Story of the Month: Debbie’s Garden Secret

On Sunday mornings Debbie Glendale tended to her garden. She liked to get out early enough that the sun wasn’t too high in the sky, but late enough that the dew was mostly gone. She was a simple woman with simple taste. She wasn’t the type to enter her vegetables into Empire Fair’s Garden and Produce contest. Still, she admitted to having a taste of satisfaction when she held a perfectly grown, vibrant orange carrot in her hands. 

“I’ve never seen a carrot that size before,” said the woman standing on the other side of Debbie’s fence. “Well, at least not without some sort of science to help it, that is.”

She used the word science in the same manner a hobbit would refer to magic. 

“Good morning, Mary,” Debbie said. She tucked the carrot in her bucket and leaned back on her haunches, slowly easing her achy joints into the pose. 

“Your garden is always so impressive,” Mary said. “And your yard too. They must be your pride and joy.”

“Burt tends to the yard and builds me planter boxes if I ask nicely. As for the garden? It is just my joy.” Debbie braced herself and started to push herself to her feet, her 40-something-year-old joints protesting. 

“You ought to hire some fancy photographer to take pictures of this garden. It could be on the cover of a magazine.” 

Debbie tucked her bucket of vegetables under her arm. “I don’t need that kind of attention,” she said, shaking her head. She lifted the carrot from her bucket to admire it again. “All I need is the look of delight when I turn this into one of Burt’s favorite dishes.” 

By evening, the carrot was cleaned, peeled, and diced up, simmering in a pot with other vegetables all pulled from the garden. Potatoes, onions, and some spices paired with a nice thick chunk of roast. With the addition of a few herbs from her window planter, Debbie has made the perfect pot roast. If she had raised and butchered the cow, she would call herself self-sufficient. 

Debbie’s father owned cattle, many of which she helped raise and butcher in her younger years. But since she had long left the farm life behind and settled in the suburbs for a few decades now, she thought it was fine to let someone else handle all that dirty work. 

Carrots, potatoes, and onions were enough dirt for her. 

She waited for Burt to take the first bite, watching and waiting for his reaction. 

He winced at the initial heat, but as the flavor set in, he couldn’t help but moan. 

“A perfect meal again, Deb,” he said, between mouthfuls. 

Debbie’s shoulders gave a delighted shimmy. 

On Monday, Debbie draped the rugs from the kitchen and living room over the banister of the garden and beat the snot out of them until there wasn’t a lingering dust particle in the air. She swept and mopped the entire kitchen. She bent low on all fours, polishing the wood floors in the living room with some unlabeled bottle of cleaner she picked up from the craft fair months ago. She was getting low, but would never dream of using anything else on her floors. 

By Monday evening, her back ached, and she couldn’t even muster enough energy to consider dinner. She pulled the Tupperware of potatoes, carrots, and pot roast from the fridge and reheated it. 

When Burt returned from work, he sat himself at the dinner table without a hello and waited, kicking his shoes off. 

Debbie placed a beer and the leftovers in front of him before tucking his shoes away in their designated slot on the rack by the front door. 

“Again?” he asked. He didn’t grumble or moan; he just looked at the meal in front of him. The corners of his mouth pulled down into a frown, and his forehead crinkled with deep, furrowed lines. 

“I tackled the floors today and didn’t get a chance to lay anything out,” Debbie said. “But look at how they shine!” She gestured to the floors. 

With a mere glance and a nod, Burt reluctantly picked at the food. Stopping now and again to pile it with salt and pepper. 

By the end of dinner, Debbie had recounted her whole day, but Burt didn’t hear a word. His mouth still pulled downward by tiny invisible guylines and staked into his permanent disappointment in the meal. 

“What’s wrong, dear?” 

“Pot roast again, Deb?” he said. “Today is a new day, and the meal should be too,” he said. “You know I hate leftovers.” 

Debbie smiled. “I’ll make chops tomorrow. I got a good deal from Hank on a nice cut of loin. I’ll lay it out tonight and cut it up tomorrow.”

