Page 77 of The Botanist's Assistant
Margaret likes both the new acting dean and his recently hired assistant, a no-nonsense young man whose desk is organized and neat, and who put his foot down about supplying cake for birthdays.
“This is a college, not kindergarten,” he reportedly said.
“Mind if I have a birthday smoke?” Calvin asks.
The poisoning incident has done nothing to cut back on Calvin’s smoking, and Margaret thinks that if staring into the black void of death did not stop you from the habit, nothing would.
Calvin’s fingers still shake, and his anxiety still rears its nervous head, but his parents dipped into their savings and bought him a small mobile home in a neat park, which allows him to avoid yipping dogs and also bestows on him a sense of moving forward.
“Go ahead and smoke,” Margaret says. “Just be careful not to burn down the forest.”
Calvin’s eyebrows raise. “Oh lord, I didn’t even think of that. What if I start one of those giant fires that destroys the whole valley? I read about a guy who did that and is in jail now. Maybe I’ll just have more wine.”
“I’ll get the bottle for you,” Joe says.
Margaret gathers up the plates while Joe takes the now-empty platter and the used utensils and follows Margaret into the cottage.
Margaret stacks the dirty dishes by the sink while Joe uncorks another bottle of wine.
Her floors shine. She polished them early this morning in preparation for the party.
“You know, with my new job, I’ll have more resources,” Joe says quietly. “I could look for your sister if you want.”
For a moment, Margaret doesn’t move. Her hands still on the edge of the sink.
Margaret had told him Grace’s story but only after he’d agreed it would be off the record.
They were sitting in his house with cups of tea, and she’d brought the little data notebook that chronicled her investigation in real time. It was mid-May and the weather was cool and unsettled. He’d built a fire in the fireplace.
He thumbed through the small book and asked her why she kept such a detailed recording of her days. His face was open and accepting. She thought he wouldn’t judge her.
Against the soft crackle of flames, she’d told him about Grace, about her lapse in concentration that day, about the guilt she carried and how making order out of the randomness of life made her feel more in control. He put his hand onher hand for a moment and squeezed. Tears burned in her eyes. It had been so long since anyone had touched her in a kind way.
He said he’d spent a lot of time in therapy himself and didn’t believe what people said about time healing all wounds and that it seemed like maybe talk was the better antidote. Still, he promised itwould be her story to keep if that’s what she wanted. She told him she did.
Margaret turns toward him now. “You’d look for Grace?”
“Only if you want.”
It feels like an enormous decision.
“Let me think about it.”
“Take all the time you want.”
Margaret inhales a deep breath, opens the oven, and pulls out the warm cobbler. Joe takes the wine bottle and a small stack of dessert plates. They walk out into the late afternoon light, and there is the little hunter curled on Calvin’s lap. Calvin looks up. “I think Tom likes me. You should hear him purr.”
For a moment, Margaret’s heart catches at the sight of her garden and the cat and the table where they have all gathered to eat.
It feels good to have friends.
