Petunia P Prince

Petunia P Prince

Loretta Schiavo Smith

Many years ago, in the town of Pentland, a baby girl was born with shiny red petunia-shaped flowers on the inside of each ankle. And so, her parents, Patience and Philip, named her Petunia. Petunia P.Prince. She had dimpled cheeks, almond-shaped eyes and curly chestnut brown hair that tickled the nape of her neck. Petunia’s sweet smiles entranced her parents and everyone who met her.

Rich Widow Comstock lived five blocks north of the Princes’ apartment with her fat flatulent bulldog Mister. She detested children-all children-and most adults and never, ever smiled. But, somehow, Petunia brought a hint of a smile to the thin and puckered face of the nastiest woman in town.

Snarling at the children playing tag or hopscotch or just picking dandelions in front of her large red brick house she’d yell, “Get your ugly pusses off my lawn,” while spit exploded from her lips. “Sick em Mister, go on now and sick em,” she’d order her

dog. Mister’s short stubby legs would pound the porch stairs with a boomp, boomp, boom and onto the grass he’d land. Circling and sniffing the lawn for just the right spot, he’d lift his left leg and pee on the red fire hydrant at the edge of the property.

The children would laugh and mimic Mister as he’d waddle back, slowly climb the porch steps and lie in the Widow’s shadow. After three smelly farts, he’d fall fast asleep. The more the children laughed, the more enraged Widow Comstock grew. “I’ll call the police on you brats; ya hear me,” she’d scream in a high-pitched voice and head into the house letting the screen door crash behind her, muttering to herself all the way.

Oh yes, she was mean and nasty to the children-except Petunia. Each time she’d spy Patience strolling by her house on Spruceside Avenue pushing Petunia in her red and white pram, the Widow felt she was being drawn to the child like a bee to honey. She couldn’t explain it but she’d hurry down her walkway as fast as her legs could carry her brittle, tired body.

“Why just look at those lovely brown curls and enchanting eyes,” she’d coo in a gentle voice as she peered into the pram. “They look just like mine when I was young. All the girls were jealous of me, you know,” she claimed, looking up at Patience. Reaching into the pram with her bony hand to touch Petunia, something resembling peace spread across Widow Comstock’s wrinkly face when Petunia grasped her fingers and stared into the old lady’s watery blue eyes.

“Oh my, she likes me,” she exclaimed to Patience the first time she did this. Were those tears in her eyes, Patience wondered? “May I accompany you on your walk?” she’d ask not waiting for an answer.

Patience’s kindness and gentle manner gave the Widow a moment of happiness as they’d walk along Spruceside Avenue to Birch Street ending at Victoria Park. Sitting on a bench shaded by an ancient walnut tree, while Petunia napped, Patience would share her ginger snaps and apple slices with Mrs. Comstock. Philip’s mother had once told her the Widow never overcame the deaths of her three children and so she grew resentful of all children and their happy families. When Edward, her beloved husband, was killed in a tragic car accident twenty-five years ago, she became even more alone, sad and bitter.

The people of Pentland quickly learned to avoid her. Men would tip their hat as they passed her on the street and quickly speed by. Women would cross the street if they saw her approach or duck into the nearest store to avoid her gaze. But, later, Old Mrs. Comstock would remember the small attention and kindnesses of the Prince family and that special child who helped her forget and warmed her cold heart if only for a few minutes. Later, would arrive sooner than she knew.

xxx

And so, the Prince family grew in love and led a peaceful and unremarkable life until Petunia turned one year old. Then, Patience discovered when she touched her daughter's ankles they twinkled and blinked on and off like Christmas lights. And, when she kissed them, her lips tickled. Certainly, her parents were shocked but not alarmed since Petunia was happy and healthy. Besides, they told themselves, some babies have peculiar traits which disappear as they grew older. But, just to be safe, they decided not to tell anyone except Philip’s mother and Dr. Whittle.

