Backyard (9 page)

11

What Cold Fronts Do

S
ometimes in the summer the wind shifts and blows down from Canada, which is to say it comes out of the northwest. It is a cool, dry wind that sweeps away the murky, heavy-aired stillness that oozes up from the south and so inexorably settles down upon the land, unrelenting and unmovable. This cool air mass comes barreling down quickly, often hard on the heels of thunderstorms, impatient, it seems, to relieve all those who have been sweltering through that wet, stifling swimming weather and conducting their lives in a kind of greasy, downtrodden slow motion because of it.

There is no particular name for this refreshing draft, though there should be, because when the shift comes, everyone notices, and everyone talks about it. Deep, sultry summer becomes bright, sparkling May. The old and turgid becomes new and sprightly. Friendly cumulus clouds, looking like giant, tumbling cotton balls, sail across the sky as brief visitors. Moods brighten. Movements quicken. Some people say they almost feel resurrected. Any researchers doing a study of what happens before and after these Canadian cold fronts come through would undoubtedly find marked differences in productivity, visits to psychiatrists, jogging mileage tallied, and the incidence of friendly and charitable gestures.

It was at times such as these that Nan swore she could see smiles spanning the width of all her flowers' upturned blossoms and leaves. Actually, all
except
the Dusty Miller. Despite showering more than the usual care and fertilizer on it, Nan had been unable to coax the wretched little albino malcontent into anything approaching the brilliance that all the others had worked so hard to achieve. Perhaps, she thought, it's destined for a different fate. Or maybe it's one of those
evil
plants, a sort of secret weed camouflaged as this meek little snowy thing. She would have to watch for signs that it might be spreading its negative contagion to its neighbors, the monarda, purple coneflowers, and balloon flowers. In the meantime, she thought of a riddle for George:

“Why is monarda like a weapon? . . . Because it's a
bee balm!
Ha-ha. Ha-ha.”

Cold fronts always brought out the neighbors. Mitzi and Howard “Frip” Rodard were the first. They ambled up the railroad tie steps toward the Fremonts, talking animatedly and gesticulating wildly to each other, as those chatterboxes always would.

George and Nan watched their approach with some apprehension; when the Rodards showed up, you knew you were in for a gabfest that would keep you a good hour and a half, conservatively. What's more, they were the world's greatest contrarians; make any sort of declaration, and they were bound to contradict it. When talking to the Rodards, it was best to never say anything definitive, though George would often play with them, tossing out one observation after another that either begged to be challenged or was so patently correct that questioning it would be comically absurd.

“Fripper, Mitzi,” George said. “What's happening?”

“Why?” Frip said. “Should there be anything happening?”

“I don't know of anything happening,” Mitzi said. “You must know of something we don't.” The Rodards frowned. George and Nan tittered.

“You're right,” Nan said. “We don't know of anything happening and there's no reason anything should be.”

“Well, there could be,” Mitzi said. “There's always something happening.”

“In fact, there is,” said Frip as he and Mitzi settled into the other two patio chairs, which responded with squeaks and groans from the fabric backing and coiled metal springs. “We're having that big ash in our front yard cut down.”

Nan gasped.

“That beautiful ash! That's the biggest tree in your yard. It must be hundreds of years old.”

“It's actually quite ugly,” Mitzi said. “As for age, I wouldn't place it at more than sixty or seventy years.”

“You're right,” said George, lifting his drink mischievously. “It's the ugliest tree in the neighborhood. Drink?”

“It's actually much admired by the neighbors,” Frip said. “And it has its points. For instance, the leaves turn a lovely yellow in the fall. No, no thanks. Mitzi?”

“Mitzi what?”

“Drink?”

“No, dear, we have to be off in, uh, fifteen minutes,” said Mitzi, stealing a quick glance at her watch. Nan and George looked at each other, amazed. If that indeed proved to be the case, it would set a record for Rodard brevity.

“Any other time, sure,” Frip said. “But not today. We've got a recital downtown.”

“Mippi must be playing,” said George, shooting a quick wink at Nan. “Wish I could hear her. She's so talented.”

