Dear Doctor Ecle - Maryann backspaced feverishly, rubbing her eyes - Lector,
You are somewhat correct on the subject of my education. Although I do not have nearly the number of years that yours required, I am close.
The gardener almost backspaced again. It was early, and she had not slept well. The mug of double-strength black tea warmed her coaster and wafted invitingly. Maybe she should answer the email when she was more awake, like lunchtime. Chewing her thumbnail rid it of lingering traces of dirt, which even a scrub brush would not cleanse, and she considered with a frown what was inclining her to respond to his question about her schooling.
"I don't have to say anything," she informed the cats, who were happily thrashing their tails over a breakfast of MeowMix. "I'm not obligated to."
The animals' quiet crunching filled the silence.
"You two are as much help in decision making as a Magic 8-Ball," Maryann huffed with discord, sitting back from the computer. "Why the hell would I want to answer in the first place?" she murmured. He's charming, nice, and curious, supplied her brain. Reason enough, most of the time, she conceded. "He's curious about me," she debated. "It might even be business-related, like wondering what my credentials are."
With the query placed cleanly in the realm of business, which eased her anxiety, she typed:
If you are in search of references, please, do not hesitate to peruse my website, including the customer testimonials and the photo gallery. It is the only concession I give to bragging.
My college years are somewhat haphazard. I have three degrees: Asso. in Horticulture, Asso. in Business Administration, and Asso. in Culinary Arts. All three, though unrelated and brief, were a conscious choice to make the most of my few years available for schooling. With this trifecta, I was qualified for a variety of options in the working world. Shame, then, that I chose to work for myself. (smiley)
In fact, I feel I chose well. Although they may not carry the weight of bachelor's degrees or higher, they prepared me to obtain experience in the field of my choosing. Don't you think that experience is the best educator?
Perhaps my overexplanation is a sign of defensiveness. I tend to feel small when held up against Psy. D. achievers like yourself. Do you give free psychoanalyzing? (smiley)
Oh! And the bacteria in the soil is utterly harmless to humans. It is simply the soldiers of the soil world, with rival strains constantly warring against each other. Imagine a plant's roots as being lined by a vast series of keyholes. By encouraging the good bacteria and biological life, they flourish and anchor in the keyholes. This in turn denies access to the keyhole by malicious bacteria, and they do not harm the plants.
Some strains cause rot and disease in plants. Others encourage nitrogen fixation in legumes. But really, just like people, each do what they were made to do.
Anyway, I hope that answered your questions. Sorry I am so longwinded.
On another note, may I visit you on this coming Wednesday? It is time to amend!
Sincerely,
Maryann Shule
Bee All Gardening
"Alrighty, then," she sighed, sipping her tea. "Who's on the schedule today..." clicking around in her virtual dayplanner, she saw that today was a maintenance visit for the Litmans, a delightful elderly couple that had hired Maryann to keep their landscaping beds cared for on a yearly contract. They were one of her longest standing clients, going on five years.
Maryann smiled with delight. The Litmans had been plant collectors for all 52 of their married years, and their gardens showed it. The only thing that stopped them from caring for the space themselves was her bad back, and his bad knees. Maryann could get lost in the blinding variety of their collections of hostas, irises, roses, apple trees, and so much more. Plus, they always gave her some of Mrs. Litman's homemade lemonade, which had been known to make Maryann see stars with deliciousness.
The kitty flap in the door smacked back into place as Maryann's furry roommates exited for a foray. "Yeah, I should go, too," she called after them. "But it was lovely seeing you both again. We should do this more often."
Slapping together a peanutbutter sandwich for breakfast, and another one for the road, she ventured outside and raided her tool shed, mug still in hand. She clipped a fat bouquet of tulips for Mrs. Litman, who was forever adoring of spring bulbs. The drained mug served as a good makeshift vase, with a little water from the spigot.
After piling every tool she could think of needing in the bed of her truck, Maryann coaxed the vehicle through a backfire, down her driveway, and onto the street. An easy ten minutes later through light Virginian fog, she squeaked to a halt beside the gated community's security booth.
The guard on duty was an imposingly tall black man who eyed her suspiciously.
"I'm here to see the Litmans," she said with a wavering smile. "I'm their gardener."
