Home of the Sunflower
There was potential in her old bones, even after all the whitewash destruction the previous owner had done. There was personality in this house and we would let her shine again. Old Victorians are paint ladies. Painted. Or at least should be cousins to the concept of color. Not drenched in flat white or eggshell or creme or whatever heinous color painted, dripped, and filled each detail of this beautiful girl. Woman? I suppose if cars and boats can be ‘she’ so can houses, right?
The neighborhood was a mix of styles, but each home was wrapped in the same
shade. Whether brick, cottage stone or wood, their personality had been stripped. Ruthlessly. Homes without a sense of homeiness.
“Oh, knock it off love,” with a little kiss on the cheek I’m pulled out of my cycle of endless architecture-based mourning. It was the same rant I told my husband when we first saw the place. And that night in bed. And during the bidding war. And when I burst in on him, pants half up, on our wedding day to tell him the place was ours.
“You can’t control everything. Now, where’d you want this?”
“Over there”
I point to the For Sale sign and he follows suit. Pushing his rusty, yet still sunny wheelbarrow overflowing with my new favorite baby, a hydrangea bush. The blooms alternate from blues to pinks to purples on the stem. My magnum opus of botanical engineering finally being able to root into the ground instead of the old pot it now dwarves. Yay. Mini brain happy dance. James kicks at the pole, before rocking it back and forth until it’s free from the ground. It falls with an anticlimactic thud. He turns back, the biggest dorkiest smile on his face flowed by a garden-gloved thumbs up. The heat of the day has pasted his curls onto his forehead. His “Trust Me, I’m a Scientist” Ghostbusters tee shirt sticks tight to his back as he digs, expanding the hole the sign left.
I turn back to the finishing touches on the mailbox. The plain white metal is the perfect canvas for a touch of us. I never get tired of that. Us, in our first home. Being able to get truly settled somewhere. I pull my brush carefully until the box reads The Doctors Roberts in teal blue script.
“So, we are rounding up the PhDs, nice. I knew you’d come around to it,”
“More like I knew you would be a butt about it if I didn’t.”
“I’m just saying what’s your’s is mine, “ James holds up his hands in mock self-defense. I love this butthead.
“By the way, Dr. Mrs. Roberts, the painters are coming tomorrow.”
“Great, thanks Mr. Dr. Roberts. The swatches are labeled on the counter.”
“Labelled? Girl, You need to stop talking dirty to me.”
And with that, we’re kissing. I can feel his smile. Between the excitement of the marriage and the house, it’s hard to tell we’ve been together since undergrad. It’s been years. The stresses of moving from town to town for graduate school and post-doc are over. We can have a home. A real home. A permanent home. How did I get so lucky?
“Excuse me. I don’t mean to pry.”
It’s a voice that you can tell, definitely means to pry. I pull away from this most perfect of perfect moments to be graced by, well, what feels like the personification of gastrointestinal pain. Her lips are painted red and pursed tight enough to make coal into a diamond. If she could, I think she’d order the wind to cease to keep her linen dress from swaying ever so gently in the warm breeze. She rests her hand dawned with matching red nail polish on our mailbox, gently tapping her fingers.
“I just don’t want you to run into a problem with the post office. Mailboxes need to be within a foot and a half of the sidewalk and the box itself needs to be one out of the approved catalog. I can have it replaced and moved to the other side of the fence if need be.”
She must be a politician with the way she smiles through that much venom. Wrapping it in a beautiful bow. I feel each muscle tighten before James pulls me closer, grounding me back into the moment. Foolishly, part of me wants her to like me. Unlike having Creepy Steven go through your underwear if you leave it alone too long in the apartment’s laundry room, I want friends here. Adult friends who like tea in the afternoon and wine over a fire pit. Then again she seems like a person who would fart, blame the dog, and then kick the dog off the couch for it.
“Thank you, we just ordered it from my uncle. He might be a bit of a goofball but he's a pretty fine postmaster. My wife, Sarah, here has quite the green thumb. She’s going to plant some vines around the pole. It’ll be beautiful so don’t worry.”
“Hmph.”
“It’s lovely to meet you,” I say desperately trying to soften her face. Does she smile? Some people just don’t seem capable.
