Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  Guilt had nagged at her periodically during the pleasant dinner of leftovers she had shared with her parents. What right had she to bring her unconventional self here and turn their lives upside down again?

  Coming out to her parents when she was sixteen had been one of the most difficult moments of her life—and of theirs, she was beginning to understand. She had not realized until much later the long-term price she had asked them to pay, the dreams her announcement had shattered. There would be no grandchildren, no prideful recounting of romantic coups, no handsome, successful son-in-law to parade before their friends. Instead there was just the harsh reality of the nonchild, a daughter who existed but had to be spoken of circumspectly because of her very different lifestyle.

  In her youthful bliss, Marya had seen their shock and their pain, but it did not diminish the excitement she had experienced in discovering who she was once and for all, in realizing she did not have to follow the paths of her peers. A newly formed gay and lesbian youth group at her high school helped her understand that it was okay to be the way she was, that she could love women the rest of her life if she so desired. The thought had made her giddy, banishing the self-doubt and self-abasement that had gone hand in hand with recognizing the differences between herself and other young women, heterosexual women, her own age.

  By the time she went to college, however, she began to see that the lifestyle she had gleefully followed was fraught with perils, often more so than more conventional lifestyles. Hearing of lesbian sisters beaten and raped dampened some of her flamboyance and made her much more conservative in her mannerisms, even her attitudes. She was one of the lucky ones—she had never been physically attacked for her romantic choices—but as she set off into her career she realized that family friends had begun questioning her single status.

  Her parents, of course, had been the ones forced to deal with the curious inquiries. When this awareness dawned on her one day, she was aghast, wondering how best to make things up to them. She couldn’t find a way. All she could do was love them and accept the rare, unconditional love they eventually re-offered her. Not really a fair trade, all things considered.

  Still, when she had happened upon an advertisement in a trade journal for a reporting job in Seattle, she leapt at the opportunity. Putting a continent between her parents and herself had seemed like a good idea then, a way to lead her own life without complicating theirs so much. Ten years later, she did not regret the move. What she did regret was allowing herself, in this moment of weakness, to come back into her parents’ life and disrupt the beautiful retirement they’d set up for themselves.

  Someone standing on the sidelines and observing their small family unit would probably think all was well. A daughter, though, could pick up the subtle nuances of her father’s discomfort when her ex-lover was mentioned in passing, would notice the careful omission of inquiry into personal affairs.

  Marya went into the bedroom and looked at her wet, bedraggled self in the mirror. Yes, the guilt was back and in spades. For their sake, she needed to find a place of her own and soon.

  Besides, what would happen if she met someone new here in Marstown? She couldn’t go back to those high school years when she had lived the lie of being the proper friend to girls she was attracted to. When she’d pulled her caressing hands from other girls although she’d wanted more. When she’d never kissed the soft lips she yearned for, quaking inside as she imagined how they would feel against hers.

  She had lied to herself and others then because she had cherished the closeness of her family. An only child, born to her parents late in their lives, she had always depended on them, emotionally, physically, psychologically. This issue of lesbianism, this love of other women, had driven a wedge between them, but she couldn’t lie anymore, couldn’t deny the reality of who she was. Doing so just left her feeling shuttered, off balance.

  Glancing at the clock, she pushed these introspective thoughts away and put herself into forward motion again. She prepared for bed, the thoughts beating inside her brain fluttering like the moth flapping helplessly on the other side of the window glass.

  Things didn’t get any better when she slipped into the guestroom’s hard, seldom-used bed. Unable to sleep, she found herself reliving the traumatic moments that had changed her life and brought her back into her parents’ home.

  ***

  Kim’s bags had been packed by the time she got home from the gym, she remembered. Placed neatly beside the front door, they fairly hummed with purposeful intent. She had closed the door and sighed, raking her eyes across the flawlessly matched suitcases. She despised the fact that the first thought that had invaded her mind was a hateful one: Whose arms were going to hold Kim tonight?