“Chops sound like a dream,” he said. “With that creamy dressing?” 

“And some crispy roasted potatoes and carrots,” she said, nodding.

“No carrots. Beans,” he said. 

“Green beans it is,” she said, nodding. 

On Tuesday, Debbie picked every green bean in her garden. The timing was perfect. Some of them were starting to turn, and if she didn’t eat them soon, she’d have to toss them into the weeds for the rabbits. By the end of the morning, she had half a gallon bucket full and just enough room for a few more potatoes on the top. 

The thawed pork was sliced into chops with just enough for two meals for both of them. She had initially tried to cut them thick to use the whole cut, but the loin was neither big nor small enough to get a good portion. But what harm was there in extras? Burt grumbled about leftovers, but pork chops were his favorite. She found it hard to think he could ever grumble about too many pork chops. 

At dinner that night, Burt moaned and grinned. He sliced every chop and dragged it across the plate to cover it in creamy, thick gravy before smashing a crispy roasted potato on the end. Each forkful barely fit in his mouth, but he made it work.

By the end of the meal, he leaned back and had to unbuckle his pants, coddling his belly like a cherished and well-nourished infant. 

“Damn, Deb,” he sighed, his cheeks a bit flushed. “Damn, damn, damn.” 

Debbie danced in her seat, chewing at a crisp green bean. 

On Wednesday, the vacuum cleaner exploded. 

The old thing was a ticking time bomb, really. Debbie had neglected to clean the hoses, and the pressure built just enough for the back hose to pop off, spraying dirt and hair and debris all over the floor, couches, and Debbie. She spent an hour cleaning the hoses and the internal parts. Another hour trying to remember where each screw went and then two more hours revacuuming, dusting, and sweeping the dirt from every affected surface. 

In the late afternoon, when she started to put the couch covers in the washer, she discovered the washer wouldn’t turn on. Neither would the lights nor the dryer. 

Opening the breaker box only complicated the mystery, as Burt usually handled that mess, but it was Wednesday. Wednesdays were when he met clients, and he had made it very clear he shouldn’t be called unless the house was on fire on Wednesdays. Even then, he told Deb to call the fire department, and he would find out when he got home. 

Debbie called Jim. 

Jim owned the hardware store and had gotten her out of a rough Wednesday once or twice in the past. 

“And all the breakers look good?” he asked. 

“Everything is pointed in the same direction,” Debbie answered. 

“Are they all completely turned? Sometimes one will be just a little out of place.”

Debbie gave the switches another look. “From what I can see, yes.” 

“Well, Deb, my dear, time to start flipping switches,” Jim told her. 

“Every switch?” 

“I can’t leave the store till 5 to do it for you, so this is our best solution for now,” he said. “Turn each one all the way to one side and then the other; if that don’t work, you might have to call Paul.”

“I don’t want Paul in here. I just polished my floors, and his boots always muck it up,” she sighed. 

“Start a’flippin’!” 

Debbie started at the top. She flipped each switch to one side and then the other, checking the lights on the washer in between. She was halfway down the left side when her washing machine chimed and lit up. “Jim, I think that did it!” 

“Good deal!” 

“You saved my tail again. I’ll send Burt to the store with some cookies for you and Janice.” 

“Raspberry cheesecake?” 

“For you, Jim, I’ll make raspberry cheesecake and white chocolate macadamia.”

“You’re too good to us, Debs. Alright now.” 

“Take care.” She hung up and barely caught a glimpse of the clock on the wall that read 4 P.M. “Oh shit!” A hand clasped over her mouth just as fast as the word slipped out. 

By the time she got the couch covers in the washer and running, she realized she hadn’t eaten lunch. At that time, there was no point in making anything, and now she forgot about dinner again. 

She opened her fridge looking for something quick and easy to make, but the pickings were slim.

“Well, Burt looks like it is pork again.” She pulled out a block of cream cheese, deciding there was no reason she couldn’t whip up some cookies now. 

