Thread: Doreen's Garden

My cell phone begins to vibrate and move across the desk. I pick it up before it falls to the floor.

“Hello,” I say.

“Mr. Burns?”

“Yes,”

“Mr. Burns. I’m calling on behalf of my daughter.” He has a deep, soft voice that is difficult to hear.

“Can you speak up a bit? What’s your name?”

“Mr. Wilkerton. John Wilkerton.” If anything his voice has gotten softer and I have to strain to catch every word.

“Okay, Mr. Wilkerton. Can you tell me a little bit about what’s going on?”

“My daughter has these spells. The first couple of days, she is very quiet and keeps to her room most of the day.
But then she changes. She starts talking about how she wants to hurt people and . . . they’re dead,” he says.

“I didn’t quite catch that last bit. They’re dead?”

“She wishes they were dead but the way she talks about it . . . I don’t think girls should talk like that.”

“It sounds like she may be suffering from depression.”

“Whatever you say doc.” I begin to wonder if she’s being sexually abused. It doesn’t usually present itself this way but I don’t dismiss the idea.

“Why don’t we setup an appointment?” I ask, reaching for my book. ”Do you think she could come in this Thursday.”

“She’s not gonna want to do that. You’ll have to come down here.”

“Look, I don’t make house calls. But I know a couple of doctors that might.”

“No sir. It has to be you. Doreen saw your picture on that website of yours and wants you.”

If I weren’t so desperate for a client, I would decline. “I don’t like doing visits. I’ll setup the first two at your house but after that, she’s going to have come in.”

“After that . . . It’ll be . . . for you.”

***

Wilkerton’s home is at the edge of town, where the houses are more spread out and the roads are more in need of repair. I park my maroon sedan in front of large oak. The concrete is swollen and cracked around its roots, which are spread out like thick fingers.

The walkway to the house divides the front lawn evenly. To the left is a beautiful well tended lawn bordered with roses, tulips and chrysanthemums. To the right is nothing but rich black soil, recently turned. I kneel down, testing the earth.

“I would steer clear of that patch.” A voice comes from the front of the house. The front porch is steeped in shadows that come at a time of day when the sun hits the overhang at just the right angle.

I walk to the foot of the steps and see a man wearing a brown corduroy shirt and worn jeans, idly rocking in a porch swing. The empty seat is occupied by a throw rug, which doesn’t fully cover a dark stain underneath.

“Hello, Mr. Wilkerton.” His arm is casually draped on the back of the swing.

“John,” he corrects as we shake handsbriefly.
He points to the empty garden. “That’s Doreen’s patch. She’d pitch a fit if she saw you messing with it.” I look at the barren patch but don’t give voice to what I am feeling.

“Empty. I know,” John says. “Maybe I should tell you--”

“Daddy, can you get the door for me?” Doreen’s voice comes from behind the screen door. John bends over, hands on his knees, and pushes himself up. He holds the door for Doreen.

She is a pretty girl, in her mid teens, wearing a knee length blue dress with white shoulder straps. She has two forearm crutches and matching leg braces.

“Did you want some help?” John asks.

“I’ll manage,” Doreen says.

“I can help you to the swing.”

“I said, I’ll manage. And you know I don’t sit on that swing.”

“I’ll leave you two then.” He enters the house, letting the
screen door slap closed.

“Maybe this would be easier inside,” I say.

“It’s fine. Why don’t you grab yourself a rail?” she says motioning with her head to the porch rail.

I lean on the rail and she walks towards me. Her left leg is turned in and drags a bit but she manages to make the trek and perch herself on a spot next to me. Her hand touches mine. It makes me feel uncomfortable and I scoot down.

“Why don’t you like to sit on the swing?”

“It’s where momma died. He never could get all the blood out. My daddy says there are some things you can never wash out.”

“How did your mother die?” I ask.

“I don’t like talking about that.”

“It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about that. Tell to me about these spells.”

“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like a big dark hole opens inside of me . . . “

A sandy-haired boy, with a letterman jacket walks by, crunching the leaves underfoot. He shifts his backpack and looks over his shoulder at us but doesn’t stop.

“Just keep walking,” she says softly. “You’ll be next.”

