DAgostino Ryan - The rising: murder, heartbreak, and the power of human resilience in an American town

J UST LOOK at this garden. Bill Petit raised these vibrant plants from when they were seedlings. Raised them with help from his daughters, Hayley and Michaela. The kids actually did pull a weed now and then.

The base of the memorial garden is behind the sunporch at the old brick mansion where Bills parents live, Barbara and Bill Sr. Theyre in their eighties now, but they keep the big house clean and orderly, and they encouraged Bill to plant this garden while he was living here in those years after the tragedy. He designed it so the flowers, bushes, and small trees would form the rough shape of a heartthey curve up and around symmetrically before meeting at the center of the heart, where Bill built awhats the word?

I wanna say trellis, Bill says, and shakes his head. Not called a trellis. Whats it called?

Bill is walking through the garden with his new wife, Christine, a woman as vibrant as an acre of flowers. Shes a photographer, and thats how they met. Well, kind of. They first met at the country clubshe worked there, he played golf there. Christine was the clubs marketing director and, to earn extra money, also tended bar in the Founders Room, a cellar hangout where portraits of past club presidents lined the dark walls. She didnt know who Bill Petit was when he would come in, which is to say that she didnt know he was Bill Petit. She didnt know that his wife and two daughters had been murdered in their home after being tortured for hours while Bill, whod been bludgeoned in the head, was tied up in the basement. Christine was living out of the country when it happened and had missed the headlines and the incessant local news coverage on television. She knew only that this guy Bill was a member of the country club, and she knew she thought he was handsome.

He would come in with his friend Ron after a round of golf, and they would talk a little at the bar. Bill would order a Diet Coke with three cherries. He and Christine might have flirted, the best he knew how after all these years. Some of the other women who worked at the club, Christines friends, noticed and smiled, but they didnt say anything to Christine.

Ron noticed, too.

How about her? Ron said to Bill one Sunday afternoon after eighteen holes, with a little smile. The girl behind the bar.

Bill shrugged. He and Ron had known each other for forty years. A lot went unsaid.

Not called a trellis. Whats it called?

Arbor? offers Christine.

They are arm in arm. Bill is still searching for the word.

Arch, he says at last. The heart meets at an arch. Oh, and there are some big lights up on that tree. There were big lights on those trees over there, too, but they came down in the last storm. And over there, thats aI was gonna say ambrosia, but its not that.

Christine says, Rhododendron?

No, no. Mountain laurels? No. Bill is scratching his chin, staring at the plants. He doesnt like not being able to call up the name. He likes knowing every name. In Latin. Its not that he has any lingering head injuries from the attack, he just cant think of the name.

Thats a mountain laurel or a rhodie, isnt it? says Christine, ever helpful.

No, youre 0 for 2, Bill ribs her. Its acrap. Its not crap, itswell, anyway, those are Scabiosa over there. Button flowers.

Its not a mountain laurel?

No, not even close, dear.

Get a book out.

This is their banter. Its old-married-couple talk. They poke each other playfully, constantly trying to make the other one laugh or at least to tease out a smile. Around her, Bills own laughter surprises him. He had thought that all of thatquick jokes, laughter, happiness itselfwas lost to him for good.

Artemisia? No. Arteandromeda.

Christine was nervous that day a few years ago when she came over to take pictures of this garden. It was her first assignment as volunteer photographer for the Petit Family Foundation, the charity Bill established in memory of his wife and daughters. She liked Bill, but she didnt know he liked her, too. She thought maybe, butthen, as they were walking through the garden the day she photographed itBill pointing out the different species, Christine taking pictureshe stopped at one point, looked at her, and reached up and touched her earring. Her heart jumped. She walked away, started taking pictures again.

I was like, whoa! I gotta go! she says today.

Bill rolls his eyes and smiles when he hears her retell the story.

I just asked you where you got em or something, he says.

I know, she says. Butyou were closer than normal.

Okay.

It was one of my favorite moments.

He looks right at her, smiles, says softly, Okay.

They get in the car after their stroll and Bill scans the radio, nixing songs, playing deejay. Nopenopenope! The road follows the meanderings of the Farmington River, and hes on a stretch with no stoplights, speed limit fifty, cruising along. Colin Hay! Bill has a near-photographic memory and knows Hay was the lead singer of Men at Work, and the car fills with his acoustic rendition of Who Can It Be Now? Bill lets it play. Dense, leafless trees fan out in triangles from either side of the road like a bow tie. Thin horizontal white and gray clouds lash the baby-blue midwinter sky.

Nice blue, says Bill.

Look at the layers, says Christine.

They drive on for a minute without talking.

Then Bill says, Farmington tiramisu.

Down Unionville Avenue, getting closer to Plainville, roads he could drive blindfolded.

My dad and my uncle Charlie used to run this package store here, he says. And thats where I used to work when I was sixteen, that shop. Making sandwiches for the workers at Atlantic Pipe.

Christine smiles and says he sure doesnt make sandwiches anymore.

I got paid for it, he replies. You pay me, Ill make you a sandwich.