Carl ignored him. He was in the Grove, kneeling at the base of one of the oaks, and he motioned for me to come over. “Volunteer,” he whispered, brushing four tiny blades of fescue with his fingertips. “I haven’t seen volunteer in years.” I felt it with my fingertips, an incredibly delicate green filigree, eagerly and shamelessly alive. It was feeding on the nutrients that should have gone to the tree roots, which had somehow lost their will to live.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Gail,” Carl said, brushing his knees off as we stood up; awkwardly, he leaned over and brushed mine off too. “I don’t know what’s getting into me.” And it was true: it was the first time he had yelled at me since I had sought refuge in his nursery six springs before.
Carl told the Grounds Dean that we would check on the Oak Grove tomorrow, and we left. But we both knew the electroshock was too little, too late. On the way back to the nursery, Carl didn’t talk about his beloved oaks at all.
Instead, he talked about the volunteer. “Remember when grass just grew, Gail?” he said. “It was everywhere. You didn’t have to feed it, or force it, or plant it, or anything. Kids made money cutting it. Hell, you couldn’t stop it! It grew on the roadsides, grew in the medians, grew up through the cracks in the sidewalk. Trees, too. Trees grew wild. Leave a field alone and it turned into a forest in a few years. Life was in the air, like wild yeast; the whole damn world was like sourdough bread. Remember, Gail? Those were the good old days.”
I nodded and looked away, but not before tears of self-pity sprang unbidden to my eyes. How could I forget the good old days?
By noon on Wednesday the Barbers hadn’t called, so we swung by their place on the way to lunch. The ominous brown edge was still there, but the grass toward the center of the lawn was a brighter green, almost feverish-looking in spots. “At least it’s still alive,” Carl said, but a little uncertainly. I shrugged. I didn’t feel good.
“That girl doesn’t look right to me,” said Lord Byron at lunch. I had to find a chair because I couldn’t balance on a counter stool.
“She’ll be all right,” said Carl. Next to empathy, optimism is his best quality. “And I’ll have the usual.”
Carl spent the afternoon doing the books while I dozed on a cot at the office end of the greenhouse. “What I lose in plants I make up in cybers,” he said. “I’m the only nurseryman in the state who still services organics—but you know that. Funny how it all balances out, Gail. First I make money poisoning or cutting the grass; then I make more trying to keep it alive. When that goes, there’s a fortune in greenlawn. Paint it every spring. Same with trees. First it was sales. Then it was maintenance, life supports. Now it’s electrics. Hell, I don’t know what I’m complaining about, Gail. I’m making more money than ever, yet somehow I can’t help feeling like I’m going out of business…”
He talked on and on all afternoon, while I tossed and turned, trying to sleep.
Thursday morning we approached the university with a mounting sense of dread. I had known it all along; Carl knew it as soon as he pulled up beside the trees and shut off the engine. I didn’t even have to get out of the truck to feel the silence through the soles of my feet. There was no life in the Oak Grove. Carl’s pride and joy was dead forever.
The volunteer fescue was gone, too. We got out to look, but it had dried up overnight and only brown blades were left, withering in the network shadows of the bare branches. Maybe the Thumper had killed it; or maybe it had just run out of life, like everything else seemed to be doing these days.
“Nobody’s blaming you,” said the Grounds Dean. He had come up behind us unnoticed and put his hand on Carl’s shoulder. “To tell the truth, Carl, we’ve been having funding problems. I’m not sure how long we could have afforded to keep the ground feed going anyway. What would you think of going to videoleaf? Or we could even try silicy-berbud branch implants, at least for a season or two. But don’t worry, we’re not going to take out these stately oaks until we absolutely have to. They’re like old friends to the students, Carl. Do you know what they call the Grove?”
The Dean looked at me and winked; I guess because he thought I was young. “The students call it the Kissing Grove!”
“It’s not a question of blame,” Carl said. I’d never seen him so depressed. I wasn’t feeling so hot myself.
“You should send this girl home, Carl,” Lord Byron said when we stopped for lunch. “How long has she worked for you? Gay, honey, have you ever taken a sick day?”
“She lives in the greenhouse,” Carl said. “She doesn’t exactly work for me. And leave her cap alone; nobody wants to look at a bald head.”
