Slugfest

Thirty-one

While we did the paperwork on the sale, the judges announced the winners of the major display garden prizes. Best Suburban Garden: Fran Strauss, Glen Landing. Best Beach Garden: Pamela Choy, East Hampton. Best City Garden: The Sticks and Stones Garden of High School 240, Brooklyn. Best Country Garden: Mrs. Jean Moffitt, Sleepy Hollow. Best Overall Garden: Mrs. Jean Moffitt, Sleepy Hollow.

I didn’t know if the winners had been informed before the rest of us, but Mrs. M. didn’t seem surprised and neither was Jensen. All she said was, “I refuse to let them call me suburban.” That seemed as much a triumph to her as winning the awards.

Jensen and I ironed out the shipping details and Rick and Mrs. M. rolled away to celebrate and prepare for the obligatory photos.

“That’s it,” I said to David. “I’m done. I can’t take any more smiling for a while. My face muscles need to relax. This is my neutral face. How does it look?”

“Grim but good. Like Victoria Beckham. Does that woman ever smile? With her dough, it can’t be bad teeth—must be fear of wrinkles.” We agreed that wrinkles or not, if either of us was with David Beckham, we’d be smiling. A lot.

“Take a break,” he said. “Get something to eat and explore the show before the hordes come tomorrow. Member night is like visiting the museum without all the tourists and group leaders with green umbrellas. But don’t take too long. You’ve got a few more hours of this.”

It was a good suggestion. I knew people to congratulate, but first I went to the buffet table to fortify myself.

Only the most mean-spirited, Grinch-like woman would have begrudged Lauryn and her students the first prize they were awarded for best city garden. As it happened, the Grinch and her friend were standing right beside me, criticizing a platter of pierogie. Allegra Douglas looked as if she’d just eaten a spoonful of sour cream that had spoiled.

“Are you enjoying the show?” I asked.

The friend spoke first. “Oh, yes! Even the blackout was thrilling!” Allegra mumbled a response, but her disgusted look said it all—this was torture for her. Someone was sabotaging her show. Not only had the youngsters from the high school taken a ribbon, but apparently Connie Anzalone had received an honorable mention in the beach garden category ahead of three East Hampton gardeners that Allegra knew well. It was anarchy. Chaos. I left Allegra and her pal stewing over the canapés and went to congratulate Connie and Lauryn.

Whatever else happened at the show, it was Lauryn’s night. Most of the television cameras were on her and her students. Every year there was one plant or garden that got all the attention, and this year it was hers.

I hung around, waiting for a free moment to extend my congratulations to her or to Jamal, but she was swamped and I didn’t see him anywhere. Another student told me the boy hadn’t shown up.

Not far away, Connie’s garden was almost as crowded. “Congrats.” She was deliriously happy and couldn’t wait for Guy to join her later that evening. She had made it through the show unscathed, hadn’t needed the bodyguards, and decided that, while tragic, her veronicas had died a perfectly natural death. Not only had her garden been acknowledged, but her backless fish-scale dress was causing quite a stir. A photographer had already immortalized her standing next to a papier-mâché sea horse. On top of that, she excitedly told me that someone named Mrs. Moffitt had invited her to a garden party to be held Sunday evening after the show closed.

“My first real friend at the show,” she said. “After you, of course. But you know what I mean. One of them.” I did know what she meant. I wasn’t one of them. Suburban girl in the city. City girl in the suburbs.

“I’m happy for you, Connie. You deserve it.”

A second photographer approached and politely asked if he could take our pictures, but I knew he really wanted Connie so I backed away to the perimeter, where I had an overview of the entire spectacle. That was where I bumped into Rolanda.

“So was it all you thought it would be?” she asked.

“All that and a bag of chips,” I said.

“I was going to come find you tonight.”

“To check my badge again?”

She shook her head. “No, wise guy. The kid? The one whose bag you have? He won’t be coming for it. He’s dead.”