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TIME FOR FLOWERS
by Gay Bost
They'd put flowers up. She hadn't noticed. Time wouldn't hold still.
She remembered, quite clearly, that time had been a simple thing; one
moment following the previous one, seconds strung out neatly like her
mother's pearls laid out on the dark mahogany vanity each Sunday
morning. But there had been a catch . . .
Hung around Mother's neck the catch clicked and the tidy little line
of seconds became a never ending circle with only the catch in the
middle. For some reason the thought of pearls gathered from the sea,
naturally nested within the confines of oyster shells, scattered
haphazardly about the ocean floor disturbed her.
Now they'd put up the flowers in the same careless groupings. This,
too, disturbed her. Bright yellow trumpets, their collars spread to
catch the sun, dotted the front yard in clusters of two or three, five
or six. Bunches laid carelessly and forgotten. In a moment she'd
come away from the window and have a word with the gardener. He
listened so well and explained to others so reasonably why this should
be so instead of the way they wanted it done, how that would look
better or cut the wind more effectively.
And then she recalled his stiff body stretched out in the little bed
over the garages. Another pearl had come loose from the strand,
seeming to want to search out its old home in a far away oyster bed.
She would have those pearls laid out neatly, one following the one
before and so on and so on. She would have those damned yellow
flowers marching smartly along the walk. She'd have it if she
had to go out there and replant each and every one of them.
She flew down the hallway and sailed over the steps leading the
back way to the kitchen, much as she had done as a child. Where then
she had skipped in joy she now catapulted her form in anger.
"And there you are!" she said, as she encountered the woman she had
come to know as Kate. All of five foot tall in her stocking feet and
surely every bit of two hundred pounds, her pudgy fists more often
than not braced on the sudden outburst of her hips. So she stood,
having turned from the sink. Suds and water darkened the fabric of her
dress. Her face was pleasant; round, rosy cheeked, with eyes the color
of mint in the summer sunset. "And *where have you been these three days*?"
"I want the flowers straightened out," Rebeccah said. "I want the
flowers placed in the proper alignments."
Kate tilted her head, narrowed her eyes and frowned. "Ah, you're in a
huff again. What can it be this time?"
"I want the flours straightened out," Rebeccah yelled, coming up to
the woman's face.
Kate went directly to the cupboard, strained upon her tiny toes to
reach the second shelf, and pulled the flour canister out. She set it
on the counter. She repeated the process, bringing out a smaller
canister. Rebecca knew this one to be the unbleached flour Kate used
for one particular recipe.
"No,no, no!" Rebeccah hissed. "Flowers! Not flours!" She propped
herself against the edge of the kitchen table and crossed her arms
over her chest, waiting for the woman to get it right.
Kate stood looking dumbly at the canisters. "Now, what was I going to
do with these?" she asked herself. She drummed her fingers on the
counter top before bringing one hand to her lips, where the pointer
finger tapped on her upper lip.
"The Flowers! Outside!" Rebecca screamed, highly agitated.
Kate gathered the two canisters and moved toward the back door, one
held against her ample form by each arm.
Exasperated, Rebeccah followed her out, watching to see what she would do.
Without the drive of Rebeccah's insistence, Kate lost her momentum.
She stood next a slatted oak bench, canisters still clutched, surveying
the sunlit yard and gardens beyond. Harold had done a passable job
trimming the hedges, but Kate missed the gardener's touch. She resolved
to contact the nursery and find another. Flaux, bright purples, pinks
and radiant white encircled the herb garden, a brilliant contrast to
the varied greens within. She set the canisters down on the bench and
moved toward the cheerful scene.
Rebeccah, discouraged, sat primly on the edge of the bench, dusting a
wisp of hair away from her temple. New mint, dew draped, veiled a
border of stocky wooden poles to trail onto the walk, had been crushed,
probably by the man of the house on his way off to work. The scent
filled her nostrils. She found herself a child, again, tasting her
first tea with mint -- fresh cut from the gardens. _"How long has it
been?"_ she wondered. Kate had gone down on her knees over the flaux,
bending to weed through the thyme.
"I don't know why I have to put up with idiots," Rebeccah complained.
"It all so worthless, so futile." With a great sigh she rose from the
bench and made her way back into the house. The bright kitchen seemed
a waste of life, all a travesty to cover the desolation of her
unnaturally extended existence.
She faced the stairs with exhaustion, deciding, instead, to forego the
trip up. She sat on the bottom step, delicate chin propped on tightly
curled fists, gazing dully at the open pantry door, seeing into the past
-- again. Where, in this world the shelves were haphazardly stacked with
cans of peaches and corn, she saw row after row of glass jars. Beets!
