scraped at earth. Muscles strained. Then the leash pulled free. Precious experienced a sudden twinge, but this did nothing to put her off her feed as she plunged into her dish.
Almost home, Grover suddenly felt ... something. He stumbled and fell, crouched upon the trail for breath—wondering whether this might be the predicted final heart attack. He supposed he lost consciousness for a moment, as his next clear memory was that of Precious anxiously licking his face. Her breath stank of catfood and the bulldog was dragging an uprooted plant at the end of her lead.
Grover gathered up lead and bare root, and he and Precious fumbled homeward through the dark.
The mandrake root did look like a tiny man. Small arms hung down beside a fleshy torso, and the tap root was closely bifurcated. A knobby bit at the bifurcation caused Grover to think of the root as male. Abroad tuft of foliage crowned its head.
Grover quickly wrapped the mandrake root in wet towels. Next he selected a gardener’s trowel from his shed, and crept with the mandrake root into the bottom of Clara Perth’s garden. There, by the light of the moon, he replanted the mandrake, taking care that it blended in with an anemic patch of hosta lilies. Undetected, he returned home to a snoring Precious.
Darren Grover might have relented. It was, after all, just a malicious prank: a harmless experiment, no doubt, based upon foolish legend. Catharsis. It wasn’t as though he had laid land mines about her garden— although this thought, too, was pleasant.
A day or so after he had transplanted the mandrake, Grover was accosted by Mrs Perth as he carried letters to his mailbox. He smiled. She returned her fixed querulous grimace.
Clara Perth said, “It’s time you did something about all this mess in your yard.”
Grover looked quickly about, saw nothing. “Mess?”
“Weeds. Overgrown shrubbery. Ivy everywhere.” Mrs Perth pointed in agitation. “Your lot is an eyesore.”
“Thank you, but I consider it a naturalized wooded slope with native trees and shrubs pleasingly intermingled with chosen plantings.” Grover had used such language before, but always with sympathetic admirers of his grounds.
“Well, it’s a jungle of weeds, and it breeds rats. I’ve already spoken to my lawyers. There’s a town ordinance that requires property owners to clean up their premises, in case you didn’t know. I can give you the number of the firm that keeps my grounds clean, if you like.”
“Thank you, but I can use the exercise,” said Grover with studied calmness.
“Just don’t be too long about it.” Mrs Perth next turned her scowl toward Precious. “And keep that dog away from my yard. She’s been fouling it every night. We have a leash law here, you know. I’ll phone the animal control people next time I find a pile in my yard.”
Grover protested. “But I walk her myself. She’s never in your yard. After all, there are a dozen other dogs in this neighborhood.”
“One thing more,” Mrs Perth had bent the ear of her lawyers that day. “Turn down that stereo of yours. There’s a noise ordinance, you know. I moved here expecting a clean, quiet neighborhood, and that’s what I’ll have.”
After that Grover made a token effort at trimming back some wild roses and a row of boxwood. He kept Precious on her lead, and he always walked her on the other side of the street—feeling the baleful weight of Mrs Perth’s glare. As the autumn turned the leaves, he returned to his side garden—silently lounging with a book, a tethered Precious snoring contentedly beside his lawn chair.
It took about a week more to happen.
Grover rather wished for a dark and stormy night, or at least a gathering tempest with looming black clouds and the approaching growl of thunder. It was, however, about four on a pleasant, sunny autumn afternoon.
From above the pages of his book, Grover watched. Mrs Perth: shapeless smock, horrid hat, death basket, shears and trowel, on the prowl. He thought suddenly of A Tale of Two Cities. Her malignant eyes stabbed each square inch of her yard, as she remorselessly approached the bottom of her garden—snipping and uprooting all that offended her. Another aristocrat’s head rolls. And another. Snick, stab, clip, rip.
Grover held his breath as Mrs Perth zeroed in on the mandrake. It had recovered nicely from its uprooting and was clearly at ease amidst the hosta lilies. None the less, it was a weed.
Clara Perth grasped the short tuft of leaves with both hands, braced her stubby