From the rear, the naked man looked like a photoshopped version of her husband; certainly leaner and smoother, but eerily familiar. His posture was more boyish, relaxed, minus the aura of tension Sam radiated. Marianna felt a pain in her chest. She wasn’t breathing and hadn’t since laying eyes on the trespasser. She slowly exhaled, starting her heart to thump and had to grasp the arbor post till the lightheadedness dissipated. The man-child, standing serenely in the middle of her garden, bent and, gently pushing aside the leaves of a crookneck squash, snapped one of the pale yellow fruits from the plant. Wiping it with his hands, he discarded the green tip and slowly, with an expression of delight, one hand thrown toward the sky as if in praise, ate the tender squash. Marianna tasted the sweet flesh in her mouth. The man moved as to turn toward her. She ducked behind the jasmine entwined post knowing her impulse to flee, to call for help was what she should do, but she hesitated just wanting one more peek at the peculiarly enticing sight.

She dared to look again. The interloper, now in profile, sat flat on the ground, legs extended, leaning causally backward supported by large hands splayed atop her fertile soil. Fingers, long and white, caressed and mixed the friable earth Marianna had composted and nurtured for years. Her fingers convulsed in the humid air; she felt the dark soil crumbling in her hands. His nakedness offered no offence and, strangely, no fear but this sudden invasion of her guarded privacy, her controlled complacency, was an offense. She admired his lithe, calm body and its subtle hint of strength. She was not one to feel shame for this admiration. When her eyes reached his face, he was looking straight into hers; the smile of a child beaming. She started, but did not turn away least another sudden movement betray her if he, by chance, had not spied her peeking eyes. Causally, sitting up straight, he motioned with beckoning hand for her to come. Marianna remained frozen, having forfeited her chance to flee. He was much closer to her than she to the house and screaming, something she would never do anyway, would be to no avail; their isolated home was a half mile from neighbors. The naked man swung around to face her. Sitting cross-legged, he patted the ground beside him and then motioned again with both hands for her to come. The boy looked just like Sam in photos taken years before they had met. He was Sam but a younger, more…what was the word…naive…a more naive version existing before life had tarred her other half. She stepped from behind the post into full view beneath the arbor of rampant, yellow jasmine she had envisioned and mothered.

Anna, I’ve been waiting for you! I knew you would come to pick before it got too hot.  Where’s your bucket?” he ask, his voice calm but brimming with expectation.

“I have it.” She stooped; retrieving the five gallon bucket from behind the arbor. How could he know to call her Anna? Only Sam had called her Anna since the day they had met years ago?

“If you would like, I will help you gather or I can watch?” he offered.

“Who are you?” Marianna asked, taking a step toward him.

“I…” he started, but stopped. The process of considering the question passed across his pale face; each thought, each consideration revealed: a darting eye.…searching, a smile started but stopped.…a vagrant memory caught sight of but loss, the slightest raising of an eyebrow.…recognition, and lips parting then closing….doubt. The young man finally spoke the only answer he could construct from his musings, “I’m yours. Don’t you know me?”

“No!” Marianna blurted and was immediately sorry for her quick tone. “You do seem familiar,” she added quickly when the response to her harshness flashed on his face. A child brutally rejected by an adoring parent could not have presented a more apt visualization of utter heartbreak. Remaining on the ground, his head, now, hung low and turned aside; the muscles in his shoulders visibly softening, melting away before rejection. He wasn’t her long lost son; she had never given birth yet there had to be a connection. Who was he? He gathered himself into a seated, fetal position, hugging his knees, with the right side of his head resting on them facing away from her….a pouting child.

Marianna had to look away. She searched the trees. Where were the birds?It was 6:30.  Though the sun had not yet appeared above the distant tree line, the light was ample and thick. Birds, seemingly, by the hundreds sang, tweeted, alarmed, called, enticing the sun to hurry and appear. Their voicing was voluminous, but none were visible. They remained in their trees and undergrowth, hidden, secure, and joyous in anticipation of the coming sun. Marianna craved it, too; sunlight, warming her skin, always clarified, inserted a bit of rationality. Marianna tried another tack. “Where have you been?”

Raising his head, he gave her the look she had seen her whole teaching career from students refusing to deal with issues. “Why do you ask such stupid questions?” the look asked.

“I’m at a loss here. Please help me. I can not remember things like I should,” she soften her plead, trying to elicit a tidbit to go on.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, “I thought you knew.”

