Roses

by Colleen Sutherland

Portia. Constance. Bianca. Sydonie. At night, their images waft through my nightmares. By daylight, their scent lingers throughout this apartment. I rush through my morning rituals to leave them behind, but even on the streets of this small town, they are there, mocking me, always a presence.

It was Great Aunt Chloe who introduced me to her flower world. She took me in when my parents threw me out. I was only a teenager but was already trouble. I came to live in her old house, so old and useless that ramshackle was too good a word for it. The rusted old kitchen plumbing, the old light fixtures, the old furniture. It was too dreadful. I never brought friends home.

When I first arrived I thought the many plants growing in Aunt Chloe's windows were an attempt to hide the awfulness of the house, but soon I realized the house existed for the plants, at least in my aunt's mind. They were only there to pass the time until spring.

In mid-March it all began with the first snowdrops pushing up through the spring mud. Aunt Chloe dragged me out of the warm house and through the slush crying “Come see!”

The snowdrops were followed by crocuses, daffodils, tulips, and hyacinths. Each new arrival demanded my presence. I laughed silently as she bent over them, her butt the perfect model for one of those plywood lawn ornaments. I detested the gardens but tolerated her and her damned flowers because while I hated the house, it was a place to hang until I turned eighteen. With all those plants, no one noticed the marijuana I grew in my bedroom. Though Chloe recognized each leaf her garden, she didn't know what weed was.

“Ah, you're catching on,” she said. “You'll be a gardener yet.”

Her special pride was the rose garden that lay between the house and the funeral home next door. The first roses arrived at the end of May. She told me their names. The first was Mr. Lincoln. Climbing the highest along the fence were the Seven Sisters, and of course Sydonie, Wise Portia, Fair Bianca and Constance Spry. She had climbing roses, tea roses and rose trees in every shade from white to deep purple. She gathered rose bouquets to fill vases that she spread throughout the house. Whenever there was a funeral, she filled a vase or two for the deceased. The last to bloom was in October. I didn't mind. As long as the roses served as room deodorizers, she didn't notice that I was smoking pot in my room.

All through summer and fall the flowers came, wilted , and died until even the hardy mums quit. No longer was I called on to “come see” and I was left in peace except for the pots of geraniums that flourished in the bay window bringing with them spider infestations. Throughout the winter she was spraying everything with evil smelling organic remedies that replaced the scent of roses and still covered my tracks as I smoked on.

I left Aunt Chloe as soon as I was of age but life never went the way I wanted it to go. I wandered from city to city and never found a real place of my own, a job , or a man I could hang on to. Then word came that Chloe was ill. Her friends thought I should come home and be there at the end. I scraped together enough money for a bus ticket. Two days after I arrived, the old woman was gone, leaving me the house.

Finally, I had a place of my own. I began to throw out the plants but that revealed the peeling wallpaper. I left them alone. From time to time, I watered them whenever I thought of it which wasn't very often. Still they thrived. It was as if Chloe was still tending them.

I took out a mortgage on the house and that gave me something to live on. I hung out at the bars at night and during the day smoked pot. I wrote novels that were never printed painted watercolors I never sold. I didn't worry over much. Something would turn up. I invited guys from the bars to come and live with me but I threw them out when they didn't give me money for mortgage payments. I could live without sex. I couldn't live forever without money. I took out a second mortgage in those halcyon days when bankers handed out money with no questions asked.

The gardens were weedy, but I didn't care. By June the flowers took over and the weeds were just so much foliage.

As I said, something always came up. The funeral director came over one day and asked if I was willing to sell the house. He wanted to expand the funeral home. In this town of old people, business was thriving. He needed more parking room, too. He made an offer but it would barely cover the first and second mortgages and I would be left with no place to live. I refused.

Then the bank president came and suggested I take the money. He was getting nervous, too. The recession was on and he knew the bank could get stuck with the old house.

Finally there was an intervention with the funeral director, the bank president and even the president of the Chamber of Commerce. “You're holding up progress” she said.

“Make me a better offer,” I said. They did. Both mortgages were paid up with money to spare. I took the cash and bought this condo. It would do until something else came up, I thought.

The funeral home tore down the house and paved over the lot and all the flowers. It was as if none of it existed.

