Front Yard by Norman Draper Page A

Fremonts’ gardens— and in August, no less!—after everyone got caught on that awful night, and Marta got Edith to turn over a new leaf and play nice.
    Dr. Sproot surveyed the expanse of her five new garden plots, which she had staked out, churned up, fertilized, and aerated in the hopes of turning them into her new, revolutionary creations. Yes, she thought; maybe there are things that happen that no amount of gardening erudition and wisdom—such as her own—can explain. Maybe that means that the Fremonts really could talk to their plants, and that gardening spirits await only the proper medium for unleashing their cosmic influences, for good or evil.
    Dr. Sproot frowned. A Christian of sorts, she wondered how all this could be reconciled with the tenets of organized religion. Maybe she was destined to go pagan.
    The night she spent in the clink following her Fremont backyard escapade had also made a profound impression. Even such a hard case as Dr. Sproot could give some serious thought to reforming after spending time with a couple of mucus-smeared drunks, a middle-aged prostitute who chomped on about ten pieces of gum while leering at her through sparkling Day-Glo lips, and three loquacious teenagers who kept taking off their shorts and waving them around until the prostitute threatened to “scrotum-kick” them.
    Besides, there were a few chromosomes of good in Dr. Sproot that occasionally exerted a teensy bit of influence on her behavior. She decided that it was time to give those chromosomes full rein, and to become the new “Phyllis.”
    The new Phyllis would be kind, engaging, and encouraging to any and all gardeners who would flatter her enough to seek her advice. Gone were her old rigid formulas that dictated to the percentage point the amount and types of flowers you had to have in your garden for it to truly achieve a measured magnificence. She would garden from her heart now, letting pure instinct tell her what to do. She would be plain old Phyllis-the-Gardener, and drop any pretense of being Livia’s ruling gardening savant.
    This new attitude made it easier for Dr. Sproot to concede that there were other gardeners in Livia far more accomplished than she. True peace of mind was now within reach. All she had to do was step out of the gardening limelight and let the dictates of her soul steer her toward a fruitful, contented anonymity.
    How heartening it was for her to see that this new Phyllis thing was getting results. Her few friends and many acquaintances were back on speaking terms with her. The Rose Maidens announced they would consider her for readmittance to their ranks. Dr. Sproot had even thought about calling Edith. A contrite Edith had allegedly given up her dark practices, though Dr. Sproot knew she was keeping her hand in because would you look at her gardens! She was the rankest of amateurs, yet her meager little blooms, once so bedraggled and puny-looking, shone out like guiding beacons of the gardener’s craft. Well, bless her little heart anyway.
    Mostly, it was poor Marta who had worked so hard to change her. Good old self-effacing Marta. It was Marta who had come by to visit her after she was branded a pariah, a marked woman expelled from the Rose Maidens, and whose name was nutrient-deprived mud in every gardening circle for miles around. It was Marta who had worked hard to extract the tiniest nugget of pure good that was buried deep down inside her. Marta said she had that little wavering flicker of saintliness that made her want to love and cherish her flowers, and not to treat them so callously as things .
    And, speaking of the little saint maker, here she was now, coming through the fence gate to get her first long look at Dr. Sproot’s straight-from-the-heart creations.
    â€œMorning, Marta.”
    â€œHi, Phyllis. Lovely day . . . finally!”
    â€œIsn’t it, though?” said Dr. Sproot, proudly scanning the panorama of her new