Backyard by Norman Draper

didn’t get up after twenty minutes, and wasn’t snoring either, Dr. Sproot calmly walked over to his supine form. After examining it, she walked just as calmly back to Marta.
    â€œHe’s quite dead,” she said, her eyes sparkling as she emitted a gravelly chuckle. A sneer rippled across her lips. “Now, Marta, I want to show you my new yucca bed and how yucca can be used to accent your coreopsis-salvia-hollyhock blend.”
    Marta shuddered at the thought of it, and how that stroke had unleashed the psychotic bitch in Dr. Sproot. She shoved her pencil and notebook in her pants pocket and adjusted the sunglasses. Poor Dr. Sproot, thought Marta. Such a sad, sad life. Such a frail individual irreparably broken by years of straining under the yoke of a foul-smelling, burping flower hater, and here I am balking at doing her a little favor or two. Still, did she have to get so mean and threatening over a little bit of hot tea?
    Marta was halfway through the backyard. That meant the only escape, should someone pull into the driveway, was to make a quick dash into the woods, then somehow claw her way through those thickets to the road. She pulled the hood of her cowl across her face and tightened the drawstrings, so that only her forehead, nose, and sunglasses-hidden eyes were visible. It certainly wasn’t the kind of thing she would normally wear on such a hot day, or on any day! And why did they have to make the bloody thing out of wool? For that matter, why, in God’s name, did she have to wear it? Wouldn’t a scarf and the sunglasses have done the job just as well? Marta wondered whether Dr. Sproot had come up with the disguise in part to further debase her, and turn her into a freak of nature, a true laughingstock. Still, she supposed it was better than being recognized, and there was that Fremont boy who had given her a ride home that day.
    A pickup truck clattered by. Marta froze, turning her back to the street and stretching out her sleeve-covered arms crookedly. She hoped this posture would make her look like a small tree to the casual observer.
    Once the truck was gone, Marta began to rush her job. She scuttled toward the back, searching for anything new that Dr. Sproot would need to know about. Catching the sweet smell of the dangerous angel’s trumpets, Marta inhaled deeply. She wished dearly that she could come back sometime simply as a welcome visitor to drink in the wonders of such a divine backyard. She threw back the hood of the cowl to get some fresh air, and photographed the angel’s trumpets. They had spread out since she had last seen them, and were pointing yet more deadly and fascinating blooms directly at her.
    A car door slammed. Marta took off full-tilt, camera flapping at her side and her robes billowing awkwardly behind her. She dove into the woods, fought her way through the underbrush, and emerged, breathless, at Sumac Street. Making sure that no one was coming, she laid her camera on the ground, pulled her bulky steam bath of a disguise over her head, rolled it up, and wedged it under her arm.
    There were some new things here to report to Dr. Sproot. She would be especially interested to know that the angel’s trumpets had grown and were still blooming wondrously. She’d want to carefully examine the roses to determine the quality of the blooms as well as the likelihood that they would still be in full flower when the contest rolled around. There were those new sprouts.
    Marta began walking back toward her car. She tried to carry herself with the purposeful nonchalance of someone focused solely on the stroll that lay ahead of her. Deep down, however, she was troubled and confused. She wasn’t sure whether she should be reveling in a job well done, or berating herself for sinking to new lows in her service to Livia’s gardening gorgon.

8
    The Complete Backyarder
    O ver six years, the Fremonts had put body and soul, and credit card into their