Fletch Reflected by Gregory McDonald

give them everything they want and need, and some of them just curl up ugly. Beat some weeds to death and they just keep popping up, growing, proliferating. If we had genuine respect for character, we’d cultivate weeds and send the plants to mulch.” She sat back on her heels and looked up at where Jack stood, looking down at her. “Hello.”
    “Hello, Ma’am.”
    “Are you a weed, or a plant?”
    Jack said, “I think I’m a weed.”
    “That’s good. You look strong and resilient enough to be a weed, that you do. You’re new here. I’m Mrs. Houston.”
    “Sorry, Ma’am. I don’t recognize your name.”
    “Mother of Amalie Radliegh, Mrs. Radliegh. Grandmother to most of the big brats around here, great-grandmother to most of the little brats. I call the little brats, Amy’s brats, ‘The Sudden Seven.’ I looked away for a moment and there they were.”
    “Maybe they’re weeds,” Jack offered.
    “That would be nice. But I doubt it. Here at Vindemiashe has them each bedded in rich nutrients and waters them daily, here at the pool. Weeds don’t need as much as they have.”
    “Weeds can stand some good treatment, too,” Jack said.
    “I’m not so sure.”
    “I’ve had some,” he said. “I’m still a weed.”
    “Looks like you’ve had some good nutrients, anyway.” The old lady’s blue eyes were looking at Jack as if she would know him in a minute. “What’s your name?”
    “Jack.”
    “Are you quick and nimble?”
    “For a weed.”
    “Yes. I believe you are. Now I’m not supposed to be messing up the garden this way, I know that. Do you mind?”
    “Not at all.”
    “But one has to do something. One can’t just sit around all day and night being waited on hand and foot. At least I can’t. One loses touch with oneself if one doesn’t do work of some kind, some time. Don’t you agree?”
    “I suppose I would.”
    “I don’t even want to go to heaven,” Mrs. Houston said as she dug her fingers into the soil, “unless they have some work for me to do there.”
    “Is Vindemia pretty close to heaven?” Jack asked.
    “All these people here dragging themselves from swimming pool to tennis court to gymnasium to the stables worrying about their figures, their skin tone, the shine of their hair. Do you know they don’t even saddle their own horses?”
    “I didn’t know that.”
    “And do you think they’re happy? Not a bit of it. Not one of them. You never heard such a chorus of complaining, weeping. I say to them, ‘Make your own bed, get your own breakfast, saddle your own horse, clean your own car, go start a garden of your own: you’ll feel better.’ What do theycomplain about? That they’re not allowed to be themselves.” Mrs. Houston raised a soil-encrusted index finger to Jack. “I suspect they don’t know who themselves are. Everything Chester asks them to do, expects them to do, they think is unfair. They think doing their duty is unfair! You know what my daughter says?”
    “I’ve never met the lady.”
    “She asks, ‘Why do I have to talk to the cook once a week? Why do I ever have to talk to the housekeeper? Why do I have to be at Chester’s elbow every time he entertains all those boring people?’ Can you believe that? I say, ‘Because it’s your job, daughter.’ She says, ‘But sometimes I don’t feel like being nice to people. It can be inconvenient.’ I tried to tell her that everything in life costs. Being Chester Radliegh’s wife, living here, costs. She’s got to pay the price, whatever it is, just like everybody else on this earth. She’s got to do her duty. Extending herself to people important to him is little enough to pay for all she has.”
    “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Houston,” Jack said. “I’m expected at Doctor Radliegh’s secretary’s office in a few minutes.”
    “You don’t know the cost of things until you’ve had to work for everything you’ve ever had, as I did. When my husband died from overwork and