The Report from Potter's Point : May

by VernWinterbottom (Christopher J. Richard)

Part 1

Well, not an awful lot went on in Potter’s Point last month, except that Christie Bunting returned to town for the first time in about two decades, an event that didn’t mean a lot to many folks except for Henry Haskins.

For the last 40 or so years, the only regular “summer people” in Potter’s Point have been the Buntings, who own the big place on The Point overlooking the Bay. Wallace Bunting, an heir to the Bunting & Gluten wallpaper paste fortune, built the house in 1966 so that his wife Ava and their newborn daughter Christie could get out of the city when the warmer weather set in. While many Potter’s Pointers want nothing to do with the seasonal vacation crowd, they have tolerated the Buntings because the family always tended to keep to themselves and their big waterfront house helps the town meet the state requirement for high-income housing.

Besides paying their taxes, the Buntings have provided a couple of generations of teenagers with summer jobs, such as lawn mowing, hedge trimming, light housekeeping, and other odd chores that the well-to-do don’t do themselves.

It was in the capacity of lawn mower to the Buntings that Henry Haskins had first been employed at the age of 13 and had, three years later, first really paid attention to Christie Bunting. That year, Henry was 16 and Christie was a year older. After catching a glimpse of her freckled face, and nearly running the lawn mower into the birdbath, Henry had thought of nothing else.

She was like one of those Salve Regina girls he saw on rare outings to Newport. She walked barefoot, wearing flowery pastel summer dresses and white straw hats. She sipped iced lemonade from tall frosted glasses while reclining in the shade reading thick paperback romance novels. She reminded Henry of some kind of storybook princess, but in his imagination, Henry was the fairytale frog.

And not an enchanted frog, but one that would stay a frog forever no matter what.

Then one hot afternoon when Henry had been mowing the Buntings’ lawn for the third time in 12 days, Christie brought him a glass of lemonade and asked if there were any good movies playing anywhere nearby. Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom was showing over in Hope Falls, but Henry didn’t have a driver’s license yet and Wallace Bunting had driven back to New York on business. Instead of the movie, Henry took Christie to one of the town band concerts followed by coffee frappes at Pru’s Pastime. Although Christie Bunting was a girl whose monthly allowance was about equal to Henry’s father’s annual salary, the two got along quite well and that first date had ended with a quick kiss.

For one enchanted evening, it almost seemed to Henry that the frog spell had been broken. Alas, before another date could be arranged, Christie had had to leave for a foreign exchange student program in England.

That was the last summer she had come to Potter’s Point. Wallace and Ava Bunting still came to the Point each year, though. In more recent years there were children with them from time to time and folks around town concluded they were grandkids. On the advice of their lawyers, the Buntings eventually stopped hiring boys to do their yard work, and contracted the work to an insured, professional crew.

Ironically, Henry Haskins, all these years later, was responsible for maintaining the lawn of the next-door neighbor to the Buntings and of several other fine properties in the Greater Hope Falls area.

When he had first mowed a few lawns to earn money in the summer of ’82, Henry Haskins never imagined that he would end up in the business of landscaping and garden care, but when life gave him a pile of manure, Henry had turned around and sold it at a tidy profit. One thing led to another and for the last decade he has owned and operated Left Wing Landscaping, specializing in organic, environmentally friendly alternatives for yard planting and maintenance.

A couple of weeks ago, Henry got an unexpected telephone call.

“Help,” said a woman’s voice. “I need some grounds-keeping services, but the property is near the bay and I want to avoid lots of chemical pesticides and fertilizers.”

“You’ve called the right place,” said Henry. “We use the same methods that Squanto taught to the Pilgrims. Fish fertilizer, wood ashes, leftover turkey. . . .”

“Does it work even if I’m not growing corn, squash, or cranberries?”

“Sure, but why not grow cranberries? There are varieties that don’t need a bog and can be used as nice ornamental groundcovers with the added benefit of edible fruit.”

“Well. . . perhaps,” said the woman. “This place is a mess. I might want to tear everything up and start over.”

“Oh. Have you just bought a house?”

“No, it’s something that’s been in the family for a while, but there’s been a change of circumstances and I’m taking a more active role in managing the place this year. If you’re accepting new clients, I’d like to have you run out here, look it over, and give me a price.”

“Sure. What’s the address?”

“128 West Bayside.”

“In Potter’s Point?”

“Yes. If you know the area, it’s out past that big monstrosity that got built where the old boatyard used to be,” she said. “My name is Christie Bunting.”

“Christie. . .”

“Bunting. B-U-N—”

“I know the place, “ said Henry. “I, um. . . I can be there first thing in the morning. Say nine?”

“Fine,” she said. “And your name is. . .?”

“Henry Haskins.”

“All right, fine,” she said. “I’ll see you at nine, then, Harry.”

“Henry.”

“Yes. Sure. Okay.”

Henry Haskins hung up and looked around his “office.” He lived in three small rooms on Main Street, upstairs above Mildred’s Market. He was thirty-eight years old. Never married. His most presentable outfit of clothing included scuffed up Timberland work boots and a baseball cap from Earl’s Garage. And tomorrow morning he was going to see Christie Bunting for the first time since 1984.

He looked at his watch. Putting on a jacket, he stepped into the hall and locked his door. Five minutes later he was at the back door of St. Christopher’s Church. He went inside and took a seat. The meeting had already started.

“Hello, my name is Joe and I’m an alcoholic. With the help of the program, I’ve been sober for 13 years.”

“Hello, Joe!”