Bessie Green’s Thumb
By Fran Friel

Gertie Stonehammer

Dragging a heavy bag of debris, Bessie Green tottered past the battered sign for the Future home of Pandemonium Books and New Age Emporium. The plastic garbage bag was one of many she and the kids had filled that day from the abandoned lot next door to her apartment. Her old bones were complaining at the strain as she hefted the last bag onto the black plastic mountain accumulating at the curb. Gertie Stonehammer emerged from the apartment building next door and, as usual, the cranky old widow had an opinion.

“I simply don’t understand why you need to make such a mess on the sidewalk, Bessie,” said the tight-lipped woman with her handbag hanging from the crook of her arm.

Bessie smiled and swiped her hand across her sweaty forehead leaving a smudge of dirt behind. Gertie rolled her eyes and stomped down the steps, her sensible shoes tapping out a tidy rhythm as she marched down the block toward the shops. Turning back to her work, Bessie surveyed the lot and chuckled to herself about how it had all escalated from the simple need for a sunny place for her tomato plant. Even then she had no idea just how far things would spiral beyond her control.

The Lot

They’d never spoken before, but the young woman from upstairs saw Bessie at the mailboxes.

“Pardon me, Mrs.…?”

“Green,” said Bessie.

“Yes—Mrs. Green.” The young woman stuck out her hand and Bessie gave it a wary shake. “I know this sounds kind of crazy, but my mom gave me a tomato plant—hinting that I need to eat more healthy, I suppose—but I’m never home to take care of it. I was wondering if you might want to adopt it. I think you’d take much better care of it than I would and when my mom asks I won’t have to lie to her when I’ve killed it.” The girl unlocked her mailbox and pulled out a stack of letters and waited for a stunned Bessie to reply. People just didn’t talk to each other anymore, especially to an old widow like her. “So what do you say? Want to grow some tomatoes?” asked the young woman.

Bessie hesitated for a moment, but seeing the girl’s open face, she nodded. “Okay, I’ll do my best.”

The young woman delivered the plant to her door the next morning. With no one to care for since her husband’s death, Bessie took her new found task to heart fussing, pruning and watering, but no matter what she did the plant languished from the poor sunlight in her windowsill. That’s when an image of the lot next door popped into her mind, jogging a memory—a welcome event for her increasingly sluggish thoughts.

Just before the economy in the town of Eastville went sour, a small group of young people cleared the vacant lot next door and erected the Pandemonium Books and New Age Emporium sign. Late one night Bessie heard the faint sound of drums and crept outside to find the group dancing around a small fire in the center of the clearing while others sat around the circle beating a steady rhythm on drums they held between their knees. They laughed and smiled as they danced and played. A young woman waved a smoking wad of fragrant grass as she walked around the edges of the lot. She spied Bessie watching them.

“Hello,” she called. “Come join us. We’re cleansing the land to invite in good energy and calling to the great spirit of Pan to bless the land. You can help me ‘smudge’ with the sagegrrass, if you’d like.” She swirled the tied wad of smoking grass in the air with a playful flurry.

Bessie blushed at being spotted. She would have been excited to join such an adventure, but feeling embarrassed, as well as feeling old and out of place, she simply smiled and waved away the opportunity. Besides, it wasn’t long before Gertie Stonehammer called the police about the noise and the open fire. Bessie got to hear her rant about “those outrageous hippies” for weeks to follow, but she never forgot the joy of the dancing young people and the pungent smell of the burning sage. When her tomato plant needed a place to thrive she knew immediately where it needed to be planted.

The idea started simply enough. Since the lot was abandoned by the “hippies,” trash and weeds had accumulated. Bessie only needed a small spot for her tomato plant, so she cleared a path to the center of the lot where the sun could do its best work. The light was dimming by the time she was ready to plant, but the soil was oddly rich and populated with earthworms wriggling near the surface as she dug a hole for the plant. Tucking the roots into the warm earth, Bessie breathed in the loamy smell and thought of the lovely fruit her plant would soon yield, enough to share with the young woman upstairs and even a few for her neighbors, including Gertie Stonehammer. That woman fussed about everything, but when it came down to it, they had been neighbors for thirty years and consequently friends by default as well as the last of the old timers on the block.

