The well-groomed newcomer took a chair at the front of the room and found himself next to Martha Winstead. "Miss Winstead!" he exclaimed. "I never expected to find you here."
“Why is that, Mr. Jones?" she asked curtly. Jane noticed that the woman's hands tightened on the handle of her purse.
He looked confused for a moment as to how to reply, then said, "Well, your gardening is so… so haphazard… I just thought you wouldn't really be interested.”
Miss Martha Winstead gave him a smile that could have frozen over a volcano and said, "Haphazard. How very interesting."
“If you wish to take notes, I have a few spiral notebooks here that the local nursery contributed," Stefan said in a shaky voice. "And some pens from my father's office supply store," he added with desperate good cheer.
Four
Stefan took a protective stance behind the desk ': at the front of the room and read off an introduction to the speaker. It was a long list, obviously prepared by the professor himself, of incomprehensible degrees and honors, initials of presumably high-status organizations Dr. Stewart Eastman belonged to or founded or served as president of, and awards Jane had never heard of. Stefan must have pronounced a number of them incorrectly, because every now and then Dr. Eastman, standing next to the desk, cringed ever so slightly.
When Stefan stepped aside with a little bow, Dr. Eastman took his place, saying, "Since Mr. Eckert suggested introductions, we might as well proceed with them. Tell us who you are and why you signed on for this class. You first," he said, pointing to Jane.
She gave her name and added, somewhat idiotically in her own view, "I've spent most of my adult life raising children and pets, but as a once‑ upon-a-time child of a member of the diplomatic corps, I lived my childhood all over the world and saw many gardens and have always thought I'd like very much to have one of my own. So far I've only taken the slightest stab at it and want to learn more.”
Shelley was next. "My adult life has been much like Jane's, but my children are growing older and more independent, giving me time to develop other interests. Gardening is high on my list of priorities. I'm Jane's next-door neighbor.”
Jane smiled to herself. This was a surprisingly meek self-description of Shelley. Shelley had finally been caught out in something she knew very little about and couldn't even fake the dominant role that normally suited and served her so very well. Shelley made a tiny shoulder movement like a shrug or shiver, as if she were reading Jane's mind.
Charles Jones, the terribly neat, clean, freshly pressed man, was next. He stood up like a good student and explained that he was a computer programmer and spent his leisure time in botanical pursuits and hoped they all lived close enough to form car pools and take a look at each other's gardens this week as a part of their studies.
There was a low mumble of agreement. Jane, however, was horrified. Her yard was very nearly a blank canvas. Every spring she swore she'd plant some gardens and fertilize the lawn. She never quite got around to it soon enough. She'dhave to get Mike to clean up after Willard since she hadn't been outside with the pooper-scooper lately, and she'd have to bring in a bunch of potted annuals to look as if she had actually made an attempt at gardening this year. Mike could help her plant a few things since his summer job was at a plant nursery.
“… and," Charles added, "I happen to be a next-door neighbor of Miss Winstead. I think you'd find our gardens an interesting contrast." He sounded smug and sat down neatly, tucking his trousers up at the knees to keep the knife edge.
Miss Winstead spoke in turn. She didn't stand. "I spent a great deal of my life as a professional librarian, and by a fortunate and unexpected circumstance of an inheritance from my great-aunt, was able to continue my librarian work as a volunteer and spend more time on my lifelong interest in gardening. Mr. Jones is quite correct in saying that our gardens are a contrast. I hope we adopt his suggestion." She smiled icily again at Jones.
The older man who'd been reading a magazine when Jane and Shelley arrived finally got up and spoke. "My name is Arnold Waring. My friends call me Arnie and I wish the rest of you would." He cleared his throat. "My late wife, Darlene, was a real gardener and she fixed up our house and yard just perfect. You should have seen her out in the backyard, pulling up weeds and tending her precious posies with a smile and a song.”
Jane knew she was meant to feel touched, but had the urge to laugh. There was something so Victorian — or maybe vaudevillian — about that speech. It sounded for all the world like something from a Monty Python sketch.
“She's been gone a while now," Arnie went on. "And I've tried to keep everything just like she had it as a tribute to her memory. But I'm not very good at it, so I thought…?" His voice trailed off and he sat down quickly, folding his beefy arms as if to protect himself.
“What a dear story, Arnie. And how good it was of you to share it with us," Ursula said. She stood up and said, "I'm here because I'm part of the cosmos. We're all living, breathing, nurture-seeking beings, and gardens must be part of our nature. They are nature in their finest refinement.”
Two paper clips fell from her and tinkled to the floor.
“And I'm interested, as I'm sure we all are," she added, looking around at everyone for possible early signs of disagreement, "in what part the government has in this area. They have their greedy fingers in every other aspect of our lives.”
She smiled and sat down on a fork that had fallen out of one of her bags. "Oops," she giggled, stuffing it back into her enormous purse.
Dr. Eastman looked around the room for anyone he'd missed, and Stefan said, "I'm a student, too, sir. I would have been here even if Julie hadn't—" He started over. "I want to put in a little pool in my yard and I'm confused about plantsand fish and snails and how much you have to have of each and what will live over the winter." He smiled. "I'm from the South and haven't gotten used to Chicago winters yet. Don't know that I ever will.”
There was a tap on the door and Stefan, now having drifted to the back of the room to take a seat, turned to open it. Somebody gasped. The woman who entered looked a great deal like Julie Jackson.
She glanced around, unsure of herself. "I'm Geneva Jackson. Julie Jackson's sister. I'm sorry to interrupt, but thought you might like a report on how she's doing since you might have read about her being attacked.”
