Gardenias (fiction)
Posted on May 17, 2007
Filed Under writings, fiction |
(in case y’all have been wondering what I’ve been up to…writing. Writing fiction. Here’s another short story for your perusal.)
Gardenias By The Front Door
By Carey Cornwall Ezell
Kate Adams was just about to shower when her husband began to rattle the knob and pound at the door. She wondered what made him feel warranted in disturbing her, unclothed, just stepping into the steaming start of her day. It must be something worth risking a full day’s wrath, she thought. She was fully aware of her capacity for enduring grudges and enjoyed punishing his trespasses with protracted silences and the occasional nasty barb.
She imagined that Paul was bent on sharing some detail of genocide in Africa, a tidbit of grim reality doled out as reproach. He whiled away whole mornings in his bathrobe reading scores of on-line newspapers, doggedly following international turmoil, gleaning statistics and opinions about statistics. He felt superior for his grasp of world events and satisfied that this was activism; an armchair warrior with a modem.
Kate had already wiped the countertop free of toothpaste and suspicious hairs. She had scrubbed the toilet seat with Tilex to expunge the odor of urine that was four people using the same commode. She had already made her ritual tear around two miles of golf course and back to the smallish Southern Colonial so like its neighbors.
Sprinting through the quiet, she had forgotten to admire the day in its rose toned beginnings. She hadn’t taken the time to detect the subtle shift of seasons, the increasing moisture in the air at daybreak, the whooping of the Myna birds as they prepared to fly south before the terrible summer, her faculties of perception dulled and depleted by the energy expended being so damn efficient.
When Paul exploded into the bathroom, she stood poised at the edge of the tub. He handed her a printed copy of an on-line newspaper article. He was smug, bestowing a kernel of importance and it felt like the proper flourish to deliver the news this way. She held it away from the steam to read it for herself.
There was no mention of Ted O’Malley just the cryptic business of accident reporting-
Coral Gables Woman Killed; Alcohol not a contributing factor; Heavy rains and slick roads; 32 year old Astrid Alvarez pronounced dead at the scene at 10:35 p.m. Monday night…
Paul wrapped her in a towel as she sunk to the bathroom floor. It was a quiet, nurturing moment, the closest they’d been in weeks. But his arm, resting supportively across her bare shoulders, felt foreign and stiff. She could have settled into the gesture but for the stubborn fact that she had been sleeping in the guest room for days, battling for sleep on second rate pillows. She sat stiffly upright, rejecting Paul’s overture, barely breathing until he removed his arm. She dabbed at the limp paper with a corner of red terrycloth, intent on mopping up the scene by restoring the article to its rightful crispness on the page. She sat there for a long time, in a pool of her own remorse, mulling over the unexpected death of someone she really didn’t like very much in life but feel a fondness for after an accident of slick roads and bad judgment.
Kate could picture the darkness, the blur of oncoming headlights. She wondered if there would be a wooden cross erected there at the corner of 15th and U.S. 1; a monument to Drive Safely for something important happened to someone here between downtown and the airport.
Impossible, she thought, that’s just not Ted’s style, the overt display of loss, so public a grief.
She sat there for a time trembling on the cold glass tile, moss green, startlingly clean, polished to a spit shine, cold and unforgiving.
* * * *
The knowledge of Astrid’s death became the backdrop to her busy routine quite apart from Ted and Astrid. There were the early mornings, the lunches to pack, two small and easily distractible children to dress and herd towards their day; the dash to preschool and on to the elementary school a mile further. Hurried trips all over town, meeting and planting and defining the borders of suburban yards.
In quiet moments she would replay the last day she saw Astrid. Kate had left in a hurry that morning; thinking again upon leaving, that the house was hopelessly unattractive with its trite palm tree plaque above the front door, a leaky pool decaying in the back yard, the slick and gleaming pink marble floor tile throughout the first floor. Among the tear downs on Alfonso Court, it was a questionable keeper. There was nothing but the low and grumbling sound of destruction on the block; one more pile of concrete rubble to haul away to God Knows Where.