Bending a length of scalloped wire fencing, Bessie shoved it into the ground around the plant for protection. On the final push the metal struck a rock beneath the soil and her hand slipped and hit a jagged piece along the wire surface. Before she could stay the bleeding with the scarf she’d been wearing on her head, blood from the gash along the length of her thumb pattered gently on the dark soil around the plant. Her hand throbbed from the cut, but she chuckled to herself, blood sacrifice, like the Celtic wives tales her grandmother used to share about life in the old country. If granny’s stories had any truth to them, then the tomato plant was sure to thrive.

Before she left to tend to her wound, Bessie made sure the plant was properly cared for. She lifted the heavy watering can and showered the soil with clean water; she secured the fence being careful not to cut herself again; and she said a little prayer of thanks for such a lovely plant. A breeze whipped up around her and trash from the lot spun in a dervish settling in the area she’d just cleared for her plant. The warm wind left her oddly chilled, but she quickly went to work picking up the fast food wrappers and bits of plastic bags and paper cups left crowded around the scalloped fencing. Aware of the growing darkness, she tucked her trash bag under her arm, quickly gathered her gardening tools and the watering can and headed back to the apartment, but as she made her way to the sidewalk a gust of wind pushed back against her frail body nearly causing her to topple over. Recovering her balance, Bessie glanced back to make sure her tomato plant was still secure. Satisfied, she made her way home, bathed the wounded thumb and her aching body, patched up her cut and was nearly asleep before she climbed into bed.

Waking to the sound of loud knocking, Bessie forced her foggy mind away from a dream—a dream of a lush garden. She put her feet on the floor and shuffled off to answer the door. As she wrapped her robe around her small frame, she was surprised to find that she wasn’t stiff, the usual state of her body when she got out of bed in the morning.

Another knock sounded at the door.

“I’m coming,” she said. “Hold your horses.”

Her neighbor from across the hall was at the door holding a paper bag with a thorny twig poking out of the top. She had never really spoken to the woman before beyond a nod and a hello.

“Oh, I’m so sorry I woke you,” said the woman noticing Bessie’s bathrobe. “ It’s after twelve and you seem to be an early riser so I just assumed you’d be up. Are you all right?”

“Twelve noon?” Bessie couldn’t remember when she’d last slept that late. “I’m fine, dear,” she muttered, her cheeks flushed—embarrassed for rising at such a late hour.

“Must have been having a great dream,” said the woman with a wink. “Anyway, I noticed you were gardening. I just got back from my sister’s and I brought you a cutting from her prize winning rose bush. I had to bribe her with the promise of some babysitting, but the lot looks so beautiful I thought roses might be a nice addition.”

“Um, thank you. I didn’t do much. I just tidied up a bit for the tomato plant from the girl upstairs.”

“Don’t be modest—you certainly have a green thumb. It’s amazing what you’ve done with that eyesore. Anyway, here’s the cutting. Take good care of it. No doubt my sister will be coming by to make sure it’s properly planted. You’d think she’d given birth to the thing herself or something. Well, gotta run. Thanks again for your work in the garden.”

Bessie stood in the doorway holding the paper bag with the thorny twig, feeling a bit confused. Finally she closed the door and headed for the kitchen to check the time. Sure enough, it was after twelve and her stomach rumbled in agreement. She put on the kettle and made tea and a baloney sandwich. After a quick lunch, she got dressed and decided she better get the rose cutting tended to before it suffered too much shock.

With her gardening tools in tow, she headed out to the vacant lot and when she stepped outside she saw a small group gathered next door by the lot. She made her way past them and her breath caught in her throat. Not only was her tomato plant blooming with fat ripe tomatoes, the garden was awash in color. Overnight, wildflowers had sprouted where the weeds had choked the soil, and sunflowers swayed along the back wall as if waving to the amazed onlookers.

