The Field of Peonies: Her One and Only

Covering her ears, she watched the clock. No burst of sound must catch her off guard. Ever.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The final bell rang. Susie charged into the traffic of students, slipping past their shoulders. Upon seeing Mrs. Marghast’s office, she stopped and peeked through the glass. Her guidance counselor and friend, with her back to the door, fixed a few of the little things hanging on the wall. Susie closed her eyes, her hand feeling the doorknob.

Mrs. Marghast turned around as a hinge squeaked from behind. Her eyes grew gentle. “Priscilla? What’s wrong?” she asked, though expecting someone else.

The young girl looked up, her face frozen still. “I’m losing her….”

Susie could have been halfway home, could have been seven minutes into the fifteen-minute walk. But one could blame her quick stop by a flower shop off her beaten path. She pointed. “Three please.” Her allowance could only allow so much.

Delighted, Mr. Tingey, the vendor, asked her to pick her favorites. Triplets, she picked. Not one a shade lighter. Not one a shade darker. Each one was as pink as the other.

Mr. Tingey bid her a safe walk home, reminding her to keep off the road.

Keep off the road…. It echoed on and on in her thoughts. Louder and louder.

Her brow puckered. Eyelids disappeared into her head. Lips froze. Everything else, her skin and all, rattled. As if hearing thunder on a cloudless day, she inched backward, no eyes behind her head.

The loud question on Mr. Tingey’s face stayed put. “Deary, don’t!” he shouted.

Susie’s heel reached the sidewalk’s edge. A honk from a speeding car her scared away from the gutter, back where bystanders belonged.

Leaving Mr. Tingey’s concern untouched, she walked away, pink beauties in her hands. Of course, she was fine. Probably.

Though the way deemed her a stranger, she pursued it. The fresh scent of pastries from a bakery mingled with her. While making the much-needed left turn, she battled against the temptation, her empty pocket helping. The sound of running water caressed her ears upon reaching the hidden entrance to a footpath.

Careful step after careful step, like persisting through a tightrope, she kept to the safe side with her hand on dirty murals. The bare edge of the footpath, the one that promised a sudden drop to the creek, repelled her. She had a dry and less murky face to keep.

Loud chatter gained ground on her. Several steps beyond the exit, sardined houses surrounded Susie posthaste. Though the invitation to come inside stood for the neighborhood folk, they sat on the gutter, cackled under the sun, teamed up against today’s crossword puzzle, and even played checkers outside the smallest barbershop ever. Talk about too much community. Clean laundry hung like festival banners. Stray dogs sniffed through the last garbage bags standing.

Susie endured the hey-new-kid treatment: prolonged stares, mouths hanging ajar, chatter that turned into whispers. She embraced her flowers, soldiering on.

I did nothing wrong! she screamed into herself, her lips pursed. Nothing!

Then came a tap on her shoulder. A friendly face sharpened into view, and Belton was his name. After a handshake, the schoolboy in the wrinkled shirt offered to walk with her. With pleasure, she accepted. Both carried onward. Belton asked her to drop her cautions, adding that his people were simply wired never to miss an outsider.

“Everyone here knows everyone here,” he said and snorted out a laugh, waving at a man carrying an out-of-breath janitor fish.

Susie smiled but said nothing in hopes of honoring her dad’s don’t-talk-to-strangers commandment.

But then… “Thank you,” she said, stopping. Two of them stood past the fine line where the world changed. The village they beheld was… To call it “peaceful” would be too kind. It was dead quiet. Its birds—if there were ever any—must’ve departed in search of warmer pastures. Overly dotted by towering trees, the village boasted—if such could be boasted—an abundance of shade. Huge roots had broken a few sidewalks into shards. Its afternoons settled for dim skies. Its old houses coupled with barren yards.

Mouth open, eyes stretched wide, Belton nodded. They followed separate ways after the goodbyes.

The time was five minutes past four. With nothing but a backpack, Susie left the tailored sidewalks and crossed the healthy front lawn.

Her mom held the door open. “Had too much fun?” she asked, trying to make sense of the late arrival.

Susie forced a smile. “Yeah.”

“Did you bring me anything, sweetie?” her mom asked.

The girl shook her head, frowning.

After kissing her daughter, she took one last look outside before closing the door. Everything was neat, bright, day-lit. Nothing out of the ordinary. Except for the break on the sidewalk and a cracked tree. It took some getting used to.

A new day began. After the classes, Priscilla tried to, but she couldn’t catch up to her.

Free as a bird, Susie bought flowers again. Three pink ones from Mr. Tingey. The vendor sensed a pattern forming, and with all his heart, he welcomed it. Like yesterday, Susie carried them around the bakery, past the creek, through the crowded neighborhood, then into the dark and mum village. There was something about number sixty-seven that marked the spot for her. The lot had its own house, a dirt-filled front yard, and a massive tree on one corner that rained down a thick shade.

