“In any case, it’s still a lost cause”. Barnaby Wilke stared
down into his destroyed garden, flower petals strewn about it like tiny
delicate corpses on a bloody battlefield, the weeds holding their spears and
pitchforks high in victory.
“What about the perennials, though? They’ll just pop back up
next year”. Amelia Jean looked up at her father.
“Then I suggest telling Mrs. Kershluck to watch for tulips
next spring, because the bulbs are on her lawn”. Barnaby pointed at the boxy
grey house across the street, in front of which at least twenty tulip bulbs
were lying.
“Well we can fix it!”
“It’s done, Amelia”.
“So you’re just going to leave our entire front yard looking
like this?” Amelia waved a hand over the chewed up soil and broken plants.
Suddenly, the snapped marigolds sprung upright; the petunias got up and replanted
themselves; Barnaby watched as a sunflower waddled over to a patch of forget-me-nots
and stood them all up straight at once. As everything began to settle down,
Amelia crouched to peer up close at one of the daffodil. It swayed a little as
she exhaled, but other than that made no move. As she stood up, she noticed the
tulip bulbs lying immobile on Mrs. Kershluck’s lawn. Picking through the garden
path, Amelia made her way to the curb in front of the boxy grey house. Feeling
ridiculous, she flicked her hand over the bulbs and watched them roll their way
across the street and back into the soil.
Amelia’s father stared at her as she walked back up the
driveway. “Well fuck”.
***
“I’m not letting you cut into my fingertips!” Amelia slammed
her hands down on the table.
“But how else are we supposed to figure out how this
happened? There’s got to be something here to find!” Barnaby stirred his pot of
macaroni faster and faster until elbow-shaped noodles were flying out and
sticking to the walls.
“That’s not the point! I’m not a science experiment. Take me
to a doctor! Tell them I hurt my hand and need and x-ray to see if it’s broken.
Look at my fingerprints through a magnifying glass, I don’t care. But you’re
not cutting me open”. Amelia took the cooking spoon away from her father and
resumed making the macaroni at a more normal pace.
Jeremiah Wilke sat at the counter, watching his daughter and
husband argue. He had arrived home from his rock-polishing class to find
Barnaby and Amelia yelling at each other in the kitchen, Barnaby waving about
the macaroni pot in frustration. Upon hearing about the incident in the garden
that afternoon, Jeremiah had promptly pulled up a chair to watch the hilarity
ensue. Amelia slammed the lid on the pot and marched around the counter to her
father. “Dad. Do you honestly think you’ll find anything if you look in my
fingers? Really?”
“I might. That’s the point. I don’t know”.
“Well you’re not cutting me open”. The macaroni began to
boil over.