To a polite chorus of yeses, she replied, "She's still in intensive care and is almost conscious part of the time. Enough to move her hands and make sounds. The doctors, including my husband, who is a neurologist, say she's making terrific progress and could make a quite good recovery, given time and luck. Or not, to be frank."
“And you've kept your own name," Ursula piped up. "I like that in a modern woman. Of course, all women's maiden names are really a man's. Their father's. In other cultures, matrilineal ones, it's different. Everyone takes the mother's name, which is far more appropriate and scientifically significant because everyone's DNA patterns follow through in the maternal line.”
Shelley felt it was time to take control since no one else was except Ursula. She got up, threaded her way through the chairs, and took Geneva's arm. "Why don't you sit in for a bit to cool off and rest? Dr. Eastman is about to begin his lecture and you might be interested. You look like you need a break from the hospital.”
Geneva gratefully sat down and said to the group somewhat apologetically, "I'm a disaster at hospitals. I try to jolly people along and only drive them mad. My husband is staying by her bedside and is far more qualified, and asked me to leave, actually," she said with a self-deprecating smile to the group. "Will it be all right with you, Dr. Eastman, if I sit in?"
“Perfectly all right," he answered pleasantly. "And I'm glad to hear your sister is improving. We've just told each other about ourselves and our interest in this class. I think the others would like to know about you.”
He was speaking to her as if they were already acquainted, Jane thought. Perhaps they were.
“My sister is part of a team that investigates claims for plant patents. I'm in another part of the business. Julie does freelance lab work and cuttings of plants under consideration for patents whenever there appears to be a difficulty with the patent. I have a farm in the high plains of Colorado and am one of the testers throughout this country, Canada, and Mexico for her. I'm sure Dr. Eastman will explain all of this to you.”
Geneva Jackson sat back a bit more comfortably, signifying that she was ready to listen.
Five
Dr. Eastman drew himself up and said, "It's difficultf to know exactly where to begin. Many gardeners have heard of plant patents, and mistakenly believe this is a recent development along with cloning. That's not true. The United States Plant Patent Act was enacted in the late 1920s—"
“Nineteen-thirty," Miss Martha Winstead said in her soft but clear librarian's voice. "In late May.
He glared at her, didn't argue with her or accept her correction, and went on, reading from a card, "It states that whoever invents or discovers and asexually reproduces any distinct and new variety of plant, including cultivated sports, mutants, hybrids, and newly found seedlings, other than a tuber-propagated plant or plant found in an uncultivated state, may obtain a patent therefore.”
They all stared at him blankly.
“Would you repeat that slowly so we can write it down?" Ursula asked, fumbling on the floor where her notepad and pens were and stuffing other random bits that had fallen out again back into her purse.
Dr. Eastman did so. "I can tell that some of these terms are unfamiliar to some of you. 'Asexual reproduction' is probably one. This means creating a new plant from an old one in almost any manner, except by planting seeds. You could root a cutting of the plant, use a section of the root or tuber to grow a new one, divide a bulb, air-layer a branch of a shrub or tree, or take a bulblet from a corm. The reason is that the new plant that grew in any of these ways would be the exact genetic duplicate of the original plant.”
Seeing some comprehending nods, he went on. "A seed, on the other hand, represents sexual reproduction — a mix of chromosomes from two plants. And this, in fact, is a good place to start the process. If you want, for example, a special color of impatiens, you could make many pollen crosses, wait for the seeds to develop, and see if any of them produced the color you wanted. If one did, you could take many cuttings because impatiens roots easily from cuttings. Or if you wanted to develop a bigger or bushier impatiens, you'd cross-pollinate the biggest ones you can find that were also the color you're seeking."
“But you said the Plant Patent Act doesn't apply to seeds," Shelley said.
“And I also said that impatiens are easy to root from cuttings," Dr. Eastman said. "If you got a spirea-sized bush of impatiens, it might have thesame rooting capacity of the shrub. Or it might not. That's the point of hybridizing. Some methods fail, precious few are roaring successes.”
He glanced around, fairly satisfied that most of his audience appeared to be catching on. "Naturally, you have to keep detailed records of each cross, the result, and a full description of each plant involved. This mass of data must be submitted with the plant patent application. If you just sent in a description of a plant and a cutting or picture or little potted example, without significant records, you'd certainly be rejected and told to do it right."
“Doesn't this take a terrifically long time?" Jane asked.
“It often does," Eastman said. "The initial work is tedious and you have to wait for a seed to grow, mature, and go to seed before you know what you've got. But professional breeders have many projects going on at the same time, so it's not as if you sit around reading the newspaper for a year or two, waiting for the seedling to grow to maturity.
“The next stage is to find growers that are called triallers, because they do the trials. Breeders have… well, let us say, somewhat secret and well-trusted relationships with many triallers. I work in the north of Illinois. I have very private contracts with plantsmen who have isolated areas for growing in the high plains, the deep South, the northwest rain forest area, West Texas, Maine, the Appalachians, and desert environments. I send cuttings or bulblets or whatever parts of the plant I'm testing that qualify as asexual reproduction to the environments I think will be suitable. And oftentimes to areas I don't think are suitable as well, simply because a breeder can be surprised by a unexpected trait of the plant that he wasn't cross-breeding for.”
Someone must have looked confused by this. Eastman looked at somebody behind Jane and said, "Suppose your hybridized impatiens turned out to be surprisingly hardy. Southern testers wouldn't know this, but someone north of here might realize that this particular impatiens could take at least a light frost without falling over because the cell structure collapses at thirty-two degrees.”
He went on to other examples, and after another half hour when he sensed that the audience was getting information overload, he said, "That's all my lecturing for today. I have a little booklet I put together explaining what I've talked about this session that I'll hand out for you to read over and absorb. We'll do questions about the material and go on to the next stage at tomorrow's lesson."