House and Garden

Bardvahalla 2005

(House indulges in a bit of biking and girl watching.)

The trellis above him dripped with morning glories – soft blue, vibrant pink and deep purple. A fiery rush of yellow and orange marigolds dipped swept along the walkway, and then gave way to stiffer rosebushes overdressed in a multitude of purple blossoms that filled the air with their sweet fragrant souls.

A whiff of high octane mingled with the various botanical perfumes. His motorcycle nearby, the helmet hung by a strap off one of the black handles, the shield still encrusted with the spatters bodies of bugs.

He missed going fast, feeling the wind on his body. That last curve, the one he leaned into so far he nearly lost control - that curve gave him pause.

The town - well, a village really (he'd already forgotten the name, Population 4,100), remained small town USA, complete with a picturesque Main Street. People that passed with a friendly wave and called each other by their first names. If Frank Capra still breathed, he would roll up and try to capture the essence of it for his latest film.

"Memorial Garden Park. Open to the public. Next Left." He turned, swerved around some jackasses' stray dog and pulled into a stunning little paradise. A brass plaque stood guard at the arched limestone and iron entrance way. "Maintained by the Tri-County Ladies Auxiliary. Donations welcome."

In the parking lot he paused to wipe off the windshield and his helmet. The spray he bought didn't remove all the bug remains from his helmet. He frowned at the hardened green spatter. It had to be scraped off, but with something that wouldn't scratch the visor, impairing his vision.

He glanced at the odometer. Almost enough miles for an oil change. He since learned that the shop charged an insane price to do it. It would be worth learning to change his own.

House pulled a bottle of water from the saddle bag and limped to a bench under the trellis. He unzipped the leather jacket; glad to feel fresh air on his skin again. The heady scent of sweat and leather was nearly as intoxicating as the ride itself. To think he'd nearly walked away. To think he might never had bought it. He pushed the memory away. It didn't bear contemplating his life without it now. For the first time in a long time he hadn't felt like a cripple. The bike was a great equalizer that way.

He popped a Vicodin, chased it with long swallows of water and then leaned back to enjoy the scenery.

A portly, but limber member of what could only have been one of the aforementioned "Ladies Auxiliary", knelt nearby weeding beds of flowers. She pulled stubborn green interlopers from the dirt and left them to die in the dirty bucket she kept next to her.

As she weeded her way down the lane, her bucket overflowed with the limp corpses of dandy lions and other unwanted plants. A young woman rolled bladed into view and stopped next to her. She replaced the full bucket with an empty one and rolled away, presumably to dump to weeds somewhere out of sight.

Before she left, the young woman spared a glace for House, her brown eyes noting the strange combination of biker leathers and wooden cane. Her thick, dark hair was pulled up into a long shaggy ponytail. Except for the protective gloves and sweatband, she was dressed in short cut-off jeans that only just covered the bottom of her bottom and a halter top, snug and bright yellow against her pert breasts.

House leaned forward a bit to watch her long, lithe legs roll down the lane and around a curve out of sight.

Nice tendons, he thought and pulled at the water again.

His stood and ambled down the path. He passed the weeding woman and followed the smooth limestone walk past climbing roses, patterned herb gardens, and flowing shrubs. Bees wavered lazily in the air, so burdened to pollen they seemed too drunk to fly. House stopped, and smelled the roses, his eyes shut, but his eye alert for the sound of wheels on stone.

He passed a petite lady in a wide brimmed hat deadheading a patch of flowers that looked like daisies on steroids. Her tiny feet were bare and covered in with a film of earth. Her heart shaped face, framed by blonde wavy locks, made him do a double take. This was no matron. Twenty years old, tops. He raised the cane at her enquiring look.

"Lovely day."

"Very." She nodded and wiped her forehead. The glove left a faint smudge of dirt behind.

Her bucket was full of shriveled blossoms. The long-haired brunette skidded to a halt next to her. Empty bucket replaced full bucket. The sound of yellow synthetic wheels receded in the distance. House watched her fly away - a bird not in his hand nor in his bush.

Gluteus maximus fabulous, he said to himself and continued to lurch down the path. Except for a few neat rows of fruit trees, the garden finally ceased, its stone path crumbled into rough gravel and meandered into the nearby woods. A wooden sign nailed to a thick post proclaimed, "Memorial Trail. Open all year. NO MOTORIZED VEHICLES." He chucked his empty water bottle into a strategically place litter can. It would be getting dark soon. He knew he should head back to the bike, but something made him pause.

Barefoot, empty bucket in one hand and roller blades in the other, the brunette strode out of the woods towards him. A stone's throw away she stopped, knelt down, tied the laces together, and then slung the blades over her shoulder. By one of the fruit trees she paused and plucked a large, yellow apple. She turned toward him. He watched as she slowly shined the hard, round orb on her halter-top, and then bit into it's pale flesh.

His fist clenched the cane tight. For a horrible wonderful moment he thought he was falling. House could see sweet moisture on her lips. He felt, even at that distance, he could smell the tart juice that filled her mouth.

He shut his eyes tight. What could be simpler or more ancient in concept than an apple and a woman? The fruit of the tree of knowledge, the appetite for original sin that led to the fall and expulsion from a garden not unlike this one.

A rustle of grass, footsteps on stone. He opened his eyes and there she was, brown-eyed and curious. She held out the wounded apple - dripping, inviting, waiting for his mouth.

House leaned over and took a bite.

Sweet.