Digging In: A Novel(28)

“Your family had a breakdown,” Mr. Eckhardt said. “I’m sorry for your loss, but you are letting it destroy your sensibilities.”

I took a step closer to him. “That was uncalled for.”

Mr. Eckhardt crossed his arms over his chest. He had to have served in the military. I thought of Hollywood movies with the drill sergeants yelling at privates until they broke down or cried. I would do neither of those things. “What are you waiting for? Go inside. Call the police.” I thought of Officer Leprechaun’s twinkling eyes. “Go right ahead and call them. You can use my cell.”

He stared at me a moment with cold, empty eyes. “Don’t think I won’t,” he said, then turned on his heel and disappeared into his dark kitchen, one I curiously had never seen. I had lived next to the man for over a decade and never once saw past his foyer.

“Do you think he’ll call the police?” Trey was trying to come across as nonchalant, but I could tell he’d been rattled.

“I don’t know, but at least I got rid of him. That man is a menace to society. He just wants his way or no way. It’s not a wonder he never married.”

Trey didn’t seem to want to converse, so we worked in tandem for a while longer, silently, but a conversation was gurgling underneath the placidity of our quiet. It was dangerous, a possible volcano of emotion, so I started moving more quickly, hoping to avoid it.

“You know, there is some truth to what he said.” Trey fingered a tomato plant leaf instead of meeting my eye.

“What’s true?” Though I knew what he meant.

“Our family did break down. Without Dad . . . it’s not the same. It’s broken.”

I tossed the trowel I was holding. My hands had begun to shake. Trey rarely spoke of Jesse—was this why? Because he thought we were irreparably damaged? “Is that what you think, sweet boy?”

Trey found the courage to look up at me. When he did, I could see he wore an expression I was not accustomed to—a very adult, almost clinical look of analysis. “Dad held everything together. When he died, it was like”—he struggled for the word—“the mechanism had broken down.”

At least he hadn’t said “the center” was gone. I’d spent two years trying my damnedest to be a strong center, to hold everything together, but it was like being the center of a tornado. Eventually, I’d have to deal with the swirling emotional forces threatening to level us.

“I can be a mechanism, too,” I said, trying to reassure myself as much as him. “Or I can at least try.”

“Yeah, you can,” Trey said, but he sounded unconvinced. He finished packing the dirt around a sad-looking tomato plant and said, “I’ll text you from Colin’s when I get there. I’m taking my bike.”

“I could drive you.”

“And ruin the show for Mr. Eckhardt?”

“You could drive you, if you had a license,” I said, trying desperately to keep my tone light. “I’d let you use my car, honey. Anytime.”

Trey ran his hand over his face, smearing the dirt farther, up to his hairline. He sighed deeply, a sound that was so like his father’s that I felt Jesse’s presence. “This is what I’m talking about, Mom. You stay so focused on the surface things, the meaningless things. The wrong things.”

That insight, even if it was faulty, found its mark. I bristled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m searching for . . . stuff. Myself, I guess. I thought about what we said last night, and figured maybe I was being unfair. Maybe you do have a right to explore things. I thought you tearing up our backyard meant that was what you were doing, but I think you just want to piss off Mr. Eckhardt.”

I studied my nails, broken, dirty. A year ago I would have run to the manicurist at the first sign of a chip, but now? “That’s not true.”

“Sure about that?”

Was I still thinking in superficialities? I had started digging in the adrenaline rush of anger, fueled further by booze. I kept on digging because . . . I’d have to think about that one.

“These plants will probably die,” Trey said. “What are you going to do then?”

“I won’t let them die.”

“You can’t control everything,” Trey said as he kissed my cheek goodbye. “Why is that so hard for you to accept?”

I wanted to lash out, to tell him he was the one having control issues, but thanks to some newfound wisdom I’d mysteriously acquired, I stayed silent and let him think he had the last word.



After Trey left, I decided to plant the two blackberry bushes I’d bought. He was right in a way—I couldn’t control the weather, pests, or the bunnies and squirrels that frequently thought they owned our backyard, but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t try. The man at the nursery said the berry plants had a 50/50 shot of taking root, but I bought them anyway, even though I would have much preferred blueberries. Like the other plants I’d purchased, the humble blackberry was second best. It wouldn’t even start producing for a year, at the least, but I didn’t care. It was the thought of them that gave me the energy to start digging up a spot.

The only place it made sense to plant them was at the corner of our property, up against the fence we shared with Mr. Eckhardt. I liked the thought of plump, juicy berries falling on his side of the fence, staining dots of deep purplish blue on the painted wood.