The Art of Arranging Flowers (22 page)

I
T
is not a funeral I was expecting to arrange. I had to call the florist in Deer Park and ask for white carnations, an extra couple of spathiphyllums, and even a large standing wire wreath. I have been so busy I hadn't realized I had used my last one at Jackson Field's funeral last month. With the surgery and all the weddings, the high school graduation, and summer socials, I miscalculated my inventory. I sold most of my plants, forgot to order the basics, carnations and greenery, and I let my wreath supplies dwindle. I lost track of what I have on hand and I am not prepared for this event.

Like everyone here, I am sometimes surprised by the deaths in Creekside. There are automobile wrecks and heart attacks, massive strokes and even suicides that no one expects. Those are always the hardest funerals to arrange. Family members stumble over the flowers they want. They can't recall what the dead person loved, what kind of spray to place across the casket. And the people who call in their orders are even more helpless. “Just send something nice,” is what I hear a lot. And because I usually know the deceased and because I want my flowers to bring a certain measure of peace and dignity to the service, I do my best. Even with short notice, I try to arrange bouquets and baskets and select plants that speak of the care and sympathy that people want to express. Still, not having any warning, not expecting a funeral to occur, makes it difficult for a florist to plan.

Often, however, even when everyone else might be shocked by death, I have some idea of who is sick and who is dying. There are orders placed for deliveries to be made to the hospitals, and while those orders are placed, there are sometimes questions about what arrangements are acceptable in certain units. These questions offer a number of clues regarding the condition and prognosis of a patient. Can you have flowers on the oncology floor? Do they allow plants in intensive care? And even if there are no revealing questions, sometimes the customer, the family member from out of town calling in the order or the loved one on their way to the hospital who stops by, gives me a full report.

It seems that they want to talk about the surgery or the disease or how helpless they feel. They tell the story about the doctor's visit and the results of the medical tests or the car wreck or the way life was disrupted, recalling the simplest details to me, a stranger or at best an acquaintance, because each time they tell the story they hope they will better understand. And over the years and through the illnesses and deaths I have learned to listen without rushing them or pinning them down to a cost or delivery date because I know what they are doing and just like I need a table to arrange my flowers, I know they need space to arrange their sorrow. I consider it to be simply part of my job.

Not always, but often, when I have heard the hospital floor where a patient is located, how long they have been hospitalized, when I hear the stories of despair and sadness from their loved ones, I have some idea of their condition. And based upon the news so freely given, the reports when the orders are made, I sometimes know when to start working on flowers for a funeral. I don't say so to anyone, for to do so would be presumptuous and callous; but sometimes I know. And I prepare. I order a few necessary supplies, a bunch of fresh flowers, a couple of extra cyclamens and dieffenbachia so I'm a bit more prepared, a little more ready. But not this time. Not for this funeral. I had no warning, no premonition, no rambling report from a loved one. This death was completely unexpected.

Juanita Norris was taking out the laundry to the clothesline that stretched across her back lawn. She washes sheets and towels on Monday, preferring to start the week with clean linen. She had made no complaints of chest pains or dizziness, headaches or shortness of breath to her husband or grandson as she prepared their morning meals and sat at the breakfast table alongside them both. She was talking about repairing the quilt on Will's bed, asking her husband if he had seen her box of thread and making plans to make preserves, the fruit trees filled with ripe pears. She had cleaned the table, humming while she washed the dishes, and made sure Will's shirt was clean and that his new pair of shorts was big enough. She had teased him that he was growing faster than she could dress him, and the two of them had laughed and hugged each other before he left for the day.

Claude drove his grandson to town, dropping him off at the library, where he was turning in
The Boys from Brooklyn
and hoping to get a copy of
Under the Black Ensign
, by L. Ron Hubbard, a book that was recommended by Captain Miller and one that had required a special request made to the librarian. He planned to stay there until lunchtime, reading or playing on the computer, when he would meet his grandfather at the deli and then work the afternoon with me at the shop.

It was Clifton, the mailman, delivering the day's mail, who spotted Juanita down beneath the clothesline, the white sheet billowing around her, a corner grasped in her hand. He called 911 and she was taken to the hospital but was never revived, the cause of death most likely a stroke or massive heart attack. Clifton found Claude at the hardware store and the two of them rode together to the emergency room, where they were met by Dr. Herbert Long and the grave news that Juanita was dead. Will was walking to the deli when he saw his grandfather's truck turn in his direction. He said that he knew something was wrong just by how slowly he was driving. He said it was just like before, just like the awful time before, and he wonders if bad news has a way of stopping time.

Claude took him to the hospital, where he said his good-byes, and then he asked to come to the shop. He needed to work, he told his grandfather, and for whatever reason, Claude agreed.