But come spring, cracks formed in the asphalt and thorny twigs pushed up. The contractor was called in and a new layer of asphalt laid down. It did no good, the twigs kept appearing. He brought in botanical experts who recommended herbicides. They sprayed. And re-paved. It took three years before the roses were finally eradicated. Spring came and nothing was there but the black parking lot.

It was in early spring that the banker was killed in a robbery. I went to the wake out of curiosity as most of the rest of the town's population did. He was laid out in his coffin, with the wound cleverly hidden. All around were the floral arrangements sent by businesses who had dealt with the banker. They were expensive, as was his due. Most of them were rose baskets, so many they filled the viewing room. The sweet smell reminded me of my Great Aunt Chloe and her garden. I hurried out.

Two months later, the president of the Chamber of Commerce was killed when she hit a white tailed deer out in the country. I didn't go to the wake but as I walked past the funeral home, the smell of roses came wafting out when someone opened the door.

Tea roses, I thought. Seven Sisters. The scents were coming back to me as memories.

And finally, it was the undertaker's turn. As fall turned to winter, he was felled by a massive stroke. His son and heir put on the very best funeral ever. I stood outside in the dark, watching as van after van brought vases and baskets of roses sent from all around by the families he served. There were so many flowers that the bouquets started working their way out the door, sitting on the steps and even on the sidewalk.




And now it is winter. Outside, the snow is falling, a real blizzard. I can't escape this place. The condo has been up for sale for months but no one is showing any interest. I sit here in my living room, wrapped in blankets, afraid to move in case I trip and hurt myself on the vines that are creeping out of the walls. They are shadows but I know what they are planning. Soon thorns will prick and tear at my flesh. All around me are Sydonie, Portia, Bianca and Constance. I can smell them. They are waiting for me.

I hate roses.

Cleaver

I will say one thing about the sidewalks of Osaka: a man can run barefoot without worry of catching a piece of broken glass, jagged rock, or rusty metal shrapnel. This is good because the only light comes from distantly-spaced streetlamps, the headlights of oncoming cars, and open doorways full of jeering faces. They gleefully shout a phrase my jumbled brain translates as “she's going to kill you.” Only the men shout. An old woman looks up as my frost-numbed feet slap past her doorway. She screws her face, summoning all her wrinkles to aid in giving me a hairy eyeball. I have never met her before, but she is certain of my guilt. That makes one of us.

Sue screams a litany of curses behind me in Japanese, which is wholly unfair. The least she could do is curse in English. Or tell me what I did wrong. Or given me enough warning to put on shoes before chasing me out of our apartment. The only thing I understand for sure is the cleaver in her hand.

Americans don't fully appreciate cleavers anymore. Sometime after the war, we outsourced our cleaver lore to supermarket butchers, and the cleaver's smaller more agile cousin, the chef's knife, became the largest knife in the household. Today in America few bother to break down larger cuts of meat at home. For those that do, the experience is usually confined to chickens and the odd turkey. We have forgotten the simple brutality of a stout, straight blade, how it scarcely notices the flesh on its way through joint and bone. Its purpose is to turn large meat pieces into smaller ones, and we are all made of meat.

 Sue keeps yelling at me as I turn the corner, a screech really. The same screech I hear on garbage day, laundry day, promised trips to the beach, five seconds before the TV is shut off, or meeting me at the door after bar time. Her tangerine-dyed hair is plastered against her face, cheeks mottled red with anger and exertion. She is like a blood orange of death. A woman places a hand on her child's shoulder as we run by. She glances at me then at Sue with no more concern than for passing traffic.

A truck comes out of an alley in front of me and I have to either stop, leap over the hood, or get off the sidewalk. I can't jump that high, and I sure can't wait with Sue just a few seconds behind me. I turn into the alley. There's no light, just shadows and reflected neon glow. My chest is burning, the rest of me is freezing. I hear the hum and rumble of a garage door, a beam of light in at the end of the alley promises sanctuary.

I pump my arms and trust to the patron saint of boyfriends with psycho girlfriends to give me strength. I feel a scrape against the pavement, and warmth as the bottom layer of my foot's skin sloughs off. There's no pain, but I don't dare look until I'm safe. The garage door is nearly closed, if I can only reach it...

