Garden's Blight
Claire Kuehn
It would have been the perfect day for a barbeque. The oak tree in the corner next to the shed provided just enough shade without making the atmosphere gloomy. Red and yellow flowers stood in straight, parallel lines in the freshly packed dirt beds which lined the fence enclosing the backyard. Not too hot and not too cool, the air was tranquil with only a slight breeze twitching Robert’s fair hair where he stood by his sister’s brick patio.
A handsome enough yet unexceptional man, Robert wore a dark green shirt with black dress pants, the colors complementing his complexion nicely. His posture was straight but relaxed, his hips cocked since he stood with most of his weight on his left leg. An iced drink was grasped in his right hand while his left thumb was carelessly hooked in his pocket.
Satisfaction twisted Robert’s thin lips as he studied the flower beds. He’d planted those perfect lines. The red and yellow flowers were much better than his brother-in-law’s ghastly faded bluebells that had drooped all over, slumping across each other’s beds and making a mess of petals. Robert had finished the planting yesterday, replacing that disarray of bluebells , telling his wife when she’d asked that it was the least he could do for his sister in her time of loss. The colors would help to cheer his sister, he’d told his wife.
Yet his sharp eyes narrowed on a plant that wasn't standing straight. Its red flowers wilted morbidly, resembling tortured, gaping faces as the petals sagged. Placing his drink on the patio table while irritation flickered like lightening across his face, Robert strode to the garden shed to retrieve a pair of shears. It was easy to find them among the organized tools—another mess his brother-in-law had left which Robert had corrected.
When he moved back to where he’d seen the defective plant, a blue butterfly fluttered to rest on the brown fence post in front of him. Robert watched it, impassive and still, as its delicate wings slowly swayed while it rested. It was a pretty creature, an unusual insect, with symmetrical, neat black lines making crisp divisions on the indigo of its wings.
In a flash, Robert slapped the flat of the shears down on the butterfly.
“Honey, what was that?” His wife was standing in the open patio door, her tragic face confused. Behind her, the shadows of the rest of the people attending the gathering moved with hunched shoulders under black garments. Hushed voices spilled out into the garden, mumbling their condolences and comforts to each other , attempting to find meaning in the sudden loss of such a promising young man. Such bad luck in the family.
A handsome enough yet unexceptional man, Robert wore a dark green shirt with black dress pants, the colors complementing his complexion nicely. His posture was straight but relaxed, his hips cocked since he stood with most of his weight on his left leg. An iced drink was grasped in his right hand while his left thumb was carelessly hooked in his pocket.
Satisfaction twisted Robert’s thin lips as he studied the flower beds. He’d planted those perfect lines. The red and yellow flowers were much better than his brother-in-law’s ghastly faded bluebells that had drooped all over, slumping across each other’s beds and making a mess of petals. Robert had finished the planting yesterday, replacing that disarray of bluebells , telling his wife when she’d asked that it was the least he could do for his sister in her time of loss. The colors would help to cheer his sister, he’d told his wife.
Yet his sharp eyes narrowed on a plant that wasn't standing straight. Its red flowers wilted morbidly, resembling tortured, gaping faces as the petals sagged. Placing his drink on the patio table while irritation flickered like lightening across his face, Robert strode to the garden shed to retrieve a pair of shears. It was easy to find them among the organized tools—another mess his brother-in-law had left which Robert had corrected.
When he moved back to where he’d seen the defective plant, a blue butterfly fluttered to rest on the brown fence post in front of him. Robert watched it, impassive and still, as its delicate wings slowly swayed while it rested. It was a pretty creature, an unusual insect, with symmetrical, neat black lines making crisp divisions on the indigo of its wings.
In a flash, Robert slapped the flat of the shears down on the butterfly.
“Honey, what was that?” His wife was standing in the open patio door, her tragic face confused. Behind her, the shadows of the rest of the people attending the gathering moved with hunched shoulders under black garments. Hushed voices spilled out into the garden, mumbling their condolences and comforts to each other , attempting to find meaning in the sudden loss of such a promising young man. Such bad luck in the family.
“A bee,” Robert lied as he looked down to examine the crushed wings and legs mixed with splattered ooze that stained the blades. “You should probably stay inside, you’re allergic and they still don’t know where that nest is.”
After she nodded dutifully and fearfully slid the glass door shut, Robert crouched to wipe the smeared insect on the clipped grass, and then began snipping the blighted flowers away. Yes, the butterfly had been beautiful, but its color didn’t fit with the rest of the garden. Bees, though, with their yellow slashes, suited the backyard nicely.
Robert's brother-in-law had been deathly allergic to bees. Such bad luck.
Robert snipped the last wilted flower and sat back to admire his work. His sister’s garden was now perfect.
After she nodded dutifully and fearfully slid the glass door shut, Robert crouched to wipe the smeared insect on the clipped grass, and then began snipping the blighted flowers away. Yes, the butterfly had been beautiful, but its color didn’t fit with the rest of the garden. Bees, though, with their yellow slashes, suited the backyard nicely.
Robert's brother-in-law had been deathly allergic to bees. Such bad luck.
Robert snipped the last wilted flower and sat back to admire his work. His sister’s garden was now perfect.