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the wall that separates the living room from the dining
room. “Do you think this is weight-bearing?”
Is this the question Mom warned me about?
“No,” I answer, still true to my word.
“Good. This old house could use a real face-lift.”
Mom is in the garden. Which isn’t a good sign. Her garden
is where she retreats when she’s upset. When Taylor’s Diner
went belly-up and she lost her waitressing job, she planted a
whole row of hyacinths and pulled out the calendulas.
When Mr. Arthur was in the hospital having the eye surgery
that caused him to wear his Coke-bottle glasses, she pruned
the redbud tree so much it looked like bamboo. When she
was denied admission to Odessa’s Homeowner’s Association
on what she called a “technicality,” she planted a row of
yellow Towne and Country rosebushes to block out her
view of the street. Now, I find her sitting on the stone bench
she’s placed in the center of the herb section, yanking sweet
basil out by the roots.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer me. A sharp green smell fills the air.
“How can you sit here when the walls of your house are
coming down?”
My mother slumps her shoulders. “She’s knocking
down walls?”
“I think so,” I say. Then I wait for an explosion, an
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