The middle of April seemed as good a time as any for Halfred Weston to get started on his little backyard garden. The weather was just right. Not too cold, not too wet. Good time to get the soil turned and fertilized. For years, he'd been growing the same things; tomatoes, a variety of peppers, and occasionally some beans. Those didn't always seem to take. He tried growing carrots too, but between the rabbits and moles, he'd all but given up.
He was keen to try the new fertilizer ol' Tony down at the garden supply store had been talking about. It was supposed to be free of toxic chemicals and safe for pets and humans. Some kind of 'biologic agent' was supposed to make it work better. Safe for families, safe for the earth was its catchphrase. Just the kind of thing that made a person feel quietly responsible just for using it.
Halfred had been in the garden most of the afternoon. Nothing serious. Just turning soil, pulling a few stubborn weeds. He had dumped a bag of the new fertilizer into his wheelbarrow and had worked it into the damp soil with a hand rake, breaking up the darker clumps with the heel of his boot. The ground still held the cool of early spring, and the mud clung a little more than he expected. By the time he finished, the bottoms of his shoes were thick with it.
He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood for a moment, looking at the small bed along the fence line. Nothing spectacular. The sort of ordinary effort that rarely gets remembered.
He came in through the mud porch, as he always did.
The screen door creaked slightly, then thumped shut behind him. The familiar smell of damp coats and old rubber boots greeted him. He stepped across the worn mat and into the kitchen without really thinking about it.
Three steps.
Maybe four.
Then he stopped.
“Oops.”
He looked down at the muddy prints on the linoleum. Dark, wet impressions already beginning to soften at the edges. As he had countless times, he walked right past Georgia's little sign that read
SHOES PLEASE
He sighed softly.
He bent, untied one shoe, then the other. He slipped them off and tossed them back into the mud porch, sailing over the dog’s water dish. The dog, who had been lying nearby, lifted its head briefly, sniffed the air, then settled back down. One landed upright. The other tipped sideways, leaving a small smear against the threshold.
He grabbed a paper towel and wiped the floor. The marks came up easily enough. A faint dampness remained, then faded.
He rinsed his hands in the sink.
The dog stood, padded over, and drank from the water bowl, as if just reminded it was there. The steady lapping filled the quiet kitchen for a few seconds. Then it stopped.
The afternoon passed the way afternoons tend to pass. Dinner. Television. A few idle conversations. Nothing worth noting.
By the second day, the dog seemed a little off.
Not sick. Just a little out of it. Irritable. This lasted through the next day.
It snapped once when Halfred reached to scratch behind its ears. That wasn’t like it. The moment passed quickly enough. The dog retreated to its usual spot and lay down, watching the room with an alertness that seemed slightly misplaced.
“Probably just tired,” Georgia said.
Or maybe the weather. Storms had been rolling through lately. Animals always sensed those things.
By the next morning, the dog was pacing.
Not constantly. Just enough to notice. It drank more water than usual, then lay down again, then got back up. When someone reached toward it, the dog stiffened, then gave a low, uncertain growl.
Later that afternoon, Halfred tried to move the water bowl to refill it.
The dog snapped.
It wasn’t a bad bite. Just a quick flash of teeth and a shallow scratch across the hand. More surprising than painful.
“Jesus,” he said, pulling back.
A little blood. Nothing dramatic.
He rinsed it at the sink and wrapped it in a bandage.
The dog retreated to the corner and watched.
The next morning, they took the dog to the vet.
The waiting room smelled faintly of disinfectant, dander, and old magazines. The dog sat quietly this time, almost subdued. The exam didn’t take long.
Temperature normal.
Eyes clear.
No signs of infection.
Blood tests came back pretty normal.
The vet shrugged gently.
“Sometimes they just get a little out of sorts,” he said. “Keep an eye on it.”
$315 later, they went home.
A few days later, Halfred's headaches started.
Nothing severe at first. Just a dull pressure behind the eyes. The kind that comes from poor sleep or too much coffee. Tylenol helped. For a while.
The headaches returned.
More frequently.
Sharper.
The irritability came with them.
Short answers. Little flashes of temper. A quiet impatience that didn’t quite match the situation.
“Everything okay?” Georgia asked.
“Yeah. Just a headache.”
Tylenol bottles began appearing in different rooms. On the counter. On the nightstand. Near the sink.
He just couldn't seem to drink enough water either.
A few days later, the argument started over something small. It always did.
A misplaced item. A tone of voice. A comment taken the wrong way.
The voices rose quicker than usual.
The exchange sharpened.
Then, suddenly, something shifted.
The anger seemed to jump the rails.
Words came out harder than intended. Louder.
And then, in a brief, strange moment that neither of them would later remember clearly -
Halfred spit right in Georgia's face.
It landed right in her eye.
Both of them stopped.
The silence that followed felt longer than it should have.
Halfred muttered something.
Georgia just stood there speechless.
Halfred grabbed his hanky and moved to wipe it away, trying to apologize as genuinely as possible.
Georgia winced and took a step backward.
Outside, the garden sat quietly, the damp soil slowly drying in the afternoon sun.
The dog lay near the outer mud porch door.
Not asleep.
Not moving.
Only an occasional low growl.
----
DiGregorio's Greenhouse had been the go-to spot for most folks gardening needs for a few generations. Tony DiGregorio's grandfather opened it shortly after arriving from Palermo. That first winter he sold Christmas trees and poinsettias. He took most of his profits and bought and sold long-stem roses for Valentine's Day. Then bouquets for Easter. By then, he'd saved up enough money to open the first greenhouse. Fresh plants and flowers all year long. In the first years after the big war, people moved to the suburbs in droves. The old man sold shrubs, saplings, and tray upon tray of flowers. He stocked mulch, fertilizers, bug spray, and of course seeds. Anything anyone could want or need for some home gardening.
Tony DiGregorio was the beneficiary of the American dream.
He was a third-generation businessman. Truth be told, he cared more about profits than petunias, but the greenhouse was the family business - its legacy. One day, one of his boys would take over. If, and only if, they started showing an interest.
His youngest, Paul, always enjoyed the greenhouse. He enjoyed getting his hands dirty. Most days, he was happier digging in dirt than most boys were playing baseball.
The last week or so, though, Paul hadn't been himself. He was moody. For a teenager, that in itself wasn't unusual. What was troubling was just how irritable he'd become. He was distant, and small disagreements with the employees escalated quickly. Tony somehow missed Paul's newfound reliance on aspirin, Tylenol, and Advil. Just like his old man, Paul wasn't one to complain about something like a headache.
Everyone was totally surprised when he beat the snot out of a kid at school. The principal told Tony it had been unprovoked.
Tony had just got in another order of EcoBloom, the new safe for everyone fertilizer. He'd have to get one of the employees to stock it while he ran to the school to pick up his son.
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