Free Mulch by Ann Ripley Page A

the final garden problem: the swampy corner.
    The trees were so numerous on the property there was no way a truck of fill dirt could be driven into the area. Even if it could, she reflected guiltily that she had spent her last dollar on garden materials—at least for this season.
    She frowned and stared at the spot, then went down the steps and across the forested yard to look at it more closely. This tiny corner was a bog in dry weather and a pond in wet. On this dank, rainy day, the water poured evilly into it, imparting an ominous feeling that reminded her
of
a dark poem by Robert Frost about a forest pool.
    Yet she had to admit that there was an awkward charm to the corner. It was due to the flagrant, big-leafed plants sprouting from the edge of the wetness. Skunk cabbage, with their mysterious, mottled purple and green spathes emerging in early spring, and turning showy yellow as spring grew older. In England, she had seen magnificent varieties growing near pools. The British used them in abundance, not being as skittishas Americans about the bad odor that was emitted when the leaves were crushed.
    She was beginning to see possibilities out in this dank corner, and for a moment considered giving the swamp a reprieve. Her mind conjured up a picture of a lush bog garden, with plants that liked their feet wet. Japanese iris, Cyperus, Lysimachia, Japanese sweet flag, and horsetail would be perfect here.
    Then, like a sign, a new burst of rain came splattering down on her face. Her heart hardened: She
wasn’t
going to maintain a swamp in her new backyard. But how to get rid of it?
    In an instant, a solution came to her that would spare her the expense and labor of buying and hauling bags of fill. She would just gather the fall leaves that her neighbors were putting out for the trash men, dump them out here, and bring up the level of the land. She heaved a sigh of satisfaction and headed for the house for a hot cup of coffee.
    Scuffing leaves as she went, she walked quickly with head down around the corner of the house, nearly running into the figure wearing a hooded loden cape.
    “Oh, hi,” she said, recognizing the calm face beneath the hood. It was Nora, mysterious Nora, with whom she had not spoken since the cocktail party at Eric and Jan’s when they first moved in. Louise felt unaccountably nervous. The smoky woman. The woman that men liked so well.
    “Louise.” Voice warm and lilting. Gray eyes irritatingly beautiful and unlined, although she appeared to be in her early forties like Louise. “I’m so glad I found you. When I rang your bell no one answered.” She tilted her head back and looked at the sky. Her hood fell off her dark, straight hair.Then she moved close to Louise. “Rain’s stopped. D’you want to try sitting on a log out in your backyard?” She pointed to Louise’s supersaturated woods.
    “Wouldn’t you rather go inside?” asked Louise. “It’s so … chilly out here.”
    The big eyes studied Louise seriously. “Not really. I would always rather be outside, with the squirrels and birds.”
    “I’m dressed for it, I guess,” conceded Louise, leading the way, clumping down the slight decline to a large log. The termites that had once feasted on it had contributed to making it a good seat. Nora would have a good view of squirrels here: They were working furiously, cleaning and burying oak nuts for winter.
    “How about this?” asked Louise, and plopped down.
    “Perfect,” said Nora, smiling. “We’re right in the spirit of Robert Frost.” She settled her body down gracefully, then drew cigarettes and matches from a pocket and languidly lit up. Louise noticed she didn’t inhale much; could she be smoking just for the effect? And how could she smoke if she were such a nature lover?
    For a moment Nora said nothing. Then she turned her gray eyes on Louise and said, “I see you’ve had a contractor doing things to the house.”
    “Yes, a very
slow
contractor. He finally finished