The Prickery Bush

By Joe Ducato

          "Never again!"
          She swore to it. She swore at it. She swore about it.
          "Not one more nature experiment!"
          That's what I can remember most about my mother as I was growing up-the way she always swore off nature, and the way her upper lip curled whenever she did, like a preacher electrified with the Spirit. I remember the time she put out the ash trays filled with cow's blood. Harriet's Big Mosquito Caper. If the buzzers took the "free lunch" and left the humans unmolested, then cookouts would be changed forever. In the end, though, the mosquitoes held on firmly to their beliefs. Turns out, it was the hunt that was electric to them. After all was said and done, all we were left with were ashtrays filled with sun-baked plasma and a smell that could gag a rat.
          The bats, though, that was one of my mother's better ones. Harriet of Nature, as we called her then, succeeded in getting a number of the little cloaked devils to partake of some milk she'd left in tin saucers on our front porch. That was Harriet's big one. I remember watching in amazement as the blind visitors shyly strolled up and tilted the saucers. I remember with exactness the sound of the saucer scraping against the porch wood, but it was nothing compared to the sparkle in my mother's eye. She'd finally gotten nature to go her way.
          "Stick to the rodents," I remember how I told her later, "Insects are too fickle."
          It didn't matter really. Nothing was safe when Harriet took to dancing with the natural world.
          Those days, the days I spent growing up, seem like old photos now, photos rolled up and stuffed inside a yellow bottle that still floats inside me somewhere. Every so often the bottle turns and a picture I'd long forgotten pops up, like pictures of our camp when it was brand new. My father, then, had called it, Camp Suck-All-Your-Money, but he ended up loving it more than any of us.
          My father and nature got along like brothers. Sometimes that didn't sit too well with my mother. Nothing ever sucked at, nipped at, or stung my father. They knew he wouldn't fight them. I guess maybe it took all the game out of it for them. Even the crows didn't bother with my father, even in the spring when they were completely nuts. My father would've let them pick him up and carry him off, and he wouldn't care where they carried him off to either. He trusted it all.
          I think nature might have been what had gotten between my mother and my father the most, but it was also the very thing I took with me from those long ago days when our family was young. It was our hobby. Everything we did had something to do with nature, and camp money-sucker slowly became our real home. Yes, we had another house in the 'burbs where my father took off from on weekdays to peddle insurance to people who didn't need it, but it was from that camp that all my color pictures came from. It's where my exactness lies. I remember exactly how the cabin smelled in the middle of the night as I lay in my flying horse sleeping bag with crickets all around and my clothes drenched with campfire. It was marvelous. The camp even became a haven for our stray relatives, something that made my father squirm because I think it might have been family he'd bought it to get away from, but that could never be in the cards either. Harriet of Nature was not only a "bat feeder"; she had a wing large enough for any wandering aunt, uncle or black sheep cousin to snuggle under. Some relative I'd never heard of before was always showing up at the camp, but that was then, and I don't know what's happened to most of them.
          Two days ago, my mother called me and asked if I'd come up to the camp to look at the roof. She said there was a leak and that my father was too "chicken" to go up there. She said rainwater was going in her toaster and making her bagels smoke, and it was all starting to make her mad.
          It was a Thursday after work that we went, my own boy and I. We ventured up to the land of many lakes, frequent pines and sacred coolness. I wondered, as I drove and took note of how beautiful the land was, why I hadn't gone back more often.
          We parked as close as we could to my parent's camp, but we had "the new car" and I was too "chicken" to take it through the close trees. We hoofed it in from the road.
          As we got closer, I could see, around the back of the cabin, far off down the hill, the top of my mother's head. She was down by the dock. When we got closer, I saw her day dress. Harriet loved her day dresses. She was on the dock, spinning about wildly, waving a styrofoam cup. I could hear her cursing. She looked stunning, her gray hair now white, as she jousted with another uncooperative piece of nature, a dragonfly.
          "Damn you," she snarled as we walked closer. When she spotted us, though, her swipe quickly turned to a wave.
          "Hey! Ever catch one of these babes in a cup? Sounds like a kazoo. If I can snag him, you're in for a treat."
          I think I realized then, standing there and looking down to the dock, that somehow the world had become bigger than my mother. She was now one of the "little women," and for a second I felt as if I were the oldest one there, although I knew the dragon fly to be my elder. That was one of the things nature had taught me.
          Kyle, my boy, and I walked down the railroad tie-steps covering the hillside that led to the dock. I cupped my hands and yelled to Harriet.
          "Where's Monkus?"
