From the road you couldn’t imagine what’s behind Carl’s cottage. Call it a surprise. Park your car in his narrow driveway, walk past the hedges in the early evening, and you might see him on the back porch. He’s there now, admiring his yellow forsythia. Soon daffodils will bloom, then tulips and iris, then a roar of summer flowers. Fire engine reds, sheer whites, deep purples, soft blues, little pinks, intense yellows. And the green ferns and soft black soil where if you pulled up a clump, you’d probably find three or more well-fed worms. The air smells like flowers and soil and rain and bees. Sometimes Carl can almost sense his flowers and vegetables talking in their own way without words, without sound. And the ladybugs, lacewings, and butterflies whisk the air the way little things do. Underground—thousands and thousands of roots drink water in dainty sips. But he has no one to share his bustling garden with. All the girls he met at the Historical Society were either old or married.
Thirty feet toward the creek, a birch tree sways in the breeze. One branch is half-broken and dangles about. Carl should prune it today, but after a week spent bending over spreadsheets, he has a headache, a sore neck, and feels old. Jasmine sits beside him. Several years ago, she showed up as an emaciated stray, her matted dirty tail between her trembling legs. One wouldn’t know that now. Well-groomed and tail wagging. Carl whistles knowing she’ll howl. He stops. She stops. They do it again. And again. His nearest neighbor is almost deaf so he won’t be bothered.
His mind wanders; his headache eases. Soon he’s thinking of ancient stories in which dogs guard the doors of heaven. He recalls the star called the Dog Star. It’s the night’s brightest, near Orion—a wonderful name. If he ever found a wife and ever had a son, he’d name him Orion. Even though it’s foolish—but it’s good to be foolish now and then—he imagines Jasmine asking about his day. Her voice would be melodious. If she turned into a person, she’d be adroit in magic. He’d ask if she could transform them both into eagles for a few days. They’d fly to Key West and sit and fluff their feathers on top of Hemingway’s house. People would notice them, start pointing, and then they’d fly home. But Carl isn’t crazy; he knows this is the modern world with smart phones and the Internet, and dogs can’t turn into people. He watches the day turn to dusk with the unmetered music of blackbirds nesting.
The following week goes as usual, except for some thinking about how to find a wife. Might it help if he makes more of an effort? Be hopeful and cheerful? While driving home from work in San Rafael, he notices Ed’s Café has just opened for business. He eyes some beautiful girls stepping inside, and decides to eat dinner there every Friday, hoping to find someone.
His first time at Ed’s, he’s given a small table with an unobstructed window view. A trim waitress with short brown hair and a quick-paced voice serves him. She has large eyes and well-groomed eyebrows. She says the special of the day is their Fat Reuben sandwich.
“Did you know that Sandwich is Cape Cod’s oldest town? Have you ever been to Cape Cod?” His eyes barely blink. He notices she has crow’s feet around her eyes and a few wrinkles on her neck. Her yellow shirt has sky blue buttons, matching her blue eyes.
“Never been there.” Her voice is resonant.
“It’s beautiful. Do you like to travel?”
“Not me. I’m all hometown. Love it here.”
“Well, one summer vacation in Cape Cod, I saved two children from drowning.”
“You look like a swimmer—broad shoulders, strong arms. What’s your name?”
“Carl Wodehouse.”
“Aren’t odd names great? Mine’s Vella, but my last name is Jones. I like the combination of odd and plain.”
He feels attracted to her. But Vella looks about fifty years old, fine for a friend, but too old for a wife.
Just once, she taps her pen on the table close to his hand. She smiles, raises her chin, tilts her head. “Nice meeting you. What would you like?” He orders the special. “Good choice,” she says and leaves for the kitchen.
When done eating, he leaves a twenty-five percent tip because she’s a sign of good things to come.
Next time at Ed’s, a blonde waitress walks over to his table. Her name is Nicole. She has flawless skin, a young face, wears no wedding band. He orders a burger and a glass of Shiraz.
“We’re out of Shiraz.”
“Well then, I’ll have your house wine and for dessert—a slice of cheesecake. Today’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Years go by fast, but when I was eighteen, I feared I wouldn’t make it to nineteen.”
She looks to the side, then back to him like maybe she’s wondering if she heard him correctly.
