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CHAPTER FIVE love affairs
THE BLANCHARD'S BACK garden was fairly close to being mistaken as a forest. Agatha found happiness in the nature, there were strips along the south of the garden, soil nourished with the most expensive manure, and from the ground sprung roses and tulips. Mrs Scheer, who often came pestering the family with bottles of wine and tea, liked to sit on the wooden edge in a sunbathing chair, her old skin shielded by long sleeved dresses with lavender prints, and her head holding a hat that Constance could've sworn she saw in her History textbook modeled by the rich housewives that lived in the 70s.
During their lunch break, just before Anne was scheduled to go to her piano lesson down the road to the Millers, she and Bernadette were sat on the decking, plastic plates on their lap. Sandwiches lathered in cream cheese and stacked with smoked salmon were cut into triangles ( crusts torn off and discarded in the trash, ) and slices of Constance's freshly baked bread, buttered up with the salty kind. The unsalted butter was only used for cooking, Prim always complained about how plain it was, and caused a scene if their mother brought back the wrong kind. Bernadette was almost certain that Prim couldn't care less about the butter, she just thrived on causing a scene.
The air carried sweetness, brushing through the trees to cause a symphonic rattle, and the roses danced into each other, thorns slashing through the air around them like proud guards protecting their flower. Agatha was on her hands and knees at the end by the fences, weeding the wood of dandelions and ivy vines, shoving the yellow flowers into a bucket for Constance who could make dandelion syrup or lemonade, and the other green waste into a large orange bin. Philippa skipped the width of the garden, she was wearing her silly wedding dress, ruffles and and lace billowing from her body. Socks with tiny little bows on the hemming by her knees, shiny shoes grimed with dug up soil.
Anne had a delicate smile, the only look she held when she went to her piano lessons on Tuesday's and Sunday's. Anne had a diary▬▬ that the FBI would go on to find when they investigated the crime scene ▬▬where she would write love poems and secret letters to her love, her pianist down the street. Bernie had read one once, after walking in on Anne and her teacher on top of each other, lips on each other's skin, hands in each other's hair. Bernadette had swallowed what she saw, because if their mother heard about it, she'd hoard her daughters inside the home and forbid freedom. With the little privileges they had, Bernadette leant towards turning a blind eye.
O, sweet lover, it's as if the music of the piano has lulled us together. Your hands fit so perfectly in mine and so perfectly on the keys that your voice is like the song you play so easily. I have never known a better symphony than your name, you may perform ballads of ancient art, but just by muttering or laughing, everything you do becomes poetry as good as the music from ancient years ago.
