101 Mystery Stories

24 Weeds Charlene Weir

Emma Trask quietly closed her kitchen door and stepped out into the frail light of dawn. She glanced anxiously at the brick house next door. Nothing stirred. Curtains covered the windows.

“Please, please,” Emma whispered, “let Mattie still be asleep.” She bolted past the open space between the two houses and into the shelter of her garden. She knelt in the soil and viciously yanked the weeds threatening the tiny pansies. Such pretty little faces the pansies had. She caressed one with a fingertip.

Mattie’s like a weed, Emma thought with sudden insight. Steadily infiltrating and spreading.

Raising her head, Emma looked back at her little house. The early morning sun brushed the white wood with a delicate rosy hue. Emma caught her breath in a sob. The house had seemed so perfect when she first saw it. A perfect little pearl. But it was the garden — oh, the lovely garden — that captured her heart. All her life Emma had yearned for just such a garden. It seemed to cry out to her. Come, come and live here. This is where you belong.

It spoke plainly of neglect and her hands longed to set it right. To tear out the weeds choking the flowers and crawling over the pebbled paths. To neaten the straggly bushes and prune the roses and shape the fruit trees. The beautiful fruit trees — an apple and a peach and a lemon — meant to bear fruit just for her.

Yes, Emma knew immediately, this was the house to buy. From this garden of her dreams she would grow masses of flowers and fill every room in the house. Her hand shook when she signed the papers that would make the house her own.

During the following days she barely ate and she slept poorly in her anxiety that something would happen to prevent the sale. When she caught herself daydreaming over the garden, picturing the roses in bloom and apples on the tree, she went cold with dread that some malicious fate would snatch it all away.

But her fears proved foolish and at last she received the key to the house. She clutched it tightly in her hand, her heart pounding. The garden was truly hers. Anytime she liked she could work in her own garden — all day if she wanted. And she could have flowers. Flowers everywhere. Every kind and every color, in vases all over her house. Joy bubbled in her throat with such pressure that tears filled her eyes.

Then she met Mattie.

On the very day Emma moved in, she met Mattie. The moving men had unloaded her belongings and departed. Packing boxes crowded the rooms. Mama’s dainty furniture sat askew and looked offended at finding itself removed from the elegant city apartment and dumped in this plain little house in the suburbs. Emma clasped her thin hands together, feeling such happiness she had to sing. She darted from box to box, reading her neatly printed labels until she found the one she wanted.

Unpacking it lovingly, she caressed each shiny new garden tool as she took it out — trowel, pruning shears, clippers, something that looked like a metal claw, the garden books collected over the years and until now used only for pleasant reading. She was leafing through one when the doorbell rang.

On the porch stood a plump middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and a wide smile that bared such large strong teeth that for a moment Emma was frightened.

“I’m Mattie,” the woman said. “From next door.” Her voice was loud and positive and she swept in. “I’ve been watching the movers. I thought I’d come over and lend you a hand.” She looked around at the disorder and dusted her hands together. “On second thought, I’d better lend you both of them.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you,” Emma said. “But actually I thought I’d do a little work in the garden. You see, this is my very first garden and I’m so excited—”

“It’s no trouble at all,” Mattie said. “I like to keep busy. I know you must feel you’ll never get this mess cleared up, but don’t worry. I’m here to help.” She seized a carton and ripped it open. “Kitchen things. I don’t have to ask where you want these. In no time, we’ll have everything straight.”

“But there’s no hurry,” Emma protested.

Mattie paid no attention. She hefted the carton and marched to the kitchen.

Emma sighed, supposing the woman was right, that it would be better to get the house settled before starting on the garden. But it was her house and her garden. Emma felt ashamed of her annoyance. Mattie was just being neighborly. And it was nice of her to help. After one longing glance out of the window, Emma opened another box and stacked the towels and sheets out of it into the linen closet.

As order began to appear out of chaos Emma began to feel grateful to Mattie — so much was being accomplished so quickly. But although Mattie worked hard, she talked in a loud voice all about herself. About being a widow, about her husband dying after a lingering illness, about having no children. About living alone in the big brick house next door that was much too big for her.

