|
Lila plunged her hands into the hot dry soil, drawing life and energy into her tired old hands. The garden had been her husband's once. Doyle had spent countless hours on his knees, pulling out individual weeds by hand, shoving in the little white fertilizer sticks. Every year he would grow more tomatoes and zucchini than they could ever hope to eat, so she was forced to can the tomatoes and bake loaves of zucchini bread for church bake sales. He would bring the hateful things into the house by the bushel, dropping dirt all over the floor that she had worked so hard to sweep and mop. The dirt didn't bother him any, though. She had watched from the kitchen window as he twisted a tomato from the vine and sank his teeth into it. "You're going to catch something eating that without washing it, and when you do, I'll be damned if I take care of you," she yelled through the window. The words haunted her now.
Lila tipped the watering can and sprinkled the dry soil. The garden had angered her. Doyle had spent almost all his time outside, digging and planting and pulling so that his hands looked perpetually dirty. When Lila had thought of Doyle's retirement, she had envisioned trips in the motor home, senior citizen dances, maybe even a cruise to the Caribbean, all the things they couldn't do when he was working. But he retired in February and by March he was planting the garden. He wouldn't leave it, not even for a two-day trip. "It needs watering and weeding."
In a huff, Lila had traveled without him. Small trips at first. Overnight trips to Branson, three day stays in Memphis. She had expected him to put his foot down and forbid her to go, but he just smiled. "If you're enjoying your time, that's fine," he would say before tottering back out to play amongst the weeds and the bugs and the birds.
So she went on a cruise to Jamaica with one of the women from her bridge club. Still no response. He just went right back to his damned garden and sprayed the leaves with soap bubbles to keep the bugs away.
"You've already sprayed twice today!" Lila complained.
Surprise flattened his features. "I must have forgot." he said.
Lila sat back on her haunches and wiped the sweat out of her eyes with the back of her forearm. The garden was coming along nicely. Red tomatoes hung heavily from staked vines and she could tell they would have a bumper crop of zucchini. Doyle always had liked her zucchini bread. Maybe she could get him to eat a little. He was wasting away to nothing sitting in that old bed.
She plucked a tomato from the vine and savored the feel of warm flesh under her fingers. It pulsed and throbbed as though blood flowed beneath the pink skin. She carried the tomato into the house and down the hall into Doyle's room. The emaciated form under the sheets bore little resemblance to the hale and hearty man that had been her husband. Coming home from work in stained jeans and plaid flannel shirts, he seemed to rival Paul Bunyan in size. Now, his cheeks were as sunken as those African kids on TV. The skin that was once darkened by hours of sun was pasty and gray.
"Hi honey," Lila smiled. His face turned to the sound, but there was no recognition in his eyes. She perched gently on the edge of the bed and reached for his hand. The hard-earned calluses had disappeared along with his memories. "I brought you a tomato from the garden," she said as she wrapped his fingers around the fruit. "It looks beautiful out there. You would be so proud."
His fingers stroked the firm skin of the tomato and his lips curved into a smile. He brought the tomato to his mouth and sank his teeth into the ripe flesh. Pink juice squirted and dribbled down onto the white sheets that Lila had so carefully bleached. "Good," he said as Lila squeezed his hand.
|