I'm falling. My hands fly out in front of me and skid against the pavement, burning as I lose more skin to the alley's pavement. I see a glimpse of my palms  turned into bloody hamburger just as the garage door seals and puts the alley back into shadows. I scramble up and run.

Walls squeeze in around me, locked doors mock me. Sue's shriek echoes down the alley. The alley's other side is blocked by a chain-link fence. I throw myself at it, crying against the fire in my hands and bloody foot as I make my way up.

Her footsteps patter louder. Tiny feet drumming against the pavement. The drumming stops and there's a whistling in the air. I feel a breeze pass just under my heel. I scramble up higher. There's razor wire at the top of the fence that I can't get over, but fortunately, Sue is under five feet, and can't reach me as I cling just under the barbs. The cleaver sings through the air under me as Sue swings with all her strength. The air robs me of my strength, my fingers are slipping.

I run though the list of things that could have set her off. I was home late from the bar. I forgot to feed the goldfish last week, all week. Then I accidentally set the fishbowl on the radiator and we found the fish churning belly over dorsal in a slow simmer. But that was last week, right? She couldn't still be mad at me for that. I said I was sorry. She might have smelled the cigarette I sneaked today at work. Maybe her girlfriend Mitzi caught me looking and called Sue about it. That's not my fault though, if Mitzi didn't want to be looked at, why dress that way? Besides, Mitzi texted me first.

All these things are reasons for the cleaver, but a guy would really like to know why.

image is from the user Chris 73 and is freely available at //commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:DebaBocho.Cleaver.Japan.jpg under the creative commons cc-by-sa 3.0 license.

Barn Burnin'

Johnny J. Potter is another of my recurring characters. He’s a whiskey-making, skirt-chasing storyteller who lives somewhere in the Appalachians. This is one of his first stories.

By Bettyann Moore

You ever been to a good ol′-fashioned barn raisin′? Don’t see much o′ that no more. I recollect one barn raisin′in particular … no, now, that ain’t quite right. It weren’t the raisin′ of that barn I recall so much as the burnin′of that barn the day after we done raised it that I recollect.

It were Clarence Peterson’s barn andit burnt down all on account of Lester Garth didn’t want to take no bath that night.

It were Halloween night and Judd Olson were right peeved at his woman, ʼLizbeth. She done took off and ol′Judd were certain she were takin′a roll in the hay with Clarence Peterson, though I can’t see how he figgered it were Peterson, a regular bag o′bones he was and had a nose like a carrot. Anyhow, Judd were fit to be tied and he grabbed his shotgun and lantern andset off into the night to catch his missus andClarence. He weren’t gonna shoot ʼem, mind you, he jes wanted to scare the hide offa ʼem.

Fact o′the matter is, Judd weren’t about to be out on Witches Night without no light and no shotgun. I ain’t one to talk ill o′folks, but in these parts they is right superstitious. Oh, sure, they’s superstitious in the usual way – weren’t no one what would walk under a ladder, andfolks kept clear o′graveyards in a full moon – but there was ones like Judd what took stock in all sorts of ghostly doin′s and the like. If he weren’t so all-fired peeved at ʼLizbeth, he sure as heck wouldnta been out on All Hallow’s Eve … and ʼLizbeth – truth be told – sorta counted on that.

Now, Cotton Cooper were cut outta the same cloth as ol′ Judd, only on this Halloween, Cotton set out to do battle with Satan hisself. Seems Cotton done heared folks talkin′ʼbout a sure-fire way to keep evil away and it could only be done on Halloween. What Cotton din′t know was folks was just joshin′him, knowin′ that Cotton were none too bright. That’s how he got the name Cotton – short fer Cotton Head – all fluff andno seed.

Anyhow, folks tol′him that to get rid of the devil, ya gotta go out on Halloween night and find yerself 13 black cats and put ʼem in a gunnysack, carry ʼem down to the river, say the Lord’s Prayer three times, then throw the whole thing into the water.

So that’s what he were doin′jes afore Peterson’s barned burned down. How he ever found 13 black cats, we never knowed, and the truth be told, ol′Cotton had a few in there what weren’t pure black. That could be why he were so nervous, knowin′he were cheatin′ the devil and all. What a sight he musta been, a-stuffin′them cats, one by one, into that sack! But he done it and flung it over his shoulder and took off down the path to the river, them cats kickin′up a terrible ruckus.