“What do you mean?” Where did that come from?

She looks into my eyes. “Can I ask you something? When I touched your hand just now, did you get embarrassed?”

“I just wanted to give you some space.”

“I don’t think so. I think you’re handsome but that’s not the reason I touched you . . . My daddy doesn’t hold me anymore. Most of the time, he won’t even look at me. I guess I still need to be touched. . . I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”

I don’t like the way Doreen is making me feel. She’s a little more direct than I’m used to. “What did you mean when you said that the boy will be next?”

“Kids at school are always making fun of the way I walk. Brandon’s one of the worst ones. He’s always ribbing me about it. So I was thinking maybe he belongs with the rest of em.”

***

John drives her to school the next morning. I ask why she doesn’t take the bus like the other kids and he replies, “Doreen doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to.”

We sit in the kitchen, facing one another across a round wooden table.Mr. Wilkerton pulls out a cigar, yellow and cracked with age, from on top of the fridge. He strikes a match on his jeans and lights the cigar. “What did she tell you?”

“There are some things I can’t talk to you about.” I rap the table with my knuckles. “She says you don’t show her affection. Is that true?“

“Not since she made the turn into womanhood.” He taps the ashes onto the table.

“She still needs affection.” I find ithard to believe that people can be so backward.

“It’s just not done. Maybe you’re some kind of pervert and don’t understand that.” The smell of the cheap cigar fills the small kitchen.

I get up and take the chair with me through the living room to the front door.

“Where are you going with that chair?”

“Outside,” I reply.

“You don’t like cigars?”

“Yeah, I smoke them from time to time.” I hold the screen door and drag the chair outside. “I guess I just don’t like that brand.” John takes his normal spot on the swing.
“How did your wife die?”

“She died right here. Right where I’m sitting.”

“She told me that.”

“Well, what she didn’t tell you is that we were home when it happened. My wife had a mouth on her and she had the ability to bring out the worst in people. I don’t know how it all started but I could hear a man’s voice outside, cussing and hollering. And then suddenly, Marissa was screaming my name. And Doreen was crying and begging me to do something. I don’t know. Something got a hold of me and I couldn’t move. Mostly I was scared but there was another part of me . . . that was enjoying it.”

“How could you enjoy it?”

“You can’t judge me, ‘cause you don’t know. I did love her but all those times she yelled at me, making me feel real small . . . they just built up into something else. . . It seemed like the screaming went on a lot longer than it should have and even after it stopped, I could still her moaning.”

I expect to see tears in John’s eyes but they are clear and dry.

“That was the time when the spells started.”

“Doreen said something about a boy, Brannon, being next. What did she mean by that?”

“Brandon. After one of those spells, within a day or two, somebody will turn up missing. And it’s usually someone that Doreen’s just had a run in with. Doreen will tell you it has something to do with that garden of hers.”

“What garden?” I say, “It’s just dirt.”

“Well, she’s saying Brandon will be next.”

***

Doreen sits close to me on the porch steps and takes my hand, interlacing her fingers in mine. “It’s not like you were thinking. It’s how I told you before. Okay?”

She had told me more than I had wanted to hear and with mixed feelings I say, “Okay. Tell me about your garden.”
“I never talk about that. Never talk about what’s growing there,”

“There’s nothing growing there,” I sweepmy arm in the direction of the garden.

“It grows underneath the earth.“ She splaysout the fingers of her right hand. “I’ll tell you but you have to promise never to tell another soul.”

“You have my word.” I nod.

“At the height of a spell, I have what feels like a dream. That deep dark hole inside of me leaves my body, enters the ground and goes inside “the mother”. I don’t know what else to call it but it’s a big green pulsing thing. The darkness enters the mother and she shudders and shoots out a thin green vine. My daddy told you I get real angry at people?”

“Yes.”

“Well somehow this vine knows who I don’t like. And it worms its way under the ground, eventually picking up speed. And I’m there, floating above it.” Her eyes are unfocused and she is talking faster now.

“Eventually, it reaches his home and it latches onto the roots of a tree or a big bush. Then it grows up the side of the house faster than any plant should grow. It always finds a hole somewhere. And when it finally gets to him, a great big flower sprouts from the tip. The most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.”