During Petunia’s visit to Doctor Whittle later that week, Nurse Gabrielle, Gabby for short, suddenly and swiftly yanked off Petunia’s pink socks before Patience could stop her. The nurse was shocked by Petunia’s sparkling, twinkling ankles when her fingers grazed them. So, she did it again. And again. And once more.

“Jiminy Crickets,” she cried. “What just …?” Before she could finish, she fainted nose first onto the concrete floor. When she awoke bleeding and sputtering, her nose pointed way too far to the right. With a click and a clack, and a very ugly scream from Nurse Gabby, the doctor snapped it almost in the right direction. Then, he sternly ordered her not to talk to anyone about Petunia’s ankles.

But, as soon as she got home, Nurse Gabby blabbed to her sister Windy who, in turn, called her friend Effie and swore her to secrecy. Everyone in Pentland knew Effie couldn’t keep a secret and as soon as she hung up the phone with Windy, she called in a tip to radio star Ben Braggart. Because of these three town gossips, Petunia was the lead story on Ben Braggart’s Friday “Let’s Brag About It” radio talk show. On Saturday, The Pentland Daily Chronicle splashed it across the front page of their newspaper with the headline:

                                            PETUNIA COLOURS PENTLAND    

Early Monday morning, gifts started to arrive for Petunia. Martha Hamlin, who had thirteen children and twenty-six grandchildren and lived on the very edge of Pentland, took two buses to the Prince’s apartment. She left knitted pink booties and a white sweater for the baby. Mr. Currant, the town’s baker, arrived wearing his white apron and baker’s hat carrying a box of petunia-shaped sugar cookies topped with red candy sprinkles. And, a pair of tiny black patent leather shoes dotted with

glittering red petunias was delivered from Mr. Cobbler, the shoemaker. Patience

treasured the gifts but feared not everyone would have such kind intentions

towards her daughter.

As the days moved forward, rows of people started to form on the sidewalk in front of the Prince’s ground floor apartment. They carried signs painted with giant red petunias and pictures of a baby waving a magic wand. They hoped to sneak a peek at Petunia and rub those tiny, incredible ankles. Perhaps, they hoped, she would bring them and the town good luck. 

“Do you suppose they believe she has some special powers?” asked Patience while Philip peeked through the nursery’s window.

His eyes became round as pancakes. “Patience, there must be fifty people out there,” he exclaimed while quickly yanking down the yellow blinds.

 “What do they want?” Patience asked with alarm as she placed her baby safely in her crib. “You’re just our lovely, little Petunia; aren’t you?” she cooed while gently kissing her sleeping daughter.

Each day brought more and more people waving their signs like flags and calling out to see the baby with the fantastic feet.

“Show us Petunia! Show us Petunia!” they chanted. “We want Petunia!” some demanded.

In the early hours of the morning, Philip Prince would leave their apartment to go to work. Using the back door, he’d slink along the alley to catch the 6:30 commuter train to Morganville. He feared the mob would swarm him like stinging bees if they discovered he was Petunia’s father. So, with Patience’s help he disguised himself with a bushy charcoal beard, rimless glasses and a grey wig under a felt cap as he shuffled to the train station.

Two weeks later, when the moon was playing peek-a-boo with thick clouds, seventeen-year-old Graham Silverman, editor of Pentland High school’s weekly newspaper, broke into the Prince’s house wiggling a flashlight between his lips. He hoped to snap a picture of Petunia’s ankles and publish it on the front page of the paper. For sure, that would get him a summer job with the town’s newspaper and maybe a date with Sylvia who sat in front of him in Math class, he thought.

Woken by wavy shafts of light dancing over him as he slept on his mat, Magruff, the Prince’s boxer, caught Graham by his pant leg while entering feet first through the kitchen window. Magruff hung on tightly until the police arrived and took him away in their black and white cruiser with the swirling lit cherry on top. Graham vowed to himself that one day, even if it took him forever, he would meet Petunia and discover the real story behind those amazing ankles.