“Hey, lady, this your garden?” said a teenager girl, punctuating her question with a few loud smacks of her chewing gum.

“Well, I suppose so,” said Bessie still shocked by the scene.

“Cool. Hey, if you want some help cleaning the trash outta there, I need some community service points for science class if I wanna pass summer school. CJ and Willie ‘ll help too. Won’t ya’?” She put her hand on her hip and gave the boys a look that wilted any chance of declining the offer.

“Yeah, I guess so,” said Willie as he tugged at his baggy jeans. CJ offered no reply, only the patented look of a disinterested teen.

The look triggered a tirade from the girl with words Bessie had never heard in her life, but all in all she admired the girl’s gumption because it wasn’t long before both of the boys were deep in the garden hard at work picking up trash and debris. With their help and a full box of trash bags, Bessie and the girl had accumulated a mountain of black bags at the curb and the blooming lot of wild flowers was clean for the first time in years. As a final task, they found the perfect spot and planted the rose clipping together. By then the boys had dropped their macho guy act and were laughing like kids as they stood with Bessie in front of the garden. The girl took a picture with her phone as proof of her work in the abandoned lot.

Bessie sent the kids to pick the ripe tomatoes while she dragged the last trash bag to the curb. That’s when Missus Stonehammer offered her helpful opinion and marched away to the shops. Bessie could only smile at Gertie’s negativity. Nothing could sour her mood as she watched the kids laughing in the garden, knowing that something beyond her understanding had happened there. She wouldn’t question it—at her age she’d learned that sometimes you just have to trust that things are the way they are supposed to be. Whenever she said things like this to Gertie, she was chastised for her “Pollyanna ways,” but in truth it was the only way she had gotten through the loss of her young daughter so many years ago, and the more recent death of her dear husband, Leo. Her memory and her health had been failing since his death and she was desperately lonely, but she knew she just had to kept going. Thankfully it seemed that the small act of adding a tomato plant to the lot had already brought more people into her life than she had spoken to in years. Whatever was going on, she liked it and prayed that it wouldn’t end.

Bessie practically lived in the garden, feeling more fit and alive each day working to keep up with all the donations and offers of help that came over the next few weeks. Neighbors were actually talking with one another and chipping in to help spruce up the garden, making it a meeting place for everyone on the block. Benches were erected and stone paths were laid, a trellis was built for the fast growing roses—Tanya Roses—Bessie had named them in honor the young girl who had helped her plant the first cutting. Because of the sign still standing at the entrance to the lot, Bessie started calling the lot the Pandemonium Garden. Everyone agreed—it was a perfect name.

Shortly after the garden began, Gertie Stonehammer had left town for her yearly visit with her son in Miami. Bessie was relieved when she saw her taxi pull up in front of the apartment building. In the midst of all the beauty, friendships, and new purpose in her life, Bessie had a worry weighing heavily on her and she needed someone to talk to. After that first day in the garden, she began to have wild and perplexing dreams, most of which she only remembered snippets. At first they seemed innocent enough as echoes of her day in the garden, but then she saw herself dancing with a man, then kissing him. She would wake from these dreams in a panic—not only was the man not her husband, but he wasn’t a man at all. Burdened by the guilt of being unfaithful to her late husband—even if only in a dream—Bessie was even more worried at yet another sign of her failing mental faculties. She’d wake in the morning, her feet caked with mud staining her bed sheets with black dirt from the garden. Confused, she could swear that she had surely bathed before retiring to her bed each night. She needed someone to talk to about the dreams, and although she could imagine what Gertie would say, she knew her old friend was the only person she could really confide in.

As Gertie climbed out of the taxi, Bessie rushed from the garden to greet her.

“Gertie, I’m so glad you’re home. How was the trip?” she said, removing her gardening gloves.

