The Night Garden (2 page)

Now Gloria was complaining about the gardens being watered, but nobody wanted to investigate. To visit the Pennywort farm was to be reminded of everything in the world that was beautiful, and bountiful, and luxurious, and endlessly good. And this was a terrible thing for a man to be reminded of, because it made his heart black with despair. Trips out to the Pennywort farm always followed the same emotional trajectory: the melancholy resolve of the drive into the valley, then the inevitable springing up of hope to see the garden maze with its promise of youth and rampant possibility, and then the absolute certainty that life could change,
would
change, that the thing a person most wanted and deserved was right around the corner, right
there,
just a moment away—and then, the lonely, empty drive back home.

The problem, as most men of a certain age in Green Valley knew, was Olivia Pennywort. If a man could be guaranteed that he did not have to set eyes on her when he paid a visit to the farm, he might have felt less wary of his assignment. But old Arthur Pennywort was pretty much off his nut—living in a dilapidated shack in the woods like some kind of wild animal—and his twenty-nine-year-old daughter, Olivia, had been running the show since she’d dropped out of high school. These days, Olivia lived in the top of a tower that had once been a silo, and if any man could have coaxed her to let him in by climbing her hair like a ladder or slaying a dragon with a sword, he would have gladly done it. At all hours of the day, she could be seen working the farm that her family had owned since before she was born. Sometimes, bicyclists and Sunday drivers slowed down if they caught sight of her hoeing weeds or loading produce onto a truck. Sometimes people who came to visit the garden
maze wandered away from it to watch her scrape paint off an old fence or chase away Green Valley’s horde of wild, obnoxious goats. In spite of the fact that Olivia tromped about in work boots and overalls, in spite of the fact that her apricot-red hair was always semi-undisciplined in a messy bun, in spite of the dirt under her nails, the dark freckles on her sun-brown skin, the metallic smell of soil or even fertilizer that wafted about her, she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman in all of Green Valley, and perhaps beyond. She was young, and vigorous, and magnetic, and her hazel eyes were the luscious brown-gold-green of the Swamp Garden, which despite its lowly name was a high fantasy of dark pools of water, rich green lily pads, floating flowers, and sprays of blue-tinted vines that twined up the bark of delicate mandrakes.

Part of Olivia’s particular allure was how mysterious she seemed, how kindhearted yet distant, how nurturing but withholding, how resistant to summary of any kind. Over the years, many men and a few women had rallied to win her affection. Bids were placed on bar tables, teenagers goaded one another into dares, rookie cops volunteered to go out to her place to try their hand. Some of the older guys on the force, who never ceased being amused by the yearnings and strivings of younger bucks, had to hold their tongues to keep from dishing out warnings:
That girl isn’t just your everyday heartbreaker; she’s full-on dangerous. Watch out.
Hopeful swains returned from the Pennywort farm with nothing but heartache and a grudging, sorrowful respect for their opponent; those who did dare to make a pass at her never did it again.

Olivia Pennywort was like a beautiful but dangerous plant kept safely under glass, a thing to be admired only from afar. And though few people in Green Valley knew it, she had not come to be so standoffish for her own good, but for the good of everyone around her. Her natural inclination was to be affectionate,
trusting, and warm. It had taken many years of careful practice for her to learn how to rein in her enthusiasm about making new friends, to act as if her personality fell in the precise center between friendly and aloof. There was no choice: Much as she loved her neighbors, she had to stay slightly away.

To the cops who were regularly sent to check up on her, she was friendly, conversational, and patient—but she never let herself do anything that might be construed as flirting. To the children who came to her garden maze, she was generous and amusing, always offering them her homemade lemon drop candies or saying “catch!” and tossing them fresh strawberries until they’d caught one in their hands—and yet, she was always careful to stay a few feet away. To the tribe of transient women who slept in the Pennywort barn and took care of the gardens, Olivia strived to be a sympathetic leader, a good listener, and a patient caregiver—but because none of the women ever stayed on the farm very long, she was saved from the moral conundrum of becoming anyone’s actual friend. It was only with her father, the one person who knew what she was and loved her anyway, that she could truly be herself.