Ugh! Her grandmother's pickled beets, always pretty to view, left a
phantom bitterness within her mouth.
On the lawn Kate sat back on her heels, suddenly lost in sorrow and
self-pity. Tears streamed down her cheeks to drop onto the fabric of
her dress. She thought of Harold, busily showing homes as lovely as
their own to strangers while she ruined her nails weeding this pitiful
excuse for a garden. She shoved her pudgy fists into her burning eyes
and wept aloud for the waste of her life. She sniffed back her running
nose . . . sniffed again. She snuffled like a dog scenting something
unusual, nose in the air. "Beets?" she asked aloud. "Beets?" Her
hands dropped to her thighs, pushing to rise. _"Of course,"_ she thought
to herself, _"this *lovely* house is haunted by a very emotional woman."_
Her knees ached. She turned toward the house and noticed the flour
canisters on the bench. "And whatever she wants *this* time is not
getting through this thick skull of mine!"
Kate knuckle-rapped herself above her right temple. "Rebeccah!" she
called. "Quit moping! You'll ruin another day for me and I still
have to deal with that horrible Avon woman this morning."
"I want my flowers properly aligned!" Rebeccah screamed from the stairs.
As Kate passed the bench she paused to move the flour canisters so
that the labels faced in the same direction, each perfectly centered
over three of the wood slats. With a self-satisfied air she re-entered
her own kitchen. "Now," she began, addressing the refrigerator, "what
we need is improved communication."
"Fool," hissed Rebeccah, "you're talking to the refrigerator again."
"You don't want an empath. You want a telepath," Kate said, turning
to stare at Rebeccah with surprising accuracy.
The two women blinked at each other and broke into laughter.
"I want my flowers straightened out!" Rebeccah commented softly when
the mirth had passed.
* * *
"There!" Kate replaced the telephone hand piece and pocketed the
scrap of paper she'd written the new gardener's name upon. "Mr.
Hi-a-cow-wah," she practiced aloud. "Very good." The door chime rang
throughout the house, echoing off the tiled kitchen walls.
"Oh, no!" wailed Rebeccah. "Not Japanese! They have such spiritual
ideas on gardening -- I'll never get through to him!"
"Oh, dear!" Kate bemoaned, certain the Avon woman had come to call.
She brushed her hands over her skirt, straightened her broad shoulders
and pushed through to the dining room, determined not to buy a single
thing today.
"Good morning, Mrs. Blanchard!" beamed the woman in the pale rose
colored ensemble. Purse clutched in one hand, sample case in the other,
she reminded Kate of the Lady Justice, scales perfectly balanced. But
this lady had no blindfold. (All the better to see you with, my dear.
And Oh, wouldn't this color just bring on the blush in your cheeks for
$11.00 a tube?) "Isn't it just a glorious day?" the woman pronouned,
boldly stepping over the threshold on past assumptions.
_"That's it!"_ Kate thought to herself. She'd let the woman in once,
bought gifts soaps and lipstick in the spirit of cooperation, and
never been free of past assumptions since. "Glorious!" Kate echoed,
moving aside before she was trod upon. Rebeccah hovered at the dining
room doors. Kate felt her there.
"Oh, and you've brought the day in with you!" exclaimed the woman,
noting cut flowers on mantel and coffee table. "How healthful!"
"Healthful?" Kate inquired.
"Oh, yes. Studies have shown that people who surround themselves with
live plants and fresh flowers indoors live longer, feel better, and
enjoy life more fully."
"Coffee?" Kate offered as the woman sat on the edge of the sofa. It
was the one torment she allowed herself to use on the woman, knowing
full well this door to door saleswoman would shun other people's
bathrooms.
"No thank you," she answered, a slight grimace flashing across her
face as she scooted forward and opened her case.
"You're so rude!" Rebeccah crowed, having come closer. "She's got a
bladder full now."
Kate smiled, holding back a giggle. She was certain she'd scored
without knowing why. The woman drew forth brightly colored sheets of
paper and placed them neatly before Kate on the glass topped table.
_"A promotional,"_ Kate moaned within her mind. At the bottom of each
was stamped, in flowing script, "Eleanor Thomsason." Address and two
phone numbers followed in block lettering.
"I don't really need anything today, Eleanor," Kate began.
"Of course you don't, dear. You're more than lovely in your house
frock and clean scrubbed face. But you must see the new complexion
care line we're offering. Designed especially for the woman over 30
and her special needs," Eleanor pulled full sized display item from
the depths of her bottomless case and set them neatly in a row,
labels facing the prospective buyer. "As you can see here," she said
crisply, long manicured finger nail tapping each item gently as she
spoke, "We have a scrub, toner, tightener, moisturizer and light
foundation. The foundation comes in 6 basic colors. Just to smooth
over those tiny blotches we all seem to have after 30."
