The Girl in the Garden Page 10

  But he could never quite see it that way. He’d lost his truck, and the insurance on it was less than what it was worth to him, because it was worth everything; and they’d had to return the sale money on the destroyed camper, and he knew there wasn’t a construction company in the world that would take a chance on hiring him now to so much as pound a nail in a wall, not with him having to use crutches or two canes except when standing still, and even when doing that his legs sometimes collapsing without warning, just literally letting him down. He hadn’t been working steadily before the accident and didn’t have workmen’s comp, and despite selling the snowplow and small backhoe and some of his most valued tools, he was still owing on medical charges on top of the mortgage and other bills, never mind groceries and gas for Sharon’s car, which needed a tune-up and oil change sometime soon. Between Sharon’s paycheck from the one-stop shopping center where she worked as a cashier in the groceries department and the pittance sent to him by the state for having been permanently disabled, Evans was at the end of his tether at not being able—and seeing he’d never be able—to make ends meet. So he called Oldman, for who in town wouldn’t, Oldman knowing not only about capuchins and the Second World War and split-rail fencing and useless ponies (among other critters) and photography and anything that had to do with town gossip and news, but also being the fairest and probably most rational person around, having a reputation for being, unofficially, the community’s psychologist, ombudsman, local historian, and the one person just about everyone consulted if they needed something resolved that they couldn’t figure.

  And so Dan Evans called Oldman and told him that he was beyond broke, that although he wasn’t a man who believed in suing his neighbors, there was, after all, the matter of that hitch that had cracked—the state police had taken photos at the site and, later, in the junkyard where the wrecked pickup had been towed, Sharon at Dan’s behest had done the same—and he figured, yes, his condition was partly his fault as he hadn’t secured his seat belt, but there was no law against driving without one and even if he had been wearing it that hitch shouldn’t have split in two. He’d written to the company that manufactured the hitch and sent duplicate photos of what that broken hitch looked like, but the company hadn’t responded in writing and wouldn’t even tell him over the phone whether his letter and photos had been received. He didn’t have money to hire a lawyer who could advise him as to whether he did or didn’t have a case, but by god if he had the dough he’d sure spend it as foolishly as necessary to find out. Oldman went to Duncan, whom he knew peripherally at that time and because of Claire, and Duncan said he’d take on Dan’s case, no questions asked as to payment, and whatever settlement he quite quickly wrung from that hitch manufacturer kept Dan and Sharon Evans in their home and saw them clear enough to even put some money into their bank account. Dan thereafter told Oldman that he’d offered to put more than chump change into Duncan’s pockets for his services, but, to his incredulity, Duncan refused, telling him to put the money aside for what he would wish for the Evans couple to be a very long life, or at least for some unexpected rainy day. As if, Dan went on, any day could be rainier than the one that had broken his neck.

  That was years back, but only last week Evans, Oldman told Duncan as they were eating the sandwiches and having a beer in Duncan’s office, had called him because the neighbor’s dog, Butler, which spent as much or more time with Dan as with its owners, had been, as usual, with Dan in the yard. Dan was managing without the two canes but was wrestling with his balance while trying to cover a pile of stacked cordwood with a heavy piece of tarpaulin when a UPS truck pulled into his drive. Without giving it a thought, Dan—walking on the balls of his feet in that infant-like gait he’d been hobbled with and swaying unsteadily—met the driver, who had hopped out of his truck with a package and waited on him. Butler was at Dan’s side as usual, and after the UPS driver said, Hi, Dan Evans, right? and Dan replied, That’s me, the driver started to hand Dan the package but Butler got between them and, in a most protective manner, latched on to the driver’s hand. Dan grabbed Butler by the scruff of his neck, hollered for Sharon, and fell, at which point Butler let go and began to lick Dan’s face. The UPS driver was not amused: he’d been bitten hard, and Sharon had to drive him to the emergency room; the man had to put in a call to UPS to explain that not only did the company have to retrieve the truck in the Evanses’ drive but he also wanted UPS to back him in making a formal complaint to the proper authorities—and, Oldman said, believe me, he meant every authority—because he wanted that dog put down. Sharon tried to explain to the driver that in some odd way Dan, being partially crippled, really depended on the neighbor’s dog, but the man wasn’t listening and wasn’t sympathetic; the mutt had drawn blood and he didn’t give a damn whose dog it was, and maybe people like her husband who couldn’t stand on his own two feet or walk straight shouldn’t have any dog at all, given he’d sure proved he couldn’t control the one he or their neighbor had.

