Furmidable Foes

12

June 1, 2019

Saturday

“How many stops is she going to make?” Pewter complained. “The back of the Volvo is full of plants. What if I wanted to sit back there and look out the big window?”

“You never want to sit back there. You always want to be in the passenger seat.” Tucker rested her chin on her front paws, which poked into Pirate’s rear.

As the Irish wolfhound puppy grew, Tucker refused to scrunch up, so the corgi would lie next to the big dog, push her legs into Pirate’s sides, or simply flop on top of that deep gray coat. Pirate never minded, but then Pirate hadn’t a clue as to how big he was becoming.

As it was, the fat gray cat commandeered the front passenger seat with Mrs. Murphy squeezed next to her.

“Everyone okay back there?” Harry glanced in her rearview mirror.

“Yes,” the two dogs answered.

Harry pulled into the ABC store, the state liquor store. Virginia swept up a lot of income from these state stores but they were not inspirational in their choice of alcohol. However, the bourbon, whiskey, and scotch were pretty good. Still. Harry, oblivious to booze anyway, put the car in park and left the windows open, for the late afternoon air was pleasant.

Both cats strained to see what Harry was up to since this was not one of the usual destinations.

Twenty minutes later, accompanied by a portly man in an apron, Harry rolled out a cart, as did he. She clicked her key fob and the back door clicked open.

Lifting it up, Harry ordered in no uncertain terms, “Nobody move.” She turned to the middle-aged man. “We can put it here. There’s room. Doesn’t look like it as I picked up azaleas, but I know we can.”

With care the two put in twelve huge bottles of cheap gin. Harry thanked him, tipped him, got behind the driver’s seat, fired the motor. Singing “Beautiful Savior,” she drove to St. Luke’s.

Why she chose a hymn was anybody’s guess, but she carefully drove the station wagon to the back, parking on the side of the road by the second quad.

“All right. Behave yourselves.”

Potting soil, a small spade, plus a few handheld gardening tools were unloaded first. These she carried to the shrubs around the lower quad. Returning, she carried the azalea pots one by one. Harry was on an azalea tear. She placed these strategically in front of the peonies, some of which miraculously still luxuriated in full bloom. They were late bloomers; Harry could tap blooming dates. Of course, she read the information on tags. Having plants continue to bloom so there’s always something of interest open tests any gardener. Having played on these grounds since childhood, she knew St. Luke’s peculiarities with soil, shade, and wind.

On her knees, she stuck her fingers in the soil. Moist. Digging wouldn’t be too hard. Picking up the spade, she dug all the holes first. Then she placed each azalea in its new home, carefully covering the hole, smoothing out the top, pulling over a bit of the mulch from the other plants. They looked good. This labor took an hour. The sun moved farther west. Another hour to sunset. She knew tomorrow the parking lot would be jammed for the Sunday service and then the homecoming afterward.

Both the Dorcas Guild and the St. Peter’s Guild would be there long before the service, to put out tables, chairs, everything needed for the big day. Baskets filled with game items would be at either end of each quad, although everyone knew the big game would be capture the flag, which never failed to arouse everyone. People even played in wheelchairs pushed by whoever could run the fastest.

The azaleas, white and palest pink, set off those late-blooming peonies, themselves deep pink, purest white, or magenta. A few of the magenta bushes glowed so dark, they looked black in certain light. Harry felt her magenta peonies were spectacular.

Carrying the tools back to the Volvo, she then unraveled the hoses—each quad had a hose coiled at the end. The higher quad’s water came from the side buildings of the church. The lower water ran from the old stables at the pastor’s house, which had been turned into a garage. She watered all her plants, newly planted, plus the rest.

By the time she’d finished with that, another hour passed. She then dragged the hoses back to the buildings. She’d hauled them out yesterday, but somehow dragging them back, wrapping them around next to the faucet, wore her out. She knew she had to get hose holders with a handle to roll and unroll. But there wasn’t time before the big do.

Looking around, seeing no one, she walked to the vehicle, carried a huge gin bottle in each hand, and made it to the farthest plantings. She opened the bottles, carefully pouring the liquid into the roots of the plants, but especially the peonies. By the time she had soused every peony and newly planted azalea, the sun nudged the horizon. Walking back for the last two bottles, she hastened to the grave of the unknown woman, where she juiced those plants.

Her next problem, how to dispose of the gin bottles? She’d need to take them home, bag them up, and stuff them immediately into the garbage cans outside.

She wanted no one to know her secret, including her beloved husband.

Gin blossoms didn’t apply only to humans.