Burt looked pleased with the sweet scent of cookies in the air as he sat at the table. “Is that cheesecake?” 

“Raspberry cheesecake cookies,” she said, gathering his shoes and tucking them away. 

“What did Jim have to fix this time?” 

“It is more of a gift for putting up with my nonsense.” She recounted the day to him while she dished out servings of potatoes, pork, and green beans and set the warmed meal with a cold beer in front of him. 

Burt hadn’t spoken, but watched her open Tupperware containers and spoon out hard, cold food. He leaned back in his chair, his hand resting on the table and his knuckles growing whiter with each spoonful he watched her dish out. 

“Anyways, by the time I got the washer sorted and changed my clothes, I just had time to start on the cookies. What a day,” Debbie sighed. She settled next to him at the table and started to eat, not noticing he didn’t move. 

Debbie was two or three bites into her dinner when she noticed Burt hadn’t touched his. 

“Burt?”

“Pork again,” he sighed. 

“The day got away from me.” 

“Again?” 

“I know, I know, but I didn’t even have a chance to think about dinner. You love pork,” she said. 

Burt rubbed a big hand over his face and leaned forward. He shoved his plate back and put his elbows on the table with such weight that the table tilted in his direction. “Fucking pork again?” 

“Burt,” Debbie scolded. 

“Pork, Deb!” 

“It is just the two of us, Burt,” she began. “Leftovers are to be expected.”

“I fucking hate leftovers!” He lifted his plate and slammed it against the wall behind Debbie. 

She froze, a small squeak coming from her mouth before petrified silence fell. 

Burt seethed. His hands were balled into fists on the tabletop, and his chest heaved. “22 fucking years of meals. 22 fucking years of leftovers. I work all day kissing ass and being a patsy for any fucker in the office for what? For someone else to beat me on a sale and then come home here for fucking twice fucked pork chops and the shit you grow in your fucking garden!” 

Debbie didn’t move. She kept her eyes on her plate and waited. 

“God fucking dammit, Debra!” Burt slammed the table now. 

“It’s just you and me,” she said. “I didn’t realize after all these years… Cooking for two… Leftovers are just part of it…” 

“Learn to cook smaller portions then! Fuck!” 

Burt stood from the table so abruptly it moved back several inches. He left the room, and Debbie sat in the silence of the dining room. 

After dinner, she took a scrub brush to the wall and collected the broken glass. She washed the dishes and tossed out any container holding leftover food from the fridge. 

She went to bed early that night. 

On Thursday morning, she waited in the kitchen with fresh coffee poured into Burt’s canister. She packed his lunch box with a turkey sub piled with fresh meat from the deli and crisp lettuce she plucked from her garden that morning. When he passed through the kitchen grabbing his lunch, coffee, and a bagel, he made the motion to give Debbie her usual peck on the cheek. She tilted her head and closed her eyes, waiting for it, but it never came. She felt air pass over her skin as he neared, lips pursed, and never made contact. The sound of the garage door opening caused her to open her eyes. 

She felt her cheek. It was cold. Cold and dry.

Debbie sat out ground beef for burgers. She spent the day deep cleaning the house. She made a run to the store to restock Burt’s favorite beer and other needed essentials. She didn’t even step into her garden despite Thursdays being her usual weeding and watering day. 

She kept her eyes peeled to the clock, timing dinner preparations perfectly so that it would be ready for Burt just as he came home. 

She had just laid out just enough beef for two decent-sized patties and had two large potatoes sliced into thick wedges. She had a pile of greens pulled a couple of days before that were looking like they might wilt if she didn’t use them and freshly sliced radiant red tomatoes.

Stepping back, the two patties and two potatoes didn’t seem like enough, but surely an oversized salad would fill any space left on their plates. 

Before starting dinner, she broke down one of her favorite recipes to just enough for two double chocolate cupcakes. As they baked, she dropped seasoned potatoes in the hot oil and fried up the patties. 

By the time Burt walked through the door, she was plating the patties on two toasted buttery buns topped with lettuce, red onion, and tomatoes (and pickles on Burt’s). The cupcakes were left on the counter unfrosted as they cooled.