  So Oldman had had to make a number of visits a few days after the incident, first to the local UPS office, where he knew the manager, then to the ASPCA—where Butler had been impounded and awaited sentencing—where he knew everyone, then to the town police who had taken in the driver’s complaint but had already tabled it because the local UPS office manager had already seen to that, then back to the UPS office the next day, where he reasoned with the bitten UPS driver and got him to allow that any dog—including even golden retrievers, which are the happiest and friendliest of canines—might not understand that a stranger who makes a motion toward someone who’s incapacitated isn’t necessarily threatening but sure might be, and that, given Dan Evans’s condition, he pretty much needed that dog around because he wasn’t necessarily going to be able to take care of himself if something precarious should take place. And Oldman got the driver to agree, at least in some fashion, that if he were in Dan’s position, he’d most likely appreciate a dog like that—

  And then June knocked and entered. Oldman paused in midsentence, not because he was circumspect—which he was—but because he’d also turned to see who was interrupting his tale and felt a punch to his heart, his chest constricting for a split second before reason took over: the girl’s face set him back almost thirty years before he returned to the moment, the present, and a world in which he knew there was always the possibility that everyone—this had been a popular theory in his youth—had a double. At which point Duncan looked at his watch and said, June, hello—god, I lost track of time—let me clear the desk, pull up a chair. But Oldman was already on his feet and sliding an armchair across the floor for her, and when she settled into it Duncan introduced them. And because Oldman’s name as pronounced rhymed with Holden, June misheard and thought Holden was his name until Oldman at some later time corrected her misconception, explaining that his parents had given him, an only child, this odd nomenclature either because his mother—this was her version—wanted him to live to be an old man or because his father—this, his father’s version—knew that his son would be called Old Man Smith when he reached his dotage, no matter whether his name were Vincent or Jonathan or Ebenezer or anything other than Oldman, so why not let the boy get used to the inevitable from the start. Having cleared his desk quickly and having nodded to Oldman to stay, Duncan relaxed back in his chair, but before he could ask how she and the baby were doing, how things were going, June placed twenty-five dollars on his desk and said: I believe this is yours.

  No, he corrected her, it’s yours. Sorry if I didn’t make that clear. Iris wanted you to have something to tide you over for the week in case you needed it. And this—he reached into a drawer and pulled out an envelope, slid it across the desk—is for next week. If you can’t make ends meet, you’re to let me know: Iris doesn’t want to be bothered by the details.

  June colored slightly, adjusted the baby on her lap, undid the carrying blanket and unbuttoned the baby’s sweater only to reveal another, both worn over a corduroy jumper. Luke’s
feet were roundly bundled, balled up in knitted socks. She too, Duncan figured, must have on two sweaters, as she wasn’t wearing a jacket or scarf despite the deep chill. She didn’t touch the cash or the envelope, shook her head, looked at him confusedly. I shouldn’t be taking her money, she told him.

  And why is that.

  I’m not exactly earning it.

  You don’t have to. That wasn’t a stipulation.

  A—?

  A requirement. You don’t have to help Iris with anything, unless she asks. Which, I take it, she hasn’t.

  The only thing she’s told me to do is bring Luke over every morning from ten to eleven.

  Over?

  Into her house.

  Huh, Duncan said, now that’s interesting. And what do you do when you’re there?

  Nothing. She holds Luke and talks and plays with him while I watch.

  Really?

  Yes.