"Mm-hmm," he grunted, looking over her slightly muddy truck and mutlitude of tools. Maryann tried to look as innocent as possible, though she'd been told her attempts had the opposite effect.
The guard was worrying her with the wait. If he refused her entry, she couldn't wake the Litman's this early to phone her in, and that would set back her entire day.
Plan B, Maryann thought. "I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you," she said, plucking a stem from the tulip bouquet. Extending the bloom towards the booth's window, she continued with a bright smile. "Maryann Shule."
The burgundy tulip bobbed in her hand for a heart stopping moment of indecision. "Jackson Rhodes," replied the man finally. He did not smile with his mouth, but he did soften considerably, and he took the slender stem from her carefully with his massive hands. "Thank you. You may pass."
"Thank you," Maryann beamed and eased her truck under the raised bar, breathing a sigh of relief. She looked back just in time to see the gruff, stoic man bring the elegant flower to his nose.
"Convert made," she concluded. It pleased her greatly to make a friend, and even more so to share the simple joy of a fresh flower. I wonder if I'll convert Dr. Lector in any way. The doctor seemed fairly open minded: he'd shown that when he approved her design. But who was she to impose her opinions on anybody? Maryann was not nearly so conceited or bold.
But then, she could always hope she had something to offer, some knowledge or skill that was unique. Grandiose aspirations, given his status and formal bearing, but it always gave her a secret thrill to be good at something - like growing things - that another was not.
Did that make her profession just a lucrative ego trip?
The Litman's mailbox was draped in the tiny foliage beginnings of a climbing rose. Maryann decided to start there and parked her truck in the driveway, pruners and hand hoe in grasp. She set to work humming under her breath.
Hannibal intensely reread her words. 'But really, just like people, each do what they were made to do.' The implications wrapped around his brain like boa constrictors and squeezed.
He opened a reply and quickly typed:
Miss Shule,
Do people REALLY do what they are meant to do? Is there some overarching grand design, in which we cannot escape our destinies, our fated roles on this planet?
Hannibal backspaced quickly, shocked at his own bolt of emotion. He had no desire to get into theories of godhood and fate with this woman, who was a veritable stranger to him.
In fact, even if she wasn't a stranger, he would not have this conversation.
So, after rubbing his temples self-deprecatingly, he tried again:
Wednesday sounds just fine, and do not apologize for a thorough explanation. I imagined full well what I was getting into when I asked.
The doctor repressed the urge to tack a 'smiley' onto the statement. Her exuberance was contagious, even virtually. Although, emoticons were useful for expressing what words could not, and for tempering the sentiment of a blunt statement.
She would have to believe the best of him. No smiley. His pride would not allow it.
But I have another question for you, if you will indulge me. When we met for the first time and spoke briefly on the subject of our mutual drawing hobbies, you commented, "Just because I can't draw formal doesn't mean I dislike other people's art. That's not what art is." Tell me, what is art to you?
Sincerely,
Dr. Hannibal Lector, Psy. D.
He sent the email and barely had time to reflect before the phone rang. Hannibal picked up the receiver, half expecting it to be Miss Shule. His presumption showed in the baritone of his, "Hello, this is Dr. Lector."
"Doctor," another man's bass answered, sounding like a lion excited to its feet. "It's Jack Crawford. Abigail Hobbs just woke up."
The cannibal's hands tightened on the phone. "I'll be at the hospital in twenty minutes."
"No need," came the terse reply. Hannibal distantly heard a horn beep in his driveway. "I'll drive. We have to stop and tell Will. He'll want to come."
Hannibal had to smile. Oh, to see that interaction would be as lovely as freschetta before a meal. "Very well," he said, letting an allowable amount of excitement to be mirrored in his own voice. Any excuse to imbed himself further in Will Graham's psyche.
He'd managed to get an acupuncture needle's depth into Will Graham's mind with the FBI's assignment of Graham to him for therapy. And with each encounter, he drove his needles deeper, plumbed more from the hapless man with a subtlety that lent itself to metaphors of the harpsichord's transcendental approach to the musical scales.
He knew what art was, to him. The question is, he thought, grabbing a coat from the closet. How different will Miss Shule's answer be from mine?