The Art of Arranging Flowers (4 page)

I
T
'
S
after five o'clock when I walk over to the door and turn the sign from
Open
to
Closed
. I glance out the window and see the boy again, the one from earlier in the day, the one I do not recognize. He's leaned his bicycle against the brick wall of the building across the street, and it seems as if he's looking for something in the tall grass around his feet. I watch him for a second and am suddenly surprised when Henry Phillips is standing right in front of me on the other side of the door.

“Am I t-t-too late?”

I read his lips, even the repeated letters, his stutter, shake my head, and open the door. “Hi, Henry,” I say, and make room for him to enter past me. “You're early.”

Henry is the barber across the street. He buys a small bouquet of flowers every week and places them on his mother's grave. He likes roses, the spray variety, any color, or the tall stems of Marianas and green tea, cool water and whites. He told me his mother always had a small vase of roses on her kitchen table, flowers she picked from the bushes she grew when they lived in Colorado. I always have them ready for him on Thursdays. He only works half a day on Fridays, closes at lunch, and drives over to the cemetery to change out the arrangements, so he usually comes by on Thursday evenings to pick up the flowers. I typically never see him except then.

“I-I want to buy flowers for-for . . . someone.” He walks in and stands at the counter.

Henry has stuttered for as long as I have known him. He's a very intelligent man, an excellent barber, and extremely shy. The men say he doesn't talk much when he cuts hair, hums to the music on the radio, is pleasant to all of his customers but rarely engages in conversation. Everyone is used to his introverted ways, and most of the men seem to like to go to a place where they get to do all the talking. He has kept a steady business for as long as I have known him.

“Great,” I reply, walking around him to the other side of the counter.

He doesn't respond.

I wait.

We stare at each other for a few seconds.

“Do you know what kind of flowers you want?” I finally ask, not trying to hurry him along, but just trying to be clear about what I'm arranging.

“I-I . . . think she likes yellow,” he says quietly. “Sh-sh-she wears a lot of yellow.”

I smile. “Then yellow it is,” I respond, and I walk back to the holding area and pick some of the best stems of yellow flowers I have. I come back with my arms full. “I have daffodils,” I tell him. “Just got a fresh bunch over the weekend. It's early, but Cooper can find anything.”

I lay them all on the table behind the counter where I am standing. “The freesia is nice too, and I have a few stems of golden alstroemeria. How do these look?” I hold up the flowers and wait for his approval.

“Ye-yes.” He nods, and I get to work.

I am cutting and sorting and arranging when I notice Henry is humming. I don't look at him, but I smile. I like it. I go back to the cooler and pull out a few stems of greenery. While I'm there I see the leftover blazing stars I picked a week or so ago. I was surprised to find them so early in the season, and I picked a few. The blooms are still vibrant and strong. I take what's left, deciding to add them to Henry's yellow bouquet. When I return to the front, the boy from outside, the boy with the bike, the one I hadn't seen before today, is standing just inside the door. I had not heard the chime ring.

“Oh,” I say, surprised to see another customer. “Hello.”

He lowers his gaze, and I notice his hands are behind his back.

“I'll be right with you,” I say, and return to the task at hand. “Henry, would you like a vase or leave these long-stemmed?”

He appears confused. “I-I don't know.” He slides his fingers through his hair as if the question has troubled him. “Which is be-best?”

If I knew the person receiving the flowers I could tell him, but I have a policy of not asking a customer who is getting the flowers. I figure if they want me to have that information, they will tell me. To ask such a thing feels like an invasion of privacy, and discretion is a professional and personal courtesy I always extend.

“Long-stemmed is not as formal,” I tell him. “It's more of a gift of the moment. It's like the roses your mom picked from her bushes,” I explain. “To give long-stemmed flowers is to say, ‘I saw these and just picked them for you, to brighten your day, to tell you I was thinking of you.' It's a random act of kindness with just a hint of intimacy.”

He blushes but then nods as if he understands.

“To give flowers in a vase,” I continue, “is to demonstrate that more thought went into the gift. This kind of arrangement says, ‘I was thinking of doing this for you because I remember that it's your birthday or our anniversary.'”

Henry looks away.

“Or I want to acknowledge a special occasion or honor an important achievement, and having given this much thought, flowers seem most suitable.”

He chews on his lip, runs his fingers through his hair again. He's thinking, thinking. I turn once more and glance at the boy waiting behind him. He is very patient.

“No vase,” he finally decides, and I nod in approval.

“Will these be given right away or should I put them in little tubes of water to help them last longer?”

“R-ri-right away,” he answers.

I smile, take in a deep breath, pull out three sheets of green tissue, smooth them down on the table in front of me, and begin placing the flowers. The daffodils are central, their long golden heads still tight in the thin band of skin wrapped around them. I put in a branch of emerald palm behind them and a few freesia, two medium daisies, and even up the ends of the stems. I add the alstroemeria, the blazing stars, and one long, full branch of bright yellow snapdragons. I push and pull at the blooms, add a few sprigs of narrow grass, shape and mold, exhale, and then step back for my last inspection.

I pick up the bouquet and carefully wrap the tissue around and around, securing it at the back with a tiny straight pin. Then I fluff up the top of the green edges and place it once more on the table. I look behind me and pull a long piece of wide grosgrain ribbon, purple to make the flowers pop, cut it, and tie it around the bottom of the bouquet. I walk over, handing my work to Henry.