Her summer days were as busy as days could be from sunup to sundown: Her farm crew needed constant direction and adjustment as they worked her fields; the boarders who lived in her barn and tended to her garden maze needed reassurance and TLC; her father needed regular monitoring and supervision to keep him from being an accidental danger to himself; and her garden—her private garden that housed her most personal and important plants—needed constant pruning and trimming; otherwise it would roil like bubbles blown in a glass of milk. She did not, and would never have, the things a normal woman could have: intimate friends who knew and accepted her innermost secrets, a husband to warm her on long winter nights, or children who would lift their arms to her and say
Up! Up!

But still, she was alive—and that was something. She had the work—the wonderfully exhausting and meaningful work—of running her farm. She lived in a paradise of such extravagant enchantments that the world had not seen such a place since Adam and Eve, and she alone heard its secrets whispered in her ear. The Pennywort farm with its fields and woods and outbuildings and barns and garden maze was like a living, human-sized terrarium: exclusive, self-sustaining, self-contained. What happened on the farm happened
for
the farm, so that in the same way a plant made its own food from sunlight the farm kept itself running by effortlessly drawing toward it and claiming the things it needed—including Olivia. The edges of Olivia’s universe were delineated by wooden fences or old railroad spikes on the property lines, and even on the worst day of the year the farm was the best place a person could be—the
only
place Olivia could be what she truly was with any degree of happiness about it. Even now, as Olivia noticed a woman running toward her at top speed across a field of acorn squash, the great green gears of the farm were turning, and the things that manifested themselves as “problems” were actually just signs of life going on.

“Hey, Olivia! There you are!”

“Here I am,” Olivia said. The woman—a boarder named Libbie who had started sleeping in the barn three weeks ago—stopped a few feet before Olivia. And Olivia, without thinking, stepped a few feet back. She had been hoeing weeds down row after row of cucumbers for hours; her arms ached and her lower back was cramped. But this was not unusual—just another sign of midsummer, like cicadas and thunderstorms.

“We caught somebody!” Libbie said, breathing heavily. “Trying to steal … from the farm stand!”

Olivia frowned. “Really?”

“Yeah. Bram saw it with her own eyes.” Libbie put her hands on her hips, her shoulders curved with the effort of breathing. This was the most exciting thing that had happened on the farm in a very long time. “This girl just starts shoving things in her bag—like we wouldn’t notice. How do you like that?”

“Not someone we know …”

“No. A stranger. From out of town.”

“Of course.” Olivia squinted toward the distant structure of the roadside farm stand. No one from any of the Bethel hamlets would steal from the Pennywort farm; they knew better. Since the garden maze had first been built in the years following the Concert, speculation about it had been vigorous. People said that a person who picked a flower from the maze would be cursed. They pointed to the birds and the bears and the foxes for corroboration: Not even the hungriest wild animal would pilfer its breakfast from Pennywort land.

But an outsider who didn’t know any better—that was a different story.

Olivia squinted at Libbie in the relentless sun. Libbie was in her mid-twenties, and her colorful and slouchy skirts always put Olivia in mind of a woman overplaying the part of a gypsy in a stage show. She’d had a field day with the clothing donations that were sometimes dropped off at the barn by the local churches and synagogues. Libbie had come to the maze trying to decide if she should continue with college or follow her dream to act. When the maze hadn’t offered an immediate answer, she did what so many maze-walkers did: She’d decided to stay on. Olivia peered at her face. “Do you … are you getting a black eye? Did somebody
hit
you?”

Libbie smiled, beaming proudly. “Don’t worry. We caught her and locked her in the pen. She put up a fight, but it was three of us against one of her.”

“Wait. You locked a person in the
peacock
pen?”

“The birds aren’t using it right now,” Libbie said, sheepish. “Plus, we didn’t want her to run.”

Olivia tried to hide her reaction. “Well, I guess that’s … functional.”

“Do you want me to call the police?” Libbie asked, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “Have them come arrest her?”

“Not just yet,” Olivia said.