“I love your burgers,” Burt said, settling into his chair. He took a swig of the beer that waited for him and pulled his plate closer as Debbie put his shoes away. 

“I know you do,” she said, smiling. 

Debbie settled at the table next to Burt, and the two ate in silence, with the occasional moan from Burt. It wasn’t until he reached the perfectly fried potatoes that they spoke. 

“Dear God, Deb, what is different about these potatoes?” he asked. 

“I changed up my seasoning a bit. Garlic parmesan instead of the usual,” she said. 

“These are the best fries I’ve ever had. Better than anything I’ve ever had at Cotton’s.” 

Debbie paused mid-bite. “Really? They can’t be that good.” 

Burt had finished the fries and looked around. “Tell me you made more of those,” he said. 

She hesitated. “Well, no,” she said. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I cut my usual portions down today,” she said. 

There was a heavy silence before Burt started to chuckle. He laughed so hard he leaned back in his chair and held his belly. 

Debbie joined. It started soft, in the back of her throat and grew to a giggle the more she watched Burt laugh and laugh. 

He started to pull himself together, wiping tears and leaning over his elbows. “I don’t know what you’re laughing at,” he said. 

“We were both laughing?” she answered. 

“I’m just laughing at my dumbass wife who can’t get one simple request right,” he said. 

Debbie fell silent. 

“Not funny anymore?” 

“I don’t understand,” she said. 

“I said make less. I’m still a grown man. This wouldn’t feed a toddler.” He pushed his plate back and reached for hers. Without looking at her, he started to devour what was left on her plate. “It really isn’t hard,” he said. “I mean, how difficult could it be to make meals and vacuum all day? It shouldn’t take a lot of brain power to sort out a meal.” His rant came between mouthfuls, each new insult spewing bits of potato across the table. After he finished her food, he pushed both plates aside, leaving their salads untouched. He shook his head. “I’m disappointed.” 

Debbie still held her fork in hand, ready to get another bite. She was staring at the grooves on their wooden table. The deep lines contrasted with light golden lines, each making waving swirls like a river across a map. Her mind was in her garden.

She forgot to water today. Her plants would be dry and neglected. Her cucumbers were suffering the most as the sun was high today and they were so sensitive to heat. They deserved better. 

“I think you spend too much time in your garden. Maybe that is where your head is?” He shrugged. “Maybe we ought to tear down the fences and let the critters have at it. It’s a distraction.” 

Her eyes rose to look at him, and Burt didn’t recognize the woman who stared at him. 

“I don’t ask for much. I provide for you. I build those boxes. This is how marriage works,” he said. 

Debbie stared through him. Her eyes were so fierce and direct that Burt wasn’t even sure they were on the same planet. 

“Debra?” 

Her face cracked. A wide smile spread over her mouth, and her eyes glistened. “Couldn’t agree more,” she said. “This Saturday? We can tear it down together.” 

He leaned back in his chair. 

Debbie stacked the plates and stood from the table. “I made cupcakes. Let me frost them,” she said. 

She put the plates in the sink and set to work on the cupcakes. She frosted them with chocolate buttercream and topped them with shaved chocolate. She presented both of them to Burt, who didn’t even comment, and set to work on the dishes. 

On Friday, after sending Burt off with his coffee and lunch, she spent three hours in the garage digging through piles of junk. She spent the morning moving all the piles of junk from one cluttered corner to the other. She swept out all the dirt and leaves and rat shit, and by noon she was satisfied with the half-clean space. 

Less mess, less chaos. 

She made a trip to visit Jim at the hardware store. Burt never delivered her cookies, so she did so in person. She apologized that they weren’t fresh, but Jim didn’t mind. He didn’t hesitate to open the plastic tub and bite into them. 

As Jim munched, Debbie disappeared at the back of the store. She had a large carton of rat killer and four massive rolls of plastic sheeting. 