He doesn't speak for a moment and I think the silence is particularly golden. He is admiring my work.

“I-i-it's like sunshine,” he finally says.

“Thank you, Henry,” I respond, thinking it's the most beautiful compliment I could receive.

He reaches for his wallet.

“Why don't I just add it to your bill?” I ask him. “The end of the month is next week and you can just pay for them when you pay for the others.”

“Th-th-thank you, Ruby,” he responds, cradling the bouquet in his arms, like a baby.

“Not a problem,” I say. “I'll see you Thursday.”

He nods, turns, and walks around the boy and out the door.

I wait until he's on the sidewalk, and then I turn my gaze to my next customer.

“He's giving those to Miss Peterson, the librarian,” the boy announces, and we watch Henry head across the street to his barbershop.

The news surprises me. He turns back to face me.

“I've seen him there on Saturday mornings,” he explains. “I go to the library on Saturdays because that's when Grandma comes to town and gets her hair done and she thinks that's the best place for me to wait for her.”

I nod. I still don't know who this boy is.

“He has a crush on Miss Peterson. He checks out a stack of books every weekend. Is that a dog?”

“Maybe he just likes to read,” I say, and move the mouse on the computer pad, waking up my computer so that I can get to my files and add the arrangement to Henry's bill. “And yes, that's Clementine.”

Clem stays where she is, but her tail wags.

“Nah, nobody likes to read that much,” he surmises. He's still watching the dog. “You can bring her to work?”

I type in the numbers and close the files. I study my newest customer. “One of the perks of owning your own business: You can bring your pets to work.” I smile at the boy. “Is there something I can help you with?” I ask.

He nods, faces me. “I need a job,” he says. “I know a lot about flowers.”

“Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“I can work afternoons.”

“Why aren't you in school today?”

“Teachers' workday.”

I pause. I got nothing else.

“Okay,” I reply, not quite knowing how to respond. I was not really in need of another employee.

“I could pick flowers for you. I found some real pretty ones over near where I live with my grandmother.” And then he pulls his hands around to the front, holding out a bunch of paperwhites. “I know where a lot of these grow.” He places them on the counter in front of me. “I figure I can find a lot more when spring comes.”

I smile. “You know that you're not supposed to take flowers from other people's property, right?”

“Oh, these are from my grandparents' farm,” he says. “Grandma said I can pick all I want.” He pauses. “She plants a lot of flowers every year.”

“And just who is your grandmother?” I ask.

“Juanita Norris,” he answers.

And then I place him. He is the son of Diane Norris, who died a couple of months ago. She lived somewhere over in Montana but was buried here in Creekside. I did several flower arrangements for her funeral. I recall some of the sentiments written on the cards that accompanied the two peace lilies and the small basket of winter flowers.
We will miss her so much
, and the customer had requested that it be signed,
Everybody at Bill's Barbecue and Bourbon
. Another had only wanted to leave the message,
I'm so sorry
. No name given. A small white card pinned to the white ribbon at the base of the plant.

Jimmy had delivered all of the arrangements and had said that he knew the girl when she was small. He remembered her from school, where he worked as a bus driver for thirty years. He said that she had starting hanging out with the wrong crowd before she got to high school, was pregnant at fifteen. Her mother and daddy had raised her son, the boy standing in front of me, until he was five or six. Diane completed a stint in rehab and spent a few years in prison, but when she got out she wanted custody of her child.

Jimmy said it almost broke her parents' hearts and they fought her in court, but the judge sided with the mom, and the boy and Diane left town and moved to Billings. That had been about four years ago. She died from an overdose and her son was returned to Creekside and to his grandparents.

I did a spray of white and pink carnations for her coffin and a large basket of pink sweetheart roses to stay at the grave. I added a sprig of lavender in the bottom of the basket since I know it helps with grief and guilt. I'm never sure what flowers do for the dead but I figure even a spirit, especially a sad one, is still able to gain something from beauty.

“What's your name?” I ask.

“William,” he answers. “I like Will best.”

“Then Will it shall be.”

He stands, waiting, and suddenly I remember his request for employment.

I sigh.

“I learned about flowers from my mom,” he says, as if the information will somehow influence my decision.

And, oddly enough, it does.

“Okay, Will,” I acquiesce. “You can sweep up in the afternoons, carry out the trash, wash out vases, and just help me around the shop.” I think about what I'm doing. “I can only pay you three dollars an hour, and you can't work more than five hours a week.”

“Can I walk your dog? Can I find flowers for you?”

I see the hunger in his eyes, the grief, the desperate way he is trying to stay connected to his dead mother.

“Yes, to both,” I answer, and he pumps his fist in the air.

“But . . .” I interrupt the celebration. “Clementine likes to chase cats, so you have to be careful when you have her on the leash. She's very strong.”

He watches Clem as she comes out from under the table. Hearing her name and the word
walk
has captured the dog's attention.

“Okay,” he says in agreement. “I will hang on tight.”

“And you can only bring me flowers that come from your grandparents' farm. You can't pick flowers from other people's property.”

He nods.

“I'll pay you only for the ones I can use. So don't pick a lot, because we need to see how I'll be able to add them to arrangements. I want to make sure we don't waste them.”

He nods again.

“Have your grandmother call me if she wants to talk to me about our agreement, okay?”