now, cooling after being in the oven this morning. I'll use my blue fork - my Sunday fork - to eat it, chewing slow, so the taste lasts longer. When I'm done, I'll put the plate in the dishwasher beside the others, and I'll wash the fork by hand and put it in the drawer beside my Tuesday morning fork.

I'll walk to the living room window and look out. My neighbor's bird feeder will be alive with movement and noise, and I'll smile and remind myself that I'm grateful to see such a beautiful thing. At nine forty, I'll leave the window and walk upstairs and shower, using the foam green scrub brush and the Old Spice body wash. I'll get out and dry off, humming the True Blood theme song. I'll toss the towel into the laundry basket under the sink and walk naked into my bedroom.

I'll wear the green shirt. It's a polo, and it's nice without being dressy. I'll wear dark wash jeans, the ones with the fake Levi tag, and my black sneakers. I'll walk to the garage and get into my sedan, fastening my seatbelt before I start it. The door will rise behind me, and I'll ease out, careful not to scrape my SUV. I'll close the door and back into the street. The flower shop is around the corner, and I'll go there, picking up the usual.

The flowers will rest on the back seat as I ride on the highway at sixty to seventy three miles per hour. After ninety minutes or eighty nine miles, whichever comes first, I'll take the Wilmington exit. I'll pull into the Sweet Park Cemetery and park in the lot. Sundays are busy days for cemeteries, so I'll be a great distance from Michael and Tisha and Ronald F. Willard and Marianne. But I won't mind. Because it's a beautiful day and a beautiful time to be alive and I'm lucky and I'm grateful.

Their headstones will look lovely and polished and I'll tell them so, chuckling a time or two at a private joke between us. They'll take my flowers and I'll tell them how things have been since they've retired, and they'll laugh, and tell me one day I'll get out of the rat race, too, and how we'll golf together. I'll chuckle again, and tell them I look forward to it.

The sun will set and I'll walk back to my car, which will be alone in the lot by this time. The highway will be clear of traffic, so I know that ninety minutes will come first. I'll pull into the garage carefully, so I don't scrape my SUV, and turn off the engine.

I'll sit for a minute, thinking, and before I can think too hard I'll get out and lock the car and go inside. I'll put the shirt back into the closet and put the jeans back, too, though I'll know I ought to wash them. I'll think about finding pajamas, but I'll decide against it, like always, and I'll climb into bed, pulling the covers to my chest. I'll take a pill and a glass of water behind it, and I'll turn off the light and lay down, closing my eyes. My sleep will be dreamless and restful, and tomorrow morning I'll wake and walk downstairs, popping a tart into the microwave and pulling out my Monday fork; it's red. I'll start coffee, and brew it extra bold. I'll lean against the counter, my mind clear and empty, listening to the water drip into the pot. I'll smile, thinking of how lucky I am to be there, in that moment. How grateful.

The garter snake falls to the dirt and I look over at him. He takes no notice of me, slithering back up the main branch of the plant. I look down at my watch.

It's nine twenty.

*****

The office has been taken over by New People.

I knew this would happen - what else could? - but I'm still unsettled. Dr. Rondan gave me clearance to come back almost a year ago, if I wanted. I hadn't wanted, not until after the gardening had started, and now here I am, staring at my New Boss in my New Office in the New Building. I suppose corporate thought using the old building would be in bad taste. Perhaps they were right.

It still bothers me, though.

"We're glad to have you back, Jeremy." He's all smiles and handshakes and We're-Turning-Over-A-New-Leaf-ish. It's creepy and it's making me anxious.

"I'm glad to be back, Mr. Taylor." It's a lie. I'm not back, not really; I've never been here before.

"We gave you the corner. Thought you might like it." That's what his voice is saying. His eyes are saying please don't go crazy, Jeremy, please. It was horrible, I know, but I'm new and this is a new day and the PR was terrible for the company so please don't go crazy. And if you absolutely must go crazy, do it in the corner office where the other New People and the cameras can't see you.

"Thanks," I say. "I'd like to get started right away, if it's okay with you."

"Sure!"

He says it too loud and we both know it, and now it's awkward. He looks lost for a moment, then shuffles some papers in his hands and hands five to me.

"Just, uh, do those for me by the end of the week." It's Wednesday. "Good to have you back." He pats me on the shoulder like I have something catching and awkwards his way down the hall to his own office. I go into mine, closing the door behind me.

It is a pretty nice office, I have to admit. There are big windows and a nice desk and it's on the twelfth floor. There are twenty five floors, so it's not the top, but it's not the basement either. I set about working, hoping I can finish my assignment early when a man opens my door and walks in and starts talking.

"I'm so glad you're here." He walks over and opens the blinds at the windows; light floods my office and I squint. "They said you might not be here until next week and Cherilyn wants the invoicing done by Friday, and I thought, oh, God, I'm gonna have to call Reese on nine and tell him. Reese is an asshole, a real douche nozzle, and nobody wants to go to nine to tell Reese anything." He starts stacking things on top of the file cabinet. My file cabinet. "They brought him in from Dallas after the last guy left, Williams, I think his name was, and now he thinks he's God's gift. But don't tell him I said that. He's a manager and I'm pretty new..."