She tiptoed deeper… but never inside. Near the porch steps, light croaks slipped into earshot. Someone was snoring. The girl scrambled and reached the planted trio of flowers. There they stood, each paired with an erect barbeque stick, each bound by the simplest knot of pink yarn. From her backpack, out came the sticks. Out came the roll of yarn. All thanks to her, three more flower stalks found their footing. And if time allowed it, she could’ve named all six.

Six became nine. Nine became twelve. Then a whole square of them formed. She always left with empty hands. Then it was off to the hills and greens of the golf course next door, then the main highway’s overpass, and lastly, home ground past the guard gate. The school days lived for her floral project… and not much of anything else. Her arriving home at four-thirty before sundown set the record.

For her, lunch at school didn’t mean the cafeteria. The lunch ladies no longer saw a dollar, not even a penny, out of Miss Susie Hollister. She bit away, more than often, out of the loaf and sardines she smuggled out of the house. Ashamed of her eating situation, she took her lunch to the school theater’s backstage, leaving her bestest friend all alone by a table—if the label between the two still stood. They used to walk home together.

Back at number sixty-seven, kneeling on the dirt of the front yard, she planted the twenty-seventh flower. But some were already losing color, more brown than pink.

“I love good stories!” a warm voice yelled out.

Hairs standing, her neck heating up, Susie slowly turned around.

Smiling at her was a plump old lady holding a bag of goods. She ambled over to the porch, pulled herself up the steps, and sat on the topmost one. A delightful sigh escaped her. The lady patted the space beside her, saying, “I believe you have one to tell.”

Unknown steel burdened Susie’s head. Her legs matched juice-box straws. A balloon of air crawled into her. She didn’t know how, but a couple of minutes later, she landed on the porch steps without help. She pointed at the peonies she’d planted and said, “I used to have a field of those.”

Her words started painting. Every night, at the right time, just when Susie’s eyes fell shut in bed, the field came to her. Milky, sun-dipped clouds hovered from above. Blushing stretches bridged mountainous horizons. Cottony fluffs drowned the hips of the beloved guest. The field’s breeze invited her to dance at every chance. And they danced. Dancing should never be guilty of heartbreaks. What harm could a soft sway or a merry hop do? But the rules changed when Susie left her bed without waking up. She swept her hand across a cluster of petals, then twirled farther, the wind whispering the beat and melody.

All ended when a screech, crash, and shatter stirred the air. Susie’s tangible set of eyes flew open. Her bare feet stuttered for balance amidst the street, cold. She beheld the night. On one side were tire tracks that made a sudden curve. On the other, a car clasped a tree nonstop, smoke rising between them. Taillights had outlasted headlights.

The girl dragged her feet, then ran. Every step was a punishment. Every breath was icy black. The killer tree grew before her. Its form inched closer to swallowing her whole. But she didn’t stop.

“What? What is this?” the old lady of number sixty-seven asked, cutting the story short.

Susie, once again, forced her lips to move. “The field—it never came back. It was never mine to keep. But maybe mine to give away.” She inhaled deeply through her teeth and pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline Young Veteran Perishes in a Neighborhood Car Crash met the old lady’s eyes. Her son.

For three weeks, Susie carried the whole story all alone. And telling one more soul didn’t seem to spread the weight.

“I’m sorry…” Susie said in a cracking voice, eyes drowning.

There was no reply. The veteran’s mother didn’t frown, didn’t smile, didn’t even budge any wrinkle. She stood with the news article in her hand, stepped inside, and never came back.

Wiping her tears, the girl took the piercing hint and staggered home.

The days reverted to her fifteen-minute walk home. But Susie preferred to do it alone. She barely talked and always ate by herself. Dimples lacked reason to show. Though her grades were fine, everyone was worried. Her head settled under cold waters but never drowned. For two months.

The final bell rang again. Susie checked her bag before heading home. She’d accidentally gotten her seatmate’s test paper that had a failing grade of sixty-seven. Behind her eyes came a spark, and a sole choice remained. She rushed into the long detour.

At last, surrounded by sickening shade and silence, she neared number sixty-seven. To her surprise, the lot alone basked under the outpour of sunlight. The tree by its corner had been sheared to the trunk, almost leafless. Right where a dirt-filled front yard once stood was a garden, one that housed countless kinds of pink. Grasses, leaves, and peonies breathed life. To call all of it “stunning” would be perfect.

Porch steps creaked. Standing on the last one, the old lady of number sixty-seven caught sight of her. A big smile swelled on her face as she waved at Susie. Warmth overran the girl. While everything inside her awakened, her cheeks dared to float skyward. With the old lady’s smile—and probably a Little Dreamer Crossing sign planted on her own front lawn—Susie believed she could dream again.

***

She was the first to arrive in her office. The fine morning begged her to take one more sip of her coffee. Licking her lips, she put her bag and cup on the desk, and between them sat a letter, right behind her name plaque. It was a no-brainer for her to open it.

Dear Mrs. Marghast,

You were right. My bestest friend came back! We finally got to talk, like you suggested. I guess a “thank you for listening” is not enough. Perhaps I could pick you a peony. We know a whole garden of them.

Love,   

Priscilla