“In a manner of speaking, it is Mippi,” said Mitzi, referring to her fifteen-year-old daughter, whose real name was Beatrice. “But, in a way, it's not. Mippi's only part of the recital.”

“Talented?” Frip mused as he stroked his chin then threw his arms skyward for no reason that Nan or George could discern. “Well, that's kind of a loaded term, isn't it? She's got a long way to go on that darned cello. I'm not sure I'd call it talent. Perseverance is more like it.”

“You must be proud of Mippi,” Nan said, lips tightly pursed to keep her from laughing.

“Not particularly,” Frip said, as Mitzi nodded in agreement. “A father probably shouldn't be saying this about a daughter, but she is so willful and disobedient at times. And so contrary.”

“No!” George and Nan cried.

“She's way too big for her britches,” Mitzi said, shaking her head in dismay. “Always knows she's right. The rest of the world is wrong. Her parents are idiots. You know what we're talking about, don't you? Three teenagers . . .”

“Two teenagers,” Nan corrected. “Ellis is twenty.”

“No, he's not!” Mitzi said. “Ellis is nineteen.” George, smiling, took a long, slow sip of gin.

“That's right,” Frip said, lurching forward and planting his hands palms down on the glass tabletop. “Since when is Ellis twenty? He is nineteen. I know that for a fact.”

Nan took a healthy swig from her glass to fortify herself for the tangled web of conversation she knew she was about to enter.

“I think we would know, Frip, how old our son is.”

Mitzi and Frip looked at each other, confused, obviously uncertain as to how they could respond appropriately to such a bold declaration. George looked at his watch; he would time this uncharacteristic pause in the conversation. It lasted seven seconds.

“That's not always true, Nan,” Mitzi said, flapping her hands around as if they were flippers steering her crazily through some underwater world. “Parents forget. Parents subconsciously want their children to stay at certain ages, and they're reluctant to keep tacking on additional years. You might want to check your records, Nan.”

“You're probably right, Mitzi,” George said. “Ellis must be nineteen. We stand corrected.”

“Let's not get too hasty, now,” Frip said. “He could very well be twenty. In fact, now that you mention it, don't I recall a twentieth birthday not so long ago? Wasn't Ellis's birthday in April?”

George shrugged.

“Hard to say,” he said. “What about this weather? Isn't it beautiful? I actually timed a temperature drop of thirteen degrees and a dew point drop of twelve degrees in the course of one half hour. Wind direction: north-northwesterly. Wind speed: eleven, gusting to fifteen. I just took the readings fifteen minutes ago.”

Nan rolled her eyes and smiled indulgently. George looked for any opportunity to show off his weather expertise. He had a state-of-the-art Taylor weather station, armed with barometer, thermometer, hygrometer, and rain gauge sitting atop the end post of the split-rail fence, and sheltered (with the exception of the rain gauge, which had to be open to collect moisture) by a wooden frame open at both the front and back to allow the free flow of air. On the roof of the house was his anemometer and wind vane, which were connected to wind speed and direction gauges sitting on top of the desk in his office.

“I don't think the weather's beautiful at all,” Frip said. “It seems like we haven't had any rain in weeks, and this is supposed to be the wettest part of the year. You should see the water bill!”

“He's up at five thirty every morning watering,” Mitzi said. “That way, you get the most bang for your buck. No evaporation. No chance of overnight rot.”

“You're right about that, Frip,” George said. “We do need the moisture. This is awful weather!”

“On the other hand, feel that breeze,” Mitzi said. “Who could ever possibly want it to rain now and spoil this lovely weather. My gosh, will you look at the time! We gotta go.”

“Take care,” said Frip with a violent wave as he and Mitzi bounded down the steps, passing and greeting Jim Graybill, who almost collided with them as he climbed quickly and purposefully toward the Fremonts.

“Lovely day.” Jim greeted them with a broad smile, his arms akimbo, looking around to take in the wonderful expanse of the backyard. “If you could bottle a day like this and a yard like yours you could sell it for a billion bucks. God, this backyard never ceases to amaze me. How
do
you do it?”

“Nothing to it,” George said. “We just let nature take its course while we sit here and drink.”

“Ha! Got another one of those, by any chance?” Jim pointed at George's glass.

“Oh, I guess we can dig something up.” George rose from his chair with an exaggerated grunt, meant to make Jim feel guilty for putting him in motion, and made his way languidly to the door.

“No rush, of course,” Jim said. “I can stay here till the glaciers melt.”

George stooped over more and developed a limp that made his progress toward the door painstakingly slow.

“This is what you get for your sarcasm,” he said. “You say things like that and my whole body reacts by slowing down.”

“So, when do we sweep the yard?” Jim said after George returned with his drink.

“Pardon?”

“
Sweep.
Sweep the yard. When do we . . . uh,
I . . .
do it?”

“I just swept the patio yesterday,” said George, who had already downed his drink and was starting to slur his words. “No need to sweep the yard, is there?”

“Ha-ha. I mean sweep it with a metal detector.”

“A what?”

“Metal detector.”

“You have one of those?” George said. “Wow!”

“That's about enough in the line of alcohol for you, dear,” Nan said, pointing her half-finished drink at a suddenly intense George.

“Just bought it a week ago. Top-of-the-line model. When do we sweep?”

“Sweep for what?” Nan said. “What's there to
sweep
for around here?”

“Any metal in the area, such as, oh, the stray quarter or dime, or millions worth of buried treasure.”

“Why?”

“Why? Ha-ha. You're such a card, George. Because buried under even the most unassuming suburban backyards could be enough metal to build a battleship. Old pots and pans, arrowheads, coins. Ill-gotten gains.”

“Meaning . . . ?”

“Meaning buried loot.”

“Be serious, Jim,” George said.

“I am serious. Down in Louisiana, a guy swept his backyard and came up with a chest of Spanish doubloons. I read it in my treasure hunter magazine. It could happen anywhere.”

“We're a bit off those old shipping lanes, Jim,” Nan said in that supercilious way of hers that both George and Jim knew to mean this conversation should be drawing to an end.

“Anyway, it doesn't hurt to check,” Jim said. “A complete sweep would just take, oh, forty-five minutes, maybe a little more. Whatever I find, I get, oh, twenty percent. Maybe twenty-five percent. You get the rest. And you can rely on my complete confidentiality.”

“No,” George said.

“Absolutely not,” said Nan. “Nobody's going to go nosing around under our backyard with the thought of digging it all up.”

“We'd dig it up only if there was something worth digging up. A little hole. Hardly scratch your gardens. Then, you could spend the thousands you get from the buried whatever to turn this into the backyard of your dreams.”

“It already is the backyard of our dreams,” George said.

Jim sighed. “Oh, well, give it some thought. And, on another not altogether unrelated topic, have you two heard about the contest?”

They hadn't. Jim explained that Burdick's had announced, in conjunction with Livia's weekly
Lollygag,
a contest to be held in July for the best yard—front or back—in Livia. First prize would be $5,000, a feature in the
Lollygag,
and a big PlantWorld sign in the winning yard for the rest of the summer!

“Whoa!” George said.

“You guys came immediately to mind,” Jim said, then drained the rest of his drink with a big
Ahhhh!
“I haven't seen anything that approaches you guys' backyard anywhere in Livia. Not even in the southeast quadrant.”

Nan and George doubted that. The southeast quadrant was where Livia's storied rich lived. They could afford built-in sprinkler systems with timers, fancy rock gardens, and swarms of illegal aliens to do all the gardening work for them.

“Yours is better,” Jim said. “Honestly. It's so . . . so . . . idiosyncratic. It bears your stamp.”

George and Nan hemmed and hawed, and promised to consider it.

“Well, that would be a pretty good time for it,” Nan said. “Let's see, the impatiens and alyssum will be out, of course. The bee balm, purple coneflower, balloon flower, some Asiatic lilies, maybe . . . Hmmm.”