The Art of Arranging Flowers (5 page)

“Thank you, miss.”

“Ruby,” I say, since I hadn't told him my name.

He seems surprised.

“Miss Ruby,” I repeat, and he smiles.

“Thank you, Miss Ruby.” And he turns and heads for the door. He stops just before walking out. “I really like Clementine, and your name is as pretty as a flower.”

And I watch him jump on his bike and head in the direction of his grandparents' farm. I shake my head. I don't know what I have just gotten myself in for.

I
WALK
inside my house and right away I feel her. Or I feel the absence of her. Sometimes one hurts as much as the other and I can't even tell whether it is grief or longing that overtakes me. Daisy always filled up a room coming and going. In life and death she is simply bigger than anything else.

Clementine ambles past me, heading to her water bowl. I take in a breath, shake off the memories and thoughts of my dead sister, place my keys on the table in the foyer, hang my bike helmet on the wall hook, shed my jacket and gloves, slide off my shoes, arranging them by the door, and walk to the kitchen. I pour myself a tall glass of water and drink most of it, leaving a little, which I pour in the small pots of African violets resting on the windowsill.

“What shall we have for dinner?” I ask my dog, and she lifts her head from where she has found a spot to rest in front of the stove and then glances toward the refrigerator. I follow her gaze. “Chicken?” I ask, and she stands up. “You're so predictable, Clementine. Wouldn't you like a hot dog or sausage? Why is it always and only chicken?”

Clementine shrugs and I pick up her food bowl, pour in two cups of dry food and get the container of canned chicken from the fridge. I sprinkle a little meat on top and place the bowl back on the floor. She immediately goes over and eats. I watch her for a few seconds. She has become very dear to me, my best friend even, although I know that sounds like a cliché.

Jimmy gave me Clementine. He had picked her up when he was making a delivery out on the old farm road. Alisa Rogers had just given birth to her first child and Lester, her husband, had ordered her a tall vase of Asiatic lilies, yellow carnations, lavender cushion spray chrysanthemums, and pink roses. It was a summer special; I called it my Pastel Ever Pretty Arrangement and I sold it for twenty-five dollars including delivery.

When he called, he asked about blue flowers—Alisa had given birth to a boy—but all I had on hand were a few bluebells and one or two light purple irises, so he finally agreed the special was best. I put it together and Jimmy took it out just a couple of hours after he called. They were coming home from the hospital and Lester wanted flowers awaiting them, and he told Jimmy where to find the house key and exactly where to place the arrangement so that it would appear that Lester had bought the flowers and put them on the kitchen table before he left for the hospital to bring her and the baby home.

Jimmy was walking back to the van when he spotted the puppy out in the ditch near the house. She was huddled near the bank and when Jimmy walked over, she hardly moved. He picked her up and could see she was hungry and frightened and had probably been left out there on the country road by somebody who didn't want a puppy. He called Lester at the hospital since he had his cell number, and Lester said he didn't know anything about the dog and certainly couldn't take her.

“A baby is about all we can manage right now,” he told him. “I can drop her off at the shelter later if you want.” But Jimmy said no and brought the puppy back to the shop and by the end of the day, after a bowl of milk and a visit to the vet, and a warm towel where she took a long nap, Clementine had made her home with us; and since Jimmy lived in senior housing where dogs were not allowed and Nora preferred cats, I became a pet owner. That was ten years ago. Clementine has been at my side ever since.

I blow out a long breath and think about my dinner. My tastes are simple too, but I want a little something more than canned chicken so I look in the cabinets and pull out a can of soup. It seems like a perfect night for a grilled cheese sandwich and a bowl of tomato soup. I'll even have a big glass of milk. Comfort food never seemed so comforting.

After dinner I turn on a little music, soft jazz, a station from Spokane that is mostly news and interviews in the mornings, classical in the afternoons, and local bands, jazz and blues in the evenings. Tonight there's a feature on a new album by Norman Brown, a guitarist from Missouri, a favorite of mine, his music always light and easy, his sounds compared to his contemporary George Benson. It's a nice way to settle into darkness.

I pour a glass of wine, sit on the sofa, lean back, close my eyes, and think about the day. I think about Jenny and worry about how frail she looked, the dark circles beneath her eyes, the pale color of her skin, the loose way her clothes hung on her body. Without family around to tend to her, I can only hope her roommate is watching out for her. I remember that Louise Tate is studying to be a nurse at the community college, so maybe she sees this as an opportunity to practice her skills and that in a few weeks we will all be able to confirm to her that she is going into the right profession.

