Head in a Haymow Read online

  After noting the funny name on Bernice's checks, they got into commenting about the current growing season. That turned into a discussion about the nature of edible gardening versus ornamental gardening, which earned Bernice a visit to Margie's house to have coffee and look at her various flower beds.

  Bernice acknowledged somewhere in the back of her mind that the visit was just as much about creepy curiosity as it was about admiring Margie's Hollyhocks. But instead of dwelling on the guilt, she decided to forgive herself for being human. She rationalized that if somehow she could make this sad person feel better, then her visit would cause more good than harm.

  Besides, Margie's flower beds were stunning.

  Darlene had always insisted on simple tried and true perennials at the farm. They held their own year in and year out and if they happened to bloom, so be it.

  Simple didn't enter the equation in Margie's yard.

  Her typical 1960's ranch house was made extraordinary with mixtures of lovingly pruned shrubs and trees of complimenting sizes, shapes, and textures. All were surrounded by mounds of leafy ground covers and sprays of wispy flower heads that bobbed at will in the afternoon breeze.

  Bernice was so impressed, she forgot her manners. Margie must have been holding the front door open for some time before she resorted to clearing her throat.

  “Oh, I'm so sorry,” Bernice ducked her head in embarrassment.

  No apology was necessary. Margie was beaming. “Tell you what? I'll put on the coffee and we can go drink it on the back deck.”

  Bernice nodded and walked into Margie's dining room. Slightly shabby but clean and maintained, the decor in the house was dated and provincial. It was quite clear that the priorities of its owner lay outside. The only exception was the huge bay window that was completely congested with shelves of house plants; some so exotic they seemed other-worldly.

  “You do houseplants too?” exclaimed Bernice with a mixture of admiration and jealousy.

  “Got to do something in the winter,” Margie remarked from the kitchen. She walked back out carrying an opened bag of store-bought cookies. “Coffee will be done in a couple of minutes.”

  Bernice followed Margie down a hallway and out the door to the back deck and more flowers. Different containers of every size and color littered the edges of the deck, bursting with plants and blooms.

  Margie set the half eaten container of cookies on the patio table, mumbling, “I hope these cookies are all right. I'm not much of a baker.”

  “When would you have the time?” Bernice asked with amazement. “The garden of Eden isn't going to weed itself.” Margie laughed. It sounded like music to Bernice's ears. “Maybe I did the right thing coming here,” she thought.

  “I'll be right back with the coffee,” Margie announced then paused at the screen door. “How do you take it?” she asked.

  “Black,” Bernice responded before inquiring, “you mind if I wander out in the yard until you get back?”

  Margie's smile answered her question. “Not at all, enjoy.”

  Bernice slowly made her way down the short flight of steps. She admired each different container until her eyes were released into the expanse of the yard.

  Unlike the cornucopia of plant groupings in the front yard, the beds in the back were rigorously regimented for color and species. There was a shade garden that only bloomed in white. Next to that was a part shade garden that only bloomed in yellows. One garden had nothing but Asiatic lilies. Another garden featured more cultivars of coral bells than Bernice knew existed.

  But the most glamorous arrangement, the true showpiece in Bernice's opinion, was the rose bed. It's star-shaped arrangement caught your eye first with an abundant shrub rose at each spire. In between were immaculately pruned hybrid teas with mini teas tucked in here and there for height interest. And at the center was a glorious wrought iron arbor. It was smothered in thick and thorny vines of trailing and climbing roses, three different varieties in all, intertwining like lovers.

  “That your favorite one?” Margie yelled from the deck.

  “Yah, I think so,” Bernice answered, still staring at all the pretty rose blooms. She pulled her gaze away and politely walked back to the deck.

  “It's one of my favorites too,” Margie seconded as Bernice took her seat. “It's also the one that's the fussiest in terms of soil and moisture. It needs constant monitoring.”

  “It's simply lovely,” Bernice complimented. She paused when she saw Margie's face looking very sad and alone again like at the bank.

  “That's Herb's bed,” Margie stated bluntly, sipping her coffee.

