“His sister said he has to hire a public defender,” Martha said, finishing her sentence with her usual questioning tone. “You know everyone in Oak Creek is going to talk about this?”
“Let them talk,” I said.
I took a sip of the hot tea, letting the warmth settle in.
“I am sixty-two years old,” I said. “I do not have five years to spend in a courtroom watching a man I used to love turn into someone I do not know.”
Martha reached across the table and touched my hand, her fingers warm and dry.
“The sun is almost down,” she said, looking toward the window. “Are you sure you do not want me to stay the night?”
“I am sure,” I said.
I followed her to the front door, the screen door creaking slightly as I opened it.
“I will call you tomorrow morning,” Martha said, stepping out onto the porch.
“I will be here,” I said.
I watched her walk down the concrete steps to her car.
The headlights of her Buick swept across the front yard as she backed out of the driveway, leaving the gravel road in quiet darkness.
The damp autumn air clung to the grass as Martha hauled the first bag of mulch from her trunk, her sneakers squeaking against the wet driveway.
I dug the metal trowel into the cold flowerbed along the brick foundation of my house, turning over the dark, cloddy soil.
“We need to get these bulbs deep enough before the ground freezes,” Martha said, dropping the heavy plastic bag onto the lawn with a wet thud.
“Six inches,” I said, wiping a streak of dirt from my cheek. “My father always said six inches for the tulips, or the squirrels get them before the snow even lands.”
Martha checked her wristwatch and frowned at the gray clouds gathering over the oak trees.
“The wind is picking up from the north,” she said. “We have about two hours before the rain starts.”
I placed the first bulb into the small hole, its pointed tip facing the sky, and pressed the damp earth around its base.
“Is the attorney still coming at two?” Martha asked, leaning on her rake.
“Gary said he would bring the final papers directly to the house,” I said. “He wants to make sure I have the certified copy in my hands today.”
Martha reached into her pocket, pulled out her garden gloves, and began to tug them onto her fingers.
“I saw his truck down at his sister’s place this morning,” she said.
I stopped digging, the trowel hovering an inch above the dirt.
“Whose truck?” I asked.
“Ben’s,” Martha said, her voice dropping. “They were loading a green recliner into the back of it.”
I looked down at the empty hole in the soil, the black earth smelling of decaying leaves and old roots.
“He is his sister’s problem now,” I said. “We have twelve more bulbs to plant before the rain.”
Martha nodded and ripped open the bag of mulch, pouring the dark, woody pieces over the freshly planted rows.
“The garden will look different next spring, but it will be mine,” I said.