The old woman in the tidy knit suit turned to look at her friend, her eyes widening.

“Bessie Green, what have you done with your hair? I told you years ago that dying your hair just makes you look like an old harlot.”

Bessie reached up to touch her hair. “I haven’t dyed my hair in twenty years.”

“Humph. I don’t know who you think you’re lying to, but I’ve got better things to do. Here, carry this.” She plopped a tote bag in Bessie’s arms. “Come on.”

Bessie and the luggage ladened taxi driver obediently followed behind Gertie in a neat line toward the apartment building, that is until the woman stopped in her tracks. As they stumbled into one another like a train wreck, Gertie stood staring, mouth gaping open at the sight of the Pandemonium Garden.

Bessie simply said, “We need to talk, Gertie.”

“So you really haven’t dyed your hair?” asked Gertie over a cup of tea with a little extra kick added for her nerves. “Something strange is going on here or else we’ve all lost our minds.”

“That’s what I’m worried about—feels like I have lost my mind already. But at the same time I haven’t been this happy in years, and I don’t ever remember feeling this good. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Well, if you asked me—which you have, so I’ll tell you what I think whether you like it or not—you should go see the priest and tell him to exorcise that garden. It’s either full of devils or angels to be growing like that. And I’d bet on the devils, that is if I were a betting woman.”

Bessie fidgeted and touched her hair self-consciously. For the last week she’d been trying to ignore the fact that her gray hair seemed to be filling in with wisps of blonde—the color her husband used to call spun gold.

“Well, I don’t know, Gertie. It’s such a beautiful place and it makes people happy. I can’t imagine anything so wonderful being the work of the devil.”

“You won’t catch me stepping foot in there, I can tell you that much. It’s just not natural.”

Bessie decided it might be best to avoid mentioning her dreams with the dancing man and the issue of the muddy feet.

A Promise Worth Keeping

Late one evening when the other gardeners had gone home, Bessie remained to tie-up the roses and finish some mulching around the flower beds. The garden torches had been lighted casting a warm glow around the paths and sitting areas. Hearing footsteps on the stones of the path, Bessie looked up to see a familiar face in the flickering light, but she couldn’t place where she’d seen the woman before.

“Hello,” said the young woman, her hair in a casual knot on her head, her clothes the loose and colorful dress of “hippies.” “You’ve done a splendid job with your garden here. Seeing what you’ve done softens the blow of having lost our plans for the book shop.”

Now Bessie remembered the face. Since she’d been working in the garden, her memory had been steadily improving. This was the girl with the smoking wad of fragrant grass. Bessie stood up to greet her.

“It’s really because of you that the garden is here at all,” said Bessie. “ When I needed a place to plant my tomato plant I remembered your lovely ceremony here. I couldn’t think of a better place.”

“Well, something like this takes years to thrive. It’s your time and effort that is responsible for a place like this. Nothing to do with me,” said the young woman.

“Truth is, this garden has only been here for about a month.”

“No, you must be kidding me.” The woman looked skeptical, but intrigued.

“Nope,” said Bessie. “Just over a month.”

“How is that possible? I’ve heard of things like this happening at the Findhorn Garden and even Perelandra in Virginia, but never in an urban lot surrounded by apartment buildings.”

“So this kind of thing has happened before?” asked Bessie, mildly relieved.

“Yes, but it’s rare and…” She stopped herself then continued speaking quickly, her face lighted with excitement. “Pan, it must be Pan—he’s an agent of nature. The ceremony—we called him in—but it would seem that after all this time…” She was talking mostly to herself, then she looked up and gripped Bessie’s hand. “Did you do something unusual when you planted the garden?” Her tone was urgent.

“No, I don’t’ think so. I just planted a tomato plant and the rest happened on its own.”

“Think back. Exactly what did you do in the garden that day?”

Bessie recounted her actions, again amazed at the new clarity of her recall. When she mentioned cutting her thumb, the girl’s eyes widened.