  “Herb was a gardener too?” Bernice asked softly.

  “No. He bought me a dozen long stemmed roses for every anniversary.” Margie looked pointedly at Bernice. “You know what happened, don't you, from watching the news?”

  “Actually,” Bernice admitted, “my neighbor is the farmer that...was on the news.”

  Margie held her mug with both hands and slowly lowered it to the table. Her eyes remained there as silence filled the deck.

  Bernice felt shame burn her throat with the hot coffee. “I don't want to pry, Margie. If you don't want to talk about it, it's okay.”

  “No,” she gave her resolute response. “I don't mind, really. The truth of the matter is I stopped grieving for Herb a long time ago... when he took off and left me.” She pulled a chalky chocolate cookie out of the cellophane bag, more for something to fidget with than anything else.

  “I'm so sorry.” Bernice grabbed a cookie in commiseration. “How long has he been gone?”

  “Almost five years now, but seeing him...” Margie stopped talking for a second. She wiped a teardrop from her eye. “Well, it's all coming back like it was yesterday.” Strangely, she suddenly put her hand forward and rested it on Bernice's wrist. “You ever try with all your might to be what someone wants, but it's never enough? You're never enough?”

  Bernice nodded in acute understanding. Margie self-consciously removed her hand and returned it to the security of her mug. She took another sip and swallowed thoughtfully. “The kicker was I don't think it was ever about me. Herb was just so unhappy with his lot in life, and I was a part of that.”

  She gazed back out at the rose garden. “Herb wanted the world. He wanted to travel and gamble and live like a Big Shot. Instead he got saddled with a family and responsibilities before he was really ready for it. I tried to make everything around him as convenient as possible, but I think in the end he just couldn't live the lie anymore.”

  “So he just left you?” Bernice asked.

  “Right after our sixteenth wedding anniversary.” She nodded to the rose garden to make her point. “Red hybrid teas are the only rose I refuse to grow in that garden. I can't stand the sight of them anymore.”

  “Wait,” Bernice interjected, “no letter, no phone calls, nothing? He just left? What did you do?”

  “I didn't know for a good week that anything was even wrong,” Margie reflected. “You see, Herb was big into those wealth gurus, like you always see on TV? Every chance he got, he was off traveling to some hotel to attend one of their seminars. He'd be gone for days.” Margie pulled out another cookie and broke it in half. “I called the police when a week turned into two, but deep down I knew he was never coming back.” She dunked part of the cookie into her coffee. “He was free.”

  “Wow,” Bernice breathed. “I gotta say, Margie, you're a lot more pragmatic about the whole thing than I would be.”

  “Well,” she remarked, “you gain a lot of perspective over five years, and it wasn't like he didn't try. He worked for my father at the garage even though he hated it. He always provided for me and the kids. And even though I didn't make him happy, he was a loving husband...you know, for as long as he could be.” She dunked the other piece of cookie in her coffee. “It was just time for him to go.”

  Bernice hated herself for having to bring it up, but she felt compelled. “Margie,” she attempted, “why do
you think he came back?”

  Margie rose from the table at that point. “I have no idea,” she stated rather aloofly. “He never came to see me or anyone that I know, or I would have heard about it.” She gathered the empty cup from Bernice and snatched up the bag of cookies, releasing a sigh. “He should have stayed where he was at. Then none of this would have happened.” With that she went into the house.

  “I hope I'm not prying if I ask this.” Bernice followed her into the kitchen. It was cute and dated like the rest of the house with dark walnut cabinets and formica counter tops. “Did Herb leave you with any... money problems when he left?”

  Margie gave her an odd frown. “Come again?” she asked.

  “It's just,” Bernice continued flustered, “my neighbor said Herb owed him money.”

  “Actually,” Margie confessed, “quite the opposite. I think it was out of guilt, but right after Herb disappeared the bank called me and said that our mortgage was paid in full.” She stashed away the cookies in a cupboard and stacked the dirty mugs into the harvest gold dishwasher.

