Maggie looked at Poteet with distain. The little plant wasn’t trying anymore. Two plant arms braced against the rim of the pot. “Come on, at least hold your head up,” Maggie pleaded. Just like always, Poteet did not respond.
A few weeks back, Maggie had accepted this responsibility with a smile. Gill had given a smile of his own and it was all Maggie needed as payment. She would have gladly accepted a baby at her doorstep had it been wrapped in the smallest amount of attention from Gil. Although, to be honest, Maggie would have done the same for anyone with excessive amounts of arm hair.
But now, this kindness had become unmanageable. She couldn’t tell if Poteet needed more water or, somehow, less. Here was the responsibility of utility bills, her taxes, and cleaning out the attic, but without the feeling of accomplishment. What use was effort, when it might have been better if she had done nothing? Then she remembered that plants like sun and wondered if that might be helpful. Then she wondered exactly how much sun might be useful and if plants outside had sun all the time and if this was only an indoor plant, like her childhood cat Miftons, who one day ran out of the house and was hit by a car.
Maggie pulled back the curtains to see a dreary midday. This was her luck, on the only day she would have wanted sun, it was lost above a foggy sky bank. She placed two fingers to her skull and tried to wish-command the clouds to dissipate. As she worked her forehead into a contortion that was sure to give her wrinkles later she heard a small sound. It was no more than squeak. A soft twist of door hinge that needs oil. It might have been nothing, but then she heard it again. She opened her eyes and there it was again, this time a little louder. To her ears it sounded distinctly like a call for help.
