Calla Flowers

Gloria didn’t want to hate the season. But ew.

After an hour slopping wet inches from her front deck and down her steps, she had enough. Crystallized into jagged peaks, gray dreariness clung to shrinking snow and dingy ice crusts that edged the slick parking lot. Even the oak branches were coated with glistening ice. When would the snow retreat and green fields reappear with their cheer of dandelions and violets dancing among the grass.

Taking off her damp coat and boots, she stretched her fingers trying to ease chill from their tips. At least it was Saturday. Her day for anything.

Under heat of a pelting shower, Gloria lathered with luxurious violet and honeysuckle. Warmed, she dried her hair and chose her brightest canary yellow pullover. The oversized turtleneck draped hug-like. She could have put on music or eaten chocolate, but needed to breathe the scent and beauty of flowers.

Her down jacket, thrown over a kitchen chair, waited. But it was bulky. She loathed to wear it. Instead, she put on an olive-green hat and wrapped a matching scarf about her neck. Dandelion colours were worth the cold bursts from apartment to car to nursery. If it wasn’t for the slush, she’d have worn flipflops.

A two-block drive and she was in front of Max Arthur’s Flowers. City’s best flowers. At her approach, glass doors slid open and bubbling from a three tier Buddha fountain greeted. Imagining a spring forest, Gloria strolled until surrounded by potted trees. Green and yellow willows were a line before her. Behind, red maples and soft pines shaded her knees. Her fingers sought soft needles, brought a pine bough to her face. It tickled beneath her nose. Further she wandered between floral laden aisles, the polished cement under her feet a garden path leading to herbs. Sunrays warming her face, she paused to breath the scents of lavender and mint before visiting circles of lilac and juniper. Ahead she saw exotic red ferns.

 “Hey lady. Watch where you’re walking.” Steve’s gruff voice ruptured her daydreams. Behind her, he pushed a metal trolley loaded with three manure sacks. His wide eyes blinked slowly. “Oh, its you.” Nothing else that he knew her or had ever admired her pretty face.

“Considering you’re following me, it’s you who should be watching.” Gloria stepped back among the plants.

“You’re not suppose to stop in the middle of the aisles.” Steve trudged until disappearing among vegetable seed cupboards. Gloria sauntered in the other direction.

She shouldn’t be shocked. They had gardened together. But how could he be so indifferent as though she was a strange neighbour lady.

Hatred pounding her veins, she yanked off her hat, and took a few huffing breaths. She’d stalked to the decorations and faced a miniature wheelbarrow with a turquoise bucket and purple wheels. Steve would have hated it. He never understood decorations. But fuck him. Shoving the green wool in her purse, she tugged at her cuffs until her hands were warmed in cozy yellow cotton. If he thought her frivolous, she’d show him frivolous.

Max Arthur’s had shelves of vases, even ones shaped like wheelbarrows and cars. Going to a counter, Gloria ran a fingertip over delicate glass designed to hold a single rose. But a single rose wasn’t extravagant. Heavy crystal felt better in her hands. Gloria chose one of pleasing weight and looked at its tag. A hundred and eight dollars. For a vase. Never mind. Annoying Steve wasn’t worth that much. The twenty-five dollar one was nearly as pretty.

Now for the flowers. 

Through glass fridge doors, decadent colours sprang in rows of spacious delights. She’d only come to cheer her melancholy, but now was determined to indulge in the brightest blooms. Roses were beautiful as were carnations and lilies, but not enough. And a potted orchid wouldn’t fit in the vase. Ah calla lilies. Up she snatched up a flame blend of orangish-yellow. Sunny. Purple for royalty. Magic of darker purple that was near black. Pink and more yellow for spring. Like angel trumpets, they were the perfect whimsy. Her vase full, Gloria stopped at her reflection. Having blown dried her hair, it was ok. And the flowers. She’d wanted such a wedding bouquet.

But Steve had said, “They’re too delicate. Will get all droopy. You’ll have bunch of wilted weeds by the end of the night. Get these.” He had pointed at plastic roses.

Afterward their arguments seemed silly. Like his annoyance at her seven-dollar tea. It was the wedding, not the flowers, that mattered.

Ha. She’d show the bastard frivolous. Smiling at the thirteen bright horns stuffed in her vase, she went to the cash. Maybe clerk would even say ‘beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.’

Perfect timing too. Steve counted out his coins.

Lifting the calla lilies in front of her, Gloria jutted her chin at him.

He blinked blankly.

Not understanding.

As he never had.

Realizing, dizziness filled her head. She was the idiot. Why hadn’t she known. He trampled every pearl she’d given. Crushed her every whim. Nothing she beloved had ever mattered.

Her heart had purposefully chosen each colour. The pluck of each stem was a vibration, a stirring chord. Soothing her soul. But she might have held field daisies. Something useless to be uprooted from broccoli rows.

He had never seen pain in her giving. That every give, scrapped her heart. Soul raw.

She had wanted to live downtown, but outside the city was cheaper. She’d wanted flowers but growing vegetables was sensible.

What could she even argue. Rent was cheaper outside the city. They could eat vegetables. A truck did cut through snow. But what did she care about cutting through snow. It hadn’t been worth giving up Europe and a downtown apartment, from which she could have taken a bus, to stay home and pay for a truck.

Steve left with his cart of manure and Gloria got in a cash line.

His contempt had shown the weekend of the Megadeth concert.

She had craved tickets. Her flesh pounded until grinding her bones with longing. As a violet, straining from a sidewalk crack, was parched for water. Or a caged raven yearned for sun.