“Were you sick?”
“No, I just had no idea what I was doing or where I was going.” He looks right at her brown eyes. One eye is slightly larger than the other. Her nose is not too long and not too short, not too wide and not too narrow.
“Huh? How you want your burger done?”
He talks about having climbed Half Dome in Yosemite, and walking across the Golden Gate Bridge and talking some poor soul out of suicide and then buying the despondent man lunch, who soon found hope his life would improve.
She repeats her question, squints, scratches her head, and presses her lips together.
“Medium rare.” He is bothered by her tone of voice. When he’s done eating, he leaves a seventeen-percent tip.
The next time at Ed’s, after Vella takes his order, Carl says, “I had a very bad week. My dog almost died. She’s the best ever. Obedient, friendly, smart, well behaved.”
“Sounds terrible. She okay?” Vella furrows her brow.
“She’s getting better.” Twice he says it while nodding his head.
“I once had a dog. Cutest little thing. One day he up and disappeared. Someone must’ve stolen him.” Vella lays her hand on top of his and gives it a squeeze.
Carl likes her touch—warm, respectful. They discuss dogs, the shamefulness of animal cruelty, and how some awful people eat dog meat. They agree it’s a horrible topic. The restaurant gets busy, so he gives Vella his order of Burgundy wine and filet mignon. He can’t afford it, but he likes impressing her. When he’s done eating, he leaves her a thirty-percent tip.
Upon arriving home, he tells Jasmine about his new friend Vella. He purees some food for her and adds chicken broth and her medicine. She doesn’t eat until Carl pets her head, and then she eats everything. It’s wonderful that she’s doing better. He’d feel lost without her.
The fourth time at Ed’s, Nicole is his waitress. After he gives her his order, he tells her about the time he was in Archangel, Russia, and was almost attacked by the biggest polar bear he ever saw.
“Archangel doesn’t sound Russian,” she says.
“The Russian name is Arkhangelsk.”
“So, what were you doing in Russia?”
“I was exploring the world.” His voice is intentionally cheerful and confident.
“You a Communist?” Her eyes narrow.
“Not at all.” He laughs. “I was working on a research project with a tribe of fishermen, and they shot the bear just in time.”
“Fishermen aren’t tribes. Indians are.”
“No. They were fishermen. They said they were from the Chukchi tribe in Siberia.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I’ve had an interesting life. People tell me that.”
“Yeah? Bet they do.” Nicole takes his order and walks away, shaking her head.
He decides that will be the last time he makes conversation with her.
On his fifth visit, Carl feels discouraged. So much for cheerful strategies. But maybe Ed’s isn’t the right place. Should he join a gym? Not that he needs one as he is in good shape. Just as he’s thinking this will be his last time at Ed’s, a slender girl in a yellow sleeveless dress walks up to his table. Her name is Georgiana. She mentions the special of the day.
“I’ll take it. Isn’t it a beautiful day? Perfect weather for my garden.” Carl takes his cap off and puts it on the table. He runs his hand through his thinning hair. He talks about his new crop of spinach, radish, lettuce and his spring flowers.
“Love gardens,” she says.
“I suspect there’s not a vegetable you don’t like.”
“How’d you know?” Her smile is like ice cream—soft, sweet and delicious.
Next time at Ed’s, Carl makes sure he gets seated at one of Georgiana’s tables. She says it’s good to see him again. Her red lips are full, eyelashes long, her dark hair cascades in curls to her shoulders. She’s wearing another sleeveless dress.
“How’s that garden?”
It’s wonderful she remembered. “Doing great. I’ll bring you some fresh produce, if you like.” In his thoughts, he names her Ice Cream.
“Sure would. Bet you grow tasty veggies.” Ice Cream moves closer to him.
“An accurate observation. An influence of my father. He had a long history of planting gardens. Lady Bird Johnson once asked him to plant her a garden.”
“Who?”
“She was a First Lady—President’s Johnson’s wife. He was president after Kennedy was assassinated in 1963, on a Friday. 12:30 pm. You’re too young to remember her.”
“What he plant?”
“Oh, enough flowers to feed a flock of hummingbirds. Millions of flowers. It pleased her immensely.”
“Wow. I’ve never seen a flock of hummingbirds.”
