Date: Fri, 30 Jan 1998 06:04:14 -0500 From: Words from the Monastery Subject: SUB: VDC: For Love (short stories) The 1998 WRITERs' Valentine's Day Contest Remember, save your critiques please and send you entries to Michelle and me not the list for entry into the contest. ***** For Love Mark hated roses. He hated them because they reminded him of a mix-up during the timeof his grandmother's funeral. The newspaper had printed the wrong address for where the flowers should be sent and they all got delivered to his house. All weekend his mother re-arranged the house to find places to put the flowers until the funeral. Roses in the bathtub, roses on the stairs, roses on the counters in the kitchen. Mark had tried to keep them from overflowing into his room, but his mother insisted there was no where else to put them. His baseball collection was stashed in the closet while red, white and yellow roses crowded his desk and dresser. He hated waking to their saccharine-sweet stench, so he tried to get rid of the smell by burning incense. His mother soon put a stop to that,as she was afraid the incense might affect the smell of the flowers. That was the idea, he argued, but it was futile. When the day of the funeral came, the roses left but their scent lingered. No amount of incense or Lysol seemed to chase it away, it always seemed to be there. Even his baseballs smelled like they'd been sprayed with perfume. He eventually threw them away. Fifteen years later and in college, he still hated roses. It was a quiet obsession,one that even scared him. In the springtime,he took the long way around to classes because there was a wild rosebush blooming near the front entrance. Just seeing their tightly closed petals made him shiver. This was his girlfriend's complaint. "You know, Lynn's boyfriend sent her a dozen roses for Valentine's Day," she said as they were sitting in Leunig's cafe for coffee that afternoon. Mark poured more milk into his cup and stirred, not looking up at her. He'd never told Kim about the rose incident, he felt it was a foolish childhood fear, but his pride kept him from revealing it. "Everyone gets roses..." he muttered,"it's nothing original." "It's a symbol of love." Mark snorted. "Lots of things are symbols of love, better than some stupid weeds." He looked up at her cautiously, studying her gaze, "Don't give me this 'if you really loved me, you'd give me roses' bit." Kim slowly drank her coffee, looking at him over the white rim. She set the cup down and idly tapped her red lacquered nails on the glass surface. "You really want roses?" he asked. "Well," she fidgeted with her spoon, tracing the cafe's logo on her napkin. "Yeah." ********* Mark took a deep breath before he entered the florist's store. He had been standing outside the store, chainsmoking for a half hour. This is stupid, he thought. The incident was years ago, you're just obsessing over it. All hecould smell was old smoke on his breath and off hisjacket. He opened the door. He passed over the potted plants and tall irises standing in buckets of water. In an air-conditioned cooler were the roses. It'sjust like going to the grocery store, he told his pounding heart. Gonna buy us some eggs,butter, cheese, and roses. Sweetheart Roses, $2.59 each. They looked so perfect, so fake like sugar y creations on a birthday cake. Pink, red, white, short ,tall, thorns, no thorns... his hands began to shake. Stop it, he commanded them. He saw his own reflection in the glass case, which suddenly was replaced withthe kindly visage of his grandmother. Mark, she said, why did you let them cover my grave with these damn smelly things, I can't get out... He hadn't realized that he'd screamed out loud until he saw all of the faces in the store staring at him. "I know how you feel, man," spoke a voice next to him. A tall, gangly bo y gestured at the case. "My girlfriend left me on Valentine's Day. Can you fuckin' believe that, getting dumped on a day supposedly dedicated to love? Jesus H. Christ.." He patted Mark on the shoulder. Mark shivered and brushed the kid's hand off, quickly walking out the door. The next smell was the stench of a nearby dumpster, but the rotten egg smell was already making the haunting smell of roses disappear. He sat down at thebus stop, watching his trembling hands. Next to him was an elderly couple talking toeach other in low voices and a middle-aged woman with a sullen teenager by her side. Theyoung girl nervously twisted a ring on her finger,the kind guys got in high school that were obviously too large and heavy for their small adolescent hands. The ring dwarfed her own finger, some tissue or toiletpaper was stuffed around it so it wouldn't slip off her finger. "Can't you put that on a necklace or something, Gloria?" her mother whispered harshly to the girl, "It looks so huge on your hand." The teenager smiled broadly and held out her hand like a noble, waiting for a servant to bow low and kiss it. "It's a sign, Ma, that I'm Jimmy's girl," "Sign? If you wanted a sign, why didn't you just paint a 'hands off' sig n and put it around your neck?" her mother scoffed, "You wear plenty of his stuff, his jersey, his sweaters... where's your sense of independence?" The girl rolled her eyes. The mother gave up and shook he rhead, looking at her watch impatiently. The elderly woman giggled. Mark leaned over to tie his shoe and looked towards the elderly couple. The man was holding the woman's hand shyly and she was looking at a ring on her finger. "Dorrie, haven't you always known that it's you I love?" he said, pattin g her hand gently. "Martha," the woman corrected, still smiling. He looked bewildered for a moment,and then recognition crossed his face. "Ah yes, Martha. Did we meet at Alice'sparty?" "Alice is dead, dear heart, that was in 1945." "Oh...so she is. So, Dorrie..." "Martha," "Yes... Martha, will you marry me?" "Certainly, love." Mark smiled as he leaned back in his seat. The girl's mother sat impatiently, staring ahead at the traffic while her daughter looked at her ring. The couple huddled close together on the seat and the woman rested her head on his shoulder. The bus pulled noisily into the stop. The woman and the teenager quickly boarded, with the elderly woman helping the man to his feet. "See you next Friday, Harold," she said, assisting him onto the bus. She watched as the bus drove away. "Um... congratulations," Mark said. She turned to him, bewildered. Then the woman started to laugh as she eased herself back onto the bench. "Oh no," she said with a smile. "Harold's not... we're not engaged. He thinks I'm his beloved Dorrie, his deceased wife. He's got Alzheimer's... so did my husband. He wandered off one day... never came back." Mark shifted uncomfortably on the bench, feeling foolish. "I'm sorry." "Oh don't, dear," she said, patting his hand. "Harold's got some wonderful memories and I love being a part of them. It helps me remember Joshua." The two of them sat in silence for a moment. "What was the best gift you ever received from someone you loved?" he asked. She smiled. "The person I loved," she said. He got up. "Thanks," he said. "You've helped me a lot." He went back home, past the florist and the stores along the street. He would tell Kim about his grandmother, how he loved her and missed her. He would give Kim the most precious gift he had.