But tickets were a hundred dollars. Each. They couldn’t spend two hundred dollars on in‑city concert tickets. Not to mention going out for dinner and drinks. More money. And hoteling overnight, rather than fighting through the crazy concert traffic.

Too much.  As much as it sucked that Steve was always right, she had relented. Saving for a house took precedent over concert tickets.

Sunday morning her stomach had ached as she scanned Facebook pics. Energy had wafted from the black t‑shirted crowd of screaming Mega‑fans. Fingers signing ‘rock on’ and ‘love you’ rose like waves in the ocean. Everyone had smiled in the pictures.

“Let’s go for coffee.”

Steve had looked at their coffee percolator.

“Look, we missed the concert. That’s saving enough. I need some fun.” Maybe there was still time to get a t-shirt.

Steve had frowned. “Not the Archibald Café. I already had breakfast. You can’t just have coffee there.”

“I don’t want Tim Hortons or Starbucks. Nothing that basic. Maybe we can go someplace new.” Gloria had searched her phone.

Steve had looked at the percolator again.

“We have to go in for groceries anyway.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere we have to eat.”

“I don’t want Starbucks or Tim Hortons. We missed the concert, the least we can do is go for coffee.” Gloria would have said breakfast, but Steve had overruled that already. T-shirt seemed unlikely.

They had compromised on the Clement Tease. The artsy cafe wasn’t overly posh, but she had felt indulged looking at the specialty drink menu.

“Oh, they have something called chocolate chai.”

“It’s seven dollars.” At her glare, he had relented.  “Fine whatever.”

She might have enjoyed the sweet frothy taste if it wasn’t for his disapproving sulk and the box of tea he’d bought for price of her one drink. Drinking tap water, he had said. “Little savings grow into big savings.”

She’d been annoyed then. Grieved when they left the café. But after groceries and the drive back, a seven-dollar cup of tea hadn’t seemed important.

They wanted the same big things. A house and children were worth the scrimping. 

They had put the groceries away together, and Steve had fried potatoes and baloney for their supper, and made a pot of the new tea. As evening fell, they had sat on the back porch drinking the tea and listening to crickets. Green was appearing in straight rows as corn stalks and bean leaves had begun sprouting.

In the peace, the strict saving had seemed temporary.

But when Steve’s eyes had gleamed. “Look at our numbers. We have enough.”

It had been a Tuesday morning. Steve had pointed at their bank account numbers, and Gloria saw tax refunds had been added to their two years of savings.

Her shock must have shown. Her face felt frozen.

Enough.

Enough to get a mortgage, they’d be forever paying off.

Gloria was twenty-five. Steve, twenty-four.

“I’ll call the bank at first break. Get us an appointment this week.” Steve had been gleeful.

But what about Paris. Touring Europe. What about quitting her job and opening a second-hand boutique. Maybe going back to school. A mortgage felt like a weigh he offered to tie about her neck.

House. Mortgage. Kids.

All things she thought she had wanted. That she did want. Only. She hadn’t yet spread her wings. How could she nest, when she hadn’t yet soared.

Gloria hadn’t made the bank appointment. Couldn’t make herself go in. Instead, after parking she had crossed to Starbuck and ordered a Mochaccino. She’d wait for him to get out. Catch him then.

When she was five minutes late, he had called. She went out with her paper cup. Had stood in cool February air.

“Where are you?”

“I can’t”

“What are you talking about.”

“Look out the window. Out in front of the Starbucks.”

“You stopped to buy coffee.”

“No. I can’t”

Steve had stared through the bank blinds.

“I’m not ready to get a mortgage.”

“What are you talking about. We’ve been saving for two years.”

“I want to go to Paris.”

“What!”

“It doesn’t have to be Paris. But I want to do something. Tour ruins of Mexico. Churches of Italy. Hawaii. Something. I want to be able to buy coffee and summer shoes. Go to the beach. I don’t want to continue scrimping trying to pay off a mortgage.”

“Stop being a child.”

Gloria had thrown down her seven-dollar coffee.

It had been a stupid thing to do.

Foam had spilled from the lid as the coffee slowly darkened the sidewalk. The stain had seemed mocking. Picking up the dripping paper, Gloria had flung it into a trash can and turned to face Steve. His countenance was pained exasperation.

Gloria had gone home.

When Steve got home, he couldn’t talk. Couldn’t understand.

Gloria couldn’t explain more than she had.

Weeks passed.

“It’s not that I don’t want to buy a house. Someday. But before tying ourselves to a mortgage, I want to feel settled. I’m not sure I even like my job.”

Steve’s mouth had opened. In his bulging eyes, Gloria saw, ‘jobs are for money not fun.’ He had shut his mouth. Jaw snapping.

“We never had much of a honeymoon.”

“How can you stay that. We toured New Brunswick for a week.” Yes, but they lived in New Brunswick.

“But we’ve money to tour Europe. Why don’t we. Let’s tour before fixing ourselves to a mortgage.”

“I’m not throwing years of money away.” He couldn’t understand that life was more than investing.

Gloria had moved out. Got a small city apartment with a deck. Maybe Steve would realize she was serious. Relent. Be too cheap to hire an attorney.

But they never saw the same world.

Gloria thanked the florist for wrapping her bouquet and carefully carried the calla lilies to her car. In her apartment, she arranged them on her counter and gazed out. Melting under the afternoon sun, the snow hills glistened. Among thawed oak branches, a crow sat high in the bare points, bobbing its head. Searching.

Gloria let her eyes drift. Unfocused. Until colours blended to a blur. Why had she thought she could be happy married to a man who’d prefer broccoli to calla lilies.

Caw.

The crow’s call drew her back, and she saw the sweep of black wings. Soaring.