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Cynthia squinted. “Those little teeny bits—?”
“‘Fabulous growth in twenty-four hours,’” Tom quoted from memory. “‘Plant them in your own cellar—’”
Fortnum and wife exchanged glances.
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“Well,” she admitted, “it’s better than frogs and green snakes.”
“Sure is!” Tom ran.
“Oh, Tom,” said Fortnum, lightly.
Tom paused at the cellar door.
“Tom,” said his father. “Next time, fourth-class mail would do fine.”
“Heck,” said Tom. “They must’ve made a mistake, thought I was some rich company. Air mail special, who can afford that?”
The cellar door slammed.
Fortnum, bemused, scanned the wrapper a moment, then dropped it into the wastebasket. On his way to the kitchen, he opened the cellar door.
Tom was already on his knees, digging with a handrake in the dirt of the back part of the cellar.
Fortnum felt his wife beside him, breathing softly, looking down into the cool dimness.
“Those are mushrooms, I hope. Not … toadstools?”
Fortnum laughed. “Happy harvest, farmer!”
Tom glanced up and waved.
Fortnum shut the door, took his wife’s arm, and walked her out to the kitchen, feeling fine.
Toward noon, Fortnum was driving toward the nearest market when he saw Roger Willis, a fellow Rotarian, and teacher of biology at the town high school, waving urgently from the sidewalk.
Fortnum pulled his car up and opened the door.
“Hi, Roger, give you a lift?”
Willis responded all too eagerly, jumping in and slamming the door.
“Just the man I want to see. I’ve put off calling for days. Could you play psychiatrist for five minutes, God help you?”
Fortnum examined his friend for a moment as he drove quietly on.
“God help you, yes. Shoot.”
Willis sat back and studied his fingernails. “Let’s just drive a moment. There. Okay. Here’s what I want to say: something’s wrong with the world.”
Fortnum laughed easily. “Hasn’t there always been?”
“No, no, I mean … something strange—something unseen—is happening.”
“Mrs. Goodbody,” said Fortnum, half to himself, and stopped.
“Mrs. Goodbody?”
