From the Kitchen of Half Truth by Maria Goodin

are his thing. He often used to take me with him on his research expeditions, gathering rock samples, putting them in little bags, labeling them, taking them back and referencing them.”
    â€œYour father’s a scientist?” I ask, a forkful of chicken halfway to my lips.
    Ewan takes a sip of wine and gives me a wry little smile. “You sound surprised.”
    â€œEr…no, I just didn’t…I…
    â€œWell, I suppose geology is a type of science,” mutters Mark.
    While I hadn’t expected the gardener to come from scientific stock at all (couldn’t his father have talked some sense into him?), I really don’t feel the need to undermine his father’s choice of discipline by suggesting that it’s one of the lower forms of scientific study, which I know Mark is trying to imply.
    â€œAnd what about your mother?” I ask quickly, more to interrupt Mark’s line of questioning than out of genuine interest.
    â€œMy mum? She does a lot of acting. She loves the stage.”
    â€œOh, how wonderful!” shouts my mother, grabbing Ewan’s arm. “An actress! I love a good show. Meg used to adore the theater, didn’t you, darling?”
    â€œI really don’t—”
    â€œDo you remember we went to see that one, Meg, with the lion and the witch? And there was a big wardrobe in it. What was it called?”
    â€œ Romeo and Juliet ?” suggests the gardener.
    My mother looks thoughtful for a moment, and in spite of myself, I almost laugh.
    â€œOh!” shrieks my mother, suddenly realizing the gardener is pulling her leg. She slaps him playfully on the arm, and the gardener gives a little chuckle while my mother hoots with laughter at her own foolishness.
    Mark coughs and shoots me a look that suggests I should try harder not to encourage such idiocy. I try to suppress my smile, busying myself by neatly folding my napkin.
    â€œWould you like some fruit salad, Ewan?” asks my mother once she has composed herself.
    â€œNo, thanks,” he says, standing up and patting his stomach. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a bit of work to finish in the garden before it gets too late.”
    â€œOh, no, you’ve worked so hard all day!”
    â€œPlease,” he says, raising his hands in protest, “I don’t like to leave jobs half done. I’ll let myself out the back gate when I’m finished. Thanks a lot for dinner. It was fantastic.”
    By the back door he pulls his muddy boots on and thanks my mother again before heading back out into the garden.
    â€œWell, wasn’t that lovely!” she says, beaming.
    Mark and I sit in silence.
    My mother finally senses the tension and her smile fades. “Well, perhaps I’ll go and lie down for a while,” she says awkwardly, disappearing out of the room.
    I start to gather up the plates and run a sink full of water. Mark sits silently at the table, sipping his wine and nursing his bruised pride, before suddenly announcing, “I’ve never heard of this Baxter experiment, have you? I’ll look into it. Probably not a scientifically conclusive study. I’ll contact John Stokes at the university; he’ll know. Who is Baxter anyway? Not a name I’ve heard of.”
    I am barely listening. Instead, through the open kitchen window, I am watching the gardener digging in the dirt, pulling up weeds, and chucking them in a pile on the grass. The sun is just starting to go down, giving a golden glow to the sun-kissed skin of his sinewy forearms. I see him pick up a frog from among the beanpoles, hold it in the palm of his hand, and begin talking to it. He points at the garden gate, as if giving the frog directions, then sets the little creature gently down on the grass. It hops away and the gardener resumes digging, trusting that the frog will find its own way out of the garden. A crazy image pops into my mind of the frog packing up his little bag