Kate had said, Let’s revisit the garden in thirty days. Really, the plants are in good shape. I’ll give Ted a call too and let him know that we’ve decided to let things settle in.
She had looked forward to Ted, his impatience and curt professionalism. She found him handsome and appealing despite some obvious flaws (slightly narrow in the shoulders, a shortfall in the chin). She could appreciate the effort he expended staying fit, which, at 50, distracted from the minor etchings around the eyes and mouth.
Throughout the installation process she had arrived at the property early, shepherding her migrant workers through the motions of plant placement in order to greet him in his perfectly tailored shirt and dress pants, impeccably pressed, off to an office where he made the kind of money that allowed for tardiness and a cavalier attitude toward making people wait.
One such morning she realized, he’s the matured version of my college love, my first significant sex. She longed for the total and consuming appetites of youth and folly. And she tried for clever conversation,
“What does Ted O’Malley do on St. Patrick’s Day,” she had remembered the luck of the Irish that morning and had decided on a green belt and jacket to mark the occasion.
He had called out the window as he pulled away from the house, “St. Patrick’s Day’s for amateurs!”
She had thrilled at his flirtatious retort, feeling no more than 16 years old, with a mad tickle to call him on his way to work and continue the repartee.
And so she had looked forward to Ted’s efficiencies and interest only in the financial details of the project, not only because he was a reminder of dorm room sex and the smell of freshly mown playing fields and a younger more vivacious self, but because she had ascertained that Ted could hardly endure Astrid’s whimsical musings on paint color and leaf texture. Kate had caught him visibly wincing when Astrid had mentioned a plant she favored for its purported ability to bestow peace and relaxation.
The peculiar arrangement between Ted and Astrid had given her pause as she struggled to identify that which sustained their attraction, something beyond the obvious and the carnal. Kate imagined the temporary exuberance of their initial romance, long limbs tangled in late morning romps; the spontaneity a surprise to Ted, past mid-life. But the folly had grown obvious, the mismatch unsubtle. Ted managed tight-lipped patience.
At first Kate had worked hard to be a friend to Astrid but had managed only a slight admiration for something effortlessly chic about Astrid’s unwashed hair, the lingering smell of garlic and cigarettes, and her tendency toward bare feet and flowery knee-length skirts. She could just tolerate Astrid’s ritual greeting, the kiss on both cheeks that some, mostly men, find charming.
* * * *
Obligingly, because she was nothing if not professional and courteous, Kate had kept their last appointment, despite its unorthodox scheduling- a note covertly stuffed beneath her windshield wiper while she ran in to the market for school lunch supplies. It had to have been twenty years since she’d received a note with hearts and smiley faces. In the age of e-mail and cell phones, the damp scrap of paper stuck to the windshield felt like a violation. It had read: Please meet me at the house tomorrow at 8:30 a.m. It’s about the garden.
She had spent a long night tossing and turning, imagining what Astrid’s complaints might be and practicing a variety of plucky responses:
I think everything’s doing fine with the exception of two or three plants. When you’re talking about the sheer quantity of plant material installed here, two or three causalities…no big deal,
or,
A good once over by the lawn crew will make a big difference,
or maybe,
When the afternoon rain begins, you’ll really see everything pick up and dust itself off.
Ready to dissuade this sudden intolerance for imperfections in the garden, finishing the last of her bad coffee, too strong, a murky cold blackness, Kate had pulled up onto the newly installed lawn at a quarter to nine. She had been only fifteen minutes late and the driveway was already packed with a full fleet of vans and pick-ups that belonged to the electricians, painters, and various subcontractors madly revamping the house. “Like lipstick on a pig”, she had said aloud while sliding her cell phone into her pocket. Astrid was sitting on her front steps, smoking, still in her morning robe.
As she made her way to the front door, Kate had stolen furtive glances at the garden that was installed only a month ago. There was something almost pornographic about the unrestrained fertility of the earth and the visible density of the air. There was the smell of ripening mangoes and the plants were a damp and startling green in the morning light. She had congratulated herself as the garden appeared to be blooming and expanding, struggling only slightly as the South Florida Spring, its ruthless sun and brewing heat, had just begun in earnest.