That was four hours ago. I have called the florist in Deer Park, already taken a couple of orders, and started working on a spray.

“Can we use the tulips?” he asks, knowing what is in the cooler, knowing what I have on hand.

“Of course,” I answer. “Do you want pink or yellow?”

He stands in front of me, his thin shoulders slumped. “Pink,” he says softly. “She likes pink. And do you have any of those gold daisies? The ones called faith? She'd like those. She always talked about needing faith.”

I nod. Will has learned a lot since he's been in the shop.

It's just the two of us at the shop with Clementine. Nora and Jimmy don't work on Mondays since it's usually slow and because it gives them a two-day weekend, and sometimes in the summer they like to take off on Sundays and drive to Priest Lake or up to the Canadian border. I think they drove to Idaho yesterday, but I'm not sure since I haven't spoken to either of them. When Will came in to tell me the news, I wanted to call Nora and tell her, but I don't feel right about telling his story now that he's sticking around. I told him I'd take him home or out to the cemetery or anywhere he wanted to go, but he said he liked it here and asked if he could just do his afternoon chores. I couldn't really see any reason to deny him, but now it is close to five o'clock and I'm not sure what to do.

He looks up at the clock and walks over and picks up Clementine's leash and my dog quickly follows him. They stand at the door.

“Do you think she found Mama?” he asks, and I immediately understand. I had wondered the same thing when Daisy died. I had wondered if the dead somehow greet each other, if there is a way they know the time someone dies and they gather at just the right spot to welcome them or see them, if they are somehow designated as the guide to the new world.

“Yes, I do,” I say.

He turns and looks at me.

“So, she wasn't by herself?”

I shake my head.

“I think she would have liked it if Mama was there. I think it wouldn't have been so lonesome that way.”

I nod and watch as he clasps the leash to Clementine's collar, heading out into the evening sun.

S
OMETIMES
you have only one moment to get it right and the thing is, you don't always know the moment when it arrives. There's no ticking clock or game show host waiting for your answer; there's no audience watching, hedging bets on what you'll do; in real life the moment suddenly presents itself and either you make the right choice or you blow it. Apparently, the moment came and I blew it.

Since Nora and Jimmy still aren't home yet and Carl has to work at a golf tournament, I find myself at Dan's. I left Will and drove up the hill and I am sitting in his driveway trying to decide if I should be bothering him on a Monday evening, trying to decide if I really want to say this thing out loud, speak of my shame to someone I admire, admit the choice I have made. And I am just about to back out and drive home when my cell phone rings. I answer it.

“Are you coming in or are you just going to sit out there?”

“I have Clementine,” I say.

“Yes,” he replies, and I take that as permission to bring my dog along.

He opens the door just as I make my way up the steps. Clementine goes in ahead of me. She thinks this is a huge waste of time.

“I'm sorry,” I begin.

“For what?” he asks, moving aside so that I can enter.

“For taking your time.”

I look at him closely and I can see that he has lost more weight and that his color has grayed a slightly deeper shade.

“Ruby, time with a friend is never taken, only shared.” And he closes the door. “Wine? Soda? Tea?”

“Nothing,” I reply, and I wait for him to take a seat and then I take one across from him on the sofa. Clementine has already found a place by the sliding glass doors.

“I'm having a wheat germ smoothie,” he announces, holding up his glass. It's filled with a thick green substance and I shake my head. It doesn't look like anything I'm interested in.

“No thank you,” I say.

“Juanita Norris died,” he says, letting me know he is caught up.

I nod.

“And the boy thought you would ask him to live with you?”

I had told him part of the situation when I called him before coming over. I nod.

“And you said no?”

I shake my head. “It wasn't quite like that.”

He takes a swallow of his smoothie, waiting for me to fill him in.

“I was driving him home, and when we pulled up to his house I said that I thought his grandfather would be glad to see him. I said he was probably making them dinner and would be glad that he didn't have to eat alone.”

Dan nods.

I go on. “And he said that he didn't think his grandfather really wanted him to stay, that it was Juanita who took care of him. He said that he had heard a conversation between his grandparents and that Claude had suggested he should go into foster care.”

“That's a harsh thing to hear.”

I nod. “I know.”

There's a pause.

“And that's when he asked you if you would be his guardian?”

I shake my head. “He wasn't that forthright.”

Dan waits.

“He said something like he wasn't sure what would happen to him, where he might end up.” And I stop because I realize that this was the moment I missed, this was the test I failed.

So does Dan. “And you did not make an offer.”

I look at him and shake my head. “I told him that I was sure Claude wouldn't want him to leave now and that with all the people in Creekside who loved him, there would be a place for him to stay.”

I watch as Dan turns away.