“Now this says 10’ x 100’, but do you think four of them will cover my garage?” Debbie asked as she placed her items in front of Jim. 

“That depends,” he said. “How big is your garage?” 

Debbie’s nose wrinkled in thought. “16x24?” 

“I’d say four sheets will more than cover it,” he said. “What are you doing with your garage?” 

“I think I might turn it into a haunted house,” she said. “Fall is still a little away, but you got this stuff on sale, so may as well stock up now.” 

“Burt letting you do that?” 

“Burt will be right in the middle of it whether he likes it or not.” She gave a sweet smile. 

Jim chuckled and shook his head. “You know Janice used to talk about putting a Gazebo in our backyard. She would just mention it in passing, or I would catch her staring at the empty space in the middle of the yard like she was looking right at it. One day I finally asked, “Jan? Do you want me to build ya a gazebo?”

“You better have built that woman a gazebo, James,” Debbie said. 

“My only regret is not doing it sooner. She spends every morning and evening she can out there. And now, she glows, Deb,” he said, lost in the thought of his wife. “If Burt knows what is good for him, he’ll help you turn your garage into the most terrifying little den of horrors anyone has seen.” 

She nodded in agreement, paid her dues, and left his store. 

By the time Burt returned home, Debbie had prepared a casserole in her smallest dish. She gave Burt a large portion and replenished his beer the moment it was empty. She served him apple pie and ice cream for dessert, and when he fell asleep in his recliner watching the news, she covered him with a blanket and turned the volume down. 

On Saturday morning she let him sleep in while she served up waffles and bacon and fresh coffee. When he stumbled from bed, he kissed the air near her face and, without a word, dug in. 

He didn’t notice that Debbie only had a cup of black coffee in front of her. Nor did he notice that she was checking the clock obsessively. He only looked at her once he had finished a stack of waffles and two cups of coffee and watched her stare out the patio door. 

“It’s a shame, Deb.” He looked out the door as well.

The rising sun was starting to illuminate her garden, lingering dew drops causing the cascading vines of ivy to glisten like glitter.  The sunflowers that lined the far end seemed to raise their heads and greet the morning light eagerly. Early birds landed on the wooden fence panels, using its height to get a better look at the yard for sneaky worms. Their morning song was a soft titter welcoming a peaceful weekend. The bench at the back of her garden had never looked more inviting. 

“You really did do a good job on that garden,” he said. 

She sighed. 

“It is a shame to tear it down. Especially after all the trouble I went through to build the fence and all.” 

Burt had started to lean back and stand when suddenly he fell back into his seat, sucking in air through gritted teeth and holding his belly in pain. 

“Why not let breakfast settle first?” She suggested. 

He nodded. 

They spent the later hours of the morning in front of the TV watching the news and then whatever television Burt settled on. In usual fashion, Debbie read a book, but she wasn’t taking in anything. If anything, her eyes were going over the same line several times while she watched Burt from the corner of one eye and the wall clock from the other.

Just before lunch, Burt stood slowly from his chair and moved hazardously to the bathroom. He moved like he didn’t trust his steps. After some time, he returned from the bathroom holding his stomach, his usual leathering skin turning green. 

He plopped into his chair and didn’t pay attention to the TV. 

Debbie leaned past the lamp that separated the two. “You feeling okay, dear? You look a little clammy,” she said. 

“Something didn’t sit right,” he grumbled. 

Debbie stood. She pressed her palm to his forehead. “You’re cool, but boy, are you sweaty.” She looked at the dainty watch on her wrist. “Something light for lunch?” she asked. 

He didn’t oppose or disagree, only groaned as Debbie disappeared around the corner to the kitchen. 

She returned shortly to set the TV tray in front of him and place a small bowl of soup. 

“It’s mostly broth,” she told him. “I wasn’t sure if you would tolerate much else.” 

Burt made a motion to move forward, but hesitated. “I ain’t had a bug like this since I was a boy, I think,” he said. 

“It isn’t like you to get sick,” she agreed.

