Millie made a polite reply.
Elinor really was feeling better. She’d have to go through the funeral next, Chris’s funeral, but she sensed in herself a backbone, a morale — whatever it was called. After the service for Chris — surely it would be simple — she’d invite her new neighbors, few as they might be, to her house for coffee or drinks or both. Food too.
Elinor realized that her spirits had picked up because the pool was vanquished. She’d have it filled in with stones, with the agent’s and also the owner’s permission of course. Why should she retreat from the house? With stones showing just above the water it would look every bit as pretty, maybe prettier, and it wouldn’t be dangerous for the next child who came to live here.
The service for Chris was held at a small local church. The preacher conducted a short nondenominational ceremony. And afterward, around noon, Elinor did have a few people to the house for sandwiches and coffee. The strangers seemed to enjoy it. Elinor even heard a few laughs among the group, which gladdened her heart.
She hadn’t, as yet, phoned any of her New York friends to tell them about Chris. Elinor realized that some people might think that “strange” of her, but she felt that it would only sadden her friends to tell them, that it would look like a plea for sympathy. Better the strangers here who knew no grief, because they didn’t really know her or Chris.
“You must be sure and get enough rest in the next days,” said a kindly middle-aged woman whose husband stood solemnly beside her. “We all think you’ve been awfully brave.”
Elinor gave Jane the dotted-numbers book to take to Bill
That night Elinor slept more than twelve hours and awoke feeling better and calmer. She began to write the letters that she had to write — to Cliff’s parents, to her own mother and father, and to three good friends in New York. Then she finished typing her article.
The next morning she walked to the post office and sent off her letters, and also her article to her agent in New York. She spent the rest of the day sorting out Chris’s clothing, his books and toys, and she washed some of his clothes with a view to passing them on to Jane for Bill, providing Jane wouldn’t think it unlucky. Elinor didn’t think Jane would. Jane telephoned in the afternoon to ask how she was.
“Is anyone coming to see you? From New York? A friend, I mean?”
Elinor explained that she’d written to a few people, but she wasn’t expecting anyone. “I’m really feeling all right, Jane. You mustn’t worry.”
By evening Elinor had a neat carton of clothing ready to offer Jane, and two more cartons of books and toys. If the clothes didn’t fit Bill, then Jane might know a child they would fit. Elinor felt better for that. It was a lot better than collapsing in grief, she thought. Of course it was awful, a tragedy that didn’t happen every day — losing a husband and a child in hardly more than three months. But Elinor was not going to succumb to it. She’d stay out the six months in the house here, come to terms with her loss, and emerge strong, someone able to give something to other people, not merely to take.
She had two ideas for future articles. Which to do first? She decided to walk out into the garden and let her thoughts ramble. Maybe the radishes had come up? She’d have a look at the pond. Maybe it would be glassy smooth and clear. She must ask the Weed-Killer people when it would be safe to put in another carp — or two carps.
When she looked at the pond she gave a short gasp. The vines had come back.
They looked stronger than ever — not longer, but more dense. Even as she watched, one tentacle, then a second, actually moved, curved toward the land and seemed to grow an inch. That hadn’t been due to the wind.
The vines were growing visibly. Another green shoot poked its head above the water’s surface. Elinor watched, fascinated, as if she beheld animate things, like snakes. Every inch or so along the vines a small green leaf sprouted, and Elinor was sure she could see some of these unfurling.
The water looked clean, but she knew that was deceptive. The water was somehow poisonous. It had killed a carp. It had killed Chris. And she could still detect, she thought, a rather acid smell of the stuff the Weed-Killer men had put in.
There must be such a thing as digging the roots out, Elinor thought, even if Weed-Killer’s stuff had failed. Elinor got the fork from the toolshed, and the clippers. She thought of getting her rubber boots from the house, but was too eager to start to bother with them. She began by hacking all round the edge with the clippers. Some fresh vine ends cruised over the pond and jammed themselves amid other growing vines. The stems now seemed tough as plastic clotheslines, as if the herbicide had fortified them. Some had put down roots in the grass quite a distance from the pond.
Elinor dropped the clippers and seized the fork. She had to dig deep to get at the roots, and when she finally pulled with her hands, the stems broke, leaving some roots still in the soil. Her right foot slipped, she went down on her left knee and struggled up again, both legs wet now. She was not going to be defeated.
As she sank the fork in, she saw Cliff’s handsome, subtly smiling eyes in the photograph in the bedroom, Cliff with the blade of grass or straw between his lips, and he seemed to be nodding ever so slightly, approving. Her arms began to ache, her hands grew tired. She lost her right shoe in dragging her foot out of the water yet again, and she didn’t bother trying to recover it. Then she slipped again and sat down, water up to her waist.
Tired, angry, she still worked with the fork, trying to pry roots loose, and the water churned with a muddy fury. She might even be doing the damned roots good, she thought. Aerating them or something. Were they invincible? Why should they be? The sun poured down, overheating her, bringing nourishment to the green, Elinor knew.
Nature knows. That was Cliff’s voice in her ears. Cliff sounded happy and at ease.
Elinor was half blinded by tears. Or was it sweat? Chun-nk went her fork. In a moment, when her arms gave out, she’d cross to the other side of the pond and attack there. She’d got some roots out. She’d make Weed-Killer come again, maybe pour kerosene on the pond and light it.
She got up on cramped legs and stumbled around to the other side. The sun warmed her shoulders though her feet were cold. In those few seconds that she walked, her thoughts and her attitude changed, though she was not at once aware of this. It was neither victory nor defeat that she felt.
She sank the fork in again, again slipped and recovered. Again roots slid between the tines of the fork, and were not removed. A tentacle thicker than most moved toward her and circled her right ankle. She kicked, and the vine tightened, and she fell forward.
She went face down into the water, but the water seemed soft. She struggled a little, turned to breathe, and a vine tickled her neck. She saw Cliff nodding again, smiling his kindly, knowing, almost imperceptible smile. It was nature. It was Cliff. It was Chris.
A vine crept around her arm — loose or attached to the earth she neither knew nor cared. She breathed in, and much of what she took in was water. All things c from water, Cliff had said once. Little Chris smiled at her with both corners of his mouth upturned. She saw him stooped by the pond, reaching for the dead carp which floated out of range of his twig. Then Chris lifted his face again and smiled.
The Spy Who Collected Lapel Pins
by Edward D. Hoch[12]