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The Most Beautiful Place on the Planet
My first thought, as we step down from the back door, is that this is exactly what I had expected. Bushes are crowding in from the sides, and tree branches are blocking the daylight overhead. I keep my eyes on my feet, moving carefully and following Mrs. Hallovich’s footsteps along a narrow path of flat stones. I’m hoping I don’t see a snake slither across the top of my sandal, when all of a sudden, everything brightens. Ahead is a big yard that looks and smells like it has just been mowed. There are still a lot of overgrown bushes, but only around the outside of the yard. They make a kind of privacy fence.
Tommy lets go of my hand and takes off toward the center, to a crumbling, water fountain. It is three tiers tall, taller than my dad. On top is a swan made of stone. The swan is trumpeting to the sky, its wings stretched out like it’s about to fly away. I wouldn’t blame him if he did. The fountain is dry except for a dirty brown puddle in the bottom pool. The sides are cracked and weeds are taking over.
Mrs. Hallovich hands me a penny. “Throw it up to the swan,” she says. “Then make a wish.”
“There’s no water,” I state the obvious.
“Then wish for water,” she says.
Everyone’s a comedian today.
I throw the penny to the top layer, and it lands with a small clink at the swan’s feet. I close my eyes to make a wish, but my thoughts are too jumbled right now, so I wish for water.
“My mother loved to garden, and she spent as much of her time as she could outside when I was a child. This fountain was a gift from my father.”
First of all, the fountain looks about 500 years old. Second of all, it’s hard to imagine Mrs. Hallovich as a child, and third of all . . . that’s a pretty cool gift.
“Neat,” I say.
Tommy has climbed into the bottom pool, and has managed to splash the dirty, brown puddle-water all over his front.
“Come here, young man,” Mrs. Hallovich says. She gathers Tommy up into a hug, then unties his bib, and lifts the wet shirt over his head. “Better?”
Tommy squeals and takes off running, like he’s been released from the Prison of Clothes. His arms flap up and down when he runs. We laugh.
A weeping willow takes up a corner of the back yard. It’s the tallest weeping willow I’ve ever seen. A giant! I love weeping willows. They are my most-absolute-favorite tree. A rusty table and chairs are set up underneath. Just like the fountain, these are also being taken over by weeds.
Mrs. Hallovich sees where I’m looking. “That tree is over 130 years old. I used to like having my afternoon tea beneath it, at that table,” she says. “Weeping willows are my favorite tree.”
I’m growing more sure she’s a mind reader. I’ll have to be careful. My mind never shuts up. I nod and try to think of nothing, but that’s impossible.
A stone path circles the fountain and disappears again into the wall of bushes on the other side.
“Where does that go?” I ask, pointing to it.
“Let’s go find out,” she says, as if she doesn’t already know. “Come with us, Tommy! There’s more to see!”
Tommy runs over in his half-nakedness, and I grab his hand. We cross to the other side of the fountain and duck through a small break in the bushes. Mrs. Hallovich and I push the branches carefully aside to keep Tommy from being scratched.
We pass into a clearing full of tall grass that looks like it hasn’t seen a lawnmower in years. Rising up through it is the most beautiful building on the planet.
“Is that the carriage house?”
“No, Ella. That’s my mother’s greenhouse.”
It’s made of glass. It’s full of green. It looks like something from our Greek mythology book in Mrs. Post’s fourth grade classroom. It sparkles. It shines. It’s . . . magical.
“Can we see inside?” I ask.
“Of course we can.” Mrs. Hallovich leads Tommy and me up to the entrance and steps aside, so I can open the door.
I grab the iron, curlicue handle, and twist.
A black chandelier hangs down from the middle of the two-story ceiling. This is what the one in the house would look like if it were sandblasted. It hangs like the boughs of a weeping willow tree, with electric candles placed throughout the dripping leaves.
The greenhouse bursts with plants, but it’s not overgrown. Someone is obviously taking care of it. Some plants have leaves in colors as pretty as flowers. Some hang in baskets from poles, some sit on pedestals that look like Greek columns, some cover the floor, some climb the glass walls. It all smells like when I stick my nose in a carnation.
“Are those real?” I ask, pointing to a cluster of small trees in the corner.
Mrs. Hallovich walks over and plucks a lemon off of one of them. “These make the best lemonade in the world.”
My dad would go crazy in this place. He’s a landscape designer. We moved here to Saint Clair last summer. People in town say he has the greenest thumb they’ve seen in a hundred years. That makes me kind of proud.
Mrs. Hallovich is real nice about letting Tommy explore. He pulls a leaf off of one of the plants to examine it more closely. I expect her to be angry, but she shrugs her shoulders at me, and says, “it’ll grow back.”
There’s an empty birdcage hanging in the corner. It’s black and fancy and kind of matches the chandelier. It’s filled with yellow roses.
“Is that a real birdcage?” I ask.
“A bird used to live in it, yes. But when my mother passed, I set it free. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have the good fortune of being born with wings, and then never be able to use them.”
“Did it fly away?”
Mrs. Hallovich smiles. “No. Hubert’s around here somewhere. He’s a bit shy of strangers.”
“How old is he?” I don’t know how long birds live, but I figure that Mrs. Hallovich’s mother has probably been gone for a long time.
“He’s old.” She nods her head but doesn’t say anything else.
For a second, I think we’ve lost Tommy, but Mrs. Hallovich lays her hand on my shoulder. “He’s around here,” she says, and guides me past a statue of a boy carrying a basket of grapes on his head. I notice a trickling sound as we walk down a flight of five marble steps. It’s even more beautiful back here. A stream of water runs from the outside, passes under one of the glass, exterior walls, runs through the center of the greenhouse, then winds around until it passes back outside, somewhere under the thick leaves. Colorful fish flit through it. We cross over a small bridge toward Tommy, who’s hunkered down on the opposite bank talking up a storm. It’s still hard to understand anything he says, but it looks like he’s communicating well enough with the fish.
“Who are you talking to?” I call to him.
“Today.” he says.
“Yes. Who are you talking to today?”
Tommy giggles.
“Come on, Bubby.” I hold out my hand to him and he climbs back up from the water’s edge.
Mrs. Hallovich leads us down another stone path, and around a curve, to the very back of the greenhouse. A small area has been arranged with a sofa and two chairs that make you want to curl up and take a nap. I can’t believe I just thought that. I haven’t
taken a nap in forever.
“I come out here often to read or sew,” she says. Then she looks directly at me and says, “or take a nap.”
There she goes again.
“Maybe we can spend time out here later this week, but for now, there’s still more to see!” She ushers us back the way we came and as we’re leaving, we pass below the chandelier in the entry. I look up and catch a glimpse of color shooting across the glass roof.
“See you later, Hubert!” Mrs. Hallovich calls.
Hubert tweets back.
Before we return to the yard with the fountain, I have a last look over my shoulder to the spectacular greenhouse. Behind the clearing the ground dips down a hill to a row of weeping willows.
“Wow!” I say. “What’s over there?”
Mrs. Hallovich sighs. “That’s Willow Pond,” she says.
“Can we see?” I ask.
Mrs. Hallovich gives a tiny smile that looks like it hurts, and shakes her head. “Not today, Dear.”