“It was impressive, all those wings flapping a thousand times a minute. A veritable roar.”
“Was it at the White House?”
“At her home in Texas. She must’ve been in her seventies at the time. You look like you could be her granddaughter. You’re a beautiful girl.”
“Love flowers also.” Ice Cream takes his order to the kitchen.
As she walks away, Carl admires her narrow waist, her swaying hips, long legs, her bright red sneakers. A movie star couldn’t look better. If he could just have a photo of her, he could admire her every night. Life would be perfect if he could marry her. When he’s done with dinner, he orders dessert and coffee just to stay longer. Even though it will impair his sleep, he asks for two coffee refills. Finally, he leaves a thirty-five percent tip. While driving home, he imagines giving her bags of flowers and vegetables. Then doubt settles in. Would she guess he fabricated his story? Would she think poorly of him? As usual, he pushes away the troubling thoughts.
A week later all of Ice Cream’s tables are taken, so Carl is seated at one of Nicole’s. He forgets his promise to himself to not chat with her and he asks about her day.
“You a researcher?” she asks.
“Not presently. I work for the county.”
“I’ve heard incompetent people work in government. Can’t fire them. It’s why they stay. They come in late, leave early and take two hour lunch breaks.” Her smile couldn’t be more smug.
Carl is taken aback; he says nothing but knows he gets to work on time and leaves at five. He usually eats a quick lunch at his neat desk while keeping his mind glued to numbers in columns and rows. His calculations are always perfect. He feels hurt and thinks of walking out.
When she serves him his dinner, he wonders why she wears perfume. Is it to camouflage her rude personality? Should he even tip her? He could leave only a penny, but that would be rude. One thing he hates is rudeness. He leaves a twelve-percent tip because that’s enough revenge, and she’s too dimwitted to get the message.
The next visit, Vella greets Carl; her voice is all chummy, “You’re becoming a regular. You live in the neighborhood?” She stands with her thigh slowly rubbing against the table like she wants to stay and talk.
He enjoys being called a regular. “I live in Fairfax.”
Her blue eyes widen; her mouth opens. “I live there too. You grow up around these parts? I did. Wouldn’t want to live any other place.”
“I was born in Denmark. I came to the U.S. when I was five years old.”
“By yourself?”
“My parents brought me.”
“Why didn’t you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. But I went back to Denmark by myself when I was twenty. I was so liked by the townspeople in Skive, they wanted to make me mayor.”
“You’d be a great mayor. Why don’t you run for mayor of Fairfax? You’d do fine.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“I’ll vote for you. I’ll work on your campaign. We’ll improve the place. I’m an old radical.” She squeezes his hand.
He wishes she were twenty years younger. Carl is tempted to divulge he was born in New York. That he was the third child of Isadora Perkins and the only child of Zeno Wodehouse. But if Carl tells Vella that, he might say too much, like how his father claimed he left his mother and his mother insisted she left Zeno because he had the meanest temper that would flare for no reason. No, he doesn’t want Vella knowing all that.
“What kind of work you do?” Vella asks.
“I’m a bookkeeper.”
“I could use some lessons in better bill-paying. I’m having a barbecue Fourth of July and I’d be pleased if you’d come. It starts at 2:00 in the afternoon. You could give me a lesson. Love to have you.” She scribbles her address on a napkin for him.
The invitation makes his day. After dinner he drives home, feeling proud of his job. He was never behind in tasks until he got a new boss. Then it was only one time. Carl is beginning to dislike him. In a meeting the day before, the boss had said, “You have to work the system. Pity the man who has no game. Hey Carl, what kind of game you play?”
“Solitaire, I guess.”
Everyone giggled except for the boss.
“Did you invent solitaire?” The boss looked earnest.
“My grandfather did.”
Everyone laughed, even the boss.
As Carl drives the last mile home, it dawns on him why they laughed. They hadn’t been talking about card games. They were talking about getting-ahead games. He feels like a fool. It’s an awful feeling. At home, he changes out of his work clothes, and does some weeding in his garden. Each weed pulled up soothes his anger. He doesn’t like anger, so he focuses on the sounds of the blackbirds settling in for the night.
