Harry Morton was a gardener. He had transformed both the front and back yards of his home into a sort of micro-farm that produced edible fruits and vegetables year round. The garden was so productive that he and his wife Abby couldn’t possibly consume all of the produce by themselves. However, between Abby’s canning skills and his generous gifts to the neighbors, nothing ever went to waste. He didn’t even mind sharing the garden’s bounty with the occasional poacher, both animal and human.

Harry prided himself on his strict adherence to organic gardening principles. He didn’t use pesticides, or chemical fertilizers. He believed that his crops were not only healthier, but better tasting as a result.

He also believed that a healthy garden required a balanced ecosystem to thrive. Consequently, he was pleased to find that ants had returned to the garden, after a prolonged absence. They had quickly controlled the aphid infestation, which he had battled in vain for the last three years.

Harry felt no small amount of guilt about the circumstances leading up to the absence of the ants. His wife was definitely not a gardener, and she had a zero tolerance policy when it came to insects. Accordingly, when she had complained to him about ants on the porch, he assured her that he would handle it.

He had intended to mix up some vinegar and water to spray on the porch. The mixture masks pheromone trails and forms a very effective ant barrier. However, distracted by other projects, he had procrastinated long enough that his wife decided to take matters into her own hands. Having exhausted her patience, she scheduled an exterminator to solve the “ant problem”.

Harry came home just as the exterminator was driving off. He found the perimeter of their home, and his treasured garden, drenched with a toxic cocktail of pesticides. It was painful to have years’ worth of organic practices undone in a single stroke. Within days, the ants had disappeared, along with virtually every other insect. Unfortunately, the destructive insects seemed to recover much faster than the beneficial ones.

Now, with the return of the ants, he felt like there was finally a restoration of balance in his garden. He could even contemplate growing artichokes again. One of his favorite vegetables, they were among the crops that had been so devastated by the aphids that he simply stopped planting them.

Just then, he heard the screen door squeak loudly as it was opened. He made a mental note to squirt some WD40 on the hinges.

“Harold!”

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

After 34 years of marriage, he could tell that whatever his wife was going to say next, it would involve adding yet another chore to his ever expanding “to do” list.

“Over here Honey!”

Abby walked under the arbor that framed the garden entrance and approached her husband. Frowning, she announced “There are ants all over the porch. We need to call the exterminator again.”

Harry Morton had dreaded this moment. However, knowing it was inevitable, he had formulated a contingency plan to protect “his” ants. He wouldn’t make the mistake of procrastinating this time.

He furrowed his brow, feigning concern. “Hmm. We need to get on this right away. I’ll call the exterminator.” He patted his pockets, looking for his phone. “Probably in the house.” He turned and walked purposefully inside. Finding his phone, he began punching in some numbers, as if calling the exterminator. However, this was simply a show for his wife. He had no intention of letting exterminators anywhere near his garden.

Holding the phone to his ear, he went to the garage. Passing his wife along the way, he gave her a smile and a quick thumbs up.

She was surprised by her husband’s unexpected responsiveness. Maybe after all these years, he was finally starting to listen to his wife a little more, and obsess over his garden a little less. She smiled to herself at this small win. He was a good man, even if he was a little forgetful at times.

Upon entering the garage, he proceeded to the storage cabinet and opened it. He grabbed the one liter bottle of vinegar he had purchased after the exterminator apocalypse and set it on his workbench. Next, he pulled his sprayer from the cabinet and placed it next to the bottle of vinegar. Everything was ready. Or was it?

Suddenly, the prominently displayed sprayer and vinegar bottle seemed to him, less like innocuous garden implements, and more like evidence of his plot to deceive his wife. He hid them both, out of sight, behind his tool chest. This would prevent him having to answer any awkward questions.

All he had to do now was wait for Abby to leave for work in the morning. Then he would add a gallon of water to the sprayer, mix in the vinegar and spray the porch area with the mixture. Problem solved.

He decided to add a reminder to his phone so he wouldn’t forget. He accessed the calendar and began setting up the alerts when his brain stalled at what to call the event. Then Abby entered the garage.

She asked in her sweetest voice, the one she used when she wanted her husband to do something right away. “Could you please fix the screen door? The squeaking is so annoying.”

Harry set his phone down and reached for the can of WD40. “No problem, Hun. Consider it done.” He gave his wife a quick smile and proceeded to the front porch, where he lubricated the offending hinges, silencing them. As he returned the WD40 to the storage cabinet, he grabbed his phone off the workbench and absentmindedly slid it into his pants pocket.

Later that day, while picking the last of the summer tomatoes, he felt a sudden concern, as if he was forgetting to do something, something important. Nothing immediately came to mind, so he shrugged it off.

After all, his wife would surely remind him if he forgot something important.

The End