In honor of the Domestic Fringe’s Fiction Friday, here it is, a story for your reading pleasure (or displeasure, depending on your mood and tastes):
The door bell rang incessantly. It rang in my ears. It reverberated in my skull. The ringing, the clanging, the endless calls to answer the door of my shuttered dwelling continued as I sat in the shadows. Those bastards turned my home into a prison. And me, in my golden years: I was supposed to be enjoying professor emeritus status from my gilded cushion in the countryside. But no, there I sat in the gloom, listening to the Vandals chipping away at my well-earned empire of repose.
Oh, just go away, would you?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
“Mrs. Whitcomb? Hello?”
Dear goodness, now they were shouting for me by name. Was there no end to this humiliation? I rose from my overstuffed chair. My mind pondered sicking the cats on them as I marched to the door.
Resolve faded as I reached for the brass handle. My hand hovered for a moment. Had they heard the footsteps approaching the door? Was there time to get away?
Thud. Thud.
Let’s get this over with. I exhaled deeply, and threw open the large red door.
His fist missed hitting me squarely between the eyes by only a few milliseconds of cognition.
“Oh, I’m sorry Mrs. Whitcomb. I didn’t expect you to open the door…”
“Well, then you should feel silly for knocking, shouldn’t you?”
We shared this moment of confused and uneasy silence as the young reporter rubbed his neck and inspected his toes.
He was well-dressed and freshly pressed with a faint odor of cologne, coffee, and newsprint. At least this one was clean. How many times had grubby hipsters wandered to her doorstep, looking for answers in recent months? Crunchy granola they called them. Crunchy, well, that’s what you get for neglecting to bathe, I thought.
“Well?” I gave my hand a flourish, as if presenting the air to young Johnny Newsprint. “You came here for something, let’s have it.”
“Yes, Mrs. Whitcomb, I came—you know why I came, of course.” He laughed. “I’m a reporter for Wonderful Strange, it’s an indie magazine based in…”
I held up a hand. “Save it.”
“Yes, okay. I wanted to see your garden.”
“Of course you do.” I rolled my eyes.
I thought I saw something move behind him. It was a flicker of something. Peering around him, I examined the home across the country lane. The blinds: I saw them jitter. I pursed my lips and grumbled.
Grabbing Newsprint by the arm, I ushered him inside.
He tripped over his long thin limbs, like a baby giraffe newly born. His eyes bulged and glanced about with a newfound air of caution. “What? What’s wrong?”
I shook my head. “Neighbors.”
“Oh.” He squinted, rubbing his pointy chin. “Don’t they like the attention?”
“No.” I waved a hand, instructing him to follow me through the house. “Mind your step into the kitchen, it dips down there. I wouldn’t want your paper to sue me.”
“Yes. No, I don’t think they would.” He hopped over piles of books, and deftly ambled over the wooden floor of the kitchen, ducking his head to avoid the copper pots and pans hanging artfully from my ceiling. I never used the damned things, they were just décor. It would have been so nice to watch him brained by one. This could have elevated them to a greater level of purpose in my eyes.
I opened the door at the back of the kitchen to a world of bright green. The garden exhibited the careful hand of a master gardener. Beautiful manicured green sat in serene splendor, edged by the delicate pastels of lavender, lilac, herbs, foxgloves, roses, iris and peonies. The subtle floral smell pervaded the senses and made every fiber of one’s being call for a cup of tea.
It belonged in a catalog, a coffee table book on landscapes, or some how-to book for the eternal novice. Did it reach those pages? No, the garden I slaved over now captivated the stunted psyches of the tabloid reader’s dullest fantasies. Where the garden club once acclaimed the skillful hand of an intelligent horticulturist, the readers of Amazing!, Wow!, Weird News, and The Fortean Times saw a fairy land of dancing pixies.
He walked out, absorbing the lush scene. “Wow, nice.”
“Yes, it was.” I sat down at the white wooden chair next to the table on porch.
The reporter opened his leather backpack and removed a camera. He turned to me, and pointed at lens monster with a nod.
I shrugged. “Why not?”
He wandered, casually snapping shots. “It’s nice you let the children play here. How often do they visit?”
“I didn’t and I don’t. The little trespassers are lucky I haven’t brought charges against them.” I rested my head on my fist and glared at him.
He jumped, stopped shooting for a moment, and removed a notepad from his pocket. He scribbled a couple of notes and muttered “interesting”.
“You know, I’m head of the local Rationalist Luminaries Society, don’t you?”
More notes flowed from his pen in brisk movements. “No, I didn’t know that, actually.”
“Intrepid reporting they do over at…” I snapped my fingers, urging memory.
“Wonderful Strange,” he answered. “But, I’m really a freelancer. This would be my first featured piece. My name is Brian, by the way. Brian Thorp.”
“Charmed. The pleasure is all yours.”
Undaunted he seated himself across the table. “So, you didn’t let the girls visit, then? Fascinating.” He flipped through his notepad.