She grabs her crutches, walks towards her garden, and looks down at it. “Something like a stinger at the end of a tongue, lashes out and enters his body. He starts to shake but that passes soon. And then the flower opens wide and swallows his head and works its way down the body, until the whole thing is inside it.”

“Who is ‘he’, Doreen?” It’s obvious to me that this is some kind of rage fantasy.

She’s lost in her story and continues. “Only, now it looks like a great big snake, with a bloated belly. I don’t understand what happens next but the vine begins to ripple. And with each ripple, what’s inside that snake’s belly shrinks. When it’s all done, it retreats, leaving what looks like a snail trail.”

“Doreen . . . Doreen!” She finally looks up. “That’s just a fantasy. It’s not really happening.”

“You think so?” she asks. Something about her gaze unnerves me. I feel at sea with this girl.

“What you’re saying is not possible. It’s too fantastic. Somebody would’ve talked. Somebody would’ve said something.”
“Maybe somebodydid. Maybe whatever it left behind disappeared. Or maybe, you’ll find that story buried in a tabloid somewhere - you know. Big Slug Ate My Son. Who would believe them? Would you? They all end up the same. A photo slapped on a telephone pole or on the back of a milk carton. Only I know where they are.” She points to her garden. “In there.”

Doreen is clearly a troubled girl, filled with rage. “Doreen, I’m going to be gone for a few days. I’d like to setup a regular weekly session with you. But you’re going to have to come to my office.”

“No! It has to be here. Please.”

She’s got some kind of deep seated fear. I’m not sure what it is but maybe it would be best to continue sessions here. “Okay.”

“It’ll be a full moon in a couple of days. It always works better then.” I help her up the few steps.

“Why does it work better then?” I ask.

She shrugs and enters the house.

***

Mr. Wilkerton calls me in for an emergency session at six in the morning. He is waiting in the kitchen. Doreen takes my hand and smiles at me. “Any time now. It’ll be like all the others.”

“Hush now, Doreen” John says. “Why don’t you leave us for a bit?” She waits outside, while John continues in hushed tones. “I won’t talk about you holding hands with my daughter. I’m gonna assume that’s her doing.”

“There’s nothing going on.”

“No need to explain. I was hoping it would be different with you.”

“I don’t understand,” I say and John holds up one hand.

“Just keep your voice down. You’re not the first shrink she’s seen. Doreen’s got a way about her. Somehow she worked her charms on him and the two became overly attached.” John grabs a cigar.

“Please, not the damn cigar. What happened to him?”

He sighs and replaces it. “Eventually he broke free of her somehow but maybe a week went by and he went missing.”

“You can’t think she had anything to do with that.”

“Maybe.”

I hear a siren and Doreen gives out a “Whoop” as the cruiser passes by. If she were a cheerleader, she probably would’ve done a spread eagle jump, and finished with her arms out in a V.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“I’m going to say some things that won’t make such sense to you. If it’s what I think it is, then it may already be too late for you. I’ve got a gun in a lock box hidden under my bed. A time may come when you’ll have to do what I couldn’t”

“What are you talking about?”

The phone rings and Doreen stumbles in, “Leave that phone be, Daddy.” Her crutch catches the edge of the living room rug. Her arms are locked in the crutches and she is unable to brace herself before falling face first. I rush to her side and help her up. She snags the phone on the fifth ring.

“Hello . . . Yes? . . .What happened? . . . Oh, god. I’m
coming right over. . . No. I want to be there.” She hangs up the phone and grabs my hand, her nails digging into my palm. “I need you to drive me to Brandon’s house."

I feel light headed, as if I’ve just passed through a cloud of perfume. “Okay, Doreen.”

On the way to Brandon’s, Doreen begins sobbing. The tears are flowing freely. “Just like all the others.” She laughs. She is such an odd mixture of giddiness and sadness, that I wouldn’t be surprised to see a double rainbow in each eye.

I pull up behind the cruiser. A crowd of concerned faces, mostly students and parents, are on Brandon’s front lawn. There is a tall barren sycamore at the side of the house, which looks like it’s had all the life sucked out of it, A short, stout woman screams, “Doreen!” and runs towards the passenger side to help Doreen out of the car.

