I left Burning Oaks at 4:00. I made good time. The back roads were more appealing as the March light waned. I passed the farm stand where I’d purchased asparagus, but neither the old fellow nor his daughter was there. I didn’t look directly at the parched fields and I avoided the sight of the riverbed, which was dry as a bone. I was still rejoicing at my good fortune at having wrapped up the day’s work without having to spend another night away from home. If Clara Doyle remembered to pass my phone number along to Stanley Munce, it would be well worth the time and energy.
27
Once in my neighborhood, I found a parking space and grabbed my overnight case, the asparagus, and my shoulder bag. I locked my car and headed for the studio. I felt great about being home until I rounded the corner of the studio. Henry’s backyard had been stripped. The last of the dead grass was gone and, while the fruit trees remained, the shrubs had been pulled up by the roots. Granted, the drought had killed them, but even brown, they’d been a reminder of the yard in its glory, back in the days when water was plentiful. The two Adirondack chairs had been stacked to one side. The remaining topsoil was so dry and powdery, a passing breeze would lift it in a cloud and bear it away.
Next door, I spotted Edna on the back porch with a paint scraper in hand, chipping off flakes of white paint with great industry. This was largely for show. If she had any real intention of repainting the porch rails, she’d enlist Henry’s services and then stick him with the chore.
Henry emerged from his kitchen, the picture of good cheer. The cat took advantage of the open door to slip through. Henry was saying, “There you are! I didn’t expect to see you back today.”
“I got the job done and couldn’t think of a reason to stay over,” I said. “I brought you a present.” I handed him the brown paper bag of asparagus.
He opened it and peeked in. “Wonderful. Nothing better than the first young spears. I’ll check my recipes and come up with something tasty.”
I watched Ed pick his way across the mulch bed, shaking first one paw and then another as though he were walking in snow. When he reached the porch outside my door, he had to stop and undergo a thorough cleaning, licking himself from head to toe.
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the devastation Henry had visited on his property. “This is depressing.”
Henry seemed surprised. “You think?” Even when he looked around, seeing the yard as I did, his reaction was mild. “It’s a work in progress, of course, but it’s coming along.”
“Did the book say you should rip out everything, or was this the plumber’s idea?”
“It was one of his suggestions. I might have carried it a little too far, but it should solve the problem. This concept is called xeriscape—mulch, drought-tolerant plants, and efficient irrigation.”
“Won’t it take years?”
“I like working with a blank canvas. It stimulates the imagination.”
“How can you bear it? You’ve always loved your garden.”
“I’ll have one again. For the time being, there are higher principles at work.”
His tone was a teeny tiny bit self-congratulatory and I felt a whisper of irritation.
“How come nobody else is doing this?” I asked.
“Excellent question and one I’ve asked myself. I’m hoping others will follow suit.”
“I hate pointing this out, but right now there’s no water rationing in place.”
It might finally have occurred to him that I was annoyed.
“You’re forgetting the twenty percent cut-back,” he said.
“But that’s voluntary.”
“I feel we should take steps to conserve since our usage is going up.”
“How could it be going up when I was in Burning Oaks all day and you haven’t watered in a week?”
“Sadly, it hasn’t helped.”
“Maybe you have a leak. Have you thought about that?”
He blinked. “I hadn’t. I’ll have Mr. McClaskey come out and take another look.”
I said, “Meanwhile, your yard looks like a construction zone. Summer comes, we can sit out here in our hard hats and admire the dust.”
His brows went up. “Your trip must have been a disappointment. You seem out of sorts.”
I had to close my eyes and get a grip on myself. I never lose my temper with him. “Sorry. I don’t mean to fuss at you. The trip was fine. I’m just tired from the drive.”
“If you feel like joining me for supper, I can put together something simple.”