  And that’s all?

  June shrugged. I guess, she said. I mean, she doesn’t talk to me, just gives Luke back when the hour is over.

  Huh, Duncan repeated. Added, after a moment: Well, then, it’s not as if she hasn’t found something for you to do.

  I can’t understand why she’d pay for—

  Look, you knew you might not have to do anything—

  I was hoping—

  Don’t. Just take the envelope, and the money.

  But I don’t need it, not this week, there’s still plenty of food—

  You need warmer clothes, Duncan told her gruffly, and so does that baby. Winters are rough here. And long. It snows, usually a lot. If you want to do something for Iris, get yourself a pair of warm boots and a parka and some gloves so you’ll be able to shovel snow. She won’t ask you to, but you should clear the path from her place to the shed, then clear your own, so you can get wood for the fireplaces. And shovel a path around to the outside door and to the street, so that you can get out and I can bring in whatever Iris needs. She’ll appreciate that.

  Anybody’d appreciate that, Oldman agreed, turning to her, again feeling his chest constrict and again fighting its tightness. Besides, he continued, the days when you could hire a neighborhood kid to shovel your drive or sidewalk for a couple of bucks are over, and anyway we’re talking about Iris—Oldman knew this because Duncan had confided in him, knowing that Oldman, being circumspect, being Oldman, wouldn’t breathe a word about the girl’s presence to Claire or to anyone in town—who hasn’t allowed anyone, with few exceptions, to come onto her property for years and years. You should be very pleased to be on Iris’s very short list of privileged people.

  I’m not sure she wants me on that list.

  Well, you’re on it, Duncan told her. And then tells her that the money she receives isn’t for groceries, that Iris leaves a list of what she needs in an envelope taped to the outer door on Wednesday evenings, and that June should do the same; Duncan leaves the delivery at the door on Thursday mornings. Otherwise, the money is June’s to spend or save as she sees fit. Also, as there’s no phone in the cottage and Iris doesn’t want one put in, June is welcome to use Duncan’s office phone if she wants or needs to. And she’s to let him, not Iris, know if anything needs to be fixed in the cottage; again, Iris doesn’t want to be bothered with such. And, of course, June is to come by on Fridays at three o’clock. Any questions? he asked.

  June shook her head.

  So take the money, he told her, and the envelope. Downtown shops are open until six except on Thursdays, when they’re open until nine. There’s also a big shopping center at the other end of town that’s open seven days a week until ten at night except on Sundays, when it closes at eight.

  Is there a bus?

  The same one you took coming here.

  Funny, Oldman mused aloud, I was planning on going over there myself, so I can offer you a lift and drop you at Iris’s place on my way home.

  I don’t want to put you out—

  You won’t. I’d be glad to have the company, unless you’ve got other obligations, Oldman replied, and Duncan had to stop himself from grinning; June knew no one other than Iris and Duncan and was living within the confines of Iris’s world and so couldn’t possibly have other obligations, never mind plans, unless it was to walk the streets and gaze in the windows—Duncan was certain June wouldn’t step foot into a shop, not yet, she’d first have to overcome her shyness, that innate discomfort that arose from some deep-rooted sense of inadequacy, neither of which she was shedding at that moment in his office. But it wasn’t even Oldman’s considerate suggestion that the girl, like any girl, might have something else (never mind something better) to do that made Duncan suppress a grin: it’s that Oldman, as everyone in town knew, had gone out of his way to avoid that shopping center he’d long detested before it even opened because he understood that it would decimate the small stores and shops in town, empty the streets of shoppers, signal the death of downtown Thursday nights when just about everyone came out to make their purchases or perambulate or gallivant and gossip. No, Oldman didn’t give a damn about the shopping center’s long hours and cutthroat prices, its one-stop-for-everything-you-need convenience (from automotive supplies to clothes to hardware and fishing tackle, household goods, groceries), or the free parking provided for more vehicles than would ever fill its lot. Worse, Oldman was known to fume, even if that shopping center didn’t drive the last nail into downtown’s coffin, it served as the harbinger of things to come—some of which had already arrived—in the shape of those malls that were springing up, sprawling off the highways, with their restaurants, walking areas, recreational facilities. And Oldman was right, of course: some stores in and around the center of town had closed and, while not boarded up, sat behind empty, unwashed display windows; some once-established places made do with becoming secondhand clothing and furniture stores; and others—such as the pharmacy and the Puritan restaurant, the magazine-and-newspaper store, the diners, a pizza parlor, and a few bars—managed to remain as they were, along with the local newspaper building and town hall and police department, and those street-level offices whose shingles belonged to the town’s doctors, accountants and lawyers, some of whom, like Duncan, lived above their offices and so kept the main street from being utterly deserted of foot traffic.

