over in her mind the embodiments of normalcy that she had brought with her, like talismans: Liz, her plants, her books, her dog. This would be an unusual summer, to be sure, but really not that different from any other. A lot more cleaning than she was used to, that’s all. Reassured by these thoughts, Connie squatted down next to Arlo to disengage the root from his mouth.
“What’s this, little man?” she asked, reaching gingerly between his teeth. “Did you find a wild carrot?” The animal obediently dropped the root into her hand, then looked up at her, waiting for praise.
When Connie saw what she was holding she let out a scream, recoiling in horror and dropping the root on the floor. Without thinking, she immediately wiped her hand across the seat of her jeans, rubbing away any residue that it might have left on her skin.
“What’s the matter?” asked Liz. “Does it have bugs?”
“Oh, my God,” Connie panted. The pulse at her throat beat heavy and fast, and she forced herself to inhale slowly to calm her breathing. “No, it’s not that. Don’t touch it!” She knelt on the kitchen floor, peering at the inert vegetable where it lay in a spatter of mud.
“Why?” asked Liz, looking over Connie’s shoulder. She wrinkled her nose at its malformed hideousness. “Ew. What is that?”
Connie shoved away the dog, who was starting to realize that the burstof praise that he had expected was not forthcoming. She swallowed, eyes searching the kitchen for a tool that she could use to pick up the root.
“I am reasonably certain that our friend here has brought us a mandrake,” she said. Using two fingers and a dense wad of paper towel, she picked up the plant by one leaf and held it at arm’s length for Liz to see. “I’ve only ever seen drawings of them in gardening books, but their roots are supposed to be shaped kind of like a person. See?” She indicated the leglike shape of the bifurcated root, with two fat protuberances where arms might go.
“So?” asked Liz.
“So, they’re among the most poisonous plants known to man,” said Connie. “So poisonous, in fact, that legend had it that anyone who tried to dig one up himself would die on the spot. As a result, anyone who wanted one needed a dog to dig it up for him.” She glanced down at Arlo. Surely, she told herself, that legend spoke more to the fact that dogs will dig up anything, poisonous or not, than that men could not collect mandrakes safely. The creature wagged at her. “Also,” she added, “some early modern horticulture books claimed that when the mandrake is uprooted, it screams.”
“Freaky,” whispered Liz, peering at the plant. “What would your grandmother be doing with something so dangerous growing in her yard?”
“Beats me. She has some other crazy stuff outside, too,” Connie said. “Did you see the belladonna vine?” She shook her head, still holding up the homunculus root. “Maybe it’s a volunteer plant that just showed up on its own. Like a weed. I can’t imagine that anyone in her right mind would want something like this hanging around the house.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Liz asked, voice worried.
Connie sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of the tasks that lay ahead of her. She did not want to have to worry about poisonous plants in the kitchen, garden snakes in the living room, tax liens on the house. All she really wanted to do was eat some dinner and pretend as if the summer were not about to happen.
“We’ll just put this up here for now, where no dogs can eat it,” she said, tucking the root onto a shelf between two blackened jars.
C ONNIE JERKED AWAKE, HER HEART LURCHING IN HER CHEST . F OR A long minute she could not identify where she was, and she was not sure if she was awake or still asleep. Gradually the shapes in the room swam into focus: the needlepoint armchair across from her, the Chippendale desk lurking in the shadows behind it. She wiped a hand
“What’s this, little man?” she asked, reaching gingerly between his teeth. “Did you find a wild carrot?” The animal obediently dropped the root into her hand, then looked up at her, waiting for praise.
When Connie saw what she was holding she let out a scream, recoiling in horror and dropping the root on the floor. Without thinking, she immediately wiped her hand across the seat of her jeans, rubbing away any residue that it might have left on her skin.
“What’s the matter?” asked Liz. “Does it have bugs?”
“Oh, my God,” Connie panted. The pulse at her throat beat heavy and fast, and she forced herself to inhale slowly to calm her breathing. “No, it’s not that. Don’t touch it!” She knelt on the kitchen floor, peering at the inert vegetable where it lay in a spatter of mud.
“Why?” asked Liz, looking over Connie’s shoulder. She wrinkled her nose at its malformed hideousness. “Ew. What is that?”
Connie shoved away the dog, who was starting to realize that the burstof praise that he had expected was not forthcoming. She swallowed, eyes searching the kitchen for a tool that she could use to pick up the root.
“I am reasonably certain that our friend here has brought us a mandrake,” she said. Using two fingers and a dense wad of paper towel, she picked up the plant by one leaf and held it at arm’s length for Liz to see. “I’ve only ever seen drawings of them in gardening books, but their roots are supposed to be shaped kind of like a person. See?” She indicated the leglike shape of the bifurcated root, with two fat protuberances where arms might go.
“So?” asked Liz.
“So, they’re among the most poisonous plants known to man,” said Connie. “So poisonous, in fact, that legend had it that anyone who tried to dig one up himself would die on the spot. As a result, anyone who wanted one needed a dog to dig it up for him.” She glanced down at Arlo. Surely, she told herself, that legend spoke more to the fact that dogs will dig up anything, poisonous or not, than that men could not collect mandrakes safely. The creature wagged at her. “Also,” she added, “some early modern horticulture books claimed that when the mandrake is uprooted, it screams.”
“Freaky,” whispered Liz, peering at the plant. “What would your grandmother be doing with something so dangerous growing in her yard?”
“Beats me. She has some other crazy stuff outside, too,” Connie said. “Did you see the belladonna vine?” She shook her head, still holding up the homunculus root. “Maybe it’s a volunteer plant that just showed up on its own. Like a weed. I can’t imagine that anyone in her right mind would want something like this hanging around the house.”
“What are you going to do with it?” Liz asked, voice worried.
Connie sighed, suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of the tasks that lay ahead of her. She did not want to have to worry about poisonous plants in the kitchen, garden snakes in the living room, tax liens on the house. All she really wanted to do was eat some dinner and pretend as if the summer were not about to happen.
“We’ll just put this up here for now, where no dogs can eat it,” she said, tucking the root onto a shelf between two blackened jars.
C ONNIE JERKED AWAKE, HER HEART LURCHING IN HER CHEST . F OR A long minute she could not identify where she was, and she was not sure if she was awake or still asleep. Gradually the shapes in the room swam into focus: the needlepoint armchair across from her, the Chippendale desk lurking in the shadows behind it. She wiped a hand
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