No Place for Two

From the opened front door, Bev’s eyes swept over their garden: she glowed when her gaze rested on her shrubs and flower patches, then air exploded from her nose when she pinpointed his trees; the granadilla, olive, lemon, fig and avocado. Thirty years of bondage with him were trapped in each of them.

She kicked off the flip-flops from her feet and pulled on her cut-off uggs, that served as garden boots. The worn glove scratched her finger when she pulled it on. She extracted a sliver of dried grass from the grey netted material and flung it into the black plastic refuse pail next to her.

The late summer morning heat had settled everywhere. A haze shimmered across the dried lawn and bees hummed around the grey-burnt rosemary buds, whose branches tentacled at the corner of the stoep. Its pungent aroma filled her senses. Somewhere, sometime, she had read that the herb’s scent enhanced memory capabilities. It seemed to be true for the bees, she reasoned. They come back and harvest the shrub after every winter, even, with not one hive close-by.

She inched past far away from the insects, who scattered into a maelstrom when her shadow fell over them. He will never be able to work here, so close to them, she smirked. That bee attack on him, years ago, will forever quarantine him from his own garden in day-time. She wondered if his account of the doctor’s caution was the truth. That another bee sting on him could prove fatal.

She trudged across the lawn, then stopped. A furrow in the soil snaked past her feet. She followed the trail. It stopped at a small hole. She squatted. A huge ant popped out. Then another one, and another one. They headed towards a new trail. Then she saw one coming back with a green seed mounted on him.

Anger exploded inside her. My grass-lings! I broke my back to regrow the sandy spots with a new cover, she fumed. She thundered into the house and rushed out with a tin of insecticide. She sprayed and sprayed into the hole. The breeze whipped the poison into her face. She pinched her nose, then realized that her hand was wet with the content.

The side of her face burnt lightly. She ran cold water over the soap on her face. She watched the suds bubble down into the basin drain hole. The mirror on the tiled wall, reflected her cheek’s red rash. She cursed under her breath. He will, most likely, gloat about this tonight, she realized. Another point of contentment for him.

Outside, the heat had intensified. She headed for the shady petunia patch underneath the granadilla tree. Here, the soil was moist with decomposed leaves; here and there, a shriveled brown fruit lay half-buried in the soil. She dug her hand-fork between the multi-colored flowers. Their delicate petals fluttered in the breeze.

As she watched their kaleidoscope of movements, she recalled the heated exchange about the tree.

“You can’t plant a fruit tree so close to the wall,” she had screamed at him, years ago. “it will damage the foundation there.”

“Its roots are shallow,” he argued.

“Really now! Just where did you get that information?”

He never replied. And, the tree remained there. She knew that he lied. She had stormed back inside. Now, years later, that was confirmed. A long crack zig-zagged from the ceiling down their bedroom wall. He seemed blind to it. Most of the times she entered the room, the unsightly blight rankled her. Anger at his indifference and his lack of responsibility churned her emotions from anger to hate.

Yet, calm returned when her mind drifted to the harvest of granadillas. It has borne its delicacy throughout the year since the first one was picked. The soft, sweet-sour yellow-orange mush was pungent in its flavor. She had used them for drinks, cakes and puddings for all social occasions, and had basked in the compliments it derived from guests and family members.

“They have so much more fruit inside, much more than the organic ones I pay so much for,” one friend had praised once.

“They’re also organic’”, she had defended, “we don’t use any chemicals in our garden.”

Now, because of the army of seed-thieves, I’ve contaminated our soil, she anguished. What came over me? She realized that she was trapped by the anger at her life-partner inside her. It clouded her mind, day in and day out.

The buzz of the bee near her face broke her thoughts. She swiped it away. Grains of sand sputtered onto her face. She shook her face and punched the fork into the soil. The blackness underneath, which she lifted onto the dry soil on top, crunched underneath the sharp edge of the tool.

The heat baked her. The sun-rays had moved towards where she knelt in the sand and it burnt the back of her legs. She raked all the weeds into a heap, stashed them into the pail, then emptied the water can onto the flowers. The water soaked into the soil around them. She looked at it with a sense of satisfaction, as she wiped the droplets of perspiration from her forehead.

I wonder if he’ll ever see what I’ve done outside today, she thought, as she walked into the coolness of the house. He always takes a walk outside, at sunset, when the bees were gone. She watched him through the window at times. He strolled around like a master, who inspects the creations of a slave. It irked her.

The creaks of garage door announced his arrival. She offered her cheek for his mandatory peck. This time, she walked onto the stoep to observe his nightly scrutiny. He stopped at the granadilla tree. He stooped down. A yell boomed around the garden. He fell back. He clutched his finger.

He turned and stumbled past her into the house. She watched him tumble onto the couch. His face looked like a balloon. His lips like pork-sausages. Slits stared at her.

“Help!’ he muttered. He clutched his throat. She saw that his chest heaved and his gulps for breath.

He was stung, she realized. But how? Bees don’t fly at night! Then she recalled the one she had swished away at the bedding earlier. Could it be that one? Did a hurt, flightless insect find his way onto him? Is this the ultimate point of contentment for me? Freedom?

Her fingers dialed the emergency number from her cell, as if on their own. Then, she packed ice onto his throat and face. The pain in his eyes reached into her soul. She stroked his face. Close by, the ambulance siren sliced through the air.

“If he can still breathe, we can still save him,” the paramedic announced.

A glimpse of the garden in the dusk, bolstered her hopes, as she followed the stretcher into the street. The leaves of his tree glinted, like a beacon of hope. One fruit dropped from a branch and gently rolled towards them.