“Yes. Likewise Dr. and Mrs. Roberts.”
She hands James her card before heading back across the street. Her house’s sliding is painted the same crisp creme as her dress, and now her business card. We pass it back and forth heading up the stairs to our own front door.
Carol Sathers
HOA President
213-849-2966
“What a bitch.”
“JAMES! Be nice.” I spit.
“Oh, come on.”
“Maybe she was really trying to help. Or was having a bad day.”
“Maybe a bit constipated?”
I roll my eyes.
“OoO, Do you think her and the other HOA heads compare business cards? Eggshell? Bold choice Jessica. John lovely weight to your cardstock but I favor the texture of a cold-pressed paper. It’s much more classic.”
“You’re making it sound like an episode of The Real HOA Presidents of American Psycho.”
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her spouse. They could be tied up in the basement for tracking mud in or something.”
As the front door cracks open the home seems to burst with life. While there hasn’t been time to work on the outside, James and I have completely made the inside our own. Sanding down the ornate stairs was our first mission after closing. Partly due to the level of dust, it’s good to get that out of the way, but mostly because it was the heart, no, the main artery of the home. The wood was now stained a rich, warm golden brown which wraps from the foyer through each room on the first level then up and a round on the second. The hand-carved organic curves balance between art nouveau and storybook. James designed wallpaper at work to match the woodwork. Deep forest greens and designs he found in original photos of the home. The photo reference is hung just above the first step. The first owners. A smiling couple with a mess of a dog, blurring the photo, standing on the first step themselves. Leaning on each other as much as the railing. I hope their ghosts feel welcome at home again.
__________
The smell of coffee has already made it to our room by the time I get up. I hear James’ muffled voice through the window as I get dressed and ready for work. The painters as here. I can’t help but happy dance in the privacy of what we have coined the Pink Panther Master Potty. Pink tile, tub, toilet, and sink. I even found a panther statue to hold the toilet paper. The room shares a wall with James’ own Poop Palace. It’s more of a restored '70s avocado than a '20s water closet. He had fallen in love with the odd spindle legs of the sink and it had to stay. Not that I mind. My at-home plant projects love the humanity and south-facing window in there. And I do love green. The past was more colorful than photos may suggest. Black-and-white and sepia have really brought down the saturation of everything then. Not even Roman marble was all white when it was made. The statues were painted and much of it remained until they were scrubbed clean by invaders that preferred colorless perceived perfection.
As I pass the owner's picture on my way down to the kitchen, I kiss my fingers and lightly drag them across the frame. Today is for them too. This restoration has been decades in the making and it’s finally happening. Can I get a woot woot? When the house was first constructed it was painted in a mix of bright and deep purples. The sunflower details from top to bottom were painted in sunny yellows and fresh greens. Today this old girl will shine again. Coffee and bag in hand I head out the door.
“Mornin’ boys!” I wave to the painters and press a quick peck on James’ scruffy cheek. Note to self, remember razor blades. They’re stirring the base purple on the makeshift table they built in the front yard with a board and a couple saw horses. It looks brilliant. The color, not so much the table. I’m surprised that’s standing with how many people are leaning on it.
“It’ll go beautifully with the plants I’m bringing home today.”
“Curry for dinner?”
“Please.”
“Cool, if you plant I’ll cook.”
“Deal.”
I look down at all the paint clips on the table. It’s going to be perfect.
“Construction? I hope that old deck is coming down. It sticks out further than Susan’s and Jan’s next door.”
We both spin around. Carol. Now in a pressed suit but somehow of the same shade of… is it creme? Not yellow enough. But not quite white. Maybe slightly grey-er.
“Good morning Carol”, I smile brightly because not even she can ruin my day.
James butts in beside me, “Nope, no construction Carol. Your beauty rest is safe. Only some well-needed paint.”
“Oh? The house was given a fresh coat of alabaster this spring.”
“We’re going a different direction,” I say and gesture to the table. With the way Carol’s eyes bulge you’d think I was showing her pictures of human sacrifice and not a selection of paint clips. Maybe she’d like human sacrifice more. Only if it was in the name of Lord Alabaster.