  Bernice was amazed. “Really?” she remarked. “I'm impressed.”

  Margie walked Bernice outside. “Like I said, he tried.”

  Bernice was turning to say thank you when she noticed something. It surprised her that she had missed it earlier, but she had been distracted by all the beauty in the yard. Set back away from the house, a broken weeping willow lay half dead over the remains of a garage. “Holy crap, what happened there?” Bernice asked as she pointed.

  Margie released a breath of disgust. “That storm we had a few days ago,” she explained. “I would have taken it down by now, but the adjustor hasn't made it out yet. Go figure, I work for the insurance agency and even I don't get special treatment.”

  Bernice studied the garage. It looked like it had seen better days. She related as much to Margie. “Kind of looks like the tree did you a favor.”

  “Yah,” she admitted, “that was Herb's garage. I couldn't bring myself to go in there much after he left.” She sighed sadly. “Yah,” Margie repeated and looked at Bernice with glassy eyes. “For as long as he could be, Herb was a good husband.”

  Chapter 7

  “Herb was a shitty husband.”

  That was Roger's emphatic conclusion to Bernice's story as he up-righted chairs and bar stools in preparation for the Den's Friday night Happy Hour.

  “Bad gamblers are not necessarily bad husbands.” Bernice set out napkin holders and salt and pepper shakers in his wake.

  “And cheating husbands are not necessarily bad gamblers.” Roger frowned as he shook a crooked table then bent down on one knee to level the foot. “Herb was both.”

  “You know this for a fact?” Bernice questioned him skeptically.

  Roger gave her a dirty look as he grunted and pulled himself back up. “There are in my opinion three kinds of husbands who frequent bars: Ones who always come in alone because they're closet alcoholics, ones who come in with their wives because they're social alcoholics, and the ones who come in alone but leave with women who are not their wives.”

  “Well, that's too bad then,” Bernice remarked. “You think he left town with one of those women?”

  “Hard to say,” Roger commented indifferently. He moved behind the counter and pulled out an industrial size bag of pretzels.

  “You think maybe the 'friend' he got the investment advice from was actually his mistress?”

  Roger paused in his actions. “Did you say 'mistress'? How 1950's of you,” he teased.

  Bernice didn't notice. She was on a roll. She absentmindedly lined up snack bowls on the counter for him as she speculated. “Margie agreed with you about Herb wanting the life of a Big Shot. Who's to say he didn't hook up with a woman who had the same ambition that he did?”

  Roger scoffed at Bernice's theory. He embraced the heavy bag with one hand and filled the bowls with the other. “Having ambition is one thing. Having the smarts and resources to see them through is another. The women Herb escorted out of this joint had the scheming capacity of Scooby Doo and without the charming accent.”

  Bernice smirked at his joke and began to distribute the snack bowls to the tables. “You know, not all the women who patronize your bar are stupid.”

  “No, some are just plain dangerous,” Roger remarked, meeting her challenging gaze with one of his own. “Like my too-big-for-her-britches daughter.”

  Bernice's flirtatious mood evaporated. “No,” she groaned, “what did you do this time?”

  Roger scowled defensively. “Why would you automatically assume I did something wrong?”

  “Because Brook is a wonderful young woman, and you are a cranky selfish tyrant.”

  Roger's mouth hung open. Stunned, he asked, “What? Are you coaching her now? That's almost word for word what she said right before she stormed out of the house.”

  Bernice grabbed some more bowls, broaching, “this wouldn't happen to be about Belgium, would it?”

  Roger pointed at her with a pretzel. “Not you too,” he implored.

  Bernice continued her task in silence for about four seconds. “It's just such a great opportunity.”

  “Bernice,” Roger warned as he put away the big bag.

  “But she would be shadowing at the European freakin' Union for Christ's sake. Why would you deny her that?” She stopped and looked at him.

  Roger rubbed the back of his neck and closed his eyes as if in pain. When he spoke, it was as an old man. “Why did she have to grow up so damn fast? One minute I'm changing diapers and the next I'm taking the trainers off her bike. Now I'm arguing with my baby not to run off to Europe and leave me.”