After several hours Emma, exhausted from the unpacking and limp from Mattie’s voice booming at her, talked simply to keep that voice from pounding her eardrums. At first she spoke of general things like the weather and the number of closets in the house, but Mattie asked so many eager questions that Emma found it difficult to keep anything back. Soon she was talking about herself, about her life, about the apartment, and about Mama dying.

“I know just how you feel,” Mattie said sympathetically. “It’s so hard when you lose someone you love.” She sighed gustily. “We’re both all alone in the world.”

Alone? Well, yes, Emma knew she was alone. But it wasn’t a sad thing the way Mattie seemed to think. Emma was happy to be alone and free to do what she wanted instead of what Mama wanted. Free to move from the apartment she disliked so much to her own house. Free to have a garden and flowers. Because of Mama’s allergies, Emma couldn’t have any flowers or plants in the apartment. Not even so much as an African violet on her window-sill.

Mama. Always doing things, playing cards, going to parties, entertaining friends and having them in for tea. And of course she wanted Emma to share it all with her. And to pour the tea from the silver teapot. Even if Emma wanted to stay home and read a book, Mama always insisted that Emma come with her.

“I’m so glad you moved here,” Mattie said. “I already feel that we’re good friends. Now we have each other and neither one of us will be alone.”

Emma was startled and vaguely uneasy. She remembered Mama saying over the years, “We only have each other now that Daddy’s gone.”

The next morning Emma got up early. As she sipped a cup of spiced tea, she looked around at her tidy kitchen and thought that Mattie was right. How nice to have everything unpacked and put away where it belonged and the boxes all flattened and set out for the trashmen to pick up.

And today she could spend the whole day in the garden. She would start on the weeds. By the end of the day she should have one whole flower bed free of those strangling weeds—

A brisk rat-a-tat sounded on the door, the knob turned, and Mattie came in.

“So you’re an early riser too,” Mattie said. “Good. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s people who stay in bed half the day. I just made some doughnuts. Have one before they get cold.”

Emma felt a sharp prick of annoyance as she made tea for Mattie. The doughnuts were delicious and it was kind of Mattie to bring them, but Emma had already had breakfast and she wanted to get an early start in the garden. Well, perhaps she wouldn’t stay long.

“Now,” Mattie said after draining her cup, “are you ready? We won’t get anything done sitting here.”

“Oh, but there’s nothing left to do.”

“The rest of the boxes need unpacking.”

“Oh, no, you see—”

All the boxes had already been unpacked except those with Mama’s silver and china. Emma meant to leave that packed and the boxes stacked in the extra bedroom out of the way. Silver was so much trouble, having to be polished all the time, and the fragile china collected dust and needed such careful washing.

“Of course you want this unpacked,” Mattie said, tearing open a carton. “You can’t leave all these beautiful things in boxes. They need to be out where you can see them.”

They unpacked the china, carefully washed and dried each piece, and placed it in the china cabinet where it had sat for so many years. They took out the silver and polished it all, the teapot and the bowls and the platters and the candlesticks. By the time they finished, there was very little daylight left and Emma was too tired to work in the garden anyway.

Every day after that Mattie came, uninvited, often early in the morning # and sometimes not leaving until after dark. With no more unpacking to do, Mattie started cleaning until even inch of the house had been scrubbed until it shone.

They painted one bedroom because Mattie convinced Emma that lavendar walls made the room too dark and white would be better. The paint fumes gave Emma a headache, but Mattie smiled with her large horse teeth and said, “Isn’t this fun? I’m so glad you’re here. Now we have each other.”

Emma felt a chill.

The house was spotless and Emma had to admit it looked lovely But she hadn’t made much headway in the garden. The flower beds remained choked with weeds, the shrubbery was still shaggy, and she hadn’t yet planted the herbs she had bought. Headaches started to plague her, occurring more and more often, the pain more severe with each one.

When not scrubbing or painting. Mattie went places and insisted Emma go with her — shopping or out for lunch or to a movie or meetings or lectures. “Now,” Mattie would say when Emma protested. “I’m not going to leave you all alone to start brooding and grieving for your mother. Remember, I’m here now. You’re not alone anymore.”

“But the garden,” Emma protested.

“That’s no good. Gardening keeps your hands busy, but it leaves your mind free to feel sorry for yourself.”