They collapse into each other’s arms, shaking and weeping. “Oh, god! I’m so sorry. Maybe there’s still hope. Maybe they’ll find him,” says Doreen.

“No,” the woman says. “It’s like the others. They’re never going to find him. I’ve been meaning to tell you. My boy Brandon should have never left you. You were so good to him.”

“You’re right. He should’ve never left me.”

Wow. Just wow.

Ox - Wow bad or wow good?

Okay. Wow very good. The only thing I could see wrong was some formatting and that was prolly the site's fault.

Ox- Thanks. I think I know what you mean about the formatting. I was trying to get the line breaks in by shrinking and expanding the text. That didn't work and it messed up the formatting, breaking on the wrong word in some cases.

One problem is the character of the supposed doctor. Nowhere in the story does he sound like a therapist of any sort. He sounds like a casual friend who never quite figures out what's going on. He needs to sound like a doctor or his role needs redefining.

The second problem is the garden. We see it's surface, we hear the fantastic tale, but we never really know - is something buried there or not? Are the deaths, which are never clearly reported, the result of supernatural workings of the girl's mind or brought about by more conventional means?

There are suggestions from the first that the father is the guilty party, and maybe he is, but again we don't know what part he has played. Has he done more then he would admit, or at least does he know more than he's telling? The soft voice, the strange cigar, the veiled hints, all point in his direction. Then we are told about a weapon, but that weapon is never used.

One rule I can remember reading a long time ago says don't show a gun in the drawer if you don't plan to use it, and don't pull a gun out of the drawer if you haven't already shown it there.

Garza- You're right. There is a lot left unsaid. I'd never heard that rule, though I have to agree with Sam W about rules in general. At the end of the day, it's what works for the reader. You've made some interesting points. I need to give them some thought.

NathanBrazil - Writing rules are the guidelines that have been proven to work. They are not arbitrary. They grow out of the experience of both writers and readers.

Showing a gun in a drawer and never using it in any way will leave a string hanging in the reader's mind. What did the gun have to do with anything? Pulling a gun out of a drawer without establishing ahead of time that it is there leaves the reader asking 'where the hell did that come from?'

Garza - I understand what you are saying. Sounds like a decent topic for the debate forum.

What you have to remember about writing rules is that they are not like an act of Parliament. If you violate a writing rule no detective pc is going to knock on your door and ask you to go along to assist in an investigation.

But the fact is that by and large they do work. They work because they are not dreamed up by someone deciding, with no good reason, that something should be a rule. We know they work because writing that is built on certain recognised guidelines is more successful that writing that consistently violates those guidelines.

Read over 'Garden' carefully and consider whether the who, what, when, where, why, and how are in sharp enough focus so that the reader understands what has happened. Remember that I know nothing about the background of the story, just what you have put on the page.

Originally Posted by garza

Pulling a gun out of a drawer without establishing ahead of time that it is there leaves the reader asking 'where the hell did that come from?'

Sorry, but this is not always the case. It comes back to whether the definite or indefinite article is used. If the writer says, “He pulled the gun out of the drawer,” you’re correct that the reader will say, “Where the hell did that gun come from?” but if the writer says, “He pulled a gun out of the drawer,” this is perfectly acceptable.

Pulling 'a gun' out of the drawer to establish its presence is correct.

But when 'the gun' is used, the fact that it was in the drawer needs to have been established.

Chapter One - Simon pulled an old Colt Commander 45 out of the desk drawer and showed it to me. 'Just let them try,' he said.

Chapter Five - Simon yanked open the desk drawer, pulled out the old automatic, and leveled it at Dominic's stomach. 'Go ahead,' he said. 'Try me.'

Garza - You've made your point. I don't think this is the proper forum to debate writing rules. My suggestion is for you the post a new thread in the debate forum. I'm sure you'll find that there are people on both sides of this issue. The problem with debates like this, is that it shifts the focus away from critiquing the story, which is the primary focus of this forum.

No, forget I said anything. That particular point is not worth a debate. There are more serious structural problems here that do not involve rules for fiction but rules, or guidelines if you prefer, for writing in general.