  At any rate, Duncan, repressing that grin, said, I’d take Oldman up on that offer if I were you, and he picked up the envelope and put the twenty-five dollars into it and handed it to June, who, still hesitant, finally took it and thanked him, and to Oldman said: I really wouldn’t want to trouble you.

  It’s no trouble at all, Oldman told her. In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

  But before they reached the door, Duncan asked: And what about that shaggy dog story you were telling?

  Butler was finally pardoned, came Oldman’s reply, by the UPS guy himself, whom everyone convinced that the dog just decided for itself what its job is, which is to make sure no one does any more damage to Evans than what he already has to deal with.

  Don’t tell me he brought bones by Evans’s place as an act of forgiveness.

  Okay, Oldman laughed, I won’t.

  And Oldman ushered June and Luke onto the sidewalk and into the spotless Studebaker parked just outside Duncan’s office, Duncan wondering how in the world Oldman managed to keep it running after all these years, wondering too how long it would take before June realized that he—Oldman—had taken her and that baby under his wing, had committed himself to them. The irony of it, Duncan reflected: first Claire, now June, both ostensibly under Iris’s watch but Iris permanently self-discharged from duty. Not that Oldman would mention Iris, or Claire; Oldman was prudent. And patient, so he had a way of getting people to talk, and Duncan had no doubt that the girl would become comfortable with him—as comfortable, perhaps, as she could be with anyone—and maybe even, eventually, tell him about herself, without Oldman ever asking as to how she had come to be living at Iris’s and never once mentioning the oddity of it. No, Oldman wouldn’t pry, Duncan
knew. He’d act as though there were no reason in the world why June shouldn’t have ended up here, and he’d allow her to come to the conclusion that it was perfectly natural that he, Oldman, would be the one to take her best interests and the best interests of that baby to heart. Which he had already done, either because he’d seen something in her that no one else had ever noticed and might never, or because Oldman was doing what he always did, taking in strays—who could forget those feral monkeys, or the way Oldman pastured until it died an unbroken, useless, evil-tempered cow-kicking pony, or that string of mutts that seemingly came from nowhere and simply took up, each in turn, residence with him. And who could forget Claire, to whom he had been both mentor and, in his way, godfather. Why Oldman never married was a mystery to Duncan, for he must have been considered a fine catch for most women, being a steady, thoughtful, intelligent man—a farmer’s son who loved working the land, a former war photographer, currently a semiretired newspaper darkroom manager, and for a generation and more the town’s full-time confessor, shrink, adjudicator, adviser, unofficial lawman—who, now in his sixties, remained the area’s most unapologetic, enduring bachelor. Duncan finished his beer, thinking that Oldman would make it through to a hundred, being who he was, and that before he got any older he’d see to it that June didn’t leave that shopping center he so despised and had himself never stepped foot in without making sure she bought some proper clothes for the hard season to come; he’d help her select the warmest boots and gloves and caps, he’d make sure she and that baby had more than just a change of clothes, and he’d drive them to Iris’s and make an arrangement to pick her up next Friday and every Friday thereafter—obviating the necessity of her walking to the bus stop with Luke in her arms—and bring her to Duncan’s office.