  “Well, there you are. I was beginning to think I would have to leave without saying goodbye.”

  Kim stood in the doorway to the den, her lustrous black hair piled in unusual disarray. I allowed my gaze to travel across her one last time, filing away how her angular cheekbones accented her swarthy features, how her acute slimness gave her a certain air of elegance, of sleekness.

  God, I was going to miss her.

  “Marya, aren’t you going to talk to me?” Kim poked her bottom lip out in that adorable pout I was far too familiar with.

  “Yeah. Listen, I’m sorry about that fight this morning. I didn’t mean what I said. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.” The workout had mellowed my attitude and I was backtracking on my earlier ultimatum.

  I lifted apologetic eyes. To my surprise, Kim smiled. A real smile too, from the old days. It was a big improvement over the pinched smirks I’d been getting the past few months.

  “It’s that damned Irish temper, is all,” she explained, as if I knew nothing about it. “I’m all right. You don’t have to fret about it.”

  I walked to the tall hall butler and removed my damp overcoat. I found it was easier to share my feelings with my back to her. “Well, I do fret. I never wanted this to happen, Kim.”

  There, the door had been opened just a bit.

  Kim sighed and strode forward to drop an overnight bag on top of the orderly rank of suitcases. She stood just behind me. My back ached to feel her palm against it.

  “It makes sense this way, hon. I feel relieved, better than I have in a long time. I bet if you examined your feelings, you’d find you feel the same way.”

  Anger bubbled inside as I bowed my head. “I don’t have a Carla to curl up with, or an Amy to whisper to me that I’ve done the right thing.”

  I closed my eyes, regretting the scathing words as soon as they left my mouth. I sensed Kim stiffen, the words obviously finding their mark. “That’s okay. You’ll have your career and karate classes to keep you company,” she replied in a quiet, scornful tone.

  I reached up and tugged at my mop of short hair with all ten fingers. “Ah, hell, Kimmy. Nobody can make me as angry as you.”

  She smiled with enigmatic calm. “I guess that’s my special charm.”

  I eyed her sideways, finding myself wanting to smile in spite of the pain and rage I was feeling. “Do you still care for me?” I asked, wheedling like a child.

  Kim lifted her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine guidance. “You’re the one who kicked me out, Marya. I might stay if you asked me.”

  “But you won’t give up the others.”

  “I told you I would. I work with Carla, though. That would be tough, shutting her out.” Her gaze was sad. And she wasn’t about to give up her hard-won job in interior design. I knew that from a previous argument. Futility swamped me and I could only stand and study the woman I loved. Silence fell between us.

  Three years of my life gone. Kim was walking away with them as easily as she was carrying away her well-stuffed bags. I would never be able to think fondly about our years together. The pain would destroy me. A list of if onlys rattled through my brain. If only I hadn’t worked so much. If only I hadn’t spent quite so much time studying the martial art. If only I
had been a more attentive lover. Then anger returned. If only Kim had remained faithful. A hard knot closed off my throat and tears threatened to blur my vision.

  “Hey, help me carry these last ones out, will you?” Kim asked hesitantly. She sighed and I knew she felt the same futility I felt. There seemed to be no easy way. It was a lose-lose situation.

  I opened the front door and hefted the two largest bags. Kim gathered the rest and followed. Her Honda Accord sedan rested next to my Isuzu Trooper for the last time. I opened the door of the Honda and placed the bags onto the backseat next to some stacked boxes, holding the door wide so she could place the other bags inside. Trying to feel useful, I pressed the lock button and closed the door securely.

  I stood helplessly. I couldn’t find a place to put my hands, hands which seemed as if they belonged on Kim. Then Kim was in my arms, her cheek pressed against my shoulder. She was so right there, so familiar. She lifted her face and our kiss was soft and forlorn, filled with an idealized longing for what might have been. Afterward, she moved away and I felt a coldness enter the space where she’d stood.