“Oh dear, which one did you pick?”
“All of them.”
“All?”
“I’m sorry but I don’t think I can approve any of these. Let alone all. The alabaster will stay.”
“Excuse me?” I’m so flabbergasted I forget to be polite. Or at least fake polite.
“Yes. I’m terribly sorry. Maybe we can compromise and paint it an eggshell next spring. Depending we might be able to get a little wild and do a two-tone of eggshell and alabaster.”
“No.”
“I’m sorry but all paint choices have to be approved. And this was not approved.”
I’m stunned. How can someone else control what we do with our home. Is she going to go interrupt dinners now too? Oh! Indian food can only be cooked on Thursdays. Excuse but Wednesday is not a taco-approved night. Should have cooked them yesterday. I can’t believe this is happening. Last time I checked “Carol” is not written anywhere on our mortgage. Oh no. What if it is? What if was in the fine print towards the end I didn’t read because I was too hangry to focus on it. She can’t just.
“Actually, it has been approved. The Architectural History Association considers restorations to be separate from HOA policy” James flashes me a cheeky smirk. My little history nerd. My little genius history nerd.
“And…” I hop in, “Because we got a grant from the association for repairs. We fall under their policy.”
“So, the house is getting painted like a big eggplant.”
There’s a flash of anger on Carol’s face that’s soon covered by a plastered smile. I can hear the gears struggling to keep it together. Something tells me she doesn’t hear no very often and, oof, that just makes it that much sweeter.
“Thank you. That is very informative.”
As she turns to leave with a small nod, I give her the most tooth-rottingly sweet smile. Roberts two. President Sathers zero. Man, that feels good.
“I’m glad for the help in battle but you better head to work, fair knight.”
_________
The day is a blur. My nerves and excitement fill my stomach so much I can’t eat. I don’t think I could even contain myself enough to talk to anyone today. At least not like a normal human person. Luckily, my office is tucked into a forgotten corner of campus. Office is a strong word for the table I have more or less commandeered in the greenhouse. My students like to call me Plant Frankenstein, but I prefer to be seen as more of a Poison Ivy-type. I love my plants. I’m better with them than people some days. And they’re not monsters. They’re my babies. My new creation is a half tomato plant I’ve spliced with a bell pepper plant. It’s the first vegetable splice I’ve had take successfully. Part of the stems grow round, juicy tomatoes and the other stems grow flavorful green peppers. Two plants in one. Beat that Monsanto. I move Half-Salsa, as I’m calling her, to the ever-growing pile of plants moving into the home garden. After the painters are done the home will be perfect and more importantly the lawn will be available for a full botanical revamp.
“Dr. Roberts?”
I poke my head up through the leaves.
“Hey Tim, I’m over here.”
Tim’s the biology department’s one lab technician and a big tea drinker who I let raid my stash and harvest my mint in exchange for weekend watering.
“You move out or something?”
“Nope, just taking some plants home. The greenhouse is getting a bit crowded”
“Yeah, I could see that.”
“You busy? Can you help me move some pots?
“Yea, no prob Doc. You just bought a Victorian, right?”
“Bit creepy but yes.”
“Oh, I saw your car outside the place next to my moms’”
“Gotcha. Okay. Slightly less creepy.”
“Have you met Carol?”
“You know Carol?”
“I know about Carol. My moms painted their front door pink last year. Carol had it repainted beige when they were at work and left the bill in their mailbox.”
“Jeez”
“Yeah, they’d moved but like, they like the house, you know. Big trees too. Oh, and a great fire pit. I fucking, sorry fricken, hate Carol though. Make my mom cry once and I’ll just hate you forever. Simple math”
“Fair enough”
We move the rest of the pots in comfortable silence but I can feel the anger growing in my gut. I can’t live in fear in my own home just for some random woman’s approval. Carol is not just a bully to me but a flat-out bully to the whole neighborhood.
______
When it’s done, the house is beautiful. She sings on the block. The vegetable garden wraps from the side yard to the front almost ready to burst with produce. Bushes of hydrangeas. Mountains of daisies and roses and tiger lilies. Sunflowers line the deck to match the wooden ones adorning the house. I even carved out a pond. It’s a plant paradise, all topped off with the surprise hot tub James had installed in the backyard while I was gone on a conference. I’ve always wanted one. Moving soil and terracotta all day led to a lot of sore muscles. Everything bursts with color. And I can’t help but burst with pride.
