The Garden Visit

The Garden Visit

Donna Kiser

She shivered on the stone bench amidst skeletal shadows of branches that creaked and groaned in the frigid air. Decayed flower heads waved on dead stems, some blew across the cemeterial garden and heaped at the bottom of headstones. She tucked her chin deep in the burgundy mink and rubbed fingers together in the matching muff.

           “What the hell, Lucy, what are you doing sitting here? It’s freezing.”

She jumped up at the sound of the gravelly voice and pulled the .45 from her muff, a holdover from past times when she ran the ranch alone. There was no valid reason to carry the gun now, but it was a comfortable habit, and even Mason agreed you never knew when it might come in handy. At least she didn’t carry the 12 gauge around like he did. She relaxed her grip when the old man stumbled from behind the bare oaks.

           “Mason, you shouldn’t be out here. I’m ok. Just waiting.”

Moonlight exploded on their wrinkled faces when the clouds passed. Lucy was not much younger than Mason, although his attire was far more modest. A thick flannel hunting hat was pulled low over Mason’s brow, with a quilted Carhart jacket over jeans.

           “At midnight? If he’s not here by now, he’s not coming. Come back to the house and warm up. We can visit again in daylight.”

A haunting howl shattered the quiet darkness and echoed against the towering tombstones. Lucy sat up straighter, her face glowed with excitement in the moonlight.

           “I told you. He’s here. Now, you go home Mason and leave me with my Roger man.”

           “Dammit Lucy,” but his voice was drowned out by the howl closer now. Lucy pushed him.

           “Go home, Mason. I’ll be fine. You know he always protected me.”

           “He’s a damn dead dog, Lucy. A ghost that’s in your grieving mind.”

Another howl ricocheted through the night and Mason tightened his own grip on the 12 gauge.

           “Listen. Hear that? He’s close. Go home, Mason.”

Lucy crouched back down on the cold bench, pulling the mink up, tighter around her shivering bones. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped. Mason’s face wrinkled more as he squinted his eyes, searching for whatever was wandering around in the darkness.

Mason knew it was useless to argue with Lucy about anything. This obsession of hers always seemed crazy to him. He never saw anything, although he always heard those distant howls, even from the back veranda. Lucy was adamant that Roger visited her every Saturday evening in the family cemetery.

Roger died six months ago. Mason was in the barn when Lucy found him, and he was the one who carried Roger to the cemetery burying him beneath the very same bench Lucy sat on every week. Mason understood her mourning and couldn’t agree more that Roger was a great dog, part Akita, part Lab, joined at the hip with Lucy since he was six weeks old. She had rescued him from a cardboard box someone had left on the side of a mountain road. It had only been the two of them alone on this homestead for nine years until Mason came to stay, as a handyman. They had spent every waking moment together, playing and working, and Roger was a perfectly trained dog. Still, he was dead, and for Lucy to trudge a quarter mile in the dark, regardless of weather, every week at 79 years old WAS crazy.

           “Mason, if you don’t leave, he won’t come. I’m fine and if I’m not, I’ll whistle. Go home and put the kettle on for tea.”

Mason didn’t even bother to answer. He yanked the ear flaps down and stomped away through the leafless trees, his worn farm boots leaving a deep path to follow. Lucy didn’t need a path, but he worried anyway, even as he heard her crooning.

“Good boy, Roger. Come on up here. It’s a cold one tonight, huh, boy. Oh, Roger, I miss you so much but it’s good to have these hours together. And, we have a full moon tonight. That’s right, come on up and lie down.”

He should’ve turned around to prove once and for all that Lucy was imagining things. He was scared.      

If Mason mentioned this to anyone, people would tell him that she’s old and senile; that she needed to go to a home where someone would watch her; that she’s only going to end up dead lying on that cold cement bench. He just didn’t tell anyone. There wasn’t anyone to tell anyway. Over the three years that he’d been working at Wonder Ranch in northern California, he’d come to care for Lucy’s horses, her dogs and cats, and even Lucy. He’d continue to care for her no matter what. Because he’d fallen in love.          

When he got back to the house, George, the St. Bernard barked, ran in circles, then sat patiently on the white paint-chipped veranda. Mason swung open the heavy wooden door, kicked his boots off on the doormat, and walked to the sink to fill the kettle. George came in behind him and lay just to the right of the door. He was Lucy’s dog too and would lie right there until she got home.

Mason put the kettle on high heat, filled two tea balls with chamomile and lavender leaves and set the cups on the gray stone counter. He noticed the poem on the brushed steel refrigerator. The one Lucy wrote right after Roger died.

My Roger Man

Don’t talk to me about it

We’re getting along just fine

He sits beside the stove while I cook

Just no longer takes a bite

He lies on my feet beneath the desk

Just no need to say “watch out”

When I get up

He was beside me in the bed last night

Just didn’t fight over covers

He walked down the hall with me

On the way to make coffee

Just didn’t need to go out

So far, I’ve felt him every moment

Until someone asks, then I’m empty

So

Don’t talk to me about it

We’re getting along just fine.

He heard the crunch of footsteps on the snowpack at the same time George jumped up. He would sniff and growl and sniff Lucy again while she assured him it was only Roger that he smelled. It was the only time George snuggled Mason, whining softly. Mason understood his confusion because he felt the same way. Every Saturday night when Lucy came home with strands of Roger’s champagne-colored hair clinging to her burgundy fur.