They've sent me an assistant who's really a babysitter, I think. As he races around, talking and arranging things, I look at him. He's about my age and he's blonde. Real blonde, like princess blonde, and he's tall and looks pretty buff. His face is gorgeous; I think about how I've never seen someone so beautiful up close and I remind myself to be grateful for this moment, a moment of experiencing something I've never experienced before.

"...but she doesn't really think so, she's sweet on him, I can tell. But he's already promised the thing to Polanski, so she's wasting her time..."

He trails off, perhaps noticing for the first time that I haven't spoken.

"I'm sorry." He looks it. "I sometimes get talkative when I'm nervous, and this is a new job for me. A whole new life, really." He stops moving around and takes a deep breath and looks squarely at me, folding his hands. "I'm Lane," he says. "Lane Morgan. I'm your executive assistant."

He holds his hand out to me, and for a moment I don't know what to do. Then I remember and take his hand in mine.

"Jeremy Ryker," I say.

"Nice to meet you." His smile is scrubbed and so bright I want to shield my eyes. I chuckle at this, the thought of shielding my eyes from a smile, and cartoon images of blinding white teeth flood my mind.

His smile slips. "What?"

"Nothing," I say. A curious thing has happened; something funny has spontaneously occurred to me and I laughed. His smile made me laugh and I haven't laughed in years, not even a chuckle. "It's nothing." I'm confused by my feelings, my thoughts, and I can't concentrate right now, not on him or new people. I want to work and then I want to go home and do my Wednesday things and get my head back in order.

"Okay..." he says, but he looks different now, like he's seeing me for the first time. "Do you need me to do anything, make copies, send faxes, get coffee..."

"Uh..." I've never had an assistant before. I don't know what I should tell him to do. "I still need some time to get settled. If you want, you can go down to Sorenson's office. He has a lot of new paperwork that needs copying and filing. I'm sure he could use some help."

He looks at me and for a second I think he's disappointed. Then he smiles again. "All right," he says. "Just holler if you need something."

He turns to leave and then looks back, like he wants to say something else. Then he turns and leaves for real.

I sit at my desk for forty minutes or so after he leaves, thinking about his bright cartoon smile and gawky gait and his beauty and my impromptu laughter, so unfamiliar but so wonderful. Then I start working and organizing the office, and soon I'm not thinking about anything, and it's a relief.

*****

The reporters still call me on the anniversary of the date, asking me to give an interview about how I'm Getting On With Life and Honoring The Memories of then men and women who died That Tragic And Fateful Day. Dr. Rondan tells me I don't have to answer their questions if I don't want to. I don't want to, not because I'm too sad to talk, but because I don't want anyone to know me. I like my life - it's simple and clear and precise - but I know other people wouldn't. And they might call my family and tell them what I'm like now, and then they'd come for me, begging me to come to Aunt Lily's Easter dinner or a niece's birthday since they haven't seen me in quite a while and they've been wondering how I've been holding up. And I'd have to tell them no, no thank you, I'm busy that day. And the next day. And the next day.

And then they might actually come to my house.

So when the reporters call, I don't answer.

I'm in the garden again, pulling weeds. The tomatoes are looking plump and healthy, if not quite as red as I would like. The Swiss chard is flaccid and sad, but it's never done very well anyway. The green onions are tall and strong, and I'll have to pick them soon. The garter snake is gone, and I think I'll miss him and his insect eating. I might have to buy pesticide now. Or perhaps I'll buy another garter snake.

The phone rings in the house.

It could be work. They said they might have to call me in over the weekend.

The air is cold in the house, and I tell myself that I should raise the temperature on the air conditioner. My bare feet stick to the tile as I pad over to the phone stand. I pick up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hi. Mr. Ryker? It's Lane."

"Hi, Lane. What can I do for you?"

"I'm so sorry to bother you at home. I told them I could probably handle it without you as gently as I could, you know, but they told me to call you anyway and tell you to come in. It's ridiculous and Sunday, I know, but they want you to come in and sign this stuff even though it's nothing earth-shaking and I could use your signature stamp for-"

"It's fine, Lane." I'm smiling again and I'm overcome with a sense of warmth for this Lane, who talks a mile a minute and looks like a Norse god. "I'll come in now."

"Okay, thanks," he said. He laughs nervously. "It's so ridiculous, I know-"

"I'll see you soon."

"Okay." More anxious laughter. Then he hangs up.

It's Sunday and today is Gardening Day, but somehow I'm not sorry to be going in to work. I want to keep smiling. Maybe I'll even laugh spontaneously again.

*****

He's sitting at my desk when I come in, stacking papers and stapling things and looking harried. His hair flops and moves every time he turns his head, and I want to touch it; to run my hands over his beautiful face.

"I'm here."