  Bernice came around the counter. “She's not leaving you, Roger. She's just growing up. She's not like her mother.”

  “You know, she looks more like Pamela every day.”

  “That's not what I see,” Bernice countered quietly. “She looks more like you.” Bernice reached up and cradled his face.

  He held her hand there, changing the painful subject. “How come you're over here anyway? You buttering me up for something?”

  Bernice smiled. “Kinda,” she answered. “Darlene went off the Res for the weekend. I thought I would have you and Big Britches over for a nice dinner. Pay you back for that overpriced hooch I drank.”

  “Well, as luck would have it, the wonderful young woman in question took off for the night and left me here to do her work and mine. So sorry, but no can do for dinner.”

  Bernice watched him carefully as she continued. “I wouldn't say no to a really early breakfast.”

  Roger brought her hand to his lips, kissing the soft fleshy area between the thumb and forefinger. Then he shook his head and placed her hand on her chest. “Out of all the women to ever walk into this dump, you're the most dangerous.”

  “I didn't think it was possible for me to feel sorry for the Wicked Witch of the West,” Darlene expounded with awe at the musical she had just finished experiencing. “I'll never be able to watch the Wizard of Oz the same way again.”

  Bernice grunted, “Uh huh,” with love and amusement as she talked on the phone and stirred the small sauce pan on the stove.

  “And the food! Oh my word! And Cameron picked out the perfect wine from this huge menu. It makes me kind of feel bad that we fed him that homemade stuff.”

  “I don't recall him complaining,” Bernice corrected and shut off the burner. She walked to the fridge. “How was your steak?”

  “Like butter. It barely needed chewing.”

  From somewhere in the background, a baritone voice blurted out, “Hey Kid.”

  “Oh, and Cameron says hi,” Darlene added. “We're in the car. He's taking me to some club for drinks.” Darlene moved her head away from the phone. Bernice could barely make out, “Where are we going again?” Darlene was back. “It's called the Dakota. I guess they do jazz there.”

  Bernice smiled at Darlene's naivety. “They do very good jazz there,” she correcte
d her. Then she scolded, “I hope you're not getting too worn out.”

  “Good God, Bernice, I'm not elderly. A good night's sleep and I'll be right as rain tomorrow.”

  Bernice pulled a jug of milk out of the fridge. “And what's on your itinerary tomorrow, Ms. Glennwood?”

  Darlene released the giggle of a woman half her age. “Cameron won't tell me.” Then she whispered into the phone, “He calls me his captive audience. Isn't that cute?”

  “Ew,” Bernice responded, “but I'm glad you're having a good time.”

  “Did you find the hotdish I left for you in the fridge?”

  Bernice set the jug on the counter and stuck her head back in the fringe. She pulled out a seasoned casserole dish and cringed at the heavy solid substance inside. “Found it,” she announced with fake enthusiasm.

  “Good.” Darlene went away from the phone again. When she came back, she said, “We're here. Gotta go.”

  “Have fun, Cinderelly,” and Bernice hung up the phone. She looked back at the hotdish, a plan forming in her head. She grabbed a big spoon, walked out to the front porch and shoveled a decent sized portion into the compost bin. She kicked the bin with her foot to cover up the evidence and smiled victoriously as she marched back into the house and replaced the casserole dish into the fridge.

  She grabbed the sauce pan of macaroni and cheese from the stove. Shoving a fork into it, she grabbed her glass of milk and sauntered into the living room.

  Bernice took her place in the recliner and made herself at home. Her sole companion for the evening was the DVR, and her favorite cop show was backed up for almost a whole season just for such an occasion. “Darlene's not the only one getting steak,” Bernice proclaimed and triumphantly hoisted up her newly purchased bag of beef jerky. With all her delicacies in place she snuggled in and turned on the TV.

  Her second bite of cheesy goodness was interrupted by a rude banging on her kitchen screen door. Bernice grumbled, displaced her dinner and got up.