Lawn Boy(50)

Finally, for lack of anything else to do, I retired to the truck for my spanking-new broom and began sweeping the brick walkways. After a while, I was visited by the distinct sensation that someone was watching me, like I was back at Truman’s all over again. Once, glancing at the fortress next door, an equally formidable Victorian edifice, I saw an upstairs curtain waver, then a shadowy figure peeking out from behind said curtain. I pictured Miss Havisham or some other waxworks skeleton lurking up there, subsisting on a diet of dust and spiders. It gave me the creeps. So I swept my way farther in the direction of the greenhouse, but the whole time I felt like I had a target on my back. Finally, I swept my way around the far corner of the house, where I was free from observation.

With nothing to occupy myself, I returned to the truck for my rake, figuring I could clean up the rose beds. As soon as I was out front of the house, the eyes were on me again. I could’ve sworn I’d seen some movement behind the hydrangea next door, maybe fifty yards away. Otherwise, the whole country club was eerily still. The place seemed deserted. No kids shrieking, no dogs barking, no bottle rockets whizzing overhead. No idling diesel delivery trucks. What seemed idyllic a half hour ago felt suddenly haunted.

Shrugging off my uneasiness, I set to work on the rose beds, raking out the debris. I was at it about five minutes, marveling at the fact that for every two and half minutes I worked, I was making a buck, when a voice startled me from my reverie.

“ ‘They would fall as light As feathers, smelling sweet; and it would be Like sleeping and like waking, all at once!’ ”

I turned to find a silver-haired fox about sixty, in wire-rimmed glasses, pink chinos, and a baby-blue polo shirt. His hair was perfect: thick as hell, powder white. Good-looking guy, too, and statuesque. Imagine a third-term senator, with a slight drinker’s tan.

“Those autumn damasks came all the way from Europe,” he said. “My mother remembers when they put them in the ground. Jud Piggot,” he said, extending a hand. “You must be Doug’s new lawn boy.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

He smiled, but I didn’t smile back, because I didn’t want him to see my teeth.

He looked me up and down like a side of lamb. I couldn’t help but straighten up a little in my white coveralls, aware of my scuffed boots.

“What do you think of this old place?” he said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Think somebody will buy it?”

“If they can afford it, yeah.”

He chuckled like I’d made an inside joke. “Say, when you’re all done here, suppose you could come over and take a look at my Cartiers? Fear I’ve got a touch of black spot.”

“Uh, sure. I guess that’d be cool.”

“Great. Come around to the side door when you’re ready.”

He gave a little nod and walked away. The guy had a breezy walk and an altogether breezy manner. Hands in pockets, shoulders loose.

Roses were not my specialty, but I knew my way around them a little bit. Not that I was any expert in black spot, but I had a few ideas about roses based on years of observation. In my experience, most rich people liked to tend their own roses.

Viewed from the outside, Piggot’s place was meticulous: a neat wall of laurel, pruned to a vertical face. But inside the perimeter, the place was wild. Out-of-control hydrangeas. Blighted juniper. Rogue lavender. My old nemesis, morning glory, had claimed one of the outbuildings.

I was greeted at the side door by a pair of fat little pugs, snuffling like emphysemics. Persistent little fuckers. One of them started lifting his leg on the cuff of my coveralls, so I gave him a little nudge with my boot. That’s when Piggot emerged from the side door.

“Willoughby!” he scolded. “Stop this instant.”

The little pug kept at it, nuzzling my ankle.

“Willoughby!”

Piggot’s second command unheeded, the other pug scurried for the hedges just as Piggot strode up and gave Willoughby a swift kick in the ass. The little guy squeaked like a rubber toy, but within seconds, he was back at it, panting and wheezing like he was in heat, his tongue darting rapidly in and out of his ridiculous sad-eyed face. You had to admire his spirit.

Finally, Piggot scooped him up and banished him inside.

“Territorial,” he explained.

Piggot led me around the old house to the small rose garden, which was the only feature on the grounds, aside from the laurel blockade, that had undergone any recent attempt at cultivation. Still, it was pretty sad. There were four or five varieties, all suffering one malady or another.

“What’s the prognosis?” said Piggot.

“That big spruce on the bluff isn’t helping your cause.”

“I don’t follow.”

“See how it’s starting to lean to the south as it slides down the bluff? It’s blocking your sunlight.”

“Ah,” said Piggot.

“But that’s only part of the problem. I don’t think you’re getting good drainage. This is low ground. Either you’ve got to do something about that spruce, which is holding up your hillside from the looks of it, or you’ve got to move the roses somewhere else. That’s probably the better option.”

“The Cartiers?”

“All of them.”

“Will they survive?”

“Maybe. But left here, they’re only gonna get worse.”