It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [51]
“I’m going to follow that trail,” I told Gloria, and I did just that, stomping my way up the hill, guided by a patch of black soil here and there. Gloria followed close behind and pointed out the trail when I became stumped several times. I finally stopped when there was no more dirt to be seen and the clues abruptly dried up in front of a house that was in need of a weed whacker and a paint job. In Eugene, that’s a sign that whoever lives inside does own a cauldron. Full-size.
And that is right where my plan of action came to an abrupt halt. I looked at the house and didn’t really know where to go from there. Did I knock on the door and ask if they had seen my trees? Did I call the police and attempt to press charges because the dirt stopped in front of their house? Did I try to peek in their windows to see if I spotted any fallen purple leaves? I didn’t have any proof, I didn’t have a description, and I didn’t even have a picture of my trees to prove they were mine in the first place.
I was standing on the sidewalk with Gloria when I heard a familiar voice call out my name. It was Roy, our realtor and friend, who lived a block or two up the hill with his wife, Patti, who’d sold us our house. He was just starting his daily bike ride when he saw us, slowed to a stop, and asked me how I was.
When I told him about the theft, his jaw dropped and he said he was sorry to hear it. I explained why we were in front of this particular house and why I didn’t exactly feel confident about taking the investigation any further.
“Those azalea trees were beautiful,” he said, shaking his head. “They were in full bloom. I had heard that there was a plant pirate in the neighborhood last year, but I thought that was all over.”
“This is clearly bringing it all back,” Gloria repeated.
“I don’t know what to do,” I said, shrugging and feeling generally powerless. “I guess I’ll just have to buy two more trees.”
“The nursery has some pretty ones,” Roy told me. “I was there this weekend and saw a couple. They’ll run you about a hundred, hundred twenty apiece.”
I was stunned. When we bought the house, the trees were a package deal with the foundation and the roof, which said to me that it was too much of a hassle for even the people who paid $120 per tree to take them.
“You’re kidding,” I said dismally. “So I guess I could replace the trees for two hundred forty dollars, only to have them stolen again? I’m not made of money! In fact, even if I put a cheap little shrub in there, who’s to say that won’t get stolen, too?”
At that moment, I decided to take a stand.
“No,” I said to Roy and Gloria. “I won’t be a supplier for someone too cheap to buy their own plants. I’m not going to put anything back in the pots. I’m making a point. I have a message to send! Whoever stole my plants walks down this hill and up this hill every single day. They looked at those trees and waited until they were in their prime to abduct them, and they’re waiting for me to replant them so they can pillage my porch again. And I’m not going to play that game. On the way up the hill, they’re going to have to look at what they’ve done, and they’re going to see it again on the way down the hill. Empty pots. Nothing but empty pots. I’m making a statement! I can’t afford to keep feeding some evil person’s tree habit!”
And honestly I was very happy with my decision, even though after about a week or so Gloria came over to ask what I thought I might replant in them, as did almost every neighbor on the block, even ones I hadn’t met yet. Every time I wandered outside, someone popped over or came running across the street, anxious to know what I was planning on planting in the empty pots. It almost seemed as though I was creating more of a disturbance than the person who ripped my trees off in the first place.
“I was thinking,” my neighbor Sue said as she caught me outside weeding what I loosely term the