After dinner and chores, he sits on his back porch with the lights out. The night inspires him to whistle to a billion stars shimmering with applause. Oh, he knows they aren’t, but it’s fun to think of the stars hooting and hollering like devoted fans waking up the universe. His whistling wakes Jasmine, and she howls. Carl stops and so does she. He feels an urge to write a poem. He thinks of a few lines to describe Ice Cream but they don’t do her justice. He gives up on the poem. The scent of sweet alyssum perfumes the air. What if Ice Cream was sitting next to him? He’d ask if he could put his arm around her. He knows no neighbor can see him. He caresses his cheek, his chin, and runs a finger over his lips, imagining his hand is her hand. Imagination is delicious. It can turn into reality. Poof. She’s in no hurry. Poof. She loves sitting next to him. He feels her warmth. Poof. She lets him put his lips on hers. He lingers. Listen to the night, she says. It’s ours. Listen to the river. It’s ours. She’s so pretty smiling in the moonlight.
Three weeks later it’s July 4 and Carl needs some relaxation after another stressful day at work. Should he splurge and go to Ed’s Café for lunch? He was just there last Friday. Should he get some exercise? Things with Ice Cream have gone nowhere in spite of the flowers and vegetables he gave her, so exercise sounds best. He remembers Vella’s invitation to her party and how she always likes seeing him. But he can’t remember where he put the napkin with her address on it. He searches his pants’ pockets, his neat desk, the neat kitchen drawers. Did he mistakenly throw it out? That was stupid. He hates feeling stupid. Finally he finds it in his car. He looks at her address and figures her place is close enough he can walk and get his exercise. To be polite, he puts a bottle of wine in his backpack.
He sets out down the street and turns onto another by the field of blue chicory and across the bridge. There’s a glass bottle lying in the street; he picks it up and lays it to the side. He reaches Vella’s house where the barbecue looks to be in full swing. In the yard, some people are sitting under a shade tree. Three girls, clad in skimpy shorts and tee shirts, are out in the sun tanning themselves. He admires their shapely bosoms. The firm legs. The bare feet. There are loud ha ha ha’s interspersing stories full of risqué words.
Carl stops on the sidewalk, eyeing the party. He hears a familiar voice.
“Hi, Carl. Was hoping you’d come.” Vella waves him over. She has an unstoppable smile.
He strolls up to her.
“Can I get you a beer?” she asks.
“I brought a bottle of wine.” As he hands it to her, he savors the young lady sitting nearby—her big brown eyes, and her perfect red lips. Sweet. Her smile reminds him of Ice Cream.
“Like my home?” Vella asks.
“I do,” Carl says.
“I’d love to show it to you. You could give me that bookkeeping lesson. I have an office upstairs. It’s got a wonderful view.”
Carl barely hears Vella’s last comment. He wants to sit by Ice Cream’s lookalike and ask her for a date. He’d like to invite her home and show her his garden. They could sit on his porch and enjoy the evening. Maybe she’d let him kiss her. He’d call her Sweetheart, and buy her anything she wants.
Vella moves closer to Carl. “You got a lot of veins in your hands. I like that.” She runs a finger alongside a vein and then looks at his face. “You’re not what you call pretty. Never did like pretty men.” She taps her finger on his chest. “If you prefer I can open your bottle of wine. Looks like a nice one.” She licks her upper lip.
Carl tries to look through her flirtation over to Ice Cream’s lookalike. He wants a childbearing wife who doesn’t seem to know everything about sex.
Vella takes a hold of his arm and pulls him towards her. She kisses him on the mouth, sticking her tongue in.
He tastes alcohol. His face and neck feel hot. He pulls away.
There’s the sound of giggles and someone yells, “He doesn’t like you, Vella.”
Carl wipes his mouth. He takes two steps back. She takes two steps forward. He steps back. They do it again. And again. People erupt in laughter.
Vella tries to push him, but he steps aside. “Well, Mr. Cock and Bull.” She slams her hands on her hips and juts out her chin.
Carl’s mouth drops open.
“Your father still planting flowers in Texas? Is he Johnny Daffodil? You ever go back to Denmark for another visit?”
“I’ve never been—”
“Never been? That so? I must be confusing you with a figment of my imagination. But I hear you were in Archangel, Russia and almost got attacked by a polar bear. Was it thirty feet tall? Forty feet? Have you been saving any drowning children lately? Seen any more hummingbird flocks? Maybe you should run for Governor of California on the Crazy Party ticket. You’ll get some votes.” She laughs and can’t seem to stop. Then she jiggles her body, like she’s trying not to pee in her pants.
The laughter under the shade tree stops. So does all the talk. Carl notices everyone staring at him and Vella. He realizes she knows he embellishes, and he’s been a target of gossip.
A car pulls in the driveway and everyone looks over to see who it is. Vella walks over to the car. Ice Cream’s lookalike frowns at Carl. She turns away. Everyone does. Someone says the food is ready. They turn their backs on him.
Carl walks out of the yard to the sidewalk.
In a loud voice, Vella says, “That was Carl, the biggest goofball I know. He claimed he was once adrift on a raft in the Mediterranean Sea and was rescued by Prince Ranier on his yacht.”
People laugh.
Someone asks, “Well why’d you kiss him?”
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll kiss you,” Vella says.
There’s more raucous laughter and someone says, “Hey, girlfriend. You’re wacko when you’re plastered.”
“What would we do without Vella? Life would be boring,” another young-sounding voice says.
Was it the voice of the girl who caught his attention? As he trudges home, Carl remembers the expensive wine he gave Vella. He wants to go back and get it, but he can’t bear to put himself in another humiliating situation. And who knows what Vella might do? Maybe tear him apart. Why is he so foolish? He kicks a small rock lying in his way and almost trips. Clumsy. The hawk soaring in the sky, the orange day lilies and blue chicory do nothing for him. He notices raccoon road kill. It was likely Vella who killed the animal. She had to be driving drunk and not even aware of what she did. Plain reckless. Probably not the first time. He wants to call her something awful. He hesitates, whispers, “bleach-blond whore bitch.” In his mind, she’s a dirty cunt.
As he walks, he asks himself why he fabricates stories. Each step feels heavier. His mouth hangs open until he thinks how stupid he must look. Seeking refuge on his back porch, he sits in his rocking chair. An hour passes. He writes a book of poems. He wins a Pulitzer Prize, plants trees, saves children. The world is good. “No, it isn’t. It’s a shithole.” He knows he’s daydreamed half his life away. Jasmine sits beside him, but she gives him no comfort. He pets her anyway; she licks his hand.
A robin pulls up a worm. The worm hasn’t done anything wrong. Worms take care of the soil. They’re peaceful and quiet. Anyone ever see worms fight? Never. And he’s seen thousands of them in his garden. For a few seconds, Carl wants to kill the robin, wants to stomp on it hard, which leaves him feeling hopeless. He thinks of his father Zeno—how he had torn the house apart during rages, and got fired from jobs for losing his temper. Carl’s spirit fills with gangrene. He wants to kill Vella. He could shoot her heart out. She’s so cold-hearted she wouldn’t feel it. He wants to spit on Miss Georgiana Ice Cream and her simpleminded lookalike. Probably haven’t read a book in years. He wants to burn down the party house. When Vella is asleep, he could pour gasoline around her house. He wouldn’t leave until he could smell her flesh burning. She’d burn fast because she’s so full of alcohol. He laughs. Just as quick, he stops laughing. He looks at his garden. His huge dahlias do nothing for him. His garden does nothing. It looks cockeyed—too many things planted. A crazy man’s garden. Dread overcomes him.
The day becomes night. A raccoon emerges from its dark hole. The full moon inches up the stupid sky. Exhausted, he closes his eyes. He feels his feet inside his shoes, his back against the chair. The spirits of the world would tell him to forgive. Carl has a hard time with that, considering how the nasty people treated him. He shivers but it’s not cold.
He gets up from his porch chair that he’s had forever, enters his cottage, and turns on a lamp. A moth sacrifices itself to the light bulb. He watches it make a fool of itself. A house with two fools. He walks over to the oak cabinet. His father had made it for his mother after they’d married. Carl curses it, kicks it. It doesn’t help. In fact, it’s idiotic. He runs his fingers over the swirls of the wood grain. Back and forth. As a tree it must’ve been beautiful. Tall and proud. He opens the cabinet door and stands there—staring into silence. Carl sways his body as if he were a tree in the wind. A framed picture of his father catches his attention. He takes the photo and throws it. The glass breaks. What good did that do? Stupid. Stupid man. Stupid house.
At midnight when clouds hide the moon, it occurs to him that maybe it’s okay if he lives alone. Other men do. Some famous men have—George Gershwin and Henry Thoreau. Why not accept what is? What else is there? He has what he needs—a job, food and clothing, a big garden, a loyal dog, enough money to eat out several times a month. He owns his own house—free and clear. Others have less. Much less. His health is good. He’s not overweight. People at the Historical Society like him. Miss Ruth at the library enjoys his company. He sits by Jasmine and tells her a story. Every night after dinner he does, unless he eats out, but never again at Ed’s. About walking across the United States to raise money for a charity, climbing Mt. Everest, saving the lives of children. It’s just pretend, but it’s relaxing. Sometimes when he tells a story, he feels happy, as if he was really a hero. But soon afterwards, glum reality sets in. It’s awful to think that he tells lunatic stories. It’s like he’s setting himself up for disappointments. Suddenly it occurs to him he’s like his father—he, Carl, telling lunatic stories versus his father’s lunatic rage. The thought lingers for days. One evening he says to Jasmine, “I had a miserable day.” The release feels good.
Several weeks later, he sees Vella by chance in a store. “Hey, what story you got for me now?” She laughs like a hyena.
Not knowing what to say, he shrugs. As he walks away, he thinks about his embellishments. Who was he trying to impress? Miss Georgiana Ice Cream or Vella? Certainly not Nicole. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It makes as much sense as fantasizing that he saved the world from Martians. Does he want to live the rest of his life this way? He sighs and feels dumb. Fifty-five dumb years.
But his grandfather told him many stories when he was a young child—about sweltering tropics and singing monkeys, about saving gigantic camels in the Sahara Desert, dining with royalty in Norway, about sailing past blue-striped icebergs in Antarctica. He can’t remember them all. His grandfather told him stories every time he visited. Neighbors accused the old man of lying but he laughed and claimed he was a fabulist, a poet. An old tradition. For Carl, it was better than Christmas.
Still, it’s obvious something needs changing. It’s at least worth an effort. What’s the worse that will happen? He won’t sound heroic? Someone might yawn in his face? He’ll deal with that. When he gets home, he looks around his kitchen and remembers a great meatball recipe that was his grandmother’s. He talks about that to his almost-deaf neighbor—about using succulent aromatic herbs from his garden, the aroma, the color, the taste, buying the best meat from the butcher with the bushy gray eyebrows and windswept white hair, who loves to talk on and on with his booming voice about the old country and how tough life had been. His almost-deaf neighbor shares his own story about the butcher’s first wife having been a pregnant nun. Carl tells Miss Ruth about the talk he gave to the Historical Society, and who had asked a dumb question. She tells him some gossip about several members. He adds more gossip. They chuckle and he touches her shoulder. She shares her biscuit with him. They talk about food, San Rafael, and books, self-help books, feeling good. Suddenly she says she had a sister who had Asperger’s.
“What’s that?”
She explains the symptoms.
“Do you think I have it?”
“A little bit but not bad like my sister.” She kisses him on the cheek. “I think truth is like a plain-looking but flavorful herb, like tarragon on salmon. It’s what you do with it.” She touches his hand.
When he gets home, he feels inspired to try something different, which gives him courage and he tells Jasmine a long story—as truthful as possible. Jasmine won’t tell and couldn’t if she wanted to. It takes him several days, not being in any hurry. You already know it. Surely you remember? It begins—“From the road, it’s hard to imagine what’s behind my cottage. You’ll be surprised. Park your car in my narrow driveway, walk around the hedges in the early evening, and you might see me on the back porch …”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
G. M. Monks lives in Northern California with her husband. Her work has been published in: The Hunger, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, The Ravens Perch, Embodied Effigies, Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal, Kansas City Voices, Alehouse, and elsewhere. She was the runner-up (with publication) in the Big Wonderful Press Funny Poem contest and received an honorable mention in the 2016 New Millennium Writings Award competition. Bedazzled Ink published her debut novel and nominated it for the Pen Hemingway Prize for Debut Novel and for the Commonwealth Club of California First Work of Fiction prize. If you want to read more about her, please visit gmmonks.blog.