He scrambled up quickly and Marianna, almost convinced of his harmlessness, did not recoil. She had garnered respect and even affection of most all her students over the years and the borrowed nickname, Iron Lady, had followed her, and she had on many occasions, caught herself smiling when she caught a whiff of its use. She would not dishonor the moniker just because she was retired; she would not retreat. He was not a former student; she would bet her life on that. Appearing to be in his thirties, still a boy, Marianna, again, saw Sam in him: the high brow, slender, long nose, pouting mouth, and deep-set, inquisitive eyes. The unexpected thought that Sam might have fathered a son stunned her.

“What’s wrong he asked, softly touching her forearm? She let his fingers linger. So familiar. It couldn’t be physical attraction; I’m a rotund, sixty year old granny type with sunburned cheeks and torn nails. Unless, he is really crazy; he is standing in my garden naked! She stepped away from him. “Let me show you,” he said, offering his hand, palm up. She acquiesced with a nod but did not take his hand. Show me what; where he came from?  He walked toward the far side of the garden where shade lay all day. Following at a distance, Marianna could not help but watch him walk. Easy strides, slender buttocks and back with luminous skin were, even in her alarmed state, a pleasure to watch. An incomprehensible feeling, an enlightenment seemed to have entered her awareness and the desire to encircle his waist with her arm, rest her palm on his hip bone and to feel his arm falling loosely over her shoulders was in that instant logical and doable. She stumbled a bit, and glancing downward, the sight of unkempt toe sticking through her torn shoe blighted the moment.

Reaching the shade bed, anger, akin to rage, possessed her. Blood splotched her neck and face and her hands clinched. He had destroyed her plant from Granny! It lay in a broken tangle atop the bed which had, itself, been violently churned. A jagged trench screamed up to her. She wanted to grasp his arm and jerk him to face her but touching him would be too much. Her flash of fury, though unvoiced, did not go unfelt. It hit the pale intruder from behind and he turned and the fury on her face stunned him. She knelt beside the bed, gathering the broken plant remnants. Huge, silvery-white leaves similar to that of Lamb’s Ear bled a clear, resinous blood where broken, painting her hands with fragrance. The stem, thick, fibrous had reached well above her height before the devastation. A single, multi-faceted, elongated bud, large as a loaf of French bread, had held promise of an exotic bloom or fruit. She had hoped for, envisioned, something akin to foxglove, her favorite. Now Marianna’s anticipation was shattered. There had been only the one seed.

How could she tell Granny, who had given her the seed, her hope, of this ruin? Granny, her only solace at times, listened, unlike Sam, without condescension, admonishments or the need to advise. They visited a lot when killing heat or numbing cold kept them both indoors. Granny was 87, but unrelenting in effort. Marianna knew she would someday receive a call or herself discover that Granny had fallen or died while carrying water or eradicating weeds from her garden. A mental image of her tiny and frail, despite her tenacity, lying among her flowers, perhaps not smiling but surely, with a look of pride of location, had haunted, or perhaps, soothed Marianna for months now. “I’m not going to die in bed,” had become Granny’s mantra repeated to any and all. Oscar, her son, loved her dearly despite her sometimes crass and, as would be judged by some, her interfering ways in the lives of family. Oscar acquiesced, stood back and let her go; others were on their own and Granny cherished him for that.

Over the years, Marianna had received countless cuttings, saved seed and divided tubers from her. These treasures were the backbone, the bountiful bulk of the beauty of her own yard and garden, but this seed, this one seed, had been so special, its fruition so anticipated and now this naked man, this child had destroyed it without apparent thought or remorse. Marianna had visited Granny on a cold, bitter day last November, taking her hot apple crumble and new gardening gloves which she knew she would never use. They had talked the gray afternoon away in the warmth of Granny’s tiny house, adding a chunk of wood periodically to the wood heater. Sam would not hear of getting a wood heater.  Too much work, too much danger. The stoves’ crackling, radiant presence warmed and soothed the women’s aching bodies like the golden sunlight of summer. 

The talk had eventually turned to men and Marianna had relieved herself of pent-up disappointment and, yes, even remorse. She loved Sam, but their individual lives had taken the clichéd divergent paths. Sam’s had gone astray to Marianna’s way of thinking.  She still maintained and cherished their quiet, contemplative way of life they had shared for years, but Sam had taken up new pursuits; local politics for god sakes!  Marianna finally talked herself and Granny into a silence that neither wished to break. They sipped coffee and listen to the pop of flames devouring the last visible remnants of a tree’s life.