Emma got up earlier and earlier to have some quiet time in her garden before Mattie came. She couldn’t sleep at night, worrying whether she’d beat Mattie to a precious hour or two alone in her garden. But Mattie got up earlier to join Emma in the garden. She gave Emma a pair of gloves and urged her to wear them so her hands wouldn’t get stained with dirt.

Emma hated the gloves. They were clumsy things that made her hands awkward and her fingers unable to feel the tender plants. Always too thin, she got even thinner and her headaches got worse.

Mattie insisted the weight loss and headaches were because Emma worked too hard in the garden. She brought over a bottle of weed killer. “There’s no sense in killing yourself trying to pull out all those weeds. Just dose them with this.”

“Oh, but I don’t like to use this sort of thing. It’s not good for—”

“There are some weeds you just have to use weed killer on.”

Emma accepted the bottle, but so many warnings covered the label she was frightened of it and she put it under the sink and never used it.

If only, Emma thought in despair. If only she could tell Mattie to leave her alone. If only she could keep her door locked and not answer her phone. If only Mattie would just go away.

But Emma couldn’t. Mama had taught her to be a lady, to be meek and docile. She couldn’t bring herself to be rude no matter how much she wanted to. She could only smile and be agreeable and listen to Mattie’s booming voice.

She did try to escape a few times. When Mattie told her they were going somewhere at a certain time, Emma went off for a walk. But Mattie looked at her so oddly and made such pointed comments about forgetfulness and senility and speaking to a doctor that Emma gave it up.

Emma had a recurring dream that she and Mattie were daisies, side by side in the flower bed. The daisy that was herself shriveled and shrunk little by little while the daisy that was Mattie got bigger and stronger, and then dropped its petal disguise and revealed itself as a monstrous weed. It grabbed Emma by the roots and squeezed the life out of her.

Each time Emma woke up sweating and with her heart pounding. She would get up even earlier then and go out to the garden for reassurance.

There were mornings, however, when she tried to escape Mattie by staying in bed late. She kept her doors locked and, pretending to be asleep, didn’t answer the phone though it rang and rang until she thought she would scream.

But nothing kept Mattie away. One morning she called the fire department and insisted they break the lock because Emma might be dying.

And Emma, lying in bed in her nightgown, wanted to die of shame when strange men came into her bedroom.

Her face grew hot just remembering.

Emma dropped a handful of weeds in her basket. “There now,” she murmured to the pansies. “That’s better, isn’t it?” She fancied that the flower faces looked happier already.

“Yoo-hoo,” Mattie called and a few seconds later her feet crunched firmly down the pebbled path.

Emma crouched over the flowers, her muscles tensing protectively.

“There you are,” Mattie said. “I’ve been looking for you. You haven’t forgotten, have you? We have appointments to have our hair done.”

Emma smiled vaguely and shook her head. She felt the skin tighten on her scalp and pain stabbed her behind her eyes.

“You know,” Mattie went on. “I’ve been thinking. You gave me such a fright last week, I’ll never get over it. Don’t you think it would be better if I moved in with you? Then we’d never be alone. I’d always be right here.”

“Oh dear,” Emma moaned, rocking back and forth. The pain swelled in her head.

Mattie looked at her with concern. “Are you all right?” She put her hand on Emma’s shoulder.

Emma drew back. “Yes.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “I’m just a little stiff.” She rose to her feet. The pain clouded her vision. She peeped at Mattie through the grey mist. Mattie’s face faded, the features blurred, then sharpened into Mama’s face, then blurred again. A breeze lifted the blonde hair and it waved around the face like the petals in a daisy mask.

“I’ll have to change,” Emma said. Her voice sounded far away. “Maybe you’d like a cup of tea while you wait.” Emma started for the house.

Mattie followed. In her booming voice, she pointed out the advantages of living together. Emma didn’t hear. The pain was so bad now that she could barely see.

She told Mattie to sit in the living room while she made the tea. She took down Mama’s silver teapot and set it on the kitchen cabinet, then patted the sweat from her forehead. She bent, almost screaming from the pain, and took what she needed from the bottom cabinet.

Straightening, she grasped the edge of the cabinet. She swayed, pain crashing through her head. Strong, she thought, it must be very strong. She unscrewed the jar and poured a generous portion of weed killer in the silver teapot before filling it with spiced tea.

Some weeds you just have to use weed killer on.