I shut my eyes and blow. As I inhale, the scent of my Jonathan rose fills my senses. The rumble of a car engine shatters the silence. A door slams, followed by another, and I open my eyes. The silhouettes of two men appear on the perimeter of the field, as foreboding as the old oaks. I notice the wind suddenly calm and the plants stop rustling at the exact same moment all of the women stop working. A curious hum begins to build as the men walk with a purpose between the rows of plants. The women lean away from the men as they approach, almost as if the wind had regained momentum. Row by row, each woman drops her hoe and shuts her eyes, mouthing a silent prayer.
Please not me. Please not me.
The footsteps grow closer. I shut my eyes.
Please not me. Please not me.
When I open them, our minister is standing before me, a man beside him, both of their faces solemn.
“Iris,” Rev. Doolan says softly.
“Ma’am,” the other man says, holding out a Western Union telegram.
The world begins to spin. Shirley appears at my side, and she wraps her arms around me.
Mrs. Maynard,
The Secretary of War desires me to express his deepest regrets that your husband, First Lieutenant Jonathan Maynard, has been killed...
“No!” Shirley shouts. “Iris! Somebody help!”
The last thing I see before I fall to the ground are a million white puffs of dandelion floating in the air, the wind carrying them toward heaven.
ABBY
MAY 2003
“This is the house I was telling you about.”
I twist to look out the open car window. A smile overtakes my face as soon as I see a rambling bungalow with a wide front porch. A warm summer breeze shakes the porch swing before making the American flag on a corner pillar flap.
Our Realtor, Pam, parks her Audi on the narrow street, barely wide enough for one car to pass at a time, which sits at the top of a very steep hill. The street—and whole neighborhood—reminds me of the time I visited San Francisco, only in miniature. Pam rushes around to open our doors.
“Did Daddy put the flag there?”
“Yes,” Pam lies to my daughter, Lily. “He’s a war hero!”
I can feel my heart split, as if it’s been cleaved in two by a butcher.
Pam and I are roughly the same age, early thirties, but Pam is somehow still filled with the same unbridled enthusiasm as Chance, the Irish setter we had growing up. I am filled only with a dull ache brought on by silent rage due to a confusing war that has stolen the husband I once knew.
Pam salutes Lily, who mimics the patriotic gesture. Pam turns to me and salutes.
“Don’t,” I say.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Peterson,” she says, quickly lowering her arm. Her blond bob trembles in the breeze, just like her lips, which are slathered in pink gloss.
“Abby,” I say.
“I understand, Mrs.... Abby. It’s okay. You must be so nervous about your husband all the time.”
I force a smile. “I am,” I say. “Didn’t mean to be so short.”
She turns toward the house, and her Chance-like enthusiasm returns as she reenters agent mode. “This is a Sears kit home,” Pam says as my daughter sprints for the front porch and jumps into the swing.
“A what?” I ask.
“A Sears kit home,” she continues. “Oh, my goodness, Abby. They’re historic now. Sears homes were shipped via boxcar and came with a seventy-five-page instruction manual. Most homes were sent via the railroad, and each kit contained thousands of pieces of the house, which were marked for construction. You can still find lumber that is numbered throughout the house. They did lots of different styles, from bungalows to Colonials.
“This house and the one next door were both Sears homes,” she says, before nervously beginning to babble, “but...um...but...the two homes are nothing alike.”
I look at Pam, whose face is registering absolute panic, and then turn to look for the first time at the neighboring house.
“That’s an understatement,” I say. “It looks like a prison.”
An imposing wooden fence, which is—no exaggeration—at least ten feet tall, surrounds the property. The second story of the home, which looks to be identical to this one, despite what Pam has just said, is all peeling paint. Moss is growing on the roof’s shingles on a shady section under a towering tree whose first leaves are blush red.
“What’s the story?” I ask.
Pam’s face turns the color of the tree. She takes a deep breath.
“A very old woman lives next door,” Pam says. “Rumors in town are that she lost her husband in World War II and then her young daughter died, too.” Pam glances back at the house and then whispers, “Went crazy and has lived alone for years.” She stops and resumes speaking in a normal tone and nods at the house for rent. “This is her house, too. Used to be her mom’s...or her grandma’s...no one really knows anymore. I heard she has to rent it now for money.”
“Why would she need more money at her age?” I ask. “These surely have to be paid off by now. Is she sick?”
Pam again whispers, “I don’t think so. Who knows? There’re lots of rumors about her and that house. They say she has a virtual Garden of Eden behind that fence. She breeds plants, or something like that. She’s like a flower scientist. Used to call her the First Lady of Flowers around town. Anyway, I hear she spends all of her money to buy different varieties of flowers. Specimens. In fact, this house used to have a beautiful garden in the backyard. The two gardens were combined at one time. This one has fallen into a bit of disarray, but I think it could be brought back to life with a little love.
“But don’t focus on all that,” Pam says. “Focus on that.”
Pam sweeps her well-manicured hands in front of her like a Price Is Right model and a flash of blue catches my eye. For the first time, I realize that we’re not on a hill, we’re tucked atop a dune overlooking Lake Michigan.
“There’s only a peek of the water from the front yard, but the house overlooks the entire lake,” she says. “You can even see the pier from your deck if you stand on your tippy toes. This cottage is part of what’s known as Highland Park. It’s an association of cottages built atop these dunes and dates back to the late 1800s. Isn’t it quaint?”
“You buried the lede, Pam,” I say. “But I’m sure we can’t afford anything on the water. What’s the monthly rent?”
She looks at me and tries not to look next door, but her eyes betray her. “I’m sure we can work out a deal if you’re interested.”