She thanked Libbie for handling the situation as best she knew how. Then she carried her hoe and crossed to the far side of the barn, near the old silo, where the peafowl were set up to roost. She wore clothes typical for her workday: a close-fitting tank top, work boots, and a long cotton skirt that she took a lot of flack for but that struck her as cooler and more accommodating than denim—it was the best balance she’d found between being protected and being comfortable. Her hair, so heavy and long, had been braided and swirled into a loaf that sat smack on the middle of her head. A wet red bandanna around her neck helped her keep cool.

As she approached the peacock’s cage she could see a figure sitting on the hay with her back curved against the wire fencing. Her knees were curled into her chest. She wore old white tennis shoes with beaded denim shorts that were so tiny the pockets stuck out under the hem. Her tank top was hot orchid pink and tacked with spangles that threw lasers of fuchsia every which way. Her black hair was held back by a glittery teal band.

“Hello there,” Olivia said to the thief. She leaned against the front of the cage but did not open it. The girl did not answer, did not even turn her head. “This kind of gives a whole new meaning to the idea of getting thrown in the pen.”

The girl didn’t laugh. “Bite me.”

“What did you try to steal?”

The girl didn’t answer.

“Are you hungry?” Olivia asked.

“I want you to let me go.”

“What’s your name?”

The girl’s face was shaped like a cut diamond, wide temples and narrow chin, and her eyes sparkled like anthracite coal. Her nose was small and flat at the tip, her skin a warm color between taupe and cream. Her hair was long, thick, and black, running straight as a river at midnight.

“Are you going to call the cops?” the girl asked. “Or are you just going to leave me locked in here all day.”

“That depends on you,” Olivia said. “Look—you don’t have to tell me your whole name. Just your first name’s good enough. Just so I know what to call you.”

Suspicion cut through her gaze. But she said, “I’m Mei.”

“Good. And I’m Olivia. I own this farm, so it was me you were stealing from.”

The girl made a noise that was a cross between a resigned sigh and a huff of frustration. “I’m sorry, okay? Yes, I was hungry. You’ve got, like, a ton of food. It’s not like it was going to throw you into bankruptcy if I took a tomato.”

Olivia leaned the hoe against the peacock pen. Her fruits and vegetables and beans were irresistible, even for the most stubborn of meat-and-potato types. She believed that her produce called to people, that if it had arms it would stretch them out and draw people in the same way that people reached out and picked up an apple or plum, so that it wasn’t a customer picking a peach but the other way around. She also had learned that a little human salesmanship didn’t hurt, either; they crushed the unsellable onions on the underside of the tables so the scent bloomed beautifully around the stand. They sprinkled fragrant basil leaves among the tomatoes, and offered cubes of watermelon
on toothpicks. It was impossible to resist for adults with full bellies; it was more than impossible, Olivia guessed, for hungry kids.

“How old are you?” Olivia asked the girl in the pen.
Mei.

“Nineteen.”

“Do you live around here?”

“No.”

“Where you from?”

“Everywhere.”

“Are you a runaway?”

“I’m an adult,” she said. “Nobody owns me. I didn’t run away from anybody.”

Olivia pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of her pants and rubbed her sweaty face. Though she and all the farm’s denizens wore loose-fitting cotton and big straw hats to fight the high summer sun, there was no escaping the tyrannical, merciless heat. Humidity congested like water in everyone’s lungs; dust became a skin on their skins. She tucked her handkerchief away.

“Listen, Mei. I—” The walkie-talkie clipped to her waistband chirped for attention; Tom was looking for her. She’d told him she would walk the fields with him (again) today to inspect the drought damage and talk over the possibility of putting in an irrigation system—which they normally wouldn’t need. Eastern farms had to contend with difficult, rocky soil, but one thing that did work to their advantage was a normally reliable amount of rain. This year, though, the fact that they hadn’t put in irrigation was finally catching up to them. She didn’t have much more time to give to Mei at the moment, though the girl seemed like she could use a little attention. Olivia told Tom she would be with him in a minute. Then she flipped open the lock of the cage where the girl was penned. “Come on out.”