Poetry Stories: Mildred's Garden
Chapter 2. Listen.
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SAM
[june-july]
continued
Sam’s phone vibrated on the bedside table. He opened his eyes and stretched his arms above his head. The sun burned through the flimsy curtains, exposing the room-air for what it was: all stale, silver bits of floating dust. The phone stilled. But he knew she’d call right back. He rolled over and picked it up just as it started again.
“Yeah.” There was no use avoiding.
“Great show the other night.” Her smoky voice tickled his ear.
“Thanks, Babe. I’m glad you came.”
“But where did you go after? I lost you and then you were just...gone.”
“I was tired, Heather. I’ve done five shows this week. This tour is a killer. All I want to do on these two weeks off is sleep.”
There was silence on the other end. Then: “I just missed you, that’s all.”
He took a long breath in. Closed his eyes and he was a kid again, wearing that ratty baseball cap his dad had given him. And he was mad. He couldn’t hit the ball the way he wanted. Whenever he lined up, he swung the bat with all his might, but it never struck true. Always too high or too low—in the wrong place to make a ball fly. He threw down the bat. “I quit! I hate this stupid game!” He stalked off and plopped down in the dugout. In his mind he waited. This was his favorite part. His dad’s image was so clear. He remembered every detail of Thom Gillenwater’s face that day: the five o’clock shadow, the way his brow crinkled, that one out-of-control cowlick swooping back from his forehead...
His dad sat beside him. “Shh,” he said, leaning in and holding his index finger over his lips. When he had Sam’s attention he would ask, “Do you hear that, Sammy?” He fell for it every time. “Hear what, Dad?” Thom would lean in even closer and whisper, “Your heart, son. If you breathe real slow and quiet you can hear it better. Listen.”
Sam listened now. He’d been practicing listening to his heart all of his life—until the listening was a part of him. Right now, just the memory of his dad left his heart in a slow, steady thrum. He imagined love like a golden balloon lifting him into the sky.
It never took long.
“Gil? Why did you leave without me the other night?”
He came back to the dust-filled light.
“Seemed like you had other things going on.”
“What are you talking about, Gillenwater? Just because I was looking for Joe doesn’t mean what you think. He had something for me. I just needed to pick it up, that’s all.”
“I thought as much.”
“Gil! I wasn’t taking anything! I swear.”
“You know how I feel about that guy. About that stuff.
I don’t want any part of it.”
“I know, Babe, but you’ve been on the road for three months now. A girl’s gotta pass the time somehow. I’m all done now.
I swear. And I really want to see you. I need to see you.”
Sam sighed. “It doesn’t work like that.”
“I’m on my way over. I’ll make you a good lunch. You’ve probably been eating nothing but crap. I’ll stop at the market and pick up some fresh eggs and spinach. We’ll have a frittata. I saw some beautiful heirlooms the other day. They would be perfect.”
His stomach growled as she talked on about red onions and feta cheese. Who was he kidding? When she started talking food, he always gave in. She was his best friend. And the sex was good. He just couldn’t trust a damn thing that came out of her mouth anymore.
“Or maybe goat cheese? Would you rather goat cheese?”
“All right, all right. Give me time to get cleaned up.” He hated himself as he said it. “You know I can’t stand goat cheese.”
After she hung up he couldn’t move. This endless loop, this constant repeat—when would he quit this thing? He swung his legs over the bed and collected the elastic band off the table, pulled his thick hair back into a short ponytail. Then he crouched down to look under the bed.
The orange crate was still there, same as always, same as the first day he moved into this place. Maybe the only relic left of his childhood, it had followed him from his parents’ house, to the failed attempt at college, the six months in New York and then here, Nashville.
He slid it out and rummaged around the bottom. It had to be here somewhere. He’d stashed a pack before Christmas.
He hadn’t smoked since January, but just the thought of Heather—here at his house—set off an alarm of craving in his entire body. There!
He pulled the pack out from under some long-abandoned song lyrics, tapped it firm against the palm of his hand and pulled out a single. He stuffed the rest back under the papers and slid the crate into its hidey hole. He found some matches in the bedside table drawer and walked out onto the balcony, phone in hand. Leiper’s Fork wasn’t too close or too far from downtown—tucked away in a sweet piece of woods his builders carefully pruned to stay wild, but not too wild. He loved this little cabin. The country rolled right up to his back door, but he was still convenient to the recording studio and the clubs he played on weeknights.
The Nashville noise felt far away as he leaned on the railing and breathed in the quick-disappearing dew of late morning.
A doe teetered at the tree line, white tail flicking nervously.
She edged forward cautiously and two spotted fawns emerged behind her. She approached the salt-lick he had put out last year and soon her tail stopped worrying. One of her babies kicked up its heels and frolicked across the back lawn. Something stirred inside him and Mildred’s face came to mind.
