Gwen, in Green

He chewed on the cigar, which had long since gone out. No use fighting it. Nature herself would solve the problem soon enough. Meanwhile, as Ruthie had said, what else was there? Greece? He’d have to carry an extra steamer trunk just to contain enough medication to last the both of them. One reason why he’d never married was a recognized desire to retain all his freedoms, and now he was tied to his medicine cabinet even more securely than he would have been tied to a family. He could have married. Ruthie, at thirty, was a real woman. Then he’d not had the time. Had prized his freedom.

He tossed the closed file folder onto the front of his desk. That was a part of his past and, unearthed, it lost something. At least, before Ruth dug it out, there was a little hint of curiosity, something to occupy his mind now and then when he thought about it. Having read it, he saw no real connection with anything. True, both Evelyn Rogers and Gwen Ferrier had sexual problems, but they seemed to be diametrically opposed. From what he’d gathered, Mrs. Ferrier’s problem was sexual repression, not an overly free expression of sexual desire. What was it that had led his subconscious mind to make a connection between the two cases? Probably just the coincidence of residence. Pine Tree Island was a remote, thinly populated area. It was remarkable enough that he’d have two patients, even years apart, from the Island. That was probably it. Perhaps a bit of the plant business, too. For he’d gathered from the Ferriers that they had some interest in plants. George had remarked on the health of the fly-­traps transplanted inside by his wife, and he had laughingly said that they were happy because his wife talked to them and pampered them with food. But Gwen Ferrier wasn’t identifying with plants, as had Evelyn Rogers, and Gwen Ferrier had not done in a family and possibly four plant killers.

“The diner has fried eggplant on the menu,” Ruth said, poking her head in the door.

“Fine,” he said. He took her arm. “Shall we lunch in elegance and grace at the famous greasy spoon of Port City?”

“Don’t forget your antacid tablets,” Ruth said.

16

Work on the cross-­marsh canal began in mid-­August. On low tide, vehicles with huge, wide rubber tires marked the late summer greenness, pushing swatches of marsh grass down into the underlying black mud. Lumbering, tall, awkward-­looking drag lines mounted on barges began to dig. The line of the canal avoided the open water, since the engineers preferred to anchor the canal to the most solid of the marsh areas. Thus the forward progress of the diggers and the big-­wheeled vehicles took a three-­hundred-­yard bite out of the healthiest of the tall, swaying grass.

Once George had jokingly remarked that assuming that plants felt pain, what mass agony would ensue when a reaper crossed a wheat field. Actually, she knew, he was not altogether wrong. When ripe wheat is harvested, the old, brown stalk are almost vacated. The life force has been concentrated in the seeds. Thus, the mutilation of the stalks is almost painless and the wheat seeds are tough and hardly feel the operation. Of course, there is some pain, for some seeds are crushed. But the real tragedy of a wheat field comes when the seeds, the harvested wheat, are ­utilized.

She understood all of it now. Since the clearing operation had been completed, bringing a temporary lull in the mass pain, she’d had time to stand in the edge of the shallow water and communicate. She was more and more a part of it. She was able to submerge herself in it and know the true peace. But when the canal digging began she screamed aloud, the sound piercing the unpeopled woodlands and startling birds and a curious squirrel.