“No, they moved in a few months ago with their parents. And they’re the feral neighborhood children now.” I rubbed my temple. Rexxie, my ever-curious Himalayan hopped on the table and nuzzled me. I gave him a good scratch under the chin. “On the bright side, people used to complain about my cats and they don’t anymore.”
Brian nodded. “Hmm. Yes.” He scribbled more notes. “They crawled over the wall, then?”
Looking at the grey stone, it seemed the most likely option. The thought crossed my mind: barbed wire. How much does it cost for a yard this size? I shook the thought from my head. As tempting as it was, I didn’t want to look like I lived in a militarized zone. “I guess?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you see something move, just then?” He stood, placing a hand over his eyes to block the midday sun as he inspected the hedgerow.
Brian lifted his camera. I saw the automatic lens extend, focusing on a distant target. Click. “Gotcha!”
He leapt in the air, practically clicking his heels as he did so. Opening his pack, he removed a glass jar and ran toward the corner of the yard.
I sprang up and gave chase. “Wait. No. What are you doing?”
He covered the yard quickly, with the long strides of a tall man. Meanwhile, I ran behind him, panting like a Pomeranian desperately racing a greyhound for a bone. Curse my stubby legs!
I saw him stoop next to the boxwood. He edged closer, and in one rapid movement scooped something into the jar. He closed the lid with a look equal parts immense satisfaction and child on Christmas morning. “There we go!”
“There we what?” I stopped, and hung over my knees briefly—in an effort to assuage my aching side.
He held the jar to my face. “Look! I caught one!”
I peered into the heavy glass of the jar. “It’s a bug.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Brian whipped the jar away, sending its contexts ricocheting against the walls of the container.
He pressed his face to the glass and examined the tiny winged creature. “Of course that’s a fairy! Look again!
I leaned toward the glass, inspecting the living thing as it leapt about in its prison. “It’s a bug.”
“It’s like a tiny green lady with butterfly wings! I’ve never seen anything like it!” He shook his head in disbelief. He turned to look at me quizzically. “I’ve got to show this to the office.”
I snatched the jar from his hands. “No, it’s an insect.”
He dived in an effort to retrieve the jar.
I stepped back, and he stumbled into the grass.
“Don’t you see the face?”
“Nope.”
He pointed.“The tiny hands?”
“No, it’s a bug. The rest is just, I don’t know, some odd markings and natural camouflage.” I turned my back to Brian and carried the container back to the house. Really, I could not cure ignorance like his. Clearly, he never set foot in a biology class. He probably studied theater or mass communication in school. Having looked him up and down, my old professor radar flagged him as a slacker—a know-nothing day dreamer, first order.
“Hey, that’s my jar.” He followed close behind, flailing his arms in the breeze.
“It’s my bug. It came from my yard.” I strode into the kitchen, triumphant. The large, oak pantry door hung open. I looked at the second shelf. Yes, Tupperware would do the trick. I opened the jar, dumped the bug inside and sealed the lid.
“You can’t do that!”
“It’s my bug.” I closed and locked the pantry. I handed him the jar. “It’s your jar.”
He wagged his index finger aloft. “I have pictures!”
“Good for you! And those you can keep.”
Brian slammed his fist on the tile countertop. “It’s not fair! You said I could see your garden.”
“You did, and you took pictures.”
“They’re worth a thousand words.” He cocked his head, and crossed his chest with his arms.
“Not in the age of Photoshop.” I smiled as I watched him melt a little, his chest caving.
I gently pushed his back with the palm of my hand, ushering him to the front door. “Well, I think it’s time for you to leave. Nice meeting you, Mr. Twerp.”
“It’s Thorp, Mrs. Whitcomb.”
“Whichever.” I moved him forward, as push brooms move dirt toward the threshold, in careful increments of sweeping motion. My right hand was quick to yank the door open wide, and my left was swift to shove him out.
He spun. “Hey, you can’t…”
But, I never heard the remainder. The door shut in his face to muffled protests.
I flopped down into my comfortable lounge and rubbed a weary, but victorious hand across my face. The tinkering of Rexxie’s bell alerted me to his presence. He dropped a dead gift on my floor—one complete with crumpled, colorful wings. His black nose, lips, and whiskers sparkled with an iridescent sheen of glittery powder.
“Good old Rexxie.” I sighed and patted my legs. “Come sit in Mama’s lap.”
He mewed and jumped on the chair. He walked up the back and came down. Curling around my neck he finally descended and settled into my lap with a contented purr.
I turned on the end table lamp. My latest copy of my favorite home improvement magazine sat shining in the lamp-glow. A pool encased in a glass house and smiling party-goers celebrating a fine summer day within an indoor oasis stared up from the cover.
Of course, I could use the exercise. Gardens were such a chore and prone to pests. Who really has the time?
I phoned the installation company listed at the back.
They can’t accuse you of having fairies at the bottom of your garden if you don’t have a garden.
No, they can’t.
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