Jill Churchill: Mulch Ado About Nothing

Jane was waiting in the driveway in eight minutes. She'd experimented with an old purse with a long strap, and Shelley was right that it flapped around and unbalanced her. The pockets of the baggy, much-pocketed shorts Shelley had bought her were full. Checkbook, ballpoint pen, notepad, lipstick, billfold, a box of tissues, house keys, a bag of lemon drops in case she suddenly felt weak with hunger.

“You do look a bit like the Michelin Man," Shelley said, opening the car door for her. "Watch it. You just cracked my shin with that crutch. Want a boost? That step into the van is high."

“Sorry," Jane said. "Everybody in my house is afraid of me. Especially Willard the Cowardly Dog and the cats." She fumbled around for the seat belt to drag herself up. "I've accidently smacked all of them a couple times when they got underfoot, and Willard got goosed when he stepped in front of me. I think they've decided crutches are some sort of threshing machine and will never come near me again. Max and Meow still sleep at the foot of my bed, but when I get up to go to the bathroom at night, they scatter for shelter.”

There were quite a few cars parked at the community center and a large bus getting ready to haul off the twenty adults who were taking a Zoo Maintenance course. A truck from a craft store was unloading some rented sewing machines and sergers for another class that was being held in the building. And a number of women wearing remarkably unflattering gymnastic clothes were waiting for their ride to an aerobic dancing studio.

“If I ever dress like that, have me locked up," Jane said.

Shelley looked her up and down. "You're hardly better today. You're quite lumpy. Are you packed for a three-day camp-out?"

“Just the everyday necessities. Oh, no. I'd forgotten there were stairs."

“There's a handicapped ramp around the side. I wouldn't be caught dead with you scooting backwards on your butt.”

There were only two people in the room when they found where they were supposed to be. One was a stocky, balding man in his early sixties, reading a magazine. The other was a rather perky-looking young man sitting behind the desk at the front. He got up when Jane and Shelley came in.

“I was hoping more of you would come," he said, flashing a handsome smile. "The article in the local paper about Ms. Jackson's accident must have made a lot of the sign-ups think the class was canceled. What did you do to your foot?"

“I tripped on a curb, " Jane said.

“Oh," the man replied. "I'm Stefan Eckert. I'm the director of the Arts and Crafts part of the community project."

“You're teaching the class?" Shelley asked.

“Oh, no! I'm not remotely qualified. But I've got a substitute. A very interesting man who just happened to be in town this week. I'm just here to catch people and assure them the class will go on. And sit in on as much of it as I can.”

Jane introduced herself and Shelley and asked, "Do you know anything about Ms. Jackson's condition?”

Stefan Eckert shrugged. "I'm not family and the hospital won't tell me a thing.”

The older man sitting at the back of the room was reading a copy of Modern Maturity. He closed the magazine and looked up at the others. "Hello. Glad to see other people here. I've really been looking forward to this class.”

There was a faintly clanging noise in the hall and a fourth student arrived. A slightly heavy woman who looked to be in her mid-fifties, draped in layers of clattering beads, carrying a number of bags, and wearing clothes she must have had since the early seventies. Her neck and head were swathed in tie-dyed scarves. Pierced earrings made of a variety of feathers flapped at her ears. Copper bracelets banged against beaded bracelets and something looking like an old-fashioned charm bracelet. She carried a huge purse slung over her shoulder, a pack tied around her waist, and a violently colored canvas bag.

“Hello, Hello! Oh!" she bellowed as she spotted Jane and rushed over. "You poor darling! What have you done to yourself? A cast and everything. Are you in pain? Here, let me help you sit down and get the weight off that foot."

“No, no. I'm fine. Really. It doesn't hurt very much at all," Jane said, alarmed by the attention.

But her protestations did her no good. The woman dropped her purse and canvas bag on a chair, both of which instantly spilled out paperback books, most of which seemed to have the word "conspiracy" in the title, pamphlets, paper napkins, three matchbooks, several flower seed packets, half a dozen colored pens, a sketchbook, more odd jewelry, prescription blanks, receipts, nail files, one very dirty gardening glove, a small wrench, a computer cord, a small box of Q-tips, and what looked like an adult-sized version of a child's sippy cup half-full of a purple liquid.

Ignoring the mess around her feet, she said, "Here, darling. Sit down. I'll get you a chair to put your foot up and you'll tell me how you did this to yourself. Ursula Appledorn at your service.”

Jane was somewhat roughly thrust into a folding chair and Ursula grabbed her leg andplopped it on another chair, and pulled up yet another chair facing Jane and flung herself into it and leaned forward.

“So?" she said.

“I tripped over a curbing," Jane said, thoroughly cowed.

Ursula shook her head. "No, darling. There has to be more to the story. And if there isn't, there should be. These things happen for a reason, you know. Everything is part of a vast chain of events that weaves us all together. Nice casting job, but a bit tight around the toes," she said, looking at Jane's foot as she started gathering up her belongings from the floor.

Jane cast a helpless look at Shelley, who just grinned and said, "I was with her and it was sheer clumsiness."

“But even so, there was a reason," Ursula insisted. "I was a nurse in 'Nam," she added, as if this explained everything. "And I can tell you there's a LOT the government is concealing. Why, the Denver airport alone—”

Fortunately, two more people came into the room, and Ursula turned her attention to them, though less enthusiastically than when she'd spotted Jane.

The first was a small, slim, precise woman with permed gray hair and a very upright carriage in a trim navy blue and white polka-dot dress. She glanced around at the small group, instinctively identified Stefan as the person in charge and said, "Is the class to take place?" in a tone that sug‑ gested that a simple, straightforward answer was required. "I'm Martha Winstead," she said to those assembled. "Miss Martha Winstead and I'm signed up.”

Stefan knew his place and when he'd met his match. "Yes, Miss Winstead. We've met before," he said obediently.

Miss Winstead said, "Of course we have." She nodded curtly and sat down primly in the front, folding her small, somewhat knobby hands neatly over her handbag. Her exposed forearms were tan, but the hands were white. Apparently a gardener who always wore gloves.

The man who followed her in obviously wasn't with her. He was tall, wore serious spectacles, and had a professorial stoop that went with his leather-elbow-patched jacket. "You're Eckert?"

“Yessir. You must be Dr. Eastman. We're all so glad you were able to interrupt your busy schedule to fill in for Ms. Jackson."

“While I was surprised you didn't contact me first," he said, "I've known Julie for years and couldn't refuse to fill in for her at this terrible time. I'm used to lecturing knowledgeable graduate students, however, not amateurs.”

Jane bridled at the way he said "amateurs," as if it were a slightly obscene word. Someone gave a small and very ladylike snort. Jane guessed it was Miss Martha Winstead. It wasn't nearly raucous enough to be Ursula.

Ursula herself promptly spoke up, though she hadn't been addressed. "My good sir, most of thegreat discoveries of mankind were made by amateurs, though that fact is often covered up." She waved her arm victoriously and an eyeglass repair kit fell out of her sleeve. "Intelligent amateurs can often see on overview what experts are too deeply into precious details to see. 'Amateur' is a flattering term."