Granny, as if having reached a much considered decision, pushed herself up with much groaning and mutterings and said, “Well…men are what you can make of ‘em. Get your coat.  We’re going to the smoke house.” The cold was brutal, sucking their breath away so quickly they struggled to inhale replacement air. Her smoke house, built by Granny’s long deceased husband, John, who died logging, wasn’t a true smoke house, but an old, rough cobbled structure more, to Marianna’s way of thinking, like a corncrib with an attached lean-to shed. The tin roof did not leak but the vertical oak siding boards, some over a foot wide, weathered to the gray of a threatening rain cloud, lacked battens in many spots allowing wind and anything else, smaller than a gopher, to enter. Granny quickly went to her shelves made from the same rock hard, rough sawed oak and, pushing dusty jars aside, retrieved the insulated cedar box with the hasp lock Marianna had seen countless times. Granny removed the familiar red holiday cookie tin with the rusting holly-poinsettia motif. Inside were saved seed in opened envelops of all descriptions, folded packets made from brown paper and tied with string, and tiny aspirin, cough drop and Tums tins. One of these, a Bayer aspirin tin sealed with candle wax had held the one seed Granny had given her. “Don’t open this until the second week in March, then plant it in your shade bed, two inches deep and keep it moist” When Marianna asked what it was, she would only say, “Let it be a surprise, we all need surprises sometimes.  Think about what you want it to be.” This was strange even from Granny who had patted her hand and they had not spoken of it again.

Marianna made a note on her calendar for March the fifteenth, but needn’t have; the tiny tin with the mystery seed enclosed stayed in her thoughts. She hid it away. Sam liked to simplify as if discarding mementos, cleaning out drawers solved problems. He was much on her mind that winter and her mind lingered on the best and worst of their long, shared life. The fifteenth had been a beautiful day and Marianna planted only that one seed.

Her anger over the destruction sapped her of all strength, felled her as the boy had the plant, obliterating any remnants of caution. The nameless one stood above her offering an unblemished hand and a look of confusion…hurt….rejection. She accepted the look for what it was and the offered hand, rising awkwardly from self abused knees. “Let’s get you some clothes.” she said with authority. The garden shed, built by Sam when he still cared for such things, was a refuge for her at times and she, in season, often spent nearly whole days in the garden or sitting, reading and resting on the small porch; one of the two old weathered rockers always empty. There was running water from a hose connection which the boy had already made use of as evidenced by the splatters on the porch and the bare ground near the hose. Inside, there were old clothes of Sam’s, washed and packed away for rags or dressing scare crows. “Best dressed dudes in three counties!” Sam had always bragged. The too big clothes hid the boy’s youthful, fit body but could not disguise his essence: he was an innocent….an orphan in a cruel world and she could help him….a rescue, like others in the past, both human and otherwise, save him from many of the mistakes he would invariable make.

Marianna picked him strawberries and sat him in one of the rockers. She began talking; losing awareness of time’s ticking; experiencing elation she had not felt in years speaking of her life with Sam, of her ever present childhood memories, of life’s challenges, big and small, of faith and lack of faith, of love and lust, of arrogance and humility and of evil and good. The young mans attention and eyes, blue as Sam’s, hung on her every utterance; imploring “More! More!” as a newborn lamb thirsting for sustenance. Self-aware, she knew she verged on giddiness, teasing, tantalizing herself with a sense of rebirth, a reemergence into the classroom, but a classroom without resistance or defiance where her worth was acknowledge. Ever honest, Marianna, knowing she shared her wisdom, her truths, her inspirations with one that was needful and though deserving and receptive, very naïve, added as a qualifier, “At least, in my opinion.” They….she…had talked for hours. She could elicit little response from him other than the “you should know that” confused look. At last, depleted she looked at him as if asking, “Do you have any questions?”

The neophyte simply said, “I will stay.”

He asked and answered the question Marianna could never have voiced. She knew she had to be alone. His radiance, his newborn’s enticement was a drug that would….could lead to devastation. “Wait for me here.” Marianna instructed.  With an unsteady gait she returned to the house to think. To make a rational decision. What could she do? The situation could only end in pain. She dropped to the couch eyeing her ancient rotary phone. Her anger had so distracted her; she only now realized the boy had not answered her question of his origin, his reason for being in her garden. The fault was hers. Closing her eyes for an instant, sleep greedily clutched her, took her, as she struggled for a coherent thought, a plan.

Sam’s coming through the back door woke her.  She was confused but his voice, anxious, almost whiny, grounded her to time and place. “Anna? You ok? I’ve been calling all afternoon.  You didn’t call me at lunch”

“Just resting.  I was in the garden all day…picking….sitting mostly. It has been a beautiful day.” She remembered her picking bucket still sitting empty on the shed porch.  Sam would not notice. He cared nothing about the garden, now. He ate fast-food for gods’ sake!