A week after Petunia’s first birthday, as the red-breasted robins started chatting in their nests, Philip’s mother arrived before the throngs of people formed their forever lines. With the curtains tightly closed and the doors and windows firmly latched, Philip, Patience and Grandmother Prince sat around the kitchen table drinking mint tea while Petunia slept sweetly in her crib. The ceiling fan whirred round and round and round. Blowing on her steaming cup of tea, Mrs. Prince handed Patience a small rectangular box wrapped in red tissue paper, tied with shiny white ribbon.

“What’s this?” asked Petunia’s parents at the same time. Patience placed her teacup on the table and balanced the box in the palm of her right hand.

Mrs. Prince paused and said, “Open it. I think it’ll help you-especially our Petunia.”

Patience untied the ribbon and set it alongside a vase of red spring tulips in the middle of the table. Inside the box was a bronze skeleton key like one used to open a very old lock or a pirate’s treasure chest. Holding the key up to the light to examine it closely, Philip said, “I don’t understand how this…this key will help

us.”           

Mrs. Prince leaned back in her chair, crossed her arms and spoke in a faraway voice. “Philip, remember when you were a little boy? Your dad and I used to take you to my grandmother’s house. The one in Black Creek Forest just above Round Lake,” she added.

 “Not much,” he said, “an old woman, a large black dog. What does this have to do with Petunia?” he asked quickly.

“Be patient. Try to remember,” Mrs. Prince said.

Philip shrugged his shoulders, closed his eyes and crinkled his forehead in thought. He took a deep breath and exhaled. “I remember fields and fields of red flowers, rabbits, some deer, other small animals,” he said with a smile as he opened his eyes. “You’d give me vegetable scraps to feed them.”

She nodded. “Do you remember anything about the house and back cottages?”

“Not really. Haven’t thought about it in years. Thought you and nana got rid of the property when she died,” he said in an afterthought as Petunia awoke in the next room.

“No, we decided to close it up instead.” Under her breath she mumbled, now I know why.

When Patience left the kitchen to tend to Petunia, Mrs. Prince took a framed watercolour painting from her shopping bag. She handed it to Philip.

“I did this when I was about thirteen. Found it in an old box while cleaning out the attic when your father died and I sold our house last year.”

The foreground of the painting showed a two storied dark grey batten board house with white shutters and gabled windows. Golden Juniper shrubs and white hydrangea bushes hugged the wrap-around porch; rows and rows of red petunias lined the front and back walkways. Behind the house were two cottages sitting side by side. One with smoke puffing from the chimney, the other with bright light shining through the windows. They were framed on either side and behind by an open meadow flush with red petunias melting into woods. And far, in the distance, was a hint of Round Lake.

Philip vaguely remembered the old house and saw nothing remarkable in the sketch- except maybe for the coincidence of red petunias.

“It’s not a coincidence Philip,” his mother said as though reading his thoughts. “My grandmother Penelope told me petunias started to appear when she was born and,” she hesitated before adding, “as long as my grandmother lived, the flowers never died. Never! Not through frost or snow. Never,” she repeated.

“That’s impossible,” he said. “You must be imagining things…mixed up…I don't want to hear another word about these 'everlasting' petunias.” Philip stood, walked to the kitchen sink to wash his teacup trying to remove himself from this strange story.

“Even if you don’t want to believe it, it’s still true,” Mrs. Prince interrupted. “In fall, I’d see the sturdy red petunias coloured with autumn leaves; in winter, they’d poke their heads through a blanket of snow.” She paused, took a sip of her tea giving Philip time to think about this. “They lived as long as my grandmother lived. When she died, the petunias died with her and never returned. Ever! Until…well, until the day Petunia was born…May the first-the same date as my grandmother. When I saw her ankles, I was afraid to go out to the house, afraid of what I might find…Philip, they’re back. Thick rows of scarlet petunias growing brighter and stronger than ever.”