Kate sat forward in her occasional chair, considering the possibility
that she might, indeed, need a little more complexion care. She
touched the toner, tilting it slightly to the light. While she was
otherwise engaged Eleanor brought forth tubes, bottles and jars of the
same line. She busied herself arranging them in a straight line to
the left and just behind the first row.
"And here we have the corresponding blush, highlighters, lipsticks
and shadows. Now this line is made with completely natural base
substances," Eleanor pointed out.
"Chemicals," Rebeccah commented, coming closer still, intently
interested in the ordered presentation.
Kate let go the toner and reached for the blush. Eleanor straightened
the toner, turning the label toward the prospective buyer. Rebeccah
came around the coffee table and sat on the sofa with Eleanor, her
arms primly at her sides, hands clasped in her lap. Rebeccah leaned
forward in the same manner as did Eleanor.
The genial rise and fall of the woman's voice slipped into the background
of sounds passing by on the peaceful street outside. Kate blinked once,
the blush still clasped within her fingers, watching Eleanor's lips move.
She could almost hear Rebeccah.
Rebeccah's attention was focused entirely on Eleanor the Avon lady.
"The flowers have been scattered willy-nilly along the walk,"
Rebeccah said conversationally, her lips mere inches from Eleanor's
ear. "They look so untidy." Eleanor looked, suddenly, as if she'd
forgotten something. Kate remembered the flour canisters on the
bench. "What we need is someone with some organizational ability,"
Rebeccah continued.
Eleanor drew forth her order book. "Flowers are like life's little
markers," Rebeccah whispered. Eleanor reached into her case for a
marker. "Yellow markers, as it were, for the days of our lives."
Eleanor replaced the fine tipped black marker and retrieved a broad
stroke yellow highlighter. Kate seemed to hear McDonald Carey speaking
about sand. "The flowers along the walk NEED straightening."
"Will you excuse me, just one moment?" Kate asked. She knew exactly
where to find that hourglass. She rose from her chair
"Certainly, dear," Eleanor answered, her mind seemingly elsewhere
while her hands compulsively aligned the display items.
"*YOU* could be the only one for the job!" Rebeccah spoke
authoritatively, her body turned toward Eleanor. "The flowers need
alignment!"
Kate felt an oppressive headache coming on. Two of them in one
morning was more than anyone should be expected to bear. As she
passed through the kitchen door her spirits seemed to rise suddenly.
Sunshine slanted into the room to highlight every gleaming surface,
glinting sweetly on glassware and chrome. She inhaled fully, filling
her lungs with the aroma of fresh brewed coffee. The hourglass
spilling out the days of her life seemed important only in the
abstract. All was right today. She thought of the flowers by the
walk, then. For some reason she wanted to see them from the top
floor.
She poured herself a cup of coffee, carried it up the back stairs to
the second floor landing and peered from the window into the side
yard. She thought, idly, of the new gardener, and what creative
expression he might come up with for that spot there, which had never
been cultivated. Onward, to the front of the house, and into the
quiet room beneath the pitch of the front eaves.
She sat on the window ledge and balanced her cup on the sill, the
threatened headache a memory, only, of Saturday afternoons with her
mother. Somewhere behind her temples her mother's voice droned on and
on; something about book spines and the edge of the shelf. Sometimes
one had to learn to ignore the librarian in order to read the books.
Her eyes drifted to the front walk. Far below, as if in another
world, Eleanor the Avon lady knelt in the grass next to the walk.
A tall shadow stood near, softly, insistently coaxing, as Eleanor
carefully spaded deep into the earth and removed a daffodil. She
placed it gently into a prepared hole, tamped the earth around it and
proceeded to dig another hole, exactly six inches from the last, in a
perfectly straight line parallel to the walk.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Kate exclaimed, watching closely. "Those
flowers!" She'd have to remember to collect the flour canisters
before Harold came home. "Goodness, Rebeccah," she continued, with
some exasperation, "why on earth didn't you say `Daffodils'?"
# # #
Copyright 1994 Gay Bost
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Gay is a Clinical Lab Tech with experience in Veterinary medicine.
Originally from NORTHERN California, she has resided in Southeast Missouri
with her husband and an aggressive 6 year old boy, since 1974. She
installed her first modem in the summer of 1992 and has been exploring new
worlds since. Her first and only publication, a short horror story, came
when she was 17 years old. The success was so overwhelming she called an
end to her writing days and went in search of herself. She's still looking.
You will find Gay's work in the best Electronic Magazines.
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