11
Seeds of Envy
Shirelle was in the office of Dr. Brockheimer, who was her faculty adviser, delivering her final internship oral report, which was also her senior project final report. She clutched her portfolio close to her body. She was making her report right on deadline. To be precise, thirty-five minutes before deadline. What was bad about that was Dr. Brockheimer had already listened to about thirty similar reports and was sick and tired of hearing them. In fact, she wasn’t even pretending to listen. It looked like she was about a million miles away.
Still, Shirelle made her presentation with swagger and verve. She was certain the magnificent results she, Mary, and Mr. and Mrs. Fremont had achieved would win her plaudits, and assure her graduation with magna cum laude honors.
Dr. Brockheimer stared, glassy-eyed, past Shirelle and into a future that had already doomed her to insignificance. When would this interminable report ever end? What was this chirpy and rather rustic and unsophisticated student droning on about? Dr. Brockheimer toyed with the notion of telling her she had wasted a lot of time in college, that she had no future, and that she should go back to the farm out in Hicksville and specialize in cleaning out the chicken coops. That last thought struck Dr. Brockheimer as especially funny. She laughed. Shirelle stopped talking.
“Go on, please, go on,” said Dr. Brockheimer, waving a hand at Shirelle dismissively. “I just had a silly thought about something I ate last night, that’s all.”
All Dr. Brockheimer could think about now was the research she could be doing and the fame and position she would attain if only she could secure the funds for a couple of her pet projects. Even that grew tiresome as Shirelle droned on. Dr. Brockheimer made no effort to stifle a yawn.
“Am I keeping you awake, Dr. Brockheimer?” Shirelle barked. The tone and volume startled Dr. Brockheimer out of her somnolence. What was that she’d said? Why, the very effrontery! She’d never had a student speak to her in such a manner.
“Earth to Dr. Brockheimer,” Shirelle said, snorting derisively.
“What did you say to me, Ms. Ediston?” said Dr. Brockheimer, suddenly alert and focused.
Shirelle fought the urge to squirm. She was not going to be intimidated by this uninspired loser of a teacher and alleged flower expert.
“That’s Ms. Eadkins, Dr. Brockheimer. I said, ‘Am I keeping you awake?’ Here I am making my report, and you seem to be lost in a daydream or something. How can I get your attention?”
Dr. Brockheimer smiled indulgently. Her thoughts drifted toward her dream research project—tomatoes so frost-resistant that they could be planted outdoors and harvested in January! Why, only the seedlings would need water! Wasn’t that amazing! Then, there was her idea of cultivating a type of sugar maple that flamed fuchsia, lavender, battleship gray, and honey gold in the fall, and—
“Dr. Brockheimer? Dr. Brockheimer?”
Dr. Brockheimer snapped to attention once more and sneered at Shirelle.
“Yes, well, Ms. Eadkins,” she said, taking a long look at her wristwatch. “You’ve got about seven minutes left, so let’s make it snappy.”
Shirelle started over again, condensing what it had taken fifteen minutes to recite into a shorthand version of how she and Mary had worked with the Fremonts last summer, and now again this spring, to create a new paradise on earth. Dr. Brockheimer wrinkled her nose and frowned when Shirelle actually said “a paradise on earth.” No major root systems to worry about in the current front yard project. Soil a nice cross between acidic and alkaline, pH of 6.7. They had staked out five basic plots, none of which was square or rectangular shaped, Shirelle liking a much more meandering and curving style that might resemble a teardrop or one of those squiggly designs on paisley ties.
“Hmmm,” said Dr. Brockheimer. “Soil type?”
“Sandy, so good drainage, and an easily accessible faucet for the hose.”
“Go on.”
Shirelle proceeded to list the flowers and grasses she’d planted. With thirty seconds remaining in her time, Shirelle told Dr. Brockheimer how Nan had worried about the hybrid tea roses being prima donnas and not able to get along well with their neighbor flowers. Dr. Brockheimer, attentive to this new comedy angle of Shirelle’s report, laughed.
“Oh, yes, this is our plant whisperer, is it?”
“Yes, she really does talk to plants, Dr. Brockheimer. I’ve seen her do it.”
“Um-hmmm.” Dr. Brockheimer leaned forward, tapping a mechanical pencil against her lips.