“That’s crazy!” Philip exclaimed.

“I know it sounds crazy….But you must know the truth to protect Petunia,” she added gently and placed her hands on his when he returned to the table. “Times have changed since my grandmother had the same petunias on her ankles. It was so much easier to keep it a secret back then. My mother didn’t have them and was relieved when I was born without the marks. And when you and your sister were born, your father and I checked your ankles before counting your fingers and toes. Neither of you had my grandmother’s marks. You see, dear, it skipped three generations and now Petunia has the same ones. And…”

Mrs. Prince stopped talking when Patience entered the kitchen with Petunia clutching a white stuffed rabbit and sucking on its long pink ears. She eagerly went to her grandmother.

Suddenly, all the tulips on the table turned and opened their faces toward Petunia. Waving her hands towards them, they danced as though she was choreographing their movements. Up, down. Side to side like a wave. Round and round. Fast, slow. The flowers danced in the glass vase. And, when Petunia babbled to them, they echoed her ever so softly.

“What’s happening?” cried Patience with alarm as Petunia burst into a smile and waved at the flowers. “How is she doing this?” Philip stared in amazement. When Patience grabbed the baby from Mrs. Prince, Petunia stroked her mother’s left cheek leaving a red smear. It started to twinkle but quickly faded. When she did the same to her father and grandmother, she laughed and laughed with delight. Speechless, they touched their cheeks while Petunia continued to babble and direct the flowers.

Grandmother Prince took control. “We don’t know how strong her powers may become,” she said. “The key may be the way to protect her.”

Philip stood, leaned forward and placed both hands on the table. “Alright mom. Tell us everything you know about great-grandmother…and the key,” he demanded.

Grandmother Prince looked from Philip to Patience. “Before I do, we’ll need help,” she said. “We’re going to need money, a lot of money to make this possible…” Knocking on the front door like drumsticks sounding a beat interrupted Grandmother as she quickly stood and ran to open the door.

“Stop,” cried Philip and Patience. “No. Don’t…”

Instead, Grandmother Prince opened the door and in stepped Widow Comstock with Mister trailing behind her.

“Roberta, thank you for coming,” said Grandmother Prince.

Patience’s and Philip’s faces were gigantic question marks as they stared back and forth between Widow Comstock and Mrs. Prince.

“Yes, well, I was fond of your older sister when we were girls and you…well, never mind that now. I do like a bit of a mystery and your phone call did supply that,” she said as they stepped into the living room with her eyes never leaving Petunia’s smiling face.

“Here it is Roberta. Forgive me for being so blunt and direct but we have little time to waste. You see, we need your help to protect Petunia. You have the money and I have the key.”

“Oh, really Pamela?” she said with mockery. “It’s my money you want, is it? And, I thought you might be different than all the rest…”

“Yes, we need your money but we also need you to... well, to move to Round Lake with Petunia, Patience and Philip. Help to protect them, you see…”

“How ridiculous. An old woman protect them? From what? No, I don’t see at all,” Widow Comstock interrupted. “Mister and I will be leaving before I lose what little feeling I have left for you…and your family.”

Standing in the front hallway, ready to leave, Petunia held out her arms to the Old Widow. She smiled at her in a delightfully innocent way and blew kisses which landed on the Widow’s cheeks, forehead and lips. Immediately, they tingled, sparkled, turned bright red and reminded her of her children’s kisses so long ago. No, not reminded, they were her children’s kisses! This is not possible, she thought.

In the hall mirror, everyone saw the Widow’s tears rolling down her smiling face. The Prince family circled her. Wiping her eyes and blowing her nose so loud that Petunia laughed, Mister snorted and Magruff barked, she returned to her seat in the living room.

“Now, Pamela, get me a cup of tea and some of Patience's ginger snaps... and a treat for Mister. Then tell me about this scheme of yours so we can get things moving. The sooner the better,” she added holding her arms out to Petunia.