A Pot Of Basil by
Sarah L. M. Dorrance (c) 2001
I hurt. I think I am going insane. Dearest Laura, where are you when I need you? In your absence I have wept, I have wept in a way that is not possible to weep. I have begun to cough blood. Where are you?
I don't show it on the outside, of course. I never let people see in public what I experience in private. I have learned that lesson. I miss you. If only you were here to hold my hand - then, the crying might stop, at the very least might be more bearable.
*
I summon your breasts to my hands, to my eager mouth, but it is no good, all I get is an unprotesting and oblivious pillow, a mouth full of cotton and feathers. You were so warm. So responsive, so eager for me, even though you made a game of indifference. My husband never liked you, you didn't ever give in the way I always do - oh you like your pleasure, but you always took it, you never waited for it to come to you. No, he couldn't have liked your stance. It's no wonder he had to break it off between the two of us.
I sometimes wonder what it would be like if I could be like that. Do you know how envious I was of you? You never took s--- from anyone. You'd probably have kicked Dominic out the door in two seconds flat if you had somehow been forced to settle down with him. Then again, if you were me you would never have had anything to do with him...Now I know that I married too young, but of course it's too late now.
What did I ever see in him, anyway? Good looks, maybe, or was it those strong mechanic's hands, that could fix anything, put anything together, make things run so smoothly, protect me when I needed to hide behind them? At any rate, I got knocked up within three months of knowing him, after eighteen years of guarding my virginity - the old, old story: senior prom, crushed ruffled satin, fumbling in the back seat of a beat up Chevy, drunken regurgitation, no thought beyond a promise of love and a moment of awkward pleasure - and that was that, as far as my parents were concerned. His parents barely shrugged - he's from a rough Italian neighborhood on the East side, where he comes from it's a rite of passage to get a girl in trouble before you leave high school.
Such strong hands. He said he'd always protect me. He's very loyal to his folks - he'd make a good father. He was so upset when I miscarried two months away from the due date. He didn't take it too well when I told him I wanted to wait a few more years before trying for the next one; but I was entertaining the thought of putting myself through college, then...Now I suppose he'll want to try for the family again.
He's so predictable. Oh, why didn't I see this coming?
Now really, Laura, would you kick him out, or would you take care of him, like the needy child he is? You patched me up when I came to you, crying and trembling. You were sometimes more a mother to me than my real mother ever was. Would you patch him up when he's broken, the same way you put me back together when I was jelly at your feet? Oh, love, I miss your wonderful, terrible hands. I haven't held you in it seems like forever, this isn't like you, to be gone. I know it isn't your fault but it isn't like you. You'd never leave me without telling me why. Will you ever forgive me for marrying too young? I should have been yours.
*
My husband actually had the nerve to ask me today what was so wrong, why I was always so boring, so depressed...You'd think he'd at least have something resembling a clue. I mean, even if I didn't know everything (and I'm not supposed to know) I haven't seen you for days and days! He knew I was in love with you, he can't be that stupid. Was. Am. I still love you, my darling and beloved Laura, no matter what may separate us.
Should I go to the police? It's not like they ever listen to battered women, here; this district never takes us seriously, they think we're all white trash, and who cares if white trash beat their wives to bloody pulp? The police never take action here for anything, unless there's a drug deal going on right in front of their very noses. Our neighborhood pretty much governs and polices itself. My husband's on the neighborhood watch, he's an upstanding and fine citizen. So it's probably no good. I'm all on my own. If he found out I went to the cops, I'd really be in for it.
I guess it's just you and me, then. As always.
*
You've been kept from me for far too long. I really would like to see you today, but that's quite out of the question - Dominic is in a terrible mood, and he's watching me. I think he's starting to get suspicious. My crying jag has gone on too long. I do not want to get Dominic angry now.
I knew this would happen. He's on about my being too sick and moody to make love to him and tired and miserable all the time - I ought to tell him I'm pregnant, it hasn't been that long since we had sex - he keeps saying if i'm so depressed and sick, how come I'm not in bed, instead of puttering around in my herb garden all the time in the hot sun - he does not want me near that garden...
