The Heirloom Garden - A Novel - Viola Shipman Page 0,73
If we can just expose—let’s say, tomatoes—to radiation, then we can generate mutations that are bigger, or more resistant to cold weather or disease. Did you know that they’ve already irradiated hundreds of thousands of peppermint stems, making them more resistant to fungal disease? Usage of peppermint, in gum and toothpaste, has exploded. We have the ability to be on the cutting edge here, sir.”
“We’re a nursery, Iris, not a lab.”
Mr. Garnant begins to walk away, and I reach for him, accidentally grabbing him by the tie on the back of the Garnant Greenhouses aprons we wear. He is jolted backward as if we were playing football, and I horse-collar tackled him.
“Iris!” he yells.
“I didn’t mean to do that,” I say.
He turns, his face beet red, mustache thrashing. “I strongly suggest you get back to work before it’s too late.”
“Sir,” I continue despite the warning. “I’ve spent the past few years working night and day on our poinsettia production. My genetic testing allowed us to be among the first to segregate desirable characteristics like stiffer stems, new colors, longevity. The controlled breeding program has allowed us to go from buying field-grown stock to creating our own greenhouse production. Poinsettias are now our biggest seller.”
“And your work has been admirable, Iris.”
“Then why did you turn it over to a team of men?” I ask. “My work?”
“Iris,” Mr. Garnant says. “You know our motto here. It’s our work, not my work. There’s no i in ‘team.’ We need you out front. Women buy from women.”
“I’m a botanist, sir, not a clerk.”
“You’re a...” Mr. Garnant stops. His mustache droops. My anger swells as I finish his thought.
“Woman? Right?”
“Atomic gardening is a fad. It will go away just like your Victory Gardens did. Garnant’s is the largest nursery in the Midwest. We need to sell. People today have TV and movies, new ovens and fancy cars. People don’t spend as much time outdoors. We must fight for every dollar. And...” He stares at me as if I’m an inanimate object, an ottoman perhaps. “And women buy from women.”
“I’m begging you, sir,” I say. “I need to keep my brain busy. I need the importance of important work. Did you know many of the things we already eat have a long history of genetic modification, sir? We just don’t talk about it. At least this way, we can use radiation for good.”
“Cut the gas, Iris!” he shouts. “Cut it right now! You’re going to have the House Un-American Activities Committee investigating us if you keep up that kind of talk.” Mr. Garnant lifts his arms and twirls around like a helicopter, his voice booming. “Look around, Iris! Look around! We all have our families to worry about. We can’t just have them eat radiation. You don’t have to worry about those things.”
I will myself not to cry as my eyes fill with tears.
“That was uncalled for, sir.”
“I didn’t mean it,” he says, looking chagrined.
“No, you did,” I say, my jaw clenched, my heart in my throat. “And you’re right. I don’t. You’ve made it all very clear for me today.” I stop and try to take a breath, but it’s too late: I cannot stop what is coming from my mouth. “I don’t need you, or this job, because I only have myself to protect, myself to watch out for. Women are more than sales clerks. We are the future of this world. I may have lost my family, but I haven’t lost my mind, or my faith, or my ambition, or my intelligence. I quit.”
“You’re making a huge mistake, Iris,” Mr. Garnant warns. “You need me.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t need anyone. I only need my flowers.”
Mr. Garnant looks at me, almost as if he sees me for the first time and hates the new Iris. “You will come back here begging me to hire you back, and I won’t, Iris. Do you hear me? I won’t.”
“You won’t have to, because I’m going to drive you out of business.”
He laughs.
I take off my apron and throw it on the ground. “I’ll be opening my gardens up in a few weeks, ladies,” I say to the women as I pass. “And I grow everything there myself.”
On the bus ride home, I am inconsolable, crying—more from anger than sadness—so loudly that riders stay at least three rows away from me. I run into my house and directly into Mary’s room and collapse on her bed.