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vegetable garden, Martha kept her
flowerbeds small and easy to manage. Caring for the beautiful flowers was more
than a hobby. The roses, azaleas and geraniums were substitutes for her distant
grandchildren, and she spent pleasurable hours poring over catalogs and
learning the names and needs of each special flower. Her garden included Blue
Girls with four inch double flowers, the dazzling red Mon Cheri and delicate
pink Royal Highness, both boasting five-inch blooms. Her favorite was the
unusual Caribia with dashing red markings on yellow petals. Diligent study had
taught Martha about the particular soil requirements needed for healthy plants.
All of her plants were tall and bushy and had deep green foliage. If she was so
inclined, she could have won blue ribbons at any flower show with her
wonderfully fragrant and showy plants.
    Grateful for the morning sun that warmed her arms and back,
she stooped over these plants, digging out the last of the winter coverage. By
Memorial Day they would be in full bloom, fragrant and beautiful.
    "Martha," Bill said softly from the porch. He'd
been sitting there, brooding and watching her, all morning.
    Surprised at his tone of voice, Martha looked up to see him
leering at her. Her heart began to pound.
    "Come here," he said.
    With both hands on the ground, Martha pushed herself to her
feet and slowly went to him.
    "You know, it’s been a long time since I felt like your
man," he said in a husky voice.
    "Y…y…you’ve been s…sick," she stammered, not
really knowing what to say, almost afraid to look at him.
    "Well, let’s go inside and see how sick I am."
    Martha wanted to protest, wanted to run away from him. But
this was her husband. At least he was paying attention to her.
    In the kitchen he turned and ordered Martha to her knees in
front of him.
    "Come on, baby. You know what I want," he said,
unzipping his trousers with shaking fingers.
    She knew what he wanted and the thought of it revolted her. "Bill,
I can’t…"
    "Do it!"
    Thirty minutes later, a red-faced Martha was pushed away.
She had done everything he requested, but it was useless. He was impotent, and
there was nothing either of them could do about it. Still, there was that
ridiculous guilt that hung over her like a cloud as she hurried back outside
and rushed to the peace of her roses.
    Bill followed a few minutes later. "I think we should
expand our garden space this year," he said, his voice hard and cold
again.
    Martha glanced up at him, not surprised to see the angry
scowl on his face. When he made no further comment, she stood up and stretched.
Too embarrassed to face him, she studied the plot of ground that had fed them
for so many years. The rich earth stood ready. It had been plowed and disked
and straight rows had been neatly arranged by Michael Adkins.
    Bill and Michael had known each other since childhood, and
their friendship had only grown deeper and stronger over the years. It was the
country way. They shared equipment, farming know-how and a sympathetic ear when
needed. More than once they celebrated the birth of a calf or the sale of a
steer with bottles of scotch.
    Michael had always been a welcome visitor at their home. His
naturally easy-going, sunny disposition brought a smile to everyone he knew
and, unknown to Martha, a glow to her face. Since Bill’s accident, Michael was
the only one in their circle of friends that came near them and he came only
when requested.
    "I’ll have Michael come tomorrow and plow up that piece
of ground on the other side of the house." Bill’s voice contained a note
of finality.
    Martha could remember happier times, a hundred years ago,
when Michael and Bill laughed and talked for hours over coffee and cake. On the
few occasions since Bill’s accident that Michael came to help, he looked grim
and worked fast, eager to get away. She missed his hearty laughter and quick
wit. When he came now, he was as much as stranger as Bill had become and Martha
would rather not