He jumps and whips his head in my direction, then beams. "Hey!" He stands up and powerwalks at me with about two dozen sheets of paper in his hands. "There's all this payroll stuff from H.R. and there's something from Taylor in here, too." He shuffles the papers in his hands, still grinning. "Harold from marketing told me his supervisor could have done it Friday, but he took the day off to have sex with his wife!"

"I-"

"I know, right?" He was delighted and so beautiful that I didn't want him to stop if it would take that look off his face. "I guess they're trying to have a kid, and so he takes all the off days he's got and just goes home and-"

I take some of the papers from his pile and set them on my desk. I start to sign them.

He stops short, and I look back over at him. He looks crushed.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so stupid. You don't want to hear me blabbering."

I don't know what to say, so I say nothing and go back to signing the papers.

"And now you think I'm pathetic and a gossip and will probably fire me-"

"I don't," I say. "You're beautiful."

"I wo... what?"

I didn't say that. I can't have said that.

"What?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

I'm flustered now and embarrassed and I'm sorry I even came in.

"You said-"

"I didn't."

"Yes-"

"No."

"Did you mean it?"

I try to say no, but the words won't come out, because I'm looking at him and he isbeautiful and I did mean it. And now I've ruined everything and can never go back to work again and I'll have to move and now my life is shaky and unstable and unorganized.

"I'm going home," I say.

I hand the signed papers back to him and turn away. I'll go home and pull more weeds and maybe cook something. And then I'll organize something and soon I'll forget all about Lane and his beauty and the papers and my humiliation and how much I like him after knowing him for such a short time and how sweet I think it is that he likes office gossip and cares who's trying to have kids.

*****

It's Monday again, and I'm sitting in my office trying to smooth the wrinkles out of my shirt.

I was up late, thinking about Lane and what I would say to him today. He ruined my entire Sunday evening of watching my recorded TV shows and arranging my dishes and silverware and meals for the week. I fell asleep during Once Upon A Time and awoke late to a blue screen and a sun too high in the sky. I hadn't even set my Monday clothes out, and so I took something from the front of my closet and left with just enough time to get here.

My jaw is stubbled and my hair is a mess; the lobby receptionist gave it a reproachful look when I walked in. Taylor high fived me and told me to come into his office if I needed anything, leaning in toward me like we were discussing Weighty Matters, so I know I look positively insane.

I'm on the phone with Human Resources, sorting out a complaint, when Lane comes in, bright and all smiles. He beams at me and waits until I hang up.

"Good morning," he says. He hands me a stack of papers. I'm beginning to think he has a printer somewhere on his person.

He produces a coffee I hadn't noticed he carried. "For you. It's peppermint and chocolate coffee."

I don't reply - I never seem to know what to say to him - and take a sip of the coffee. It's good; it tastes like cocoa and mint, though, and I wonder how much actual coffee it contains.

Lane is still grinning down at me, his golden hair almost white in the blinding sunlight. His head is cocked, and the effect is a bit frightening, but it makes me want to smile, too. I do, and he takes this for a good sign. I'm not as sure.

"You're very quiet," he says. "And you never tell me to do anything. I feel like I'm getting paid for nothing."

"I..." It takes me a moment, but I find words. "I don't like to talk much. I like the quiet."

His smile slips a bit and he pulls out one of the chairs and sits with movement so quick that I start. "You must hate me, then."

"No, I-"

"I wasn't always such a freak, you know." He's not smiling anymore; he looks distressed, like he needs a restroom and can't find one. "I used to be normal, at my old job."

"You're not a freak-"

"I just wanted to go somewhere and be like other people, but still me, you know? After everyone found out, they were nice, but nothing was the same anymore, and people were different. They weren't my friends, and everyone treated me like I had some manageable disease."

He's not listening to me, and it's just as well, because I couldn't speak now, even if I had something to say. He's telling me the story of his life. Of my life, after the Fifteenth.

"I have a fresh start, here, now." His words were measured. "I don't want to ruin it, but I don't want to hide and be all quiet anymore either, so..."

He trails off and his hands are wrestling in his lap. A profound blush is creeping up his neck and into his face, and he looks so embarrassed I want to apologize, though for what, I can't say.

"I know I seem...strange to you, or something," he says, "but it's who I am and...and that's all."

"You don't have to be quiet." I don't know where the words come from, but here they are. "Not with me."

He looks as though he doesn't quite believe me, but then the doubt melts and a small smile reappears.

"Thanks," he says. "That's...thank you."

There's a short silence, and I can't tell if it's awkward or comfortable.

"We should get lunch," he says. He's choosing his words carefully again. "The cafeteria's got some nice restaurants that you actually want to eat at, not like my last job that only had a juice place and some knockoff Panda Express wannabe restaurant."

"Okay." I haven't had lunch with someone since before the Fifteenth, and even though part of me is afraid, I wonder if I still remember how to do it. "What time?"

"You're my boss," he says.

"Oh." I had forgotten. "Well, how about one? I need you to copy some things and head over to Sandover to pick up some purchase orders first. They're fax machines and scanners and practically everything is broken. Do you think you can do that before one?"