          My mother turned towards the lake. I could feel her smile, though her back was to us. Water always made Harriet smile. I don't know why. When she turned back, it was like my question had vanished with the dragonfly.
          "You missed it," she announced, "Yesterday was Christmas in July."
          She rubbed her chin to extract more thoughts.
          "Mr. Poulan was Santa, again. Can you believe he still does that?"
          "He likes it," I replied, but by that time, she'd forgotten about Christmas in July and was focused on Kyle.
          "Where you been all summer?"
          We had no answers for her. Harriet of Nature was famous for asking questions that we couldn't or wouldn't answer.
          "Monkus left early again today," she pouted, pointing to the water that was Hammerhead Lake. It had gotten its name from how it looked from the window of a plane.
          Kyle, in the meantime, was squirming in his sneaks. His eyes were glued to the only reason he'd come with me in the first place, a rope in a leaning tree, hanging over the shallow part of Hammerhead, something I'd put up years ago. My son was getting ready to offer up his soul for a shot at the swinging rope.
          As the three of us came together, the dragonfly suddenly came back and dive-bombed at us. When we were kids, we used to say that they sewed people's mouths shut. No kid would ever mutter a word in the presence of a "sewing needle."
          "Well, what're you waiting for," Harriet barked to Kyle, "Nobody's been on that rope in a year. Better get to it 'fore the snow starts a-flying!"
          Great Gods! Kyle had been freed. He sprinted across the dock, bounded over a pile of cut logs and hit the leaning tree like a monkey off a trampoline, conquering limbs in just seconds. In no time, he was on the rope branch, and then, before we could blink, he went sailing before our eyes then gracefully deposited himself into Hammerhead Lake, kissing the cool lake water like only a boy can.
          I touched Harriet's shoulder.
          "So I forgot, how is Monkus?"
          Harriet smiled.
          "Monkus will be Monkus," she calmly replied.
          I think I had been maybe ten when we first started calling my father Monkus. Somehow we'd taken notice of how solemn and contemplative he became when he stood out in his garden. He reminded us of a monk. He'd just stand in the same spot for hours, looking at his plants with his head down. It might have been one of my cousins who first referred to him as The Monkus Gardener, but it stuck, and it still rings true for him.
          "And where is he now?"
          "Oh," Harriet said looking at the water, "He's probably across the way."
          I stepped back.
          "He's not out on Annabelle is he?"
          Harriet looked skyward. A Harriet eye to the sky means, "I'm afraid the answer is yes."
          It was hard for me to imagine my father out on the lake in his relic World War II rowboat. It was nearly falling apart thirty years ago. My father had named his rowboat after an aunt who, as he put it, had "shifted her load a bit and ended up in the nut house." My father had named it for her because like her, the boat was "falling apart, but still worked and appreciated a good ride once in a while." He loved saying that line. Everything was part of a big comedy for Monkus. I guess it is for me too. The only time it isn't is when I see a speck of hurt in someone's eye, like I did in my mother's at that moment. Nothing's worse than when something isn't funny that ought to be. It's the saddest thing in the world sometimes.
          "Your old man is something else, you know…."
          I finished Harriet's thought for her. "Yes," I said calmly, "That man could try the patience of a two-toed sloth."
          "Three-toed," Harriet quipped. "Have you seen his shed? It's falling apart an' it don't even bother him a lick."
          I turned and looked toward the Monkus garden. She was right. The Monkus shed was buckling like the bottom row of a house of cards. It made me shiver, but what really sent shivers up my spine was the monster bush that was practically devouring the shed.
          "What's with the bush?" I asked.
          "Ever see anything like it?" my mother grumbled. " He can hardly squeeze through the damn door."
          "Well, how'd it get that way?" I asked. "A guy ought to have a license to have something like that. My God. It's got tentacles."
          "And he won't trim it," Harriet said, folding her arms. "No! No! No! 'Wind brought it here; wind can take it away.' That's what the idiot says."
          I laughed as Harriet swatted something crawling on her dress.
          "And it ain't like he's got any affection for the thing," she went on. "It stabs him silly every time he tries to get the lawnmower. The other day I heard him call it a friggin' mutant."
          Behind us Tarzan sailed again. Harriet thought she spotted the dragonfly and stiffened like a retriever. It was the big comedy.
          "That's the one we used to call ginsu-bush isn't it?" I asked.
          "Same beast," Harriet nodded. "'Cept it's turned into a sumo bush now. You should see the side of your old man' leg. It looks like he's waltzed with a sausage grinder."
          I decided I'd have a crack at Monkus logic.
          "Now what's this with the wind? Why is it he doesn't cut it?"
          Harriet looked straight into my eyes.