I hope Justin is up for what is ahead of them, that he manages to show just enough concern without hovering, that he is patient and easy with Jenny, that he somehow understands that a young woman with breast cancer has very specific needs and very unpredictable emotions. I hope that together they can weather this storm.

I think about Cooper and his advice on the orchids. I consider Conrad and Vivian and still I am unsure they are ready for such a passionate exchange. I remember Stan, delivering the yellow roses to his wife, the celebration of another anniversary, and I recall the year she left him for three months, and the ragged way he was until she returned. I never learned the reason for her departure or return, but I knew it the moment she was back.

It was in spring and Stan had met me at the door before I opened the shop and wanted to know what flowers I had that could celebrate a homecoming and make it so a person would never want to leave. I worked all morning on the presentation, so clear I was on Stan's desperation. I used arching callas, long stems reaching from the vase, hands welcoming her home, white hydrangea, and bright green cymbidium orchids, deep verdant aralia leaves surrounding all the flowers. I called it Grace and Romance, knowing Stan would need a little of both to keep Viola happy, to keep his wife at home.

I think of how there were tears standing in his eyes when he came back to pick up the arrangement later that day, how he couldn't speak, but how much I knew he liked it. He tipped me a hundred dollars that day and even though I tried to make him take it back, he refused me. “It's the only way I know how to thank you,” he said, the words muffled and choked. So I kept the money and bought exotics with it: bird of paradise, pincushion protea, red ti leaves, and dark pink sweet williams. I put them in all the arrangements I made for the next week, never charging what I paid but enjoying the simple luxury of doing something so extravagant.

I think of Henry and wonder if what the boy said is true and that he has a crush on Lou Ann Peterson, the librarian. I think that she must be ten years older than Henry and I consider how the thought of the two of them together had never crossed my mind. I cannot see how he will ever have the nerve to speak to her and wonder how he presented her with the bouquet of long-stemmed yellows.

“Maybe the library is a safe place for him. He doesn't stutter when he reads, you know,” I say out loud, and Clementine nudges me with her nose. She is lying on the sofa next to me and I know she'll not be happy having to go outside to pee before we go to bed. It's cold tonight and this winter has seemed especially hard on her. She lags behind on my bicycle rides to and from the store. She doesn't seem to care too much about a walk at lunch. A big dog at age ten moves like an old person, and I think her hips have arthritis in them and I should probably start giving her those glucosamine-chondroitin sulfate pills that Ruth Jane told me about.

Then suddenly I find myself thinking about Will, the little boy standing at my window all day, playing across the street from the shop, and who finally got the nerve to come in and ask for a job today. I wonder if his grandmother knew where he was, and it dawns on me that he's probably about the same age as Clem, ten, and I think of the lives they have both lived in one decade. She, abandoned as a baby, growing up in a flower shop, he, abandoned by his mother in death and returned to grandparents he likely no longer remembers.

“Maybe you'll have more to offer the boy than I do,” I say, and Clementine sleeps and I place my arm across her neck, take a swallow of wine, lean back, and close my eyes. This day, I realize, is done.

T
HE
phone is ringing and I am dreaming of windows and doors, of turning knobs and twisting locks, using keys, of trying to get in or out; I can't tell. I just move from one place to another, pushing and pulling, twisting and turning, trying to find the way. The sound of the phone is also in my dream and I stop what I am doing to see who is calling me. Clementine sits up and I feel her breath on the back of my neck. I awake, realize where I am, and reach for the phone.

“Ruby, it's Jimmy. I'm sorry to wake you up.”

I blink and cough and shake my head. I try to focus. “Jimmy?” I manage to say as I lean over and turn on the lamp beside me. Light fills the room.

“Yeah, so I came over to Spokane last night and I got a busted radiator. I don't think I'll make it back to do the deliveries today.”

I hear him breathe.

“I'm real sorry about this.”

“It's okay. What time is it?” It feels really early.

“Six fifteen,” he replies.

It seems earlier than that.

“Okay, all right,” I mutter.

“Ah, you know what? It's five fifteen. I read my watch wrong. Geez, I'm sorry, Ruby. Will you be able to get back to sleep?”

I clear my throat. “Jimmy, is something wrong?” I sit up and Clementine leans over, resting her head on my leg.

“No, no, I'm just . . .”

“Where are you?”

“Spokane,” he answers, but doesn't sound very confident.

“Where in Spokane?” I ask.

“Your time's up, buddy.” I hear a voice in the background.

“I gotta go, Ruby. I'm sorry.”

He hasn't hung up yet, and suddenly I know what has happened. Jimmy's been picked up by the police again. Jimmy fell off the wagon.