“Oh my god, that’s it. Your blood in the soil—you made an unconscious pact with Pan. He’s a greedy one and from the look of what he’s help you accomplish here, he’s going to want something in return.”

Bessie thought about her dreams, but she kept that to herself and hid her concern. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just a fluke, miss. Maybe something in the soil.”

The young woman softened, seemingly aware of Bessie’s discomfort. “Hmm, yes, you’re probably right. Either way, it’s a stunning garden and I’m so happy you’re its steward. I can see how much love you’ve poured into it.”

Bessie snipped a fragrant rose from the cascade of pink blossoms hanging heavy on the wooden trellis. Handing it to the young woman, she said, “A gift to you from the Pandemonium Garden.”

The woman smiled at the mention of the name, her eyes twinkling in the flickering torches. “Thank you.” Leaning in she gave Bessie a long, warm hug and whispered in her ear. “Just beware of what he asks of you.” With a kiss on Bessie’s check, the girl turned and strolled away with a skip in her step.

Confused and upset by the combination of her talk with the young woman, her dreams and Gertie's concerns about devils in the garden, Bessie hid out in her apartment for days trying to avoid the whole mess. But people kept stopping by to tell her that they missed her and to ask if she was feeling all right. They brought her hot meals and vegetables they’d harvested from the lot. Each friend from the garden was full of stories about how beautifully the plants were growing and what a difference it had made in their life. One couple who stopped by asked if it was okay to have their wedding ceremony in the garden.

Bessie was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and care from her new friends. How could the garden be anything but good? Devils or angels in the garden, she didn’t care—she decided to return to the lot the next morning and to trust her long held philosophy that things simply are the way they’re supposed to be.

After another night of misty dreams, Bessie pulled herself together, dressed slowly and made her breakfast all with a strange detachment. Even though she was still a little afraid, she knew it was time to return to the garden. When she stepped out of the door of the apartment building, Tanya, the girl who had helped clear the trash from the garden, was waiting for her with her friends.

“We have a surprise for you, Miss Bessie. We did it while you were away from the garden.” The girl grabbed Bessie by the hand and the boys took her bag of gardening tools and they led her to the lot. “I may not be very good at science, but I’m pretty good at art,” said Tanya as she pointed to a colorful mural sweeping across the back wall of the garden.

Eyes welling with tears, Bessie staggered in her place as she saw the waterfall and lush forest—the image was strangely familiar. And far in the distance, almost lost in the detail of the painting, were the silhouettes of a man and a child waving.

“Oh don’t cry, Miss Bessie. You’ve done so much for so many people, we wanted to do something for you. We’ve been working night and day to finish it,” said Tanya.

The kids led her to a shady bench in the garden and brought her a bottle of water. Gathering her wits about her Bessie said, “It’s the most wonderful thing anyone has ever done for me. How can I ever thank you?”

“You already have,” said one of the boys, “with the garden.”

Bessie looked around and saw a number of people weeding and tending to the flowers and vegetables. An old man in overalls, Mister Silva—a widower from her church—was installing a small fountain by a tiny fish pond that must have been dug while Bessie was hiding out in her apartment. He looked up and saw her watching.

“It’ll be ready for the fish next week, Bessie!” He grinned with pride. She hadn’t seen him smile in years. She smiled back in amazement at what the Pandemonium Garden had become.

She spent the rest of her day in the garden, working, chatting with neighbors and admiring the beautiful mural. She didn’t want to leave the wonderful oasis, but weariness won out. After a light supper, she bathed, prepared for bed and on a whim she decide to write herself a note.

“Bessie Green – You DID bathe your feet tonight!” She dated it and signed it and left it on her night table.

Falling off quickly into a sound sleep she again dreamed of the man in the garden. He played his flute for her as she danced like a fairy around the flowers until he came to her side and took her in his arms. Her body was young again and her soft skin tingled at his touch as he wooed her and whispered promises in her ear. He swept his hand across the garden, saying “I’m asking for little in return, my dear,” A whoosh of wind blasted into the lot and the garden expanded beyond the back wall into a vast paradise with a waterfall and paths leading deep into a lush forest. There were figures in the distance waving to her. She knew them and began to cry running toward them.

