The ol’ tale that one should not judge a book by it’s cover, or rather, one should not judge a Gardener by his crops…
The Gardener
It was the last Sunday of the August, early morning. The Gardner was finishing his set up of produce, as he always did every last Sunday of the month. It was late summer so the crops at this time of year were tomatoes, cucumbers, zucchini, squash, eggplant, carrots and, as always, strawberries, arranged in a beautiful rainbow spread. He posted the prices on the bins, then, brushing off his hands, he felt he was finally done. But wait, he jumped, almost forgetting his old wheelbarrow of shoes. Rusted and rickety, he steered it to its spot and posted its sign: Old shoes for $1. Standing back, he placed his hands on his hips and stared at the pile with satisfaction for a moment. Now, he was done. Content, he whispered to himself, "This is going to be a great Sunday." Turning away, he adorned his straw hat and took his place in his wicker chair next to his old bloodhound, Hannibal, and waited for folks passing by, hungry for fresh-grown produce. Folks from both in and out of town drove past and stopped at the side of the street to buy his goods. He was friendly and obliging, his crow’s feet curved along with his smile as he charmed his patrons with his silky Southern accent, rare in this part of Elm Grove, New York. This, of course, always prompted customers to ask about his life. Even that was a charming tale. Born and raised in Asheville, North Carolina. His mother and father were gardeners. It was a hobby he was born into and never gave up. His hands in the dirt brings him back to his home life. Why did he end up in New York? Well, he followed a love that was lost, but as it was late in his life, he decided to stay put but never gave up his green thumb. So, it’s just him and his ol’ buddy, Hannibal. “How bittersweet,” was the common response. This was the story that Iris and Dale, his neighbors, heard for 3 years, like a repeat script. They lived directly across the street. Dale, too, was charmed by his neighbor, but Iris was not so much. In fact, she always felt The Gardener was a bit… off. A week after they first moved in, he knocked at their door. Giving them a very wide, overly-friendly smile while never breaking eye contact, he introduced himself, saying, “Just call me The Gardener.” He offered a basket of fresh-grown strawberries and never came by their house again. It was a month later that Iris first asked the question, “Why does he never give his name? He only wants everyone to call him ‘The Gardener.’ Don’t you find that strange?” Dale simply offered, “Maybe he just likes it as a nickname or maybe he hates his first name. What difference does it make, anyway?” Iris said nothing more. In the next couple of months that followed, Dale indulged in The Gardener’s produce at the end of every month. He felt it was a sweet deal and special event he was thrilled to take part in. Iris, however, stopped eating his food. To her, it had a funny taste. Dale disagreed, “You only feel that way because you don’t like him.” In defense, Iris said, “I don’t dislike him. I’m just not as keen on him as everybody else.” A year passed, once again, Iris heard the squeaking of his wheelbarrow through her open kitchen window. She peered through the curtains then whispered to Dale, “Why does he always have random shoes to sell?” Showing no regard or care, Dale replied, “Iris, it's probably just his old worn-out shoes.” “I’ve only seen him wear the same worn-out boots since we moved here. There's just no way.” Not willing to let it go, Iris decided to pretend shop that afternoon and took a look at the shoes while The Gardener was preoccupied with another customer. After Iris bought some cucumbers, so as not to blow her cover, she reported back to Dale. “Those shoes are all different sizes, different styles and there were at least ten of them.” Dale laughed this off. “My God, Iris, you have got to stop watching crime shows. You’re going to drive yourself nuts.” For weeks, Iris almost did let it go until one night, in the dead of night, she got up for a drink of water. She was in the kitchen when she heard a muffled yelp coming from The Gardener’s house. She peered through the kitchen window and thought for a moment she saw a flash of light deep in the depths of The Gardener's back garden. Iris, scared, quickly tiptoed back to her room, crawled back in bed and hugged Dale. She closed her eyes just waiting to warn him about what she'd seen. “There’s no way you could see back into his garden. It goes so far back past his front