Astrid rose to meet her with a measured nonchalance as if she had not been waiting for Kate at all but been doing something far more important and had been interrupted at that essential task. With shoulders hunched and feet shuffling, Kate had braced for the cheek to cheek.
“Ted and I are really concerned about the garden. We’ve spent $20,000 dollars and…” her voice trailed off, and, as if for emphasis or maybe as an insult, Astrid tossed her cigarette into the planted bed beside the door.
Kate’s discomfort was evident only in the sweat that had begun to develop in the creases of her baby-tee . She reminded herself, there is money to be made here, in a town where the modest homes of the fifties and sixties have been replaced by ghastly, hulking manifestations of early 21st Century wealth, complete with columned entrance features, porte-cocheres, and Jacuzzi tubs.
Astrid had set off into the garden, wending her way through the densely planted anthuriums, white throated spathiphyllum and fragile begonias, occasionally crushing a plant or tripping over a hose extension.
“What do you think about these plants in the front of this bed? I think it’s starting to look bad with all those dead flowers,” Astrid said.
From the beginning Astrid had insisted on Gardenias by the front door, caught up in the idea of them, their heavy fragrance evoking the pure essence of the South, their glossy leaves conjuring up gracious porches where sweet tea is served.
“Don’t you think the smell will be heavenly when we come and go,” she had said in her way of making hyperbolic statements in the form of questions.
Kate had tried to talk her off the Gardenias. She considered them messy, imperfect shrubs, never meant for close up scrutiny as all the deliciously fragrant blooms hang bent and brown and dying, before they drop like crumbs. It was always disappointing to get too close to a Gardenia.
“The Gardenias were your idea,” Kate said with a heaviness she hoped Astrid would recognize as impatience.
Ted was not there that morning, having already gone to the office where he was working up real estate deals, generating the kind of money required to resurrect 61 Alfonso Court. So Kate had only cryptic replies to Astrid’s queries about the health of her garden.
“Of course I will replace anything that dies during the warranty period but I’m not removing plants just because you’ve decided you don’t like them. I’m done designing this for you, Astrid. It’s finished.”
Kate had felt good about her little speech which was polite but firm and a real feat considering all the insults that threatened to overflow. She had been simmering with a litany of unmentionables, “Find something better to do than fretting about each browned leaf. Get a job, get a life…. you have no idea what it means to get up every day and deal with mental cripples like yourself while simultaneously worrying about parent teacher conferences, strep throat, laundry, afternoon soccer practice, feline ring worm and trips to the vet, chaperoning field trips, a four year old’s birthday party, a husband who threatens to commit you every time you suggest he do a load of laundry or make a bed.”
Astrid had sighed audibly and reached into her robe pocket for her cigarettes. As she cupped the lighter and bent to the flame her eyes grew bright with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Astrid had said while dabbing at her eyes with the sash of her pink and silky robe that revealed deeply tanned cleavage while catching suggestively around her legs. “It must be all the hormones. I’m a little off, overcome at the strangest times. Ted and I are expecting,” Astrid had managed between exhaling and crying and wiping her nose.
“Expecting what?” Kate wasn’t quite sure what she’d just heard, especially considering the cigarette habit.
“I’m three month’s along,” said Astrid while glancing down her nose at her cigarette. “I know I’m going to have to quit, but the garden, the painting, the kitchen remodel…”
Kate had been too stunned for comment and they stood silently, side by side, watching the clogged fountain in the northeast corner of the garden struggle to produce a dribble up through the fountain head.
“Was it a surprise?” Kate had finally blurted out before self edit.
“Sort of… Definitely. Ted’s not happy. He’s done the family thing.”
Astrid’s eyes had developed an imploring look. She had wanted more than a promise to revisit the garden in four weeks. She had wanted a friend, a fellowship. She craved shared secrets about deliveries and hemorrhoids and chapped nipples.
But Kate had offered nothing more than an effort to suppress disdain. She had made her departure with, “It’s the growing season now. All of this will soon explode with growth. Be patient.” And had hurried off referencing imaginary meetings for which she was tardy.