But of course he does not want me in my garden. It's a piece of you, and every minute I spent in the herbs brings me closer to you. He suspects; he knows the herbs remind me of you,
you in the garden. You were so proud of that back yard herb garden, and the fact that you could actually grow herbs for selling and vegetables for canning. You had a regular business going. I dream about you all the time, do you know that? I keep dreaming about the basil patch. I'm going out of my mind. You're begging me to forgive you for not being there anymore when I need you. Don't you know it's not your place to beg? I can't imagine you crying. You're too good, too beautiful, to beg. I'm the one who should be begging, please don't do it, it frightens me. Please don't cry. There are so many other ways to be upset. I still remember the way you used to pad out to the yard to practice with the blacksnake when you were angry or hurt - calm faced, steady, not a tear in your eye or a tremor in your voice. For God's sake, don't cry, don't beg!
Besides, you're right here with me all the time, don't you know that? All I have to do is go into my little garden and water my basil, and there you are. Basil from your garden. You helped me plant it. Now it's growing right by the tomatoes that I just planted the other day. I thought of you the whole time.
And if I really get desperate and long to see your face, I can always dig you up. Of course, I'll have to be discreet.
*
I remember the last fortnight: the basil, your garden, fresh and green, like summer. And you, like a goddess of the harvest...Oh my goddess! My Laura! It should have been me, not you - what a horrible case of bad timing...
I'm so sorry about cutting your head off, but I couldn't very well drag your whole body home with me in the back seat of the Pinto. Besides, you were already dead, so what harm could a little more mutilation do? I probably shouldn't have dug you up, it's caused too many troubles, but I just can't live without you. And see, I've even planted you in my own herb garden, the garden I started with the basil we cut together. I'm still growing it for you, even though it isn't used in your strictly vegetarian list of foods in this house. Out of loyalty to you, I ought to keep it pure and meat-free, but Dominic does like his meat, and he'd get suspicious if I made a point of keeping my favourite herbs out of his food. And I do not want to get Dominic angry.
This is all that I have left of you. I ought to guard it jealously, but I cannot. And what help would it be? What help have I ever been?...He told me he'd kill anyone who tried to take me away from him, and I didn't listen; so of course this is all my fault.
I'm watering you every day, faithfully. Do you like that? And I bleed a little every now and then, a pinprick here and there. I only want to be with you. It isn't fair. I'm hurting myself for you, at least. And myself. Not Dominic. My emotions are for you. They're yours. It's the only revenge I have left. I feel like one of the dead.
*
Dominic's in my herb garden, digging up my shrine. He's screaming at me but I can't hear the words. I only see the shovel: big sharp metal shovel. Big hole in the ground, blood soaked and bleeding, basil tearing away to stream in the wind
(no - no, I don't want to see this)
He has you by the head again, but this time there's nothing left for him to rape. I've never seen you so beautiful, so terrible - perhaps you are a little worse for wear, a little too ripe, but you hair is so long and dark and lovely, it ripples as you stare at him unblinking with that odd lidless gaze of yours: accusatory? forgiving? There's nothing in that look. He'll never forgive you that - you've won, after all. Oh, my Laura! I love you so! That you can be so silent!
He's screaming, and laughing hah screaming hah that's where you've been hiding all this time stealing my wife are you? Such words. He's red in the face, you're as distant and dead as can be, but little me, I'm just sitting here crying because isn't there one more piece to take care of?
Red flash, white flash - my head's knocking at the ground, a fist on a red door, but there's no pain anymore because everything's gone all grey. Even my breath is yours still, hands around my throat and kicking legs. Will we be together again, after all? I knew it was only a matter of time. And it looks like I will get my wish. We can grow together again, you and I; our leaves rubbing sweetly against each other in the wind, in the summer storms...I want to feel the rain on my cheek again, I want to see your face as it looks up towards the flash, towards the sun - oh my darling my Laura! I would feel your hands a hundred times all over again.