  Kim leaned against the car and stared up at the large brick home we had lived in for the past three years. She rubbed her thinly clad arms, shivering in the early evening chill.

  “I’m sorry we can’t love one another anymore,” I whispered finally.

  “That’s not it. We’re just traveling in different directions. It happens.”

  We fell silent, mulling over this obvious truth. A cool mist began to fall and Kim shivered again.

  “Marya, if you ever need anything…” Her voice cracked in mid-sentence.

  I nodded and, unable to speak because that damned lump was choking me again, I grimaced in what I hoped was a smile and waved Kim away. I turned and walked into the house. Closing the door, I heard the engine of Kim’s car purr into life, a perfect counterpoint to the silent and dying memories filling the rooms behind me. I pressed my face to the heavy wooden door panel.

  “But I need you,” I whispered.

  Marya woke in a cold sweat, an anguished cry of need reverberating in her mind. She remembered how she had loved Kim and how good it had been in the beginning. She also realized that what Kim had said was true. She had turned away, had turned to the martial art. Now, in the early dawn hours, in her parents’ guestroom, she admitted that to herself and wondered—When had she lost interest in Kim? Why had she turned from her? What would it have taken to keep her attention steady? Would she never find someone who would hold her interest for the long haul?

  Chapter Seven

  The Schuyler Times building was located in the middle of the downtown area, just off the main street on a quiet, tree-dappled side street named Collier Lane. It appeared much the same as every other newspaper office Marya had worked in—dark and small, messy, and smelling of old ink and paper. A pleasant-looking woman sat at the desk just inside the door. She glanced up in inquiry as Marya let the door slide shut behind her.

  “I’d like to apply for the reporter position you have open,” Marya said, trying to smile confidently.

  “Oh,” the receptionist replied and then paused as if in thought. “That must be Andy’s beat.” She rose slowly—she was going to have a baby, Marya realized, and soon. She was obviously in the last stages of pregnancy.

  “Oh no!” Marya blurted without thinking, then blushed. “I’m sorry. Here, may I help you?”

  The receptionist smiled in real amusement this time, her small slanted eyes crinkling at the corners and her wide mouth showing almost as much pink gum line as teeth. “No, I’ve got it, but that’s the exact same thing I said eight months ago when Doc Bradley told me I was in this condition: ‘Oh no!’”

  She laughed as she waddled away. Within minutes she was back, this time following slowly behind a rapidly moving man. He was slightly shorter than Marya’s five foot eight and leaning toward portliness, with scant, dark hair combed across his ruddy scalp in a last-ditch effort to deny his baldness. His dour round face was cheered by a pair of twinkling brown eyes, jaundiced at the corners from a hard life of too many cigarettes, too much coffee and too many long hours reading copy. She knew the look well.

  “Well, you must be Dick and Patty’s girl. I’m Ed Bush, editor here. Tell me your name again.” He eyed her sharply as he shook her hand, obviously expecting a quick response.

  “Marya, Marya Brock, from Seattle,” she responded hurriedly.

  “Seattle, huh? You know Buzz Wheaton from out there? Runs the Seattle Star. Good man, Buzz.”

  Marya smiled with delight. This was common ground. “Yes, sir, I worked for Mister Wheaton for ten years.”

  The editor let fly a low whistle. “Brock? You’re not that guy Brocklyn, are you? The way Buzz talked about you I always pictured you as a man.”

  She smiled, fondly remembering her old boss. It had been hard to leave him. “I’m not surprised, sir. He never called me anything but Brocklyn, and I’m sure that’s how he referred to me when talking to others.” She almost turned in response as she imagined she heard his bellow of “Brocklyn, get in here now,” echoing around this newsroom.

  Ed Bush studied her from head to toe. “Well, you’re no guy, but with your reputation, his loss is my gain and as soon as I get the chance I’m going to call him and give him hell for not setting you up with me. Didn’t he know where you were moving to?”

