Free Whatever by Ann Walsh Page B

she’d had her grandson put the other papers in the garden, for, what was it she said, “mulch”? Curious, I asked.
    â€œI cancelled my subscriptions,” she said. “Can’t get around to reading everything these days.”
    â€œI could read them to you.”
    â€œNo thanks. You’re only going to be with me a few weeks. What will I do after you’ve gone? Besides, it isn’t the same as reading by yourself.”
    â€œSorry.” I was miffed and my voice showed it.
    â€œYou’re a good reader, it isn’t that. But I miss . . .” She stopped and sighed. “So put on your best stage voice and try to make local politics sound interesting.”
    There wasn’t much in the paper this week. The tent city was being dismantled by the RCMP , the mayor was looking for funding to reopen the old hotel that used to be a homelessshelter; the columnist was going on about problems in the schools. There was, for a change, nothing about the controversial gold and copper mine that was to be built a few miles out of town. Even the most outspoken writer of letters to the editor had taken the week off.
    I finished reading long before six. “What should I do now?”
    â€œGo scrub your hands, in the bathroom this time, not in the kitchen sink. Then let’s go for a walk.”
    â€œWalk?”
    â€œJust around the back of the house. I want to check on the garden.”
    The bathroom was as clean as the rest of the house, the old-fashioned sink sparkling, the linoleum on the floor spotless, no floss specs on the mirror. I stole a look at the plastic seat perched high over the regular toilet seat—her throne. There was a night light by the sink, in the shape of a bouquet of glass flowers, and it made the counter sparkle with white and yellow light. In the front hallway was a similar night light, red and white, and a soft purple and white one in the hallway.
    When I finished, Mrs. J. was already outside the door, a brightly coloured shawl over her shoulders, a knit cap in the same pattern pulled down around her ears, her cane in hand. I pulled on my coat and shoes. She made me make sure I’d tied my shoes properly so I wouldn’t trip and pull her down with me when I fell. We moved slowly along a narrow, cracked cement path. I felt her grab me a few times to keep her balance,but we navigated the path safely and turned the corner.
    She stopped by a weathered wooden bench under a big tree. The leaves were gone. Even though it had been a mild fall, most of the trees had given up their leaves by the middle of October. Mrs. J. slowly lowered herself down to the bench. “I miss my garden. Sit here a lot in the summer, it’s shady and quiet. Good spot to think.”
    â€œIt’s too cold to think today. Can we go in?”
    â€œIn a minute.” She looked over at the square of earth. “I usually turn it over myself but couldn’t handle the pitchfork this year. Love the smell of the earth.”
    I sniffed, but couldn’t smell anything special. The small garden had been dug up, “turned over,” and the earth looked damp. A few spiky things, sort of like green onion tops but bent over, clumped together in one corner.
    â€œPerennial onions.” Mrs. J. was pointing to the spiky clump. “Make new little onion bulbs right on top of each stem. I used to pick them off and use them in my mustard pickles. Haven’t made pickles in years.”
    â€œMaybe you can teach me?”
    â€œPerhaps. But it’s too late in the season to get good pickling cukes. Besides, I think my pickling days are over.”
    Then she looked away from the garden and changed the subject. “Did I tell you Mrs. Barrett called me?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œJust to see how things are going.”
    â€œShe’s checking up on me?”
    â€œPerhaps.”
    â€œI’m doing my sanctions. I signed the agreement, didn’t