Her pillow wet with tears, Bessie woke suddenly to the haunting echo of a flute and the fading sound of a great waterfall. Sunlight slanted across her body from the bedroom window and the fading dream left her filled with both joy and sadness. For a moment she told herself it was only a dream, but without looking beneath the covers she felt the dry mud caked on her feet. Seeing the note on the night stand, Bessie rolled over crying frightened tears. She grasped at her thumb beneath the covers, the one she had cut on the scalloped fencing. It ached as she thought about what the garden man had whispered to her, but it was clear even through her fear that the price she was being asked to pay for such beauty and happiness for so many people was worth it.

Bessie spent the entire day in the Pandemonium Garden visiting with her friends, weeding and watering, and taking in all the scents and sounds from the beautiful place that had grown around her simple tomato plant. That plant had grown to nearly a bush and was still producing fat juicy tomatoes. Bessie plucked one from the stem and sniffed its sweet and pungent aroma. She saw Mister Silva working on his fish pond and strolled over beside him.

“Here’s a tomato for your supper, Paul. It should be a juicy one.”

“Thank you, Bessie,” he said. “Nothin’ like a good BLT. And with a tomato from your garden, it’s bound to be one dee-vine sandwich.” He smiled and looked down into the pond. “You know,” he spoke with serious tone, “this here garden saved my life.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. It’s so nice to see neighbors and have something to do.”

“No, Bessie. I mean it saved my life.” He looked her square in the eye. “I was preparing to kill myself. I had the gun in my pocket heading home to do the deed when I walked by your garden. Something about it made me stop and look, then the next thing you know I was sitting on a bench looking at a spot in that needed something. I saw it there just as if it were real—the fish pond. That night I tossed the gun in the trash and the next day I was back here digging a hole for that pond, just like I saw in my vision. So you see, Bessie, that green thumb of yours and this here garden saved my life.”

Bessie was speechless. She smiled and patted the big man’s shoulder, then she left the tomato on the grass beside the pond and returned to her weeding and watering lost in her thoughts. She stayed in the garden late into the night when nearly everyone else had gone. Mister Silva still lingering by the pond wandered over to see her.

“I could swear this garden is making you younger, Bessie. If I saw you on the street, I’d hardly know you. You look especially pretty tonight with the torches flickering.” He brushed at a speck of dirt on his shirt. “It’s getting kind of late. Would you like to have a little supper with me?” He bit his lip and Bessie could swear he was blushing. If only he had asked her a few days ago, but things were as they were supposed to be.

“Thank you, Paul,” she said, “ but I still have something I need to take care of. You head on home and enjoy that tomato. By the way, that pond of yours is a lovely addition to the garden. I hope you’ll add some tadpoles and when they grow you’ll think of me.”

Mister Silva gave Bessie a strange look. “Tadpoles it is, Miss Bessie, but I’ll be seeing you. In fact, you can count on me being a nuisance here everyday.”

“Well, that’s good to hear. You be sure to keep an eye on things.”

Apparently suspicious of her tone but too polite to question her, Mister Silva nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Oh yes it’s bound to be a beautiful day in the garden tomorrow. You have a good supper now Paul and don’t you worry about a thing.” She leaned up on her tiptoes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. This time his blushing was clear and he walked away smiling with a bounce in his stride.

On another night she might feel like a school girl with a crush, but instead Bessie had a promise to keep. She doused most of the garden torches except for the one nearest the tomato bush. Reaching into her bag of tools, she pulled out a sharp pair of pruning sheers with bright red handles and laid them beside the bush. Then with her trowel she dug a small hole just beneath the thick stems of the plant.

