A Widow for One Year - Page 51

“Oh,” Ted said; he handed Eduardo the sepia-colored check, which the gardener solemnly returned to his wallet. “Let me be sure that I understand you, Eduardo,” Ted began. “You think that you saved my life, and that this cost you your job.”

“I did save your life—it did cost me my job,” Eduardo Gomez replied.

Ted’s vanity, which was extended to his fleetness of foot, compelled him to believe that, even from a standing start, he could have outrun Mrs. Vaughn in her Lincoln. Nonetheless, Ted would never have disputed the fact that the gardener had behaved courageously.

“How much money are we talking about, exactly?” Ted asked.

“I don’t want your money—I’m not here for a handout,” Eduardo told him. “I was hoping that you might have some work for me.”

“You want a job?” Ted asked.

“Only if you’ve got one for me,” Eduardo replied. The gardener was looking despairingly at the scruffy yard. Not even the patchy lawn showed signs of professional care. It needed fertilizer—not to mention that it clearly didn’t get enough water. And there were no flowering shrubs, no perennials, no annuals—at least none that Eduardo could see. Mrs. Vaughn had once told Eduardo that Ted Cole was rich and famous. (I guess the money doesn’t go into the landscaping, Eduardo was thinking.) “It doesn’t look as if you’ve got a job for me,” the gardener told Ted.

“Just wait a minute,” Ted said. “Let me show you where I want to put a swimming pool, and some other stuff.”

From the kitchen window, Eddie watched them walk around the house. It did not strike Eddie that they were having a life-threatening conversation. The boy assumed that it was safe to join them in the yard.

“I want a simple, rectangular pool—it doesn’t have to be Olympic size,” Ted was telling Eduardo. “I just want a deep end and a shallow end—with steps. And no diving board. I think diving boards are dangerous for children. I’ve got a four-year-old daughter.”

“I’ve got a four-year-old granddaughter, and I agree with you,” Eduardo told Ted. “I don’t build pools, but I know some guys who do. I can maintain a pool, of course. I can do the vacuuming and keep the chemicals in balance. You know, so the water doesn’t get cloudy—or your skin doesn’t turn green, or something.”

“Whatever you say,” Ted said. “You can be in charge. I just don’t want a diving board. And there have to be some plantings around the pool— so that the neighbors and passersby aren’t always staring at us.”

“I would recommend a berm—actually, three berms,” Eduardo said. “And on top of the berms, to hold the soil, I would suggest some Russian olives. They do well here, and the leaves are nice—a sort of silvery green. They have fragrant yellow flowers and an olivelike fruit. Oleaster is another name for them.”

“Whatever you say,” Ted told him. “You’re in charge. And there’s the matter of the perimeter of the property itself—I don’t feel that there’s ever been a visible border to the property.”

“There’s always privet,” Eduardo Gomez replied. The small man seemed to shiver a little when he thought of the hedge where he’d hung dying in the exhaust fumes. Nevertheless, the gardener could work wonders with privet: in his care, Mrs. Vaughn’s privet had grown an average of eighteen inches a year. “You just got to feed it and water it, and most of all prune it,” the gardener added.

“Sure—let’s do privet, then,” Ted said. “I like hedges.”

“Me, too,” Eduardo lied.

“And I want more lawn,” Ted said. “I want to get rid of the dumb daisies and the tall grass. I’ll bet there are ticks in that tall grass.”

“Sure there are,” Eduardo told him.

“I want a lawn like an athletic field,” Ted said with a vengeance.

“You want lines painted on it?” the gardener asked.

“No, no!” Ted cried. “I mean, I want the lawn to be the size of an athletic field.”

“Oh,” Eduardo said. “That’s a lot of lawn, a lot of mowing, a lot of sprinklers . . .”

“What about carpentry?” Ted asked the gardener.

“What about it?” Eduardo asked.

“I mean, can you do carpentry? I was thinking about an outdoor shower—multiple showerheads,” Ted explained. “Not a lot of carpentry.”

“Sure, I can do that,” Eduardo told him. “I don’t do plumbing, but I know a guy . . .”

“Whatever you say,” Ted said again. “I’m putting you in charge. And what about your wife?” he added.

“What about her?” Eduardo asked.

“Well, I mean, does she work? What does she do?” Ted asked him.

Tags: John Irving Fiction
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