Young Writers Society

90 SOME YEARS LATER

The locals called it the Greenhouse. The outer walls were entirely made up of windows that afforded a view of the interior, which was almost entirely filled with rose plants. Tea roses and musk roses stood in pots on the floor. Climbing roses snaked up the walls and wrapped themselves around supports or draped the legs of the numerous tables that held young rose plants, potting soil, and compost.

The youngsters of the Town loved the Greenhouse and would press their noses to the glass for a better view of the flowers, but the older residents remembered a time when it had been called the Book House and accommodated a shy accountant instead of rose plants.

Christian Abernathy, silver-haired and slightly stooped, sat on the pavement across from his old home each day while his wife unlocked the door of the Greenhouse and slipped inside to water the roses. With him, he had a wagonload of books. While Sarah cared for the roses, he sat on a folding chair and handed out free books to those who wanted them. Oftentimes, people brought him their old books in exchange for his; his collection was ever-changing but never growing.

When Sarah came back out of the Greenhouse, she opened Conrad Smithson’s old balloon-cart for the day. She had not known how to make balloon-animals when Christian first met her, but she had risen to the challenge of learning and loved it so much she soon surpassed Christian in ability. When she had retired last year, she’d taken charge of the balloon-cart and sat at it each day, passing out balloon-animals, even as her husband sat with his wagon of books. Her hands were arthritic and typing had become difficult in the last few months before retirement, but she seemed to forget about her pain whenever her hands flew over the balloons, turning them into turtles and monkeys and ladybirds.

This particular Saturday was sunny and pleasantly warm, a slow day for customers. Plenty of people were out and about and said cheery hellos to the Abernathys as they passed the balloon-cart and wagon, but they were impatient to get into Celadon Park and enjoy the weather. Christian and Sarah did not mind. They, too, enjoyed the weather and had been able to close up temporarily at lunchtime when their son, Robert, had brought his youngest daughter for a visit. But now their son and granddaughter were gone, off to fetch Robert’s wife from the train station after a week-long trip to Paris.

Christian sat back in his chair with a yawn, but Sarah said, “Could we take our walk now?”

They had gotten into the habit, lately, of closing early on Saturdays and taking a turn about the park. It was so big that, though they had been walking farther and farther each Saturday for a month, they had not yet been all the way to the rose garden. When Christian had been his thirties, the distance had not seemed so great. Now, at seventy-two, with the old pain in his hip, he found he had to practice walking to get his legs willing to go the distance.

But after all, he thought to himself, it was only mid-afternoon, and perhaps they could make it if they walked slowly.

“Alright,” he said, so they closed up the balloon-cart and left a sign on the wagon of books which said take one—they’re free! Then they made their slow way through Celadon Park.

People waved and called hello as they passed by, and one little girl cried out, “Mummy! It’s the book man and the balloon lady,” and ran over to greet them (much to her mother’s embarrassment). Sarah smiled.

“The book man and the balloon lady,” she said. “I like that. Much better than an accountant and the head of marketing.”

The clearing that had once held the Fair each night was edged with parents watching their children rush about in a game of Tag. Christian took Sarah’s hand as he led her around its edge to avoid being run into. He was not good at getting up when he was knocked over, these days, even with the help of his cane.

A small tree with crimson leaves stood not far from the edge of the gardens. Beneath the tree knelt a man even older than Christian. He had a hard face, his white hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and his dusky hands were folded before him as if he was praying over a gravesite. He caught the accountant’s eye and nodded. Christian raised a hand in greeting but said nothing.

“A friend of yours?” Sarah inquired.

“An old flat-mate,” Christian said.

“How lovely. We should have him for tea some time.”

Christian thought it unlikely the man would accept, but he said, “That would be nice.”

They had been a little ways into the gardens before, but it was their first time in the maze and Christian had to stop frequently and trace back through his memory to remember which way to turn at each crossing. Sometimes he did not remember, and they had to backtrack and go the other way. Sarah found this a cause for hilarity and laughed delightedly whenever it happened.

“It’s a bit like going on an adventure,” she said.

“A bit,” Christian conceded with a fond smile.

Finally he found the center of the maze, but the statue of Morrow the Elder and his horse had been replaced with a strange piece of modern art that reminded Christian of nothing so much as a gigantic tissue someone had thrown away.

“Oh,” he said sadly.

“What is it?”

“Rath is gone.”

“Rath?”

“Once,” Christian said, “there was a statue here of a Rover king and his horse, Rath. But I suppose they must have replaced it when the statue was ruined—the king was ruined, that is. Rath was still in perfect condition.”

“It is a shame,” Sarah said, sensing a change in his mood. They made their way out of the maze in silence, but when she saw the roses, Sarah cried, “Oh!”

They were as beautiful as ever—more beautiful than ever. Although there was no magic in them now, many of them were roses the Abernathys had grown in the Greenhouse and donated to the park when it had extended the gardens. They had parted with their roses willingly, but since they had never walked so far into the park, they had never before seen the addition.

“Oh,” said Sarah again. “They’re doing beautifully. I am glad we decided to donate them.”

Christian did not answer, for he was staring with a tilted head along the cobblestone path through the rose beds.

“Christian?”

“Mmm?” He shook his head. “Sorry. My brain fuzzed out for a minute. I’m alright now.”

They continued down the cobblestone path, through more and more beautiful rose beds, and Christian’s memories stirred as they went. It had been such a long time since he’d been through here, nearly forty years. He had never wanted to go back, after Goblin and the Good Magic and the dawn. But then his wife decided they needed exercise, and a weekly walk in the park was just about the only activity they were both strong enough for.

He paused beneath the trellis, but Sarah said, “Thank God, a bench. I need to sit for a minute.”

She settled on the bench. Christian went slowly around the pool after her, gazing up at the one-armed marble statue that stood on a marble pedestal behind his wife’s seat. The gentle smile frozen on her face was exactly as he remembered it. He sighed, a little wistfully. But Sarah was a good wife, his best friend, and he loved her. He did not regret their life together.

“Christian?” she said, giving him quizzical smile. “Are you alright?”

“Oh, yes,” he said. He sat beside her on the bench and rubbed his hip, glad of the rest. “Just remembering.”

“Remembering what?”

He shook his head, smiling to himself.

“Oh, come on,” Sarah said. “You haven’t told me a good story in years.”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” Christian said.

“I don’t care if it’s a whopper.” Sarah leaned against his shoulder comfortably and said, “Tell me a good tall tale, Mr. Abernathy.”

She used to call him that just to embarrass him with the false formality, because he had still been so shy when they started dating. She never abandoned the habit, but he grew to like it. He put an arm around her. The wind stirred in the trees.

“Well,” he said, “once, there was a house. The locals called it the Book House…”