Page 55 of The Botanist's Assistant
“Of course I mind, but what people call you isn’t what you are. Am I an eight-foot-two yellow bird who can roller-skate and write poetry?” she says. “Do I live in a large nest?” (Although perhaps her small house high on a hill in the woods might be considered just that.) “No, I am just a scientist who happens to be tall and large-boned, and when you don’t fit a mold, people must find a way to set you apart so they can assure themselves they are the normal ones.”
“When I was in eighth grade, kids started calling me Tubby McChubby.”
“That’s certainly an unpleasant moniker.”
“Tell me about it. The principal told my parents they should put me in private school because of the bullying. I ended up at St. Sebastian’s. It’s an all-boys Catholic high school, and, well, that’s a whole other story.”
“And yet, here you are, a scientist working in a lab that may find a new treatment for cancer one day.”
“I never thought of that.”
“Look at yourself in a new light, Calvin, and you might be amazed at what you see.”
A sudden smile crosses Calvin’s face and he slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “You know what? You’re right. I think I’m going to go home and go for a run. Instead of turningover one new leaf, I’m going to turn over a whole bush-load of them. Maybe I’ll have a salad for dinner. You’re the best, Margaret.”
Margaret watches him go out the lab door, his hand raised in a salute and a jauntiness in his step.
“Just don’t hurt yourself,” she calls after him.
What has she inspired?
Margaret gives one last read through the grant application, tweaking a few words here and there to be more precise. What laypeople might call scientific mumbo jumbo is actually a language designed for accuracy and understanding. Although, maybe if scientists’ papers were written more like mystery novels—research, after all, is about finding answers to puzzling questions—more people would be interested in science.
Finally, Margaret closes the document and glances at her watch. She has ten minutes before her workday ends. She types “Joe Torres journalist Spain” into the search line and there is the article, datelined “Barcelona, Spain.” It’s a long story and she reads it, a hollow feeling growing inside her. How cruel the world is. How corrupting the need for power and money. The poor whistle-blower had only been trying to right a wrong. No wonder Joe had to escape that world. There are other stories he’d written too: one about an Army chaplain in Afghanistan, another about a landslide in Nepal.
What a life he’d led. So different from hers.
At five forty-eight, she shuts down the computer, notes that she will need to order more nitrile gloves and Kimwipes, turns off the lights and gives one last glance to the room. This is also her nest, a place where she can be herself: eccentric,odd, a large yellow bird. Whatever people want to call her, this is where she belongs.
Outside, a warm west wind has sprung up, flapping Margaret’s skirt and lifting her hair as she walks to her truck. The weather is changing. Perhaps a warm spell that will be good for the Early Girls she planted. As she approaches the truck, she sees a rectangle of white paper fluttering from beneath a windshield wiper. She frowns. It can’t be a ticket. Her truck is perfectly centered in her assigned spot and her parking permit is up to date. She pulls a folded half sheet of paper from under the wiper and holds it open against the breeze.
On Anita Allshouse’s desk. Your welcome.
Despite the spelling error, the note lifts Margaret’s mood.
Purdy has apparently followed through, giving Margaret more time to do what needs to be done before the inevitable happens. She’ll have to thank her tomorrow, clandestinely, of course.
Margaret refolds the note and starts to stuff it into her skirt pocket when her fingers touch something plastic and round. She pulls out the object. It’s the navy-blue button Joe found in Dr. Deaver’s office. She’d forgotten about it.
A gust of wind shoves at her and she gets into her truck. She puts the button in the glove compartment and the note in her purse. She will keep one and dispose of the other.
There certainly will be a lot of information to put in herdata notebook tonight, including the fact that when she arrives home, Tom is sitting on the porch with another dead gopher lying at the front door.
“Well, well,” she says.
She changes her clothes and takes care of the dead rodent,Tom watching intently and seeming to question why she wouldn’t want to feast on the delicious specimen that has been presented to her.
“I’m having an egg salad sandwich for dinner, since I had a nice curry for lunch at Joe’s house,” she tells the cat. “He’s an interesting man, but he certainly has his demons.”
It feels good to not talk to herself but to confide in someone who will keep private anything she says.
“Why don’t I mash up the other hard-boiled egg for you and save the cat food for later.”
The cat tilts his head at her.
“Fine,” she says and lets out a small sigh. “Cat food it is, but I can’t keep feeding you that fancy-gravy brand. I’m going to need to find something less expensive. I’ll check the supermarket on Saturday and stock up if it’s on sale.”
Has she just decided the cat will stay?