* * * *
Now that Astrid was gone, Kate found herself driving by 61 Alfonso Court, noticing Ted’s car in the driveway. The renovation activity seemed to have been halted as the house sunk further into decay, the grass growing long, leaves covering the driveway that was still sullied with mud and the trappings of construction.
When she passed the scene of the accident, minus any sign of tragedy, she was lost to intrusive thoughts and imagined details. She would picture the shattered shell of the Nissan that Ted had kept clean and polished. The interior of the car, Astrid’s true reflection; a jumble of paper coffee cups, packages of wasabi peas and soy nuts, a full ashtray, tank tops, blousy skirts, all scattered at the scene, left carelessly to blow into the median and collect in alleys.
As atonement for the crime of withholding friendship, she decided to return to the garden under the pretense of Gardenia surveillance. I am merely keeping my word, she repeated to herself as she approached the front door. I won’t stay long. The kids will need to be picked up before six, the dog walked before dinner.
The sound of the bell was an echo in what appeared to be a nearly empty foyer. She could see that the paintings and furniture, carefully selected and arranged according to Feng Shui principles, had been removed. There was only a pair of men’s driving shoes and a pile of mail on the hallway floor, just inside the door. Kate avoided looking at the plants that were now clearly suffering neglect. She paused there, preparing herself for an exchange with a Ted that was morose and down trodden.
Instead, as he greeted her, he appeared to be uncharacteristically expansive, welcoming, spectacularly drunk.
“Kate Adams, please tell me you have not brought lasagna or a casserole because I can’t jam another thing in the fridge. Join me. I’m set up for Mojitos.”
“No casseroles,” she showed him her palms conspicuously empty of a condolence offering. “I’m just following up on the garden. I had promised Astrid and…really, I’m sorry.”
Ted nodded and stepped aside, ushering her in, though she had planned to stay well outside that front door.
“I’m selling the place before sinking another dime so don’t worry about fulfilling any promise you made to Astrid. You’re off the hook.” He said as he led her back to the kitchen which overlooked the pool, filthy green with neglect.
“Let the guys come by and finish the driveway. Make it look appealing from the street,” Kate said.
“It’s just an investment for me, Kate. The whole idea was to flip it. To improve it only slightly and turn around and sell.” He was crushing mint leaves with the back of a spoon as he spoke, efficient and intent on his host’s task despite the fact that he was several drinks deep and his usual tailored appearance had been replaced by a more disorderly version of his former self, like he’d been sleeping in that particular dress shirt and pair of pants for days.
“The whole project took on a life of its own. This was never home to me,” Ted said as he fixed her a drink in a suspiciously cloudy glass. She only sipped at it, sloshing it around making polite and companionable sounds with her ice cubes. After all, she thought, it is only four o’clock.
“I know…” she could barely get it out, “I know about the baby.”
He glanced up quickly, something wildly apologetic and shameful in the way he met her gaze. “So you think I’m an asshole for not being enthusiastic?”
“No, I don’t. But it must make it worse.”
“You ready for the real kicker?” he asked. ”She was leaving that night, Kate. She had all her belongings, except for the furniture in the car. She was going to stay with a friend in Pompano for awhile.”
Kate gave up sipping and began gulping her Mojito, needing something to do with her hands while sustaining uncomfortable conversation, the alcoholic equivalent of chewing her nails. She wondered at the powers of drink. How loose Ted seemed with these private details like there was penance in having this conversation, here, with her, in the afternoon at an empty house, save for the clear rum, the tumblers, and a fridge full of good intentions.
“I finally told Astrid my version of truth. I should have told her before but she’d never asked.”
He covered her hand with his own. She registered the weight of it as comfort and companionship. Their two hands like a pre-game cheer, resting there beside the glass she had drained of the sweet, severe taste of alcohol. She felt her presence there was inevitable, scripted. She was the recipient of his shame.
“Astrid was beautiful, right? And, it was perfect for awhile. Relationship-lite,” he said, fairly whispering this admission. “Please don’t get all righteous on me, Kate.”