He’d almost forgotten: her big announcement! He dropped down in his watching chair and tapped up her feed.
Welcome to The Gardens: Bed and Breakfast and Retreat Center.
It was a series of shots, a story in images. A picture of Mildred and Cindy, arms across each other’s shoulders, heads leaned together, both with happy smiles.
We’ve been dreaming and working for two years and finally, our dream is coming true!
A rustic farmhouse, a large pondish-like lake, flowers, flowers, and more flowers.
If you want the details, read our interview in this morning’s Sunday Gazette. Link in profile.
He scrolled up to the profile and clicked over.
“Local Activist Settles Down.”
Was Mildred an “activist?”
He skimmed through the article. It was Mildred’s family farm, left to her when her mother passed away three years ago. Mildred’s mother loved flowers and had cultivated five acres surrounding the farmhouse with both native and rare varieties of blooms designed for color in every season.
“When my mother left her birth country of Vietnam as a young bride and made the United States her home, the only thing she brought with her was a love for all growing things,” Mildred said. “Well, that, and her cousin, who I called uncle, Van Minh. Over a lifetime—together—they created these gardens of the four qui, or the four seasons, so they would always have a little piece of their homeland with them.”
Mildred’s mother was Vietnamese. Sam let that sink in, feeling as if the bottom had dropped out of his world. He scrolled back to her Instagram feed.
“@mildredsgarden Congrats on your new venture, Moonflower. Next #mountainstage, save me a room.”
He thought to say something about her mother but didn’t know what. So he hit “share” and sat with the pictures of Mildred’s beautiful world for a minute.
The response was almost immediate.
“@giltheguitarman you have an open invitation. Any. Time. I’ll fluff the pillows even.”
This made him smile. And blush a little. But before he could respond, the phone started to buzz in his hand, his sister’s name blacking out the images of Mildred’s new endeavor.
“Hey, sister, what’s up?”
“Hello, brother, I miss you.”
“I miss you more.”
“I’m serious, Sam Gillenwater. I don’t want to wait until Thanksgiving to see you. Will you come and do a house concert for us? I have skills. I can do a GoFundMe to pay for it. We could even give part of it to your favorite charity. After I pay for your ticket and your time, that is. I’m sure it’s not a conflict of interest.”
Sam laughed.
“It sounds like the beginnings of a brilliant plan. I haven’t seen the girls in six months. I bet they won’t even recognize me.”
“I know, right? What is that stuff on your chin I saw on the Facebook post from last night? You know the girls hate facial hair. It scares them.”
He laughed. “Tell the girls not to worry. I couldn’t grow a full beard if I tried. Laziness is all this is.” He cupped his stubbly chin in his hand and ran his fingers through the bare beginnings.
A knock at the door. Damn. He hadn’t even gotten a shower.
“Let me think about it, Sher. There’s that show in Boston. It’s only an hour or so from you. I’ll look at the schedule. But I have to call you back. Heather’s at the door.”
“Heather? Are you still messing around with her?”
“Careful, now. You know she’s a good friend. She’s my best friend.”
“You be careful. Have you forgotten what happened over Christmas? Besides, I thought I was your best friend.”
“You’re my sister. That doesn’t count.”
There was bustling in the kitchen, the rustle of grocery bags. Heather still had her key.
“Look, I gotta go. I’ll call you tomorrow, and we’ll figure something out.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay. I love you, big brother.”
“Love you more.”
He hung up and went back inside, stashing the unsmoked cigarette in the side table drawer before heading into the kitchen. Heather was dicing onions. She looked up when he walked in, pointed at him with the knife.
“You look like hell.”
“I know, I’m sorry. Sher caught me on the phone and I haven’t even gotten a shower yet.”
“Sher, huh?” She eyed him dubiously, then shrugged offhandedly. “Well, I guess she’s still your sister.” She picked up the onion and resumed chopping. “Why don’t you go ahead and shower while I make lunch?” she said, glancing up and over him. The brown skin under her eyes was rimmed in purple and she looked like she’d lost weight. Her usually tame, tightly kinked hair was a frizzy halo around her head. It was always awkward between them when he’d been on the road for a while. He stood in the doorway, arms overhead, fingers gripping the top of the door frame. He shifted from foot to foot, conscious of his bare chest. She was too, he could tell, and he saw her eyes move down the length of his body. A too-short lock of hair slipped the band and fell into his eyes.
“Okay,” he said, finally. But he didn’t move until she put the knife down, held his eyes with hers, moved slow toward him, smoothed back that wayward lock of hair with her fingers, pressed herself against him until they were one.
to be continued…
Photo by Nathalie Stickelbaut. Used with permission.