  “Yes, he did. He gave me a letter of recommendation, but I’m sure it’s generic. I mean, I could have applied at any paper in this area.”

  Ed grinned suddenly. “Come with me. I’ve got to see this letter.”

  He led the way through the small newsroom and down a long hallway. Feeling curious glances thrown her way from the other employees, Marya chanced a few small smiles at them and got a few back in return. The people here seemed friendly enough, she decided.

  The editor led her into his small, cluttered office, which reeked of cigarette smoke. Stacks of inky newspapers framed his large, old-fashioned wooden desk, and bookshelves chock full of outdated books and periodicals spanned the wall behind his chair. Taking this chair firmly in hand, he spun it around and plopped himself into it, causing a welter of metal shrieks to fill the still air. He motioned her toward the other chair.

  “Okay, let’s see the letter.”

  She pulled the envelope from her briefcase and handed it across the desk. He took it and again motioned for her to sit.

  She turned, closing her briefcase, and saw that the only other chair was occupied by a very large cat. Tabby gray in color, the cat, an old tom by the look of him, was clearly well loved and well fed. He purred contentedly and arched his neck as if seeking a stroke from her hand. Chuckling at his silent demand, she set the briefcase aside and lifted him from the chair into her arms, sliding her bottom into the warm spot he’d vacated. She buried her nose in his scentless fur and felt his sides heave as he purred with each breath.

  She felt very good here, very much at home. She hoped that she would get the job.

  The rustle of paper distracted her; Ed had shoved something across the desk. A tan envelope had been inside the larger white one. She had to laugh at the writing on the outside. There, in Mr. Wheaton’s distinctive scrawl were the words: Ed Bush, The Schuyler Times, You old goat.

  “Has he got me pegged or what?” the editor said with a laugh as he perused the note that had been inside. “It says here I’m to treat you right because you’ll be one hell of an asset to the Times. Is that true?” He turned his tired eyes on Marya.

  “I can only promise my best effort, Mr. Bush.” Marya met his gaze evenly.

  He stood abruptly and handed her the white envelope.

  “There’s another letter in there in case you ever need it, one of the generic kind. Buzz and I go back a long way, you know. We went through about ten years of school together, beginning in elementary school and ending up at the same college. Odd we ended up on opposite ends of the country.”

  He came from behind his d
esk and moved to the door.

  “It’s deadline day on the B-front. Get to work.”

  “You mean I’ve got the job?” She stood and tried not to stare at him.

  Ed glanced back while lighting a fresh cigarette.

  “Of course, if you want it. I’ll get Carol to settle you in, but you’ve got to set Caesar down. We call him the energy drain. Every time you hold him for any length of time he just sort of sucks all the get-up-and-go right out of you.”

  Marya replaced the cat gently into the chair with one final pat.

  “Not a good idea on deadline day,” she muttered to the editor’s retreating back. She grabbed her briefcase and hurried to catch up, ready to go to work.

  Chapter Eight

  The outside walls of The Way of Hand and Foot gleamed in the rising sunlight as Dorry pulled into the parking area and slotted her truck into the reserved spot next to the side entrance.

  She sat back and sighed, her gaze falling fondly on the lacy crepe myrtle trees she had planted next to the building soon after purchasing the low, flat structure. The trio of trees had just finished blooming and a few remaining bedraggled pink flowers winked at her as they danced in an early morning breeze.

  Over to her left, by the front door, she had commissioned a beautiful waterfall that fell smoothly into a shallow, concave rock and water garden. Late water lilies nodded there as if reluctant to awaken this early. She opened the truck door so she could hear the soft susurrus of water falling into water. It was a beautiful South Carolina morning.

  She keenly recalled her fear when she’d actually realized she was buying a building and creating a business. That she was sinking her family’s hard-earned money into a venture that could win or fail by the vagaries of people, the economy and of willful, destructive nature. She took in a deep breath, reminding herself that had been many years ago now and that the dojang was thriving.