Gwen, in Green

“The children,” King said. “Did she have to murder her children?” He was stunned, at a loss for words. He had merely assumed that Evelyn Rogers had killed the four loggers. Now this lovely young woman was confirming it, out of a self-­confident store of knowledge which caused confusion in his mind, and, moreover, was adding to the grisly score.

“That was sad,” Gwen said. “She weeps for them. But she couldn’t leave them behind.”

“Are they, ah, wherever she is?”

“No.” No explanation.

“May I ask,” King said, gathering his thoughts, “how you know about her?”

“Evelyn?” The ­name had not, as yet, been mentioned. “I know.”

“You’ve heard tales?”

“I’ve heard the story,” Gwen said, smiling.

“Yes,” King said. “She was my patient.” That was not what he had wanted to say. He had wanted to ask how Gwen had heard the story.

“Yes,” Gwen said. “I know. And I am not your patient, Dr. King.”

“Should you be?” he asked, his voice soft and kind.

“For my sake or yours?” She lit another cigarette without haste. “For your sake I stopped seeing you.”

“For my sake?”

“We were afraid you’d make the connection.”

“But you came to me of your own accord,” he said.

“Before I knew Evelyn.”

The sun was low. George would be home soon. King had a desperate desire to know, to explore, to probe into her mind. “You can’t talk with George about it, for obvious reasons. Wouldn’t you like to talk with someone? Would it help if you talked with me?”

She considered. “No,” she said. “It would be useless.”

“Not to me,” he said. “With Evelyn I came close to something, Gwen, something I couldn’t understand. We doctors think we know the extent of the human mind. We pride ourselves on being able to take long, extended voyages inside a fellow human’s head, but, frankly, we’ve never gone past the membrane of the brain, except with artificial surgical tools. I’m an old man. I failed to discover whatever it was that made Evelyn Rogers different. I failed to save her.” He paused. “I am not necessarily implying that you are in need of salvation, you understand, although some of your actions have certain aspects of self-­destruction. Let’s just say that I’m burningly curious. For example, I saw you standing in the shallow water. You swayed in the wind. Were you, for that period of time, a plant?” He knew he was being too direct, but time was short.

“No, of course not.”

“What then?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Would you please allow me to try to understand?” He noted her negative reaction and resorted to blackmail. “You don’t have a choice, you know. I saw your actions with those two young boys.”

She was serene. “That was necessary.”

“Would George agree that it was necessary?”

“Yes,” she said. “I was afraid it would come to that.” She had, in fact, been hoping desperately that he would not push it that far. She sighed. “All right. We’ll talk. You will stay for dinner.” It was not a question.

“If you like,” King said.

“Depending on which sources you read,” Gwen said, “the Germans killed three to seven million Jews during World War II. Imagine, if you can, being there, being able to see it all, and, more importantly, being able to feel it all. Multiply hopeless death, terror, agony by seven million.”

“I’ll admit openly that I can’t imagine it,” King said. “The mind is peculiar that way. We just cannot accept mass death. The death of one man, closely observed, is more moving than the extermination of millions.”

“But if you could feel a million deaths.”

“Can you?”

“We share all,” she said.

“We?”

“Yes, we. We plants. All of us.”

“All trees? All weeds?” He removed a cigar from his pocket and began to unwrap it. He chewed the end of it thoughtfully. When she remained silent he asked, “Why are you the only one to communicate with them?”

“I told you there have been others.”

“Evelyn? Who else?”

“A girl. She’s here, too.”

“Where?”

“There,” Gwen said, looking toward the center of the clear, green waters of the pond. “She drowned there.”

“And she’s there now?”

“Yes, with Evelyn. With them.”

“As I remember it, now that you’ve mentioned it, she drowned with her boyfriend. Is he there?”

“We are female,” she said.

“Males can’t feel or communicate?”

“We are female.”

“All plants?” King asked.

“No, of course not. Us.”

“I see,” he said, not seeing at all. “When you say, we are female, you are talking about some special sort of plant. You are not referring to you, Evelyn, and the other girl, or to plants in general, only something special.”

She rose. “Will you walk with me?”

He followed her into the boggy area at the lower end of the pond. As they crossed toward high ground she said, “Don’t step on them. Watch out for them.” He saw the flytraps. They were almost hidden under taller weeds and grasses. He stepped carefully.

“Are the flytraps the special ones?” he asked.

She smiled. “That’s almost funny.” She led the way to the high ground on the far side of the pond. There mushrooms grew. She selected, bent, and plucked them.

“Mushrooms don’t feel, then,” King said, pleased to catch her in an inconsistency.