          "Who knows? How come he don't ever get no smarter? How come he goes out on the lake in a tin can when he can afford ten of them fiber-whatever-you-call-them things? I never cared much for his Aunt Annabelle anyway. She wasn't as crazy as she led every one to believe. How come? I got lots of 'how comes.' It's answers I ain't got so many of."
          Harriet clutched my elbow. I hated when she did that. It hurt.
          "And here's a little tid-bit you can chew on Sonny boy. Monkus Gardener ain't even out there fishing like he says he is. Take that back to the big city with you."
          "Come on," I winced, "How do you know that?"
          "Oh I know. Only fishing he's doing is lie-fishing. D'you know what that is? Man's been lie-fishing for years. Monkus Gardner couldn't catch a fish if it was breaded and waiting for him on a skillet with a piece of lemon on its butt. Monkus Gardener is only a gardener. It's the only thing he's got any sensibilities for. Anything else he tries, well, it's kind of like a puppy ridin' your leg. He knows he's doing something, but he ain't got a clue why."
          She looked off then turned back to me.
          "Monkus lies like a sleeping bear. Do you want to know what he really does out there on the lake every day?"
          "What?" I asked cynically.
          "Well, first he paddles his sorry little butt over to the other side and picks up the other good-for-nothing's, Fat Billy the Barber and Frankie Never had a Wife. I don't know how that thing don't sink with Billy in it. Anyway, then the three stooges row themselves over to the beach where I can't see them and they sit on their duffs all day ogling the pretty young things sunning themselves on the beach. That's what they do. The pigs!"
          I smirked and looked off. Harriet squeezed even harder on my funny bone.
          "And that's just on Mondays. On Tuesdays they chew and smoke. On Wednesdays they look at dirty books. Thursdays they drink, and Fridays they just sit and look stupid because they've worn themselves out Monday through Thursday. Louise from the Bait Store calls me everyday and tells me. They buy all their stuff from her, and they're too stupid to remember that Louise an' me are friends. One hundred percent pure beef fools. Top grade."
          Harriet coughed then went on.
          "One time I cut his fishing line an' I rolled it back on the reel just to see if he noticed. Well, he come strutting back in that day an' I says, 'Hey Monkus, how they biting?' Well he puts on those dog eyes and says, 'Har, I couldn't catch a cold.' Someday he'll come up with some new lines. Not one word about his fishing line going in the drink unattached to the pole. Only time a broken line works is for lie fishing."
          My mother gave a wry smile.
          "I bet that don't even bother you, what I'm saying about your old man, does it? That's why I don't say nothing half the time 'cause down deep inside I feel sorry for the whole lot of you…but the fact is, Sonny, most men ain't good for much more than telling lies, accepting lies, taking naps, and squirming out of work. Watch this."
          Harriet cupped her hands and hollered up to Kyle, who was thoroughly enjoying his life in the leaning tree.
          "Kyle! Can you see your Grandfather's boat across the way?"
          Kyle looked off then looked down towards his feet.
          "See, he's got it too, just like the rest of you. Do you know, yesterday Louise said they were actually hooting at a couple of kids making out at the picnic tables? I'm surprised they don't take pictures an' sell 'em to each other." Harriet took a breath. "Does Monkus know you're coming?"
          "You said not to tell him," I replied, a little annoyed.
          "I did?"
          Harriet turned to Kyle again.
          "Hey! Want one of your grandmother's famous turkey melts?"
          "He's not hungry," I interrupted. "We just stopped to look at the roof."
          "Ah the roof," Harriet said, "Poor roof. It's got no backbone left."
          Harriet then looked off and caught a glimpse of my new car beyond the pines.
          "You ain't one of them ninnies that drive around with a phone in your ear are you?"
           Again she had me. I couldn't answer.
          "Well, don't be doing that here. I hate it."
          My mother then muttered something about getting a towel for Kyle and, without another word, turned and headed for the hill. I watched her climb a few ties, then went and threw my body into one of the lawn chairs at the end of the dock. I watched Kyle climb the tree for the hundredth time. All for a couple of seconds of ecstasy, I thought. What an addict he is, just like us. I looked at the lake and tried to see across it to where Annabelle might be parked, but the lake was too flat, and I was too low. The no goods had outsmarted me. If only they'd given a thought to Louise from the Bait Store.
          It took a long time for Harriet to return. By the time I heard her again, the landscape had changed, and the late July sun had draped the tree-lined lake. Harriet came up from behind and laid a towel down along the back of my chair.
          "Just in case," she whispered sweetly. She then lowered herself in the chair next to me and kicked off her sandals.
          "Can you get over that stupid prickery bush? Remember how you kids called it the prickery bush?"