When she was done she looked around at the Pandemonium Garden and smiled at what it had become—an oasis, a paradise, a place for friends to share their love. She removed her gardening gloves and tidied her hair. Then kneeling beside the tomato bush heavy with its fat red fruit, Bessie reached for her pruning sheers and with a steadiness and a strength that surprised her she snipped off the thumb of her left hand, the one that had bled on the soil the night the garden came to life. Stifling a scream, Bessie wavered on her knees. The pain was staggering and for a moment her vision went black, but she forced herself back to consciousness. She wasn’t done yet. As instructed by Pan in her dreams—a greedy spirit just as the young woman had warned—she was to plant the thumb beneath the tomato bush as a fair trade for all he had given her, for without the sacrifice her garden would soon wither.

Determined to save the garden and all the joy it brought to her dear friends, Bessie held her bleeding hand tight against her body and with the other hand she picked up her limp and lifeless thumb, dropping it in the hole she had prepared. Light-headed and nearly blind with pain, she scooped black soil into the hole to cover the finger. With one last misty glimpse around the garden, Bessie collapsed beside the tomato bush.

A sudden gust tore through the garden blowing out the remaining torch. The sound of a flute blew on the wind rattling the windows up and down the street. Awakened by the noise, Gertie Stonehammer called the police to complain about loud music outside her apartment building. Figuring the hippies were back, she put on her housecoat with a thought of giving them a piece of her mind until the police arrived. Marching down the steps of the apartment building, she opened the door to the gusting wind. With the music getting louder she braved the weather and looked out to the garden where the noise was coming from.

Aglow on the back wall was the colorful mural, the trees in the lush forest waving in the wind, the cascading waterfall pounding on the rocks below, and on a path that seemed to stream directly from the garden was a man with horns on his head playing the flute. Behind walked a beautiful woman with hair like spun gold, and by the pool that swirled at the base of the waterfall was a man and a young girl waving. With her eyes watering at the scene, Gertie Stonehammer recognized the handsome young man as Leo Green, Bessie’s late husband, and there at his side was their daughter, Mari.

Against any common sense, Gertie felt herself drawn into the garden, stumbling toward the music and the mural that had come alive. When she reached the center of the lot where the tomato bush stood strong in the wind, Gertie saw the body of her friend collapsed on the ground. Eyes streaming with tears, she fell to her knees, the stiffness strangely absent. She shook her friend’s cold body and called her name.

“Bessie. Bessie Green, you wake up this instant. You hear me?”

The woman walking the path behind Pan turned and smiled.

“Gertie Stonehammer, you finally came into the garden. I knew you couldn’t resist forever. Make sure you talk to Paul Silva and ask him about the tadpoles. And while you’re at it, make the man some supper. I hear he likes a good BLT.”

With that the wind stopped, the swirling mural became still but now there were three silhouettes walking on the path holding hands beside the waterfall. The garden was soon awash in red flashing lights as the police arrived on the scene. Crying and unable to explain what had happened, Gertie Stonehammer walked away from the garden, her grey hair had brightened to its original red and her normally aching joints felt better than they had in years.

In her grief she wouldn’t notice any of these changes until the next morning, but shocked and surprised, she devoted the day to the garden in honor of her friend. She asked Mister Silva about the tadpoles and then she whispered to him what she had witnessed the night before. They stood silent together in the garden staring at the three figures in the mural and feeling the strange magic of the place.

That evening when Gertie was preparing supper she fried some extra strips of bacon and sliced a juicy red tomato from the garden. The memory of her friend’s words filled her with both happiness and sorrow—then she picked up the telephone and dialed information.

“Do you have a listing for a Mr. Paul Silva?”

Fran Friel writes and blogs by the sea on the coast of southern New England where she lives with her wonderful husband and daughter, and a dog named Sandy. Fran is a 2006 Bram Stoker Award finalist and is currently working on a novel about fantastic and scary things. Please stop by and visit her at www.FranFriel.com and at her blog, Fran Friel’s Yada Feast