When Burt had trouble leaning forward, Debbie placed a napkin over his chest and lifted the spoon from the bowl to his lips. 

He was hesitant at first. “I’m not a baby, Deb,” he said. 

“No, you’re not. This will help settle your stomach,” she told him. “You know my cooking is good.” 

Despite it all, he couldn’t argue that with her. He allowed her to feed him a few spoonfuls, but couldn’t take much more. 

“It’s spoiled, Deb,” he said. 

“Impossible.” 

“Then it tastes like shit,” he insisted.

“You just don’t feel well. Your taste buds are off.” She poured another spoonful into his mouth. 

“I said I don’t want any!” He smacked the bowl from her hands and shot forward. The motion caused his stomach to turn again, and he hurried to the bathroom, barely making it. 

Debbie listened to his vomiting as she cleaned the soup from the rug. The heavy, guttural heaving on repeat until finally the contents of his stomach splashed against the water in the toilet bowl. It went on long enough for Debbie to completely clean up the spilled soup.

Burt returned some time later, barely able to stand upright, and fell into his chair.

He spent several hours staring at the ceiling, his breathing shallow and raspy. 

Debbie sat in her chair reading. Occasionally, she would lean past the lamp and look at Burt, who was still breathing, albeit with difficulty. 

As the sun set and darkness started to settle into their home, Burt began to plead. 

“Deb… Deb… Deb, I think I ought… ought to see someone…” he said. 

“What’s that, dear?” 

“I don’t…. I don’t think… I am okay…” 

“Mmmm?” 

A raspy laugh escaped his lips. “Stupid… bitch…I’m going to die here…” 

“I certainly hope so.” 

Burt’s head bobbed and shook as he let it loll toward her. He had tears in his eyes that blurred his vision, and he could barely see her in the dim light of the television. The moving light cast shadows over her features, and he was sure he wasn’t looking at Debra. This monster looked like Debra, sweet and obedient, but there was an ill contempt in her eyes. A glimmer at the sight of him in such terrible suffering.

“It’ll be over soon,” she said. “If you weren’t so damn stubborn.” 

He tried to chuckle once again, but the motion in his stomach only caused green bile to spill out of his mouth and nose. 

“Stupid…fuckin– glugh fucking…”

The raspy laughter was replaced by gurgling that faded slowly until he and his sounds stopped. Burt lay with his head turned unnaturally to the side, staring at Debbie. 

Debbie dog-eared the page in her book and looked at the television. They had been watching an infomercial selling some appliance that was supposed to cut cooking time in half. She shook her head as she flipped off the TV. “No one appreciates the craft of cooking anymore,” she said. 

She waited until the late hours of the night to wheel the computer chair in front of Burt, locking the wheels in place. After much maneuvering, she teetered his recliner forward so that he could fall into the chair. She had to use the wall behind his recliner as leverage to push it forward, but managed to do just that. With great effort, she rolled him through the house to the back door where she had left the wheelbarrow. She had to use her feet, but she was able to dump him from the chair into the wheelbarrow. After all of that, the short trip to the garage was a cakewalk.

Late Saturday and into the early hours of Sunday, she worked steadily. She was severely out of practice. It had been years since her Daddy made her butcher a cow, but after a small grace period, she recalled all his lessons. 

By sunrise Sunday, Debbie was watering her garden. She would usually save the garden work for later in the morning, but after the night she had, she was likely to sleep for a full day. 

By Fall, Debbie had harvested record-sized pumpkins, squash, and cabbage. Her sunflowers were 10 feet tall, and her marigolds had grown so aggressively she had to extend the fence of her garden. 

Mary walked across her yard, pulled from her morning walk, by the looming sunflowers. “I can see those flowers from down the road,” she said. 

Debbie lifted her head to look at them. 

“Marvelous! Really, Debbie, what is your secret?” 

Debbie stood up from the soil. She had a bucket of vegetables on her arm, and she beamed, looking at the high arches of climbing hydrangeas. “Just a little love,” she shrugged. “Oh, and of course, Burt did his part to help.”