“I just never thought about having a child,” I explain. “I love Will, I do. I think we've got a lot in common. I just never thought about it.”

He nods. There is a polite smile.

“I know Jenny and Justin will take him, or Henry and Lou Ann, they've gotten attached to him, too. And it's not even like Claude has said he didn't want to keep him. Shoot, I bet even Nora would adopt him. They love each other.”

He raises his eyebrows but still doesn't speak.

“Claude said that stuff before Juanita died. I'm sure he wants to keep Will now.” I fidget in my chair. I glance over and watch as Clementine eyes me suspiciously.

“It takes a lot to raise a child,” Dan finally says, easing my guilt.

“Right,” I agree, a little too quickly.

“It's a lot of responsibility for a single person.”

“I know,” I say, the relief more obvious than I want to show.

“You have to do what you can,” he advises. “Only you know what that is.”

“I don't have a place for him to sleep,” I say. “There's only one bathroom in my house. There's hardly enough room for just my stuff. How would that work? What happens when he's a teenager? I don't know anything about raising a teenager.” I slide down in my seat. Clementine turns away, disgusted with me.

“I'm sure you're making the right decision,” Dan adds.

“Yes,” I answer. “I'm sure it's the right thing.” I fold my arms across my chest. “And I'm happy to help out. I didn't say that. If Jenny or Henry takes him and needs a weekend off, I'm happy to let him sleep over. He can keep his job and he can still walk Clem every day. That doesn't have to change.”

Dan nods. There's the polite smile again. He takes the last swallow of his smoothie. “Then it seems like you didn't really make a mistake after all.”

I blink, remembering that I had told him that I needed to talk because I had made a mistake. That was why I had come over, to talk about a mistake I had made. If it was a mistake, then I would need to fix it. If this is not a mistake, then there's nothing to fix.

“You just told the truth.”

Suddenly, there's something more than relief I feel. I glance away.

“That's right, isn't it?” he asks. “You didn't make a mistake. You don't really want to be Will's guardian. And in his way, he asked and you told him.” He pauses. “That's what happened, right?”

So it wasn't a moment that I missed. It wasn't a failed choice I made. I had simply told Will the truth of how I felt. If the moment presented itself again I would likely choose the same thing all over again. This realization, however, does not make me feel any better.

“Ruby, do you know how flowers bloom?”

“What?”

“Flowers. Do you know, scientifically, how they bloom?”

I stare at Dan. It's not a question I have ever really considered. He sits up in his chair and I see him flinch. I had not noticed before, but I think he must be in pain.

I shrug. “The inside petals push the outside petals out?”

He shakes his head. “The exact opposite,” he says. “Blooming happens because plants build up instabilities.”

I don't even bother to ask because I'm sure he's got more to say about this.

“A team at Harvard studied Asiatic lilies.”

I nod. Only Captain Dan Miller would know about studies at Harvard on flowers.

“It turns out that the instabilities that shape roots and blossoms often come about when certain cells become longer than others. The rapid growth causes strain, which bends the soft tissues. Now, what hasn't been discovered is exactly which cells do the tugging, but what has been found out is that the outer borders of petals and sepals ruffle during blooming, while inner margins remain smooth. Those wavy surfaces give clues that cells might be growing faster at the edges, like adding slack to a rope. That extra growth could, possibly, coax the petal to go from curving in inside the flower to curving out. It's only growing at the edge, you see, on the margin, the outside.” He's staring right into my eyes, trying to help me understand. “The blooming happens on the outside before it happens in the middle.”

I am still nodding even though I have no idea what he is trying to say.

“Sometimes we think there is supposed to be this great spiritual awakening that happens before we make a change in our lives. We expect some ‘aha' moment, some beautiful enlightening experience to shape us into the people we want to be, but sometimes it just happens from the circumstances in our lives that present themselves. We become who we are meant to be because of the things along our edges that pull us into existence.”

“I don't understand,” I say.

And he smiles and nods as if he has said all he intends to say. “I'm tired,” he announces. “I think I need to lie down.”

“Oh, okay.” And I stand up from my seat just as he does the same and we take each other by the hands. “I'm sorry I bothered you,” I add, and I am. I worry that I have exasperated him.

He tightens his grasp. “You are never a bother, Ruby. I am glad you chose me.”

And I feel my face redden because he is right. I did choose him. I called his number. I told him the story. I came to his house. He is my friend. I chose him.

“Can I do anything for you?” I ask, wondering how he is getting his medications, how he is taking care of himself.

“I am only glad you came. I didn't know how much I wanted to see you until you arrived. I hope you will come again soon.”

And he gives me a little kiss on the cheek and walks around me to the back of the house, leaving me to find my own way out.