yard, and there are bushes in front of it!” Dale exclaimed, the next morning as he poured Orange juice into his glass. Iris crossed her arms. “So, how do you explain the yell I heard, Dale?” “It’s probably his dumb dog, Hannibal. He howls all the time, babe. Seriously, you've got to let this go.” From then on, Iris decided to keep any additional suspicions of The Gardener to herself. However, she always kept a watchful eye across the street. Mainly for the sake of her husband. Iris noticed those shoes were all male shoes and she did not want to chance Dale being targeted by a psycho serial killer. It’s finally this last Sunday in August in the late afternoon that the question of the shoes is asked out loud. Iris, just after parking in the driveway, walked towards her porch when she heard one of The Gardener’s patrons ask him about them. “Where do you get all these shoes?” Shocked but still playing it safe, Iris slightly slowed her steps and listened intently to The Gardener’s response. “Ah, yes, well, I collect them from the phone lines whenever I’m out on my travels. It’s my odd pet peeve. I can’t stand seeing them up there.” Iris pulled open her screen door then entered her front door. As soon as the door closed behind her, she said out loud to herself, “Phone lines, my ass. There’s no way that old man is climbing those poles.” Dale was home, and Iris decided she could not hold it in anymore. “Phone lines? Phone lines, Dale!” Dale, sitting in the kitchen with a half a sandwich in his hand, looked up from his laptop, confused. “Uh, what?” Iris pointed across the street. “He just said he gets those shoes from phone lines. I mean, come on! There’s no way the old man is climbing those poles. And just let me point out it’s not 1991. No one throws shoes on phone lines anymore!” Dale closed his laptop. “Okay, this is out of nowhere. I thought you let this go?” Iris sat down at the table. “I most certainly did not let it go. I’ve been keeping tabs on him for years. And another thing I wasn’t going to mention before but now I think it’s important. The other day, his hands were bloody.” Dale lifted a finger. “I actually know the answer to this. His hands were like that a couple times before and I asked him myself and he explained that when picks his strawberries, he eats some at the same time and the juices stain his hands.” Iris gave Dale an incredulous look. “Stained from strawberry juice? Give me a break. You can’t really believe that load of crap.” Dale shrugged. “I don’t see anything wrong with it.” Iris pinched the bridge of her nose. “Firstly, even if that were true, that’s totally gross. But realistically, I know it’s not strawberries; it’s bloodstains.” Dale shook his head and continued to go back and forth with Iris. However, what Iris hadn’t noticed was that the kitchen window was cracked open just enough for words to travel right across the street, landing on the ears of The Gardener. He was able to just catch Dale mention his hands becoming stained from the fruit. And this was actually true. The Gardener's favorite fruit was indeed strawberries. He enjoyed them so much, he couldn’t help himself when he harvested them. He got up and walked into his house, locking the door behind him. He walked down the hall to his basement door. Unlocking several deadbolts, he replayed what Iris had accused him of. “Blood stains,” he chuckled to himself. He never heard something so ridiculous. He clicked on the light switch and slowly descended the stairs. He thought to himself, “Blood doesn’t stain hands the way the fruit juice does. It stains many other things, typically porous, and eventually turns dark in color.” But The Gardner was always careful not to let blood remain on his hands or anywhere else, for that matter. Though his ol’ bud Hannibal always did a great job cleaning up any splatters in his basement. He heard a low yelp and yelled, “Shut up!” Not to Hannibal, of course. He never spoke to his beloved dog that way. The Gardner was addressing the man bound, gagged and beaten nearly to death, lying on his basement floor. His time of torturing the man had nearly worn out. And soon after having all his fun, he would bury the remains deep in his garden and burn the man's clothing. His shoes, well, his shoes were impossible to burn without giving off a strong burning rubber scent. It was just easier to sell them. The Gardener stood in front of his victim, looking down. He smiled the most devilish wide smile and said without an accent, “Ahh, what a wonderful Sunday it is.”Sit tight, the next tale in the Town of Elm Grove series returns December!!