“I guess it was nice, I’ve been inside all day…if Jim and I can’t sell the commissioners on this tax hike, the budget is going to have to be cut. Even the schools budget! Those dumb-asses live in another world. They don’t give a shit about anything but their own bottom line………” Sam went on and on about the county commissioners’ failures and stupidity, but Marianna did not respond. Sam finally stopped in mid-sentence. Anna was lasering the ceiling with her eyes. He had again vaporized. Thought persistent by nature, Sam knew now was not the time to ask what was wrong. Anna would reveal all at the time of her choosing. She was truthful to a fault; agonizingly so at times. He went to the fridge, looking for something to eat. Nothing but veggies! Marianna had heard Sam’s ranting and made a conscious choice not to respond. She continued to lie on her back on the sagging sofa, arms across her rounded middle beneath her breast, fingers interlocked. Sam walked to the sofa and moved his hand, palm down, in a slow circle a foot above Anna’s eyes.

 “What?” she asked sharply.   

Sam removed his hand sighing, “Can I get you something to eat?  I’m going to Subway.”

“There is plenty to eat. It is all good for you.”

“That’s the problem. I need something to hasten my impending demise. I want to go quickly and dramatically.”

“Always the diva.” she said without her usual smile, without moving her eyes to focus on his. “Will you check the garden before you leave?  Something or somebody dug a big hole in my shade bed; destroyed one of my plants. There might be tracks or something you would recognize….please?”

“Sure, honey.” Sam bent and kissed her on the forehead and hurried to the back door where he paused, “Do I need my shotgun?” he inquired with a grin.

“No!” Anna blurted with a burst of anger or was it fear?  Sam wanted to ask if she had forgotten her morning meds but didn’t dare; the slightest insinuation that she might have fell to adhere to her routine, her sworn word, could blight their bond for days. Later, tonight he would check her meds dispenser; do a count if necessary after her nightly pills zonked her out. He closed the door softly.

Marianna untwined her fingers and rolled to her side facing the picture window. A light breeze swayed the willows cascading stems; evening’s approaching more gentle light brushing them with a tinge of golden-pink. “Red sky at night a sailor’s delight….” she mumbled, sipping the colors, slipping quickly once more to the safety of sleep freeing herself from anxiety over what she had just set in motion.   

The mantel clock, chiming the hour, yanked her from sleep, again. Dusk had almost darkened the room. Outside, the willow, still barely visible, was now droopy and gray, preparing to sleep. Clock’s ticks, usually going unnoticed, reverberated through the room, each tock a slash of unspecific angst.    

It was too quiet; Sam was not in the house. Marianna rolled from the sofa, slipping on her shoes. She walked to each room, anticipating, but putting-off going outside. Both car and truck were in the drive. To the west, tip-tops of distant trees luxuriated in golden light, while to the south, toward the garden, twilight was deepening to an amorphous loneliness. Hesitantly, Marianna took the path to the garden, wandering a bit, approaching specific plants she saw daily as if they were new additions needing a special, profuse greeting. She kept looking about, hoping to be approached, welcomed into the near darkness. Reaching the arbor, the garden ahead was a general blur, a charcoal sketch of spots and patches, a profusion of tints of gray. She made her way across an open, lighter patch to the shade garden. Squinting, she strained to see the newly ripped plant and hole. She could distinguish nothing. Kneeling with a grunt she searched, patting the spot where the hole should be; it was gone, filled, mounded, raked smooth. Why was there a mound? Her violated plant was gone. Was it buried or tossed into the tree line? To her left the garden shed stood in outline against the moon promising sky. Marianna thought she saw movement but was not sure. Marianna felt no fear, more of a cautious anticipation, perhaps, a tinge of bliss at the unknown. She approached the shed in the darkness guided flawlessly by its silhouette. 

“Anna?” A voice from the porch asked.

“Yes.” she answered, a smile in her voice.

“I knew you would come! I could not leave.” The voice was low, soft…almost reverent, seemingly familiar but not; a fusion of the known and the wished for. “I ate a tomato, cucumber, romaine…even corn off the cob. They were so good! Can the seeds be saved?”

“Yes, they can!” Marianna felt for the porch edge with her foot and the empty rocker with her hand. Carefully sitting, she pushed to set the rocker in motion. Oak boards began to creak and the other rocker fell into rhythm and no one spoke. Fireflies meandered in the night’s vitrine, gathering, hovering in unusual quantity above the shade bed across the way at the tree line.