Free Backyard by Norman Draper

Fremonts’ yard late at night—four or five nights’ worth of work will probably do the trick—and snip off the blooms and buds of various and sundry Fremont flora. A few at a time so as to avoid notice, but we must, over time, do enough damage to prevent these Fremonts from, by some freak accident, actually winning the Burdick’s Best Yard Contest or, more to the point, preventing me from winning the Burdick’s Best Yard Contest. We can’t assume they won’t hear about it. We can’t assume they won’t enter. We can probably assume that, no matter what happens, I will win anyway, but why take chances? We’ll call our little snipping exercise the ‘death-by-a-thousand-cuts’ treatment.”
    â€œBut, Dr. Sproot, I don’t want to do that. That’s vandalism!”
    Dr. Sproot smiled.
    â€œNo, dear, that is not vandalism. There will be no great loss to the Fremonts, only a few buds and blooms snipped off here and there. They probably won’t even notice. And, by doing so, you’ll be preserving the integrity of what I’ve worked so hard to build and nurture here in Livia. Take that away, Marta, and you have stupid people raised to positions of fame and importance all because of a little blind luck. Can’t have that, can we, Marta?”
    â€œDr. Sproot,” said Marta, her voice quivering with uncertainty. “I just don’t think I should be doing this.”
    What Dr. Sproot did next sealed the deal. She walked over to the counter that separated her dining room from her kitchen, retrieved several papers, and handed them to Marta. One bore the letterhead of an attorney and was addressed to Dr. Sproot. It said that she had valid grounds for a lawsuit against Marta and could recover thousands of dollars as a result of such an injury as Marta had caused through her criminal negligence. Criminal negligence! The others were letters addressed by Dr. Sproot to the presidents of Livia’s four gardening clubs. They described in exaggerated detail the scalding tea incident and recommended that Marta be excluded from every officially sanctioned gardening event, demonstration, and contest until the end of time. Tears began to well up in Marta’s eyes, and sobs shook her frame. Dr. Sproot suppressed a smile.
    â€œI’m sorry that it has come to this, Marta,” she said. “You should understand that not only do I have a reputation to preserve, but it’s also a matter of time. You think I have time to go gallivanting around in other peoples’ yards? I’ve got my own creations to cultivate, and I can’t take it for granted that I’m a shoo-in for this award, even though I probably am, and just rest on my laurels.
    â€œYou know how important this is to me, Marta. It’s the food I eat, the coffee I glug, and the air I breathe. I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t win. Maybe something drastic. I’ve had such a hard life, Marta. Such a hard life. This, this one crowning accomplishment, could erase all that forever. And you could share in the knowledge of how much you’ve contributed to it. There could even be a little reward for you, Marta. But you are either with me in this or against me. Now, which is it?”
    All Marta could do was bow her head and nod in the affirmative.
    â€œI’ll take that as a yes,” Dr. Sproot said. “Now, Marta, my own surreptitious observations of the comings and goings at the Fremont house have indicated that there are certain days of the week and times when they are least likely to be outdoors. They are few and far between, since these Fremonts do spend lots of time puttering around uselessly in their yard and getting drunk on red wine. But even the Fremonts have to run out and do their errands every now and then. And, luckily for us, they tend to be rather regular in that regard. Come on. Let’s sit down and I’ll show you my carefully kept