Things sure woulda been simpler if Cotton weren’t so dang dumb – he coulda knocked them cats on the head or sumpthin′, maybe even wrung their necks. And maybe Clarence Peterson’s barn would still be standin′.

Now, Preacher Jeremiah Upworthy were new to this neck o′ the woods and he were mighty dismayed ʼbout the size o′ his congregation. Fact was, folks was jes plain bored durin′his services. He din′t have the fire in him like Rev. Turner before him. Now there were a preacher! Full o′hellfire and damnation, he were. His sermons set the chapel to rockin′ let me tell you. He got folks so worked up, they come outta there wringin′with sweat, a-feared the Lord would strike ʼem down if they din′t come back the next Sunday. Rev. Turner kept the house packed. Preacher Upworthy were lucky if two pews was full.

I figger Upworthy were sick andtired hearin′ ʼbout how Rev. Turner kept folks all worked up from Sunday to Sunday, andon Halloween night he reckoned he’d do sumpthin′about it. He set out to go door-to-door – dressed in a mighty unusual way – to scares people into goin′back to church. It were a shame he picked Lester Garth’s house to stop at first.

If there ever be a soul needin′savin′, it’d be Lester Garth – a gamblin′, whorin′ polecat what liked to shoot dogs fer sport. AndLordy, how he looked the part! He done lost an eye wrastlin′with one o′ his brothers and never did bother to have Doc take a look at it. He never wore no patch over it neither. Right ugly cuss.

And, man oh man, how he did smell! Lester Garth weren’t one fer takin′a bath. Fact were, there weren’t too many folks what took baths ʼcept maybe once a month or once a week if they was goin′to church. And you know how many of ʼem was doing that. But ol′Garth, he din′t see fit to take no bath but maybe two time a year, andeven then he’d be kickin′and cursin′ all the way to the tub. And with Garth, what with the boils he had oozin′pus, the stench were right powerful.

Now Garth’s wife – yep, he were married, and there weren’t no one more surprised ʼbout that fact than Garth hisself – she were fixin′to get him into a tub that Halloween night, come hell or high water. She were a right toleratin′woman and a godsend to Garth on accounta she were born without the use of her nose – she couldn’t smell a skunk at two paces. But she did have eyes and them eyes could see how bad her man was lookin′. When he walked in from the barn, she had the tub a-waitin′fer him and that’s when all hell broke loose.

Garth come draggin′in in a poor temper – one o′his heifers up and died givin′birth to a still-born calf. When he come in, the last thing he were wantin′ to see were a tub full o′ steamin′water and to hear his woman naggin′at him to get into it.

Garth, a powerful big man, jes glared at his wife and walked over to that tub, picked it up and carried it over to the open door.

Preacher Upworthy were comin′alongside the Garth house dressed up like Satan, fixin′to scare folks into comin′back to church. He done hisself proud with that get-up – it were complete with horns and tail and flames painted up and down his body. He was just about to step inside the door when ol′Garth let go and sent that scaldin’ water a-flyin′– and Preacher Upworthy too.

That preacher took off like a shot, hot water drippin′ down his devil duds, shreikin′like a banshee.

Cotton Cooper was strugglin′ down the path with that sack o′ cats when outta the woods comes a devil, cursin′and yellin′ at him. Cotton let go that bag and high-tailed it outta there with the devil at his heels. And since he were too stupid to have tied that sack, them cats come outta there spittin′, yowlin′ and screechin′ and headed down the road right into Clarence Peterson’s barn.

Judd were jes climbin′down outta the hay loft after checkin′the barn fer the third time, still lookin′for ʼLizbeth, when he says a hunnert or more black cats – the devil’s own – come in after him. The ladder rocked and swayed whilst he were tryin′to climb back up, and down he come, sendin′buckshot into the air and his lantern to the floor.

Only took but a minute or two for that fire to catch hold, time enough fer Judd to get out, but I reckon some o′ them cats was fried right well. Only took a few more minutes fer the whole darn barn to blaze up – spankin′new barn, gone in an hour.

Clarence Peterson, asleep in his house the whole time, come runnin′out jes in time to see the walls cavin′in. Ol′ Judd were right surprised to see him – ’Lizbeth weren’t with him after all.

Heck, I coulda tol′him that. She were with me all along.