“Do you want me to come get you?” I ask. I've done it before. I know the way to the city jail. I know how to do this.

“No,” he answers. “I just need to sleep it off and, well, I don't want you to see me like this. I'll be back soon. I'm sorry,” he says again.

“Jimmy.”

I hear the click of the phone and the line goes dead.

I hang up the receiver and slide under the blankets, and Clementine drops down from her spot on her bed to the floor beside me. I'm not sure I can go back to sleep now. I'm not sure I want to go back to sleep, dreaming of trying to open doors and windows, dreaming of trying to get away from wherever I am. I'm not sure sleep will bring me any measure of peace.

I close my eyes and think about Jimmy.

He told me when I hired him that he had a history of alcoholism. It was the first thing out of his mouth after introducing himself. I guess the AA greeting had been instilled in him. “My name is Jimmy and I'm an alcoholic.” Only he didn't say it exactly like that. Close, though.

He told me he'd lost his bus driver's license and that was why he needed work. He brought a reference from his supervisor, a couple of letters from friends. When I explained that delivering flowers required a driver's license to operate the van, he said he didn't lose his regular license, just the one for driving a school bus. At the time, I found his story illogical and difficult to believe, but it turns out it was the truth. The judge who handled the court case was an old army buddy of his, told him he couldn't drive for the school system any more but he wouldn't punish him by taking away his personal driving privileges. He got in AA and stayed sober for a couple of years. I hired him when he showed me his eighteen-month token.

The last time he was arrested he got in a fight in a bar; he wasn't out in the streets so his license wasn't an issue, and the time after that, he was just ticketed for being a public nuisance, asleep on the park bench in town on Easter Sunday. As far as I know he's been sober ever since and never had a problem with his driver's license. But this time, this time it sounds like he was driving. This time it sounds like he left town, drove to Spokane; and I doubt his buddy the county judge can do anything for him. He'll lose his license for sure. And once that happens, I'm not sure how much help a deliveryman who can't make deliveries can give.

I don't know what makes Jimmy fall off the wagon. I can't understand how he can go for so long without a drink and then suddenly find himself in a liquor store or at a bar or in jail. Of course, if anybody knew what made a sober recovering drunk start drinking again, they could make a ton of money. I figure a lot of family members would pay big bucks to have that kind of information, secure that kind of knowledge. After all, with that bit of wisdom, they'd know when to pick up the children early from school and drive them out of town or when not to invite friends over for dinner, when to stay away from social gatherings and church outings, maybe even know when to lock the alcoholic in their room or out of the house. I think of my dream and wonder if it has any bearing on these thoughts. I guess not and I go back to my line of thinking.

If Daddy had known which days Mama could manage to work the program and which days she couldn't make it past the corner market without ducking in for a bottle of wine, I guess things would have been a lot more comfortable in our house. As it was, the three of us could never tell which day she would be the attentive wife and mother and which day she would be a mean, sloppy drunk.

Daisy was better than Daddy or me at predicting when Mama was going to drink. She wasn't always right but she was right a lot of the time. “Don't tell her about the new teacher,” she'd say. And I couldn't understand why hearing about a personnel change at school would cause Mama to reach for the bottle. Or Daisy would catch me in the cafeteria at lunch and remind me, “Make sure you tell her about the dance next week.” And she'd be right. For Mama to find out there was a new teacher would make her nervous and anxious, and those were definitely triggers for drinking. And somehow, knowing there was some event upcoming for one of her daughters, an event that she thought was important whether we did or not, could keep her sober for a couple of weeks.

I never figured it out and neither did Daddy, but somehow, Daisy knew.

Not always, of course. Even she couldn't predict the three-day binge that started on a Wednesday in August when there was nothing out of the ordinary coming or going in our lives. Even Daisy didn't know how violent Mama could be after drinking all that time at the casino and coming home to find her daughters watching cartoons alone, their father gone to work.

I reach up and feel the scar on the top of my head, remember the pool of blood, the sharp crack of the belt before the buckle hit. I remember the doctor pulling Daisy away, the sound of the curtain sliding between us, closing me off in the cubicle in the emergency room, the needle in my scalp, and the nurse holding me down, trying to say things to keep me still. I remember us packing our bags, going to a foster home for a few days, and then coming to Creekside, moving in with Grandmother, the horrible way I ached. If we had known about that binge, well, there would be lots of things different for me right now. There would be lots of things different for all of us.

I rub the scar on the top of my head, letting the memories slide away, and hope Jimmy is safe in his jail cell. I hope no one hurts him. I decide to think about all this later and I roll over, reach for the lamp, and turn it off. It is dark again and I think I'll be able to go back to sleep after all.