It was a Sunday morning in Bel Air, and the sun was already hot by the time Speedeet finished his porridge.
“Ma, can I go play cricket with Wilar?” he asked, already halfway to the door.
“You had your breakfast? You wash your plate?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Go. But come back by twelve for church lunch.”
Speedeet was out the door before the screen could slam. Wilar was waiting on the corner by the coconut tree with his cricket bat — the good one, the Mongoose bat his uncle brought from England — and a brand-new tennis ball that he had been saving since Christmas.
“We playing at the school yard?” asked Speedeet.
“School yard flooded from the rain last night,” said Wilar. “We playing at Mrs. Patterson empty lot.”
Mrs. Patterson’s empty lot was a decent wicket. Grass cut short. One wall on the north side where the ball could not escape. Another wall on the south side, Mrs. Patterson’s actual wall, over which the ball must NEVER, under any circumstances, go. Because Mrs. Patterson on the other side had an orchid garden. And she had views about children and cricket balls.
“You bat first,” said Wilar, tossing the ball in his hand.
“I should bowl first,” said Speedeet. “I bowling good this week.”
“Because you the captain today?”
“Because I the captain every Sunday. We agreed.”
Wilar laughed. “Okay, Captain. Bowl.”
Speedeet took the ball. He walked back to his mark — he had paced it out last Sunday, exactly nine steps — and turned. He ran in with the dramatic high-knee action that he had been practicing in his bedroom mirror. The ball came out, pitched just short of a length, and Wilar played a perfect cover drive.
The ball sailed, gracefully, beautifully, with excellent technique —
— directly over Mrs. Patterson’s wall.
Both boys stood very still.
“You batted it over,” whispered Speedeet.
“You bowled it there,” whispered Wilar.
“That is not relevant.”
“It IS relevant. A good bowler does not give cover-drive balls.”
“A good batsman does not hit balls into Mrs. Patterson orchid garden.”
They stood for another silent moment. A breeze moved through the lime tree. Somewhere, a rooster crowed. Somewhere else, closer, Mrs. Patterson’s back door opened.
“Oh no,” said Wilar.
“OH NO,” said Speedeet.
Mrs. Patterson was a small woman with very sharp eyes and a garden apron that was, at this moment, stained with soil and plant food. She was holding Wilar’s brand-new Christmas tennis ball between her thumb and her forefinger, exactly the way one might hold a dead rat.
“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson,” said Speedeet, in the voice he used when he was being reported to an adult.
“Good morning, Mrs. Patterson,” said Wilar, in an identical voice.
“Good morning, boys.”
There was a pause.
“This,” said Mrs. Patterson, holding up the ball, “has just dismembered three of my orchid stems.”
Wilar made a small noise.
“Three stems. Three. The yellow Dendrobium. The purple Vanda. And the one Phalaenopsis I have been encouraging to bloom for six months.”
Speedeet looked at Wilar. Wilar looked at Speedeet. Both boys looked at the ground.
“So,” said Mrs. Patterson. “What do we think is the correct response here?”
Speedeet thought very fast. His mother had taught him that when adults ask “what do we think is the correct response,” they already know the correct response. The correct response was always: accept responsibility, offer to help, do not make excuses.
“We are very sorry, Mrs. Patterson,” said Speedeet. “We will come over and help you in the garden for the rest of the morning to make up for the damage.”
“Yes we will,” said Wilar, who recovered fast when he had to. “For the rest of the morning. And next Sunday too.”
Mrs. Patterson looked at them both with her sharp eyes. Then something surprising happened. She smiled. Just a little. Just at the corners.
“That,” she said, “is a very good answer.”
For the next two hours, Speedeet and Wilar helped Mrs. Patterson in her orchid garden. She showed them how to trim the damaged stems properly, at an angle, so the plant could heal. She showed them how to mix the fertilizer in just the right proportion. She showed them how to repot the Phalaenopsis with fresh bark.
“Why you grow orchids, Mrs. Patterson?” asked Wilar, who was being careful not to drop any more tools.
Mrs. Patterson thought for a moment. “Orchids are difficult,” she said. “They take patience. They take attention. You cannot just plant them and walk away. You have to check them every day. You have to notice when something is wrong. You have to be willing to do small things consistently for a long time.”
She looked at both boys.
“It is like being a friend,” she said. “Or being a good student. Or learning cricket.”
Speedeet nodded slowly. He had not thought of cricket that way before.
“When you batted that ball over the wall,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “it was because Wilar was playing perfectly and Speedeet had bowled a ball in the perfect spot for Wilar to play perfectly. The cricket was correct. What was not correct was the location.”
Both boys laughed.
“So next Sunday,” said Mrs. Patterson, “you will play cricket at the school yard, where I will not have to worry about my orchids. And in exchange, I am going to teach you both about Phalaenopsis. Because a boy who can play a perfect cover drive can certainly learn to repot an orchid.”
By the time Speedeet got home, it was almost twelve. His mother was already setting the table for Sunday lunch.
“You had fun at cricket?” she asked.
Speedeet thought about it for a moment.
“Ma,” he said. “I learned about orchids.”
His mother turned around from the table with a particular expression on her face.
“You learned about what?”
“Orchids, Ma. Phalaenopsis. They very difficult. You have to notice when something is wrong.”
His mother looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, “Speedeet, sit down. Tell me the whole story. From the beginning.”
And he did.
To be continued next Sunday, when Speedeet and Wilar return to Mrs. Patterson’s garden for orchid lesson number two, and Wilar discovers he has a natural talent for it that he did not expect.
— Speedeet & Wilar, Sundays in Bel Air