He moved around the granite island to sit on the stool right next to hers. “I’m sick of struggling to remember her in death as something she wasn’t in life. I needed that light thing for awhile. The accident can’t change the way things were between us.
I’m beginning to get used to death. It seems to surround me. My wife of thirty-six years is dying right now in Winston-Salem. She lives there with her sister. Somehow she puts up with it…the doctor pumping her full of chemo and radiation and all the other shit that buys a person a few agonizing, painful years.”
He ran that very same hand, that was only minutes ago resting atop her own, through his hair with a restlessness and agitation that he’d been drinking at for some time.
“Marilyn’s leaving me is a long story that reflects poorly on me, Kate. But, hell, it was two years ago.”
Kate fumbled with the spoon covered with clinging specks of mint and felt he deserved to tell this story. She was perversely relieved that she had been wrong in her previous assessment. She had assumed that he had deserted his former wife. The fact that he was the one that had been abandoned surfaced like hope. Now she didn’t need to hold him accountable for such a severe disloyalty.
“People do funny things when faced with death,” Kate offered now, as consolation.
”It wasn’t that odd. Thirty seven years after you’ve met someone, there’s not much left of the old charge. You keep at it because it’s the right thing to do, because you’re Catholic and watching the thing die on the vine is expected.
When she learned she was sick again, she said she didn’t have the energy to keep pretending. And I found a distraction…”
“How do you know what’s happened to her, to Marilyn I mean?” Kate asked.
“I get information from our sons. I wait for phone calls, updates about end of life care.”
“And Astrid thought you two would get married?”
“She definitely made some assumptions that I’m sure I helped sustain.”
Kate stood abruptly and needed to use the bathroom if just to gather remove from Ted, to ponder the suggestion of that hand.
In the bathroom, she talked herself into it, admiring her lips that were damp with rum, her cheeks glowing with drink. She manipulated her shirt back into the waistline of her jeans, she smoothed her hair and and stared at herself long enough to discern the slight difference between her two eyes, one just a touch smaller than the other. And she returned to the kitchen where Ted offered her another full drink that he had busied himself with in her absence.
He brought it to her, setting it and himself close again at the island counter. He touched the side of her face, which, to Kate, felt like triumph, his saying he found her adequately attractive. Then his mouth covered hers, like the hand before on the counter, completely, confidently, as if he did this often, seduce married women in empty houses.
And when he cleared away the glasses to the far end of the countertop to make room for their groping, she was relieved that at least they could do it there, in the kitchen, without the protracted migration to the bedroom where there was sure to be photographs of grown children in their likeness to Marilyn, perhaps a photo of Ted and Astrid, their lighter lustier selves. She would have felt criminal in front of that sad audience. She needed no witness to the culmination of this thing that they had been working towards for months.
He was an efficient lover and it was a brief but satisfying coupling, free of promises or possessions, that allowed her plenty of time to collect herself on the ride to parent pick up.
Despite the fact that she would not shower off their damp salt sex until the following morning, she felt less an adulterer than just one of two people working through their own separate but equally pressing needs to feel something other.
She was sure that Paul could sense this betrayal of their marriage. In the weeks to follow she was less curt, given to sudden bouts of laughter and warmth, like a schoolgirl with a secret. She imagined that, in his own way, the way that would rather see forward than back, that he was working on forgiving her this trespass. She felt something new for him and couldn’t pin it down, something like pity or disgust.
Kate began to make regular visits to 61 Alfonso Court. She chose to stop only when Ted’s car was not in the driveway. She found satisfaction in restoring order to the garden, gently trimming the spathiphyllum and the begonias, coaxing the gardenias at the front door to remain deliciously fragrant conveyors of sweet southern gentility until the property was sold.
Original artwork by Georg Dionys Ehret, borrowed from The University of Maryland website.
Comments
WordPress database error: [Can't open file: 'wp_comments.MYI' (errno: 144)]
SELECT * FROM wp_comments WHERE comment_post_ID = '218' AND comment_approved = '1' ORDER BY comment_date
Leave a Reply