As everything has taken root Carol’s complaints have grown more and more delirious. First, it was the color of the house. She took us to court. Or rather the Historical Architecture Association to court. It didn’t go well. Then she complained about the plants. They are too bright. The color wakes her up early in the morning because it shines into her bedroom window. The flowers smell too strong. It gives her headaches. The vegetables attract wildlife. She wrote letters and put them in our mailbox pretending to be other neighbors. Other neighbors who have in fact taken cuttings from me. Started their own gardens. And have painted their doors pink.
I wave to Jan and Susan as they’re digging up a future plant bed along our shared fence. Their A-frame is lined with blue painter's tape around the window frames.
“I like the pink”
“Thanks, very Barbie’s dream house, right?” Jan smiles and moves toward me. Susan waves and keeps digging at a particularly rowdy root.
“Very. Your house has always reminded me of one I had as a kid. You should paint the fence too.”
“Really?! I wanted to but Suzie was worried you’d be pissed. We’ll keep your side white of course. I don’t think baby pink and eggplant really go together. At least not the way you have it.”
“I say go for it”
“Thanks! Oh, you know, Chris?” I shake my head. She continues, “Well, you need to meet Chris, he’s two down on the other side. He’s going to powerwash the paint off his brick. Wanted to know if we needed our driveway cleaned. You in? I think the power has gone straight to his head.”
“Oh, I’m in.”
“Wonderful, tomorrow, you can tell him yourself. Swing by, we’re opening the firepit. We will have wine and some sparkling water. Bring James of course.”
“Of course. We wouldn’t miss it.”
An adult invite. An actual adult invite. I’ve made it. I have a loving husband and a home. A place to be. And that night I could rest knowing that everything was perfect.
I smelled the smoke first. The clock said it was 7 a.m. and while the sun was up it was much too bright outside. I pulled myself to the window, kicking James awake as I slid out of the covers. Oh no.
The front yard was ablaze, the pond water was the only thing keeping it from reaching the deck. In the center of the yard. Planted on the sidewalk. One barefoot and one high heel, Carol. She had actually gone mad. Properly mad. Her hair was no longer styled back neatly and the bottom of her pencil skirt looked scorched. We made unfortunate eye contact at the window as I pulled back the drapes.
“YOU! YOU DID THIS! YOU RUINED MY NEIGHBORHOOD!”
That’s enough. I open the window. “Oh, get a grip Carol!”
“FUCK OFF CAROL!” Jan joins in on the screaming this time adding a hose to the equation. First spraying Carol in the face then spraying down the flames. Carol doesn’t run. Rather sadly walks away from the scene dripping wet, as if she were the one with a front yard on fire. Unbelievable. Still a victim.
Once I join Jan with the hose we make quick work of the last of the flames. My poor babies. Kicking through ashes my eyes sting a bit more than I’d like to admit. I know they’re plants. But they were mine. I watched them grow from seed to sprout.
“No structural damage, but I did find this in the hot tub. I guess through the hot tub. Sorry, love.” James holds up a sword. One made for fencing that’s more needle than blade. He shrugs, “Free sword though?”
“It’s that like evidence or something?”
“It wasn’t a murder”
“It was a murder of my hot tub.”
“Our hot tub.”
I smile a little but the ashes of my plants still blow around my feet. My perfect garden. My perfect home.
“Maybe no firepit tonight. Seems in bad taste. Dinner?” Jan and Suzie come around the fence with brooms and rakes. A warm but apologetic look on their face.
“We are sorry,” says Suzie
“Hope you don’t mind. I did film the whole thing. Like all of it. For my own enjoyment, yes, but also for your case.”
“Thank you”
Slowly, we push piles of ash into bigger piles of ash. While Jan and James take a break to sword fight, one with evidence and the other for a broom handle, I feel something soft under my foot. Beneath the ash, one sunflower, all be it a little worse for wear, survives. And it’s perfect.
“Oh crap, did anyone call the cops?”
