THE GRASS MENAGERIE

The Grass Menagerie 

“Lawn Doctors are here,” my husband says to me as I enter the kitchen. Men in white full-body lab suits, space suits, frankly, probing the yard with strange devices. I don’t trust them. We’re watching them through the window over the sink.

“Don’t worry,” my husband tells me in his calm detached manner. As if that were the way to make me feel less crazed around these bizarre men who look like they’re investigating a nuclear disaster site. We have one of those atomic plants nearby. Suddenly I’m terrified by thoughts of Three-Mile Island, Chernobyl and Fukushima. What if I were radioactive?  Not so far-fetched. Here in town we went through it already. High radon emissions. At the elementary school I attended. I’m childless and having trouble getting pregnant. At age 32. Is it the radon? Are these Lawn Doctors using something dangerous? Does my husband care? Not in the least, it seems. He says otherwise, but I don’t believe him.

He’s obsessed with the lawn. The way he’s been going on about it, you’d think the yard has fertility problems. His desire for a beautiful lawn is expanding his vocabulary: fertilizing, seeding, irrigating, soil temperature and a dozen more lines acquired from the Lawn Doctors. He speaks to me as though they’re real doctors, rather than a bunch of con artists pulling the wool over his eyes.  Does he listen to me? Of course not. What’s left for me? I’m discussing his lawn obsession with my therapist. It’s taking a toll. I’m worried he’s going to ask the entire crew over for dinner and expect me to cook.

“They make me nervous,” I say. “In those space-suits. For protection from god knows what.”

They’re sampling and probing the soil with their equipment. I see the way they’re examining the blades of grass. Their hands are in latex gloves.

“How long will these weirdos be here?” I ask. I demand.

“Till they find the source of the problem,” he says, without looking at me.

“Before, when they arrived and I was upstairs, I was looking at them from the bedroom window. Some of them were staring at me. They’re creepy. You don’t get how creepy they are. Like aliens. What the fuck are they doing here? Really?” I say.

“The blight. They’re looking for the source of the blight,” he says.

I let out a nervous, disbelieving laugh.

“What blight?” I say, while thinking of the blight in my fallopian tubes that my husband pretends he is ignoring.

“You haven’t noticed?” he said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Oh, here we go. Doesn’t that get right to the heart of it? The what’s-wrong-with-you line. You, you, he says. I know what he means. This fertility business. As though I’m damaged goods. His way of saying I’m a totally defective woman and he’s Mr. Perfect. 

Just then the head Lawn Doctor knocks on the door. My husband opens it.

“Any luck?” asks my husband. 

From behind the clear plastic mask shielding his face, he speaks, “We found something.” 

“Really? What?” my husband asks, his excitement evident. His voice coming out in a rush, followed by breathing that could be mistaken for panting.

“Gluten,” says the Lawn Doctor.

“Gluten?” The look on my husband’s face shows he is perplexed by this word.

“We found gluten. You know your lawn needs to be gluten-free, right?” he says. 

“I had no idea,” my husband responds.

“State law,” he says in a firm tone mixing authority with a shrug of inevitability. “So, you’ve got to change your lawn chemistry a little,” he adds.

“Oh...okay…sounds pretty simple. A little fertilizer?” says my husband. 

Oh my god, I can’t believe he’s falling for this bullshit. Not a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Like this guy is L. Ron Hubbard and my husband has opened himself up and accepted Scientology.

Through the clear mask over the Lawn Doctor’s face, I see lines forming from his chin to his hairline. An actor putting on a look of consternation.  He’s really into his role.

“Maybe not so simple. It’s pretty serious, actually. The best plan is to renew the lawn,” he says.

“Renew? You mean...I dunno...what does that mean?” asks my husband, a pinched look covering his face.

“Agent Orange,” he says. “We spray the yard with it. Kill the existing grass and replant. A fresh start.”

“Agent Orange? Isn’t that a little extreme?” he said.

“Seems that way, doesn’t it? But it’s a tricky business. You don’t want your gluten spreading to the neighbors. Then you got lawsuits. First one neighbor. Then the next. Pretty soon they get together and it’s a class action you’re fighting. I’m sure you know how that can go,” he said, seeming weary but resolute.