           I laughed.
          "I never corrected you either," Harriet said with closed eyes. "I don't believe in that. If you said prickery bush, then that was what it was, just like the Washington machine. Remember that one? I never corrected you on that either. You don't still say that do you?"
          I turned and smiled. She whispered to me.
          "I know the way you and your father used to talk when I wasn't around. I heard you two in the living room, late at night when Carson was on. I never could find that much to say to you. Now I got something to say. Think you might be game?"
          "I guess," I answered, looking out.
          "Well, take a good look at that prickery bush there," Harriet began.
          We turned in our chairs and both looked back at the shed.
          "See how it's a little cock-eyed, like someone took a bite out of it?"
          "Yeah," I acknowledged.
          "Well it was me that took the bite out of it," Harriet confessed. "Three days ago. Me and my own little buddy, Hell Fire the Black and Decker chainsaw. I named her Hell Fire 'cause nothing she touches is ever the same. Better than Annabelle, hah?"
          "So why'd you stop there?" I asked.
          "Well," Harriet replied, "I had all the intentions of putting that prickly old thing right out of its misery, but then I started feeling bad like I wasn't giving it a sporting chance…so I laid Hell Fire down and decided to have a go it with my bare hands. Fe-mano o' fe-mano."
          Harriet clenched her fists and brought them up to my eyes.
          "First I grabbed one of those prickly things and I was just getting to start a tug-of-war with it, but then the strangest thing happened. The thing pulled up like a knife from a well-done cake. No resistance at all. That's when I figured it out. That's when I figured out that it wasn't the prickery bush I'd hated all them years. It was your old man. I should have taken the chainsaw to him. The prickery bush just wants to be like the rest of us. You know, take up some space, suck down some water and maybe sprout a few prickers here and there to bleed fools who get too close. That's when I knew it was true. Wind put it there. Wind can take it away. I'm as crazy as Monkus. See what marriage does to you? I hate it when sayings I don't understand turn out to be true."
           Harriet took a deep breath. We both looked up at Kyle, standing up there, proud in his perch, dripping all over everything. A late breeze stirred one of Harriet's foil bat pans sitting under my chair.                                 "Get any bats lately?"
          "Two last Monday," Harriet smiled. "How long has it been since you stayed up here for dinner? I can't even remember."
          It was done. Harriet had decided for us. Without another word, she got up from her chair and then went off, back to the cabin. The prickery bush was the farthest thing from her mind.
          I looked at Kyle again, and then decided I needed a crack at the leaning tree. It wasn't a pretty sight, but I managed to make it to the rope branch. Kyle tried to talk me into swinging, but I didn't bite. I never bite. I steadied myself then looked out and back from above. I could see the camp and the spot on the roof that needed fixing. I could see Harriet in the kitchen wielding her big, black frying pan. I could see the Monkus garden, the fragile shed, the hooks on the back of it where he put Annabelle down to sleep every night after a day of lies. I even saw the spot where my mother threw the piece of prickery bush she and Hellfire had taken off. It was only a couple of feet from where Monkus often stood and looked at his plants. He'd never notice.
          My mother always cooked plain. It had been a while since I had plain cooking. Harriet of Nature was always glad to cook. She used to cook for everyone. Now she had few to cook for. Independence hurts sometimes when you're on the other side.
          After dinner, at just about sunset, the three of us went back down to the dock again. Hammer Head Lake was smooth except for some flitting dragonflies disturbing the edges, trying to sew it up, but finding like the rest of us that it all just slips through. The old couples were all in now with their canoes. The base of the big tree Kyle had loved so much was still dark from his love. I caught myself yawning, a big shuddering yawn I hadn't had for years.
          Mom let Kyle pour milk into the bat tins and apologized for the rudeness of the mosquitoes. We waited for the bats but they never came and finally Harriet lured Kyle back to the cabin with the threat of an ice cream soda.
          I stayed behind and slouched in the cold lawn chair at the edge of the dock trying, like Monkus, not to care about getting bit. I sat quietly until darkness fell. In time, I could make out the soft breaking of water out on the dark lake, and I could hear Annabelle's sweet moans. I wondered how my father knew his way back in all that darkness. In time, with the help of the moon, I saw the silhouette of Monkus Gardener, sitting still in his relic, letting the waters have their way with him. Some of his ripples came to me. I wondered if he ever thought about fatherhood the way I did or if he was just plain tougher than all that.
          I shut my eyes and my exactness came back. I could see exactly the way Monkus would smile when he noticed that it was I waiting for him at the edge of his dock.

Copyright 2001 Joe Ducato

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHORS