The Pruning of Emily Matheson

We all saw Emily Matheson get murdered.

It was one of those days when the sun came out after a heavy rain, and the clocks slowed down because everyone had canceled their plans to go yachting and golfing. The air was heavy with heat, sucking the sound out of the world so all we could hear was the tsk tsk of the sprinklers as they arced back and forth across already drenched lawns. 

We lounged on our porches, gulping iced tea, shifting every so often to release the heat’s pressure, neither hot nor uncomfortable enough to go back inside. Under the sun's searing rays, steam wafted from the wet ground like a pot of boiling water, cloaking the neighborhood in a misty haze. 

It was one of those days when all of us were desperate for entertainment but not desperate enough to peel our sweaty bodies off chaise lounges.

So we watched Emily Matheson get murdered while ice cubes crunched in our mouths. 

*****

Elmwood Heights was a gated community located on a steep hill, where residents shelled out thousands of dollars a month for the upkeep of the golf course, vineyard, and country club. Only residents could drive up the hill. All visitors had to park before the guarded Buckingham Palace-esque gates and walk, necks craned at an ungodly angle the entire way up. 

Emily Matheson was one such visitor. We had all been mowing our already manicured lawns and pruning our gardens, watching with narrowed eyes as she gawked at our three-story houses and backyard pools. 

Visitors always rode up in residents' cars, but not Emily Matheson. She was a fairy, waltzing up the hill in her cropped tie-dye shirt and Birkenstock sandals, short hair painted a rosy pink. Sweating in sharply pleated Balenciaga pants and Gucci blouses, we all curled our lips, but Emily Matheson was too busy trying to find Josh Hankins’ house to notice. 

Now, everyone loved Josh Hankins. Everyone. His life was the most riveting soap opera in existence to us. We smiled as we watched him learn to ride a bike. We grinned with pride as he put on his L.L. Bean backpack for the first day of school. We cried when we saw him pose for prom pictures. We slapped him on the back when he was accepted at Yale and waved at him when he came home that summer. 

Yes, everyone loved Josh. Including Emily Matheson, apparently. 

After a moment of tapping on her phone, Emily Matheson strode to the Hankins’ house, climbed up the front steps, and knocked daintily. Josh opened the door half a minute later, hair gelled, shirt starched. He glanced down at her, and a sickle-shaped smile sliced across his face as he pulled her inside. 

Josh had had girlfriends before–girls who wore flowered sundresses and low pumps who looked like they’d stepped off a Vogue magazine cover. Emily Matheson looked like she’d just finished strumming a guitar at Woodstock. 

We sighed with disgust as Josh closed the door, wondering where he had found this wench. But our boy would come to his senses eventually, and we resumed mowing and pruning. 

Every day that summer, Emily Matheson and Josh were stuck together like Velcro. They would gad about in Josh’s Ferrari, shrieking along to pop songs at the top of their lungs and throwing parties while the Hankins were away. 

We watched with narrowed eyes as our darling boy slobbered all over Emily Matheson and chugged beer after beer on the lawn in a sweat-stained t-shirt. We remembered how he’d always dressed in blazers and slacks and sipped tea on his porch. We remembered how at his parents' soirées, he kissed every lady's hand and shook every man's, complimenting their looks and recent promotions or business deals. He barely even greeted us now. 

But we also remembered the same sickle smile Josh gave every girl and the same rose bouquet he would give them after every first date. We remembered how all of those Vogue girls ended up running down the steps of the Hankins' house, sobs echoing behind the clack of their heels. 

We never told on Josh to his parents though. It was all that Emily Matheson’s fault Josh was off the rails. She was a wayward flower that had to be pruned. Otherwise, she would ruin the garden.

*****

That fateful, hot, lazy day, Emily Matheson did not waltz up the hill. She stormed like the clouds on the horizon, pink hair flying, dark eyeshadow dripping down her face. We sat up a little straighter in our chaise lounges and set down our iced teas, hands wet from the condensation on our glasses. 

After Emily Matheson pounded up the steps to Josh’s house, she hammered on the door, the sound pealing like church bells.

No sooner than Josh opened the door, Emily Matheson slung her hand across his face. Josh’s face exploded red. We gasped. No Vogue girl had ever done that.

They shrieked at each other the way they used to shriek along to pop songs.

We all sighed in relief. Who cared what they were fighting about? Finally, this disastrous summer fling would be over and our boy would return to normal. 

But their faces became uglier and uglier, crazed like rabid dogs. Josh yelled one final thing and shoved Emily Matheson. 

She stumbled, face twisting in panic. And she flew to the ground like the fairy she was, skull striking the pavement with a bone-shattering crack. 

Josh screamed. We gaped, feet half-off our chaise lounges. 

Blood began to pool around Emily Matheson’s head like a halo of spilled wine, and the sweetness of iced tea in our mouths morphed into the sour aftertaste of ice cream.

We watched and did nothing as Emily Matheson died. It wasn’t Josh’s fault and certainly not ours. She got herself killed as soon as she waltzed up Elmwood Heights for the first time. Maybe if she had worn flowered sundresses and low pumps, she could have run down the Hankins’ steps alive.

Emily Matheson should have known that wayward flowers always get pruned.