s u m m e r
Eugene Lindsey opened his nursery after the nation had begun to recover from the first world war back in 1920. It flourished right away, mainly doing landscaping for the new business moving into Greensboro and the women's college down Spring Garden St. Eugene himself fell in love with the English gardens he had seen while in the Army. Partially because of a nursery's sharp contrast to the shell torn battlefields in France and partially because of his need to forget and immerse himself in hard, backbreaking work, he opened Lindsey far on the outskirts of Greensboro. The Magnolia was just becoming popular; Eugene saw a future in the tree and planted them everywhere. He also loved roses, roses of all types. He ran the nursery with all the love any man could muster until 1954, when he disappeared along with most of the money for the Lindsey land. He never resurfaced and the Lindsey employees simply sat down their trowels and pesticide tanks. They turned off the huge kiln and left the terracotta in huge stacks and under tables in building number 1. The men stopped cutting the tops out of #3 cans during breaks. Planting tables were watered one last time and rows and rows of seedlings in two inch pots were left in the sun to fend for themselves. Coffee cups were quietly sat down and the last person to leave was a nameless accountant who took the ledger with him along with some photographs and ads and various pieces of paper memorabilia which later fell into the hands of Ben, the bookshop owner on Elm St.
All this plays out in my head driving down Friendly. The dash lights on the MG are dim and when the road dips or bumps the headlights flicker. The sky is a dark purple, ominous and unforgiving. Mottled clouds sit low on the horizon and over the tree line running fast beside the road. The speedometer nudges just over 70mph and Michelle looks out over the low door and ahead at the white lines rushing forward.
The turn off Friendly throws rocks and dust about the MG and I slid to a quick halt by the old packing shed. The sudden quiet when I shut down the engine jerked Michelle back to the present.
"Wow," she pulled the door latch and put one foot unsteadily on the ground, "So this is the place?"
I remembered the rattlesnakes and almost said something but thought better of it. They wouldn't be out this time of year no matter how warm.
"Yeah. This is my nursery. Welcome to the azalea forest."
Straight down the path where I'd slid the car to a stop she saw the first greenhouse. I guess it had mostly tropicals and they aren't around anymore. Dried up pots and rotten potting tables along with the skeleton of some indoor irrigation is all that's left. I recalled the huge reddish brown spider I'd seen in there once. It was crawling toward a hole by the far steps leading into building number 1. I stepped on it and from its belly came hundreds of smaller red spiders. I pulled Michelle's arm, "You don't want to go in there."
But that's how Lindsey is. Growing to spite itself. Nothing can really hold it back and nothing has tried.
We headed down the small overhang between the backyard and the greenhouses. Four of them all in a row, all really one large building, separate but for their contents and the glass brick walls between them. Ahead I could see the line of the azalea forest like a pen and ink against a watercolor sky.
Even in the dark I could make it out as we got closer. The sky had begun to break and the moon shown bright casting eerie storm like shadows with the intensity of a strong light leaking under a closed door. I could plainly make out the remains of the steel and wood potting tables six in a line and two deep leaving an isle maybe three feet across between them. A huge mimosa tree eased back and forth over the first couple of tables. All of them were rotted away, their wood planked surfaces rotted and caved in. Broken bits of terracotta lay scattered about on the ground. How the azaleas survived I'll never understand. A mutual consent between growth and decay so that neither extreme superceded and both managed to flourish.
The one-time seedlings atop the tables had grown into large unmanicured plants. Their roots wrapped around each other and circled like a group of drunk partisans each holding the next up for support. They easily spanned the three feet to the ground where they dug into the mixture of black earth and hard clay. Thinner roots searched out new territory and hard, thick, old roots claimed the frames of the tables for support. Up top the azaleas were in perfect formation. Six rows two deep. They'd grown thick together and there were perhaps ten large bushes per table. The ones on the inside covered the isle effortlessly and created an arbor so thick that the soil underneath was soft and smooth like a barn floor.
I ducked inside and lit a smoke. I was always conscious at Lindsey to pocket the butts, never leaving them on the ground. I can tell a lot from a person because of that small detail. Do they look around sheepishly before discarding the butt from a trailing smoke, or do they simply grind it out underfoot or on the side of one of the buildings? Or maybe they too feel something wrong with dropping the butt on the ground and set it on a sill or sometimes in their own pocket. I smiled to myself and turned on Michelle, "So, what do you think?" But she was gone.
I heard the sound of breaking glass a few moments later, a curse, and some rustling inside one of the greenhouses. I had to smile again. Keeping with her style she was proving that no one was her keeper. I'm sure my telling her she didn't belong in there sealed it. I wondered if she'd find her way though to the back where the kiln and boiler were. Where stacks of pots formed the visible edges of a room that used to be the maintenance and storage building. A place where sharp tools hung rusty on the walls and cobwebs clung to your face at every turn.
By the time I saw the headlights it was too late.
I'd been foolish to leave the MG exposed, but at least it blocked the path buying seconds I needed.
"Michelle?," I called a little louder, "Michelle!?" Damn. I heard two doors open and close. I ran to one end of the forest but couldn't make anything out but a bouncing flashlight beam coming up the path. I dropped my smoke and turned back the other way. If I could circle the mimosa from the outside I could come in through the basement window by the boiler and then either hide or, if Michelle had made it that far, pull her into the relative safety behind the iron shell. I moved quickly. I heard more breaking glass and I thought faint calls for my name. I wouldn't answer, it was too late for that now. I thought about trying to make it to the car but I was probably blocked. I cursed my stupidity. Then I remembered the roses, or rather felt them. They tore at me and before I could stop I was deep in a thicket. It was strangely quiet then, the only sound was my heavy breath. I'd run out of options and made a real mess of things. I could only hope Michelle had found someplace to hide but she didn't know the layout and I forgotten to tell her what to do if anyone showed up. Damn.
Still. Moments of stillness. I felt my keys jabbing at my thigh and I was starting to cramp up from sitting in one place too long. One car door then another. A starter kicked against a flywheel and they were gone in a short burst of gravel and dust. By the time I finally moved I was alone in Lindsey. I picked thorns from my sleeve and walked into the center greenhouse. I leaned against the empty doorframe and sighed. What the hell had just happened?
I looked around for Michelle but found no one. I remembered when we'd left the car she hadn't taken her purse, but when I went to look for it, it was gone too. Nothing else missing, so she'd left with whomever came out. It all went back to the bar. I played it over and over. Nothing came clear. Unless I was followed, no one knew I was coming out here. Then I thought of her again. Another game. But how did Michelle fit? How many times had I thought I'd seen her down on Tate just rounding the corner by Friar's. How many times had I stared at the back of her head as the white door leading upstairs to the second floor apartments closed me out. Sue lived there, maybe she knew.
I found my way back to the greenhouse and climbed the dogwood growing in the middle of the floor. I raised one hand to my tender cheek and shook a smoke lose from the wrapper. Packing it against the trunk I stared at the sky. Vines tear at the soft and crumbling Chicago Firebrick walls. It's that time of year getting on toward Spring and though the flowers haven't really come out yet they are not far off. I can tell. The yellow bells bend to the hard freeze like every year, but something was different this time. As I sat there smoking I knew I could smell them. I could smell them like never before. Like they had just opened with me sitting all alone, the only audience they were likely to get. Pink, white, soft and fragile. Amoung all the other noise around in my senses I could swear above all that...I smelt the overwhelming pugnent odor of azaleas.
goodnight 3.9.99