“Ms. Eadkins, are these people . . . uh, Mr. and Mrs. Fremont. . . are they . . . how shall I say it . . . uh . . .”
“Whacko?”
“Well, for lack of a better word, yes.”
“No, they are perfectly sane.”
“But they do drink, you say?”
“Oh, yes, merlot . . . and . . . and . . . what is it . . . gin and tonics.”
“To excess?”
“No, not that I’ve ever noticed. They just get a little jolly and silly sometimes.”
“That plant whispering’s just old-wives’-tale stuff,” Dr. Brockheimer said. “It’s along the line of the idea that plants flourish when they’re listening to classical music. That’s just poppycock. The plants flourish because the type of person who listens to classical music is probably the type of person who appreciates beauty and is responsible enough to take proper care of her plants. The person who listens to rock ’n’ roll or rap or heavy metal is probably nowhere near as responsible. That type of person probably won’t have flowers anyway, much less know their names or the kind of care they require. There has been no empirical evidence that I’ve run across that shows that flowers respond to music or noise of any kind for that matter. There’s no empirical evidence that they respond to any outward manifestations of love or concern. They do well because the kind of person who shows them love and concern will also know how to care for them and will be assiduous in their constant upkeep. That’s why.”
“They listen to Jethro Tull. Or at least Mr. Fremont does,” Shirelle said. “And baseball games.”
Dr. Brockheimer smiled.
“Who’s Jethro Tull?”
“A rock band from a long time ago. With a flute player. The Fremonts are almost sixty, I think.”
Dr. Brockheimer chuckled.
“Well, Shirelle,” she said. “It doesn’t matter what kind of music someone plays, or what kind of noise they create. If they’re as committed to gardening as you say they are, then that’s what makes a difference. Gardeners who know what to do and take the time to do it consistently will most likely create good gardens; though, without the proper training, it’s hard to imagine that they could come up with anything that has the right mix or design scheme to it.”
“They have the most beautiful gardens in the world, Dr. Brockheimer. If you go there, I promise you will be transformed. It’s like you’re entering another world. And a lot’s coming out now. Already!”
“Maybe someday I will, Ms. Eadkins, but getting back to all this malarkey about plant whispering—do you actually talk to these flowers yourself?”
“It’s not exactly ‘talking,’ Dr. Brockheimer. It’s almost a sort of... um . . . um . . .”
“Brain wave communication?”
“No, not that, just a sense of harmony, a sense of knowing what they’re trying to tell you. Mrs. Fremont says they’re always trying to tell her something, except for the Dusty Miller, which she tore out by the roots and threw in the compost. She said she actually hears sort of whisperings, which she has learned to translate.”
“Shirelle, you know this is just the stuff of old gardening lore, and isn’t true at all.”
“No, Dr. Brockheimer, it is true.”
“It is not! Scientists with nothing better to do have attached all manner of electrodes to plants to see if there are reactions to various stimuli. This, I might add, is on the fringe of the field, and not taken seriously by most of us.”
“I know what I see,” Shirelle said, getting up from her chair. “What I see are gardens that would surpass your wildest dreams, Dr. Brockheimer. You should see the hybrid tea roses. They have a lushness, a purity, a brilliance, a depth I wouldn’t have thought—”
“Time’s up. Your portfolio, Ms. Eadkins.”
“Oh, yeah.” Shirelle handed her thick portfolio of photographs, plans, and notes to Dr. Brockheimer, who would review them and hand them back in a couple of days with suggestions before Shirelle’s project committee graded it. As Shirelle bolted out through the office door, glad to be freed of her adviser’s unwavering pedantic doubts, Dr. Brockheimer flipped through a few pages of photos Shirelle had assembled for her.
My God, would you look at that! Page after page of flower power exploded out at her. Amazing. Even the ag school’s meticulously maintained gardens couldn’t approach this. Every flower so lustrous, even making allowances for photo quality and lighting!
There was a knock on the door. Dr. Brockheimer looked up to see a pimply, moon-faced teenager peeking around the door at her.
“Hi, Dr. Brockheimer. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“In fact, you are.”
“Uh, well, I guess I had an appointment.”
“Something urgent has come up. Call back to reschedule.”
She shooed her former appointment away and got up to shut and lock the door. Then she sat back down and eagerly began to plow through Shirelle Eadkins’s suddenly fascinating final internship-and-senior-project report.