The Art of Arranging Flowers

by Lynne Branard

  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.

  •FORTY-ONE•

  SOMETIMES 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 rai
sing 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.

  •FORTY-TWO•

  I DON’T see Will again until the funeral three days later. He is dressed in starched khaki pants and a light blue dress shirt. He is even wearing a tie, a clip-on that looks like one from his grandfather’s closet. For a little boy he appears terribly old. He nods at me when he comes into the church with Claude. At least he doesn’t seem mad. And I am glad for that.

  It turns out I was right. As soon as they heard about Juanita’s death, Jenny and Justin called Claude and they do in fact want to adopt Will. Everyone thinks they’ll make a lovely family and I am sure the newlyweds will be excellent parents. It’s easy to see that they care about the boy and it’s good for him to have two caregivers, two young parents, a father and a mother.

  Jenny’s hair has grown back and even though it’s still short, it’s thick and curly and she’s eating more and has gained weight. She stopped in the shop yesterday, telling me their plans, telling me and Nora how she and Justin want to move into the little house next to the Catholic church, the old parsonage that has been vacant for years, raise Will and have a couple of other children. She was so full of life that I envy her cheerfulness. She and Justin are sitting with Will, their arms wrapped tightly around him. Already, they are bonding.

  I am sitting with Nora. Jimmy is a pallbearer, situated up front with the family, and the church is packed with everyone from Creekside. Juanita was well known and well liked. I glance around at all my customers, thinking of them and their floral preferences. Yellow roses and belladonnas, calla lilies and sunflowers, I know them all. And when we catch each other’s glances, there are smiles and nods. We are a tight community.

  The altar is filled with arrangements. I know Juanita would have asked that money be given to charity rather than purchasing all the flowers, but Claude didn’t think to list the instruction in the obituary and since it wasn’t listed, I got the calls. I only hope Will likes what has been made and that he is pleased with the pink tulips and the gold gerberas that cover the casket and fill the vases and baskets that line the altar.

  “Dear family and friends.” The minister starts the service and I begin to drift, remembering Daisy’s funeral, remembering how broken and alone I felt, how resolved I was to death, to endings, to a life muted and colorless. I sit in the crowded church and suddenly I am back to where I think I must have started.

  “For everything there is a season,” he reads from Ecclesiastes. “And a time for every matter under heaven. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted . . .” And on and on he goes while I peel away the years, remembering how it was to become who I am today.

  “You’re too serious,” Daisy would tell me when we were teenagers and I was studying for a test or writing a paper. “Let’s go out.”

  “I can’t go out,” I would say night after night, watching her sneak out the bedroom window, laughing as she fell into the backseat of some boy’s car, then later feeling her crawl into the bed beside me, her breath hot on my neck as she curled around me.

  “You awake?” she always asked.

  “No.”

  “You sleepy?”

  “No.”

  And she would tell me about the boy and the date, the things she did, the places they went.

  “One day you won’t come back,” I would say, dreading how it would feel when I would sleep alone.

  “No, one day you won’t come back. You’ll go off to college and leave me here.”

  And she was right. That’s what I did and I guess, th
inking about it now, that was why she sneaked out every night, leaving me alone. She was learning how to make it on her own, learning how to make it in Creekside without me. And she was helping me learn how to make it without her too, helping me understand what it feels like to sleep alone.

  Only I didn’t learn. I always thought she’d come back. Just before dawn, just before the light broke across the sky, I always thought she’d sneak through that bedroom window, crawl into bed, and come back.

  I glance over in Will’s direction. I can hardly see him, pressed between Jenny and Justin. I wonder how he’s feeling. I wonder if he finds comfort in thinking Juanita is with his mom or if he just feels abandoned, left alone once again. I wonder how we are ever able to fit all the sorrow and loss into one heart, one lifetime.

  “She was a compassionate and caring woman whose life was built around the service of others.” The pastor was a friend of Juanita’s, and it’s easy to see that he is moved by this loss.

  The preacher who did Daisy’s service did not know her. He was recommended by the funeral home director, a retired military chaplain who had to keep looking down at his notes to recall my sister’s name. A few friends were horrified at his mistakes, the way he spoke of her as if she had been sad and suffering, but I was in such a state of shock it hardly even mattered. No one could have said anything that would have comforted me anyway. I simply went through the motions, one foot in front of the other. I breathed in. I breathed out.

  “You okay?”

  I realize that I am sitting alone in the church. Everyone else has left, including Nora, including Jenny and Justin and Will. I do not even know what time it is.

  I turn around and the pastor has taken a seat in the pew behind me.

  I nod.

  “How long have I been in here?” I ask, checking my watch.