Poison Flowers (2 page)

Dorry walked to the long wooden bar that defined the eastern wall and poured a healthy two fingers of single-malt scotch. She carried it to the window and looked out at the traffic passing by on Route 17.

They were all dead now. Her great-grandparents, grandparents and even parents. And now her only sister, taken by cancer two years ago. Dorry was truly alone, the last of her line.

Alone.

Old memories rose and conquered her. Memories of the woman she had loved so fiercely. Tears filled her eyes and then ran with frenzied haste down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. Her thoughts had drifted to joining her family. She could see herself walking along a white tunnel toward them. She saw her father’s jolly smile as he welcomed her. Her mother’s open arms, which would give her solace from all of life’s demands. She could be free from the guilt and sadness that defined her life these days. It would be such an easy thing to give up…to go join them all and become a trusting child again.

“Ahhh, fuck no,” she said loudly. She scrubbed at her face with one hand as her other lifted the scotch to her lips. She drained the glass, welcoming the liquid heat as it burned her throat and blazed a noticeable path to her stomach. She was alive and kicking, and she would continue that way, thank you very much.

Her gaze drifted toward where she had last seen the feisty redhead. She remembered everything about her. Was she a tourist? Had to be, or Dorry would know of her. Damn, but she had been pretty with those huge blue eyes and that gorgeous auburn hair. Dorry had always been a sucker for freckled redheads.

She smiled as she let her imagination roam free. She could see them having coffee together after a night of passion…their gazes would meet and they would smile. Dorry started physically as another face appeared. A dear, beloved face that was lost to her now.

She growled and moved to the bar where she slammed down the glass. It just wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair.

She fished her cell phone from her pocket and called the one friend she had left. As she did most evenings.

His voice on the other end of the line calmed her immediately and she knew again why she was alive and healthy. Why she persevered. It was for and because of him. He’d lost Dolly too, and he knew alone just as well as Dorry did.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked, his gentle voice scolding; he knew she hadn’t eaten.

Dorry laughed, and, carrying her friend’s voice with her, she moved down the long hall toward the kitchen.

The old codger sidled up to the counter and, with a grunt, settled onto the stool next to her. She wasn’t worried; she knew the type. Widower at loose ends. A somewhat annoying bearer of local lore. Leaning forward, she blew on her coffee and took a cautious sip.

“Hello there, young ’un,” he said as he perused the menu.

“Hello, yourself. You doing all right this evening?” She studied him, her reporter mind filing away a description of his appearance: thick, short salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—a deeply lined, tanned face with perpetually squinting brown eyes and heavy, drooping lips. A typical middle-aged, paunchy body. He wore belted, low-slung jeans and a button-down western-style shirt.

His grin showed relief and she saw some of his habitual loneliness ease up. “I’m finer than frog hair in the dead of summer,” he replied jovially.

She was procrastinating, putting off her arrival at her parents’ house, and the Fetch It Diner was doing a good job of providing just the diversion she needed. And more time to ponder the latest burning question: Why did coming home this way feel so much like failing? Here she was, thirty years old, old enough to be on her own and taking care of herself, back with her parents again.

“You having the usual, Kent?” the waitress asked. She waited expectantly on the other side of the counter. Her tired air had weighed her down until her body had spun itself into a snug cocoon of indifference.

“Yeah, Lisa, sounds good,” he replied.

She hurried off and silence slammed heavy between them.

“Marya Brock,” she said, extending her hand.

He took it in his callused paw. “Kent Sayers.”

“So, Kent, you a native?”

“Yeah, I am. Born and raised just down the street a ways. I’m on my way out of town, though,” he said, adding a steady stream of sugar to the coffee Lisa slid in front of him. “I truck for Ferguson.”

“Ahh.” Marya nodded slowly. Ferguson handled a large nationwide fleet of eighteen-wheelers. “Where you heading?”

“Up 95. Maine, believe it or not. Got a load of Florida cypress I brung up yesterday.”

She gave a low whistle. “Man, someone paid for that.”

He laughed, the sound a low tone, throttled in his throat. “You got that right. It’s that pecky wood too, and that’s dear to everyone.”

He sipped his coffee and sighed contentedly. “You from here?”

“Nope, Seattle.”

“Washington State? Now that’s a long haul. What brings you to the East Coast?”

She hesitated. She wasn’t about to come out to this stranger, figuring the world he lived in wouldn’t even allow him to grasp the idea of a lesbian relationship, much less how painfully one could end.

“Just needed a change, I guess,” she said finally. “My parents live here.”

“Over in Florence?”

“Oh no, here, in Marstown. Schuyler Point,” she amended.

He smiled. “You know why they call it Marstown?”

She grinned inside. She had pegged him correctly. Local lore. “No, why?”

Marya already knew the people of eastern South Carolina had always called the small coastal village Marstown, even though its real name—the one on all the maps—was Schuyler Point. She didn’t fess up to any knowledge, though, letting him tell her the whole story. About how no one remembered exactly why it was called Marstown, but it was said it had something to do with the strange red rocks that periodically washed up on some of the beaches. No one could explain the flaky red shards of stone, but there had been several articles published over the years that attributed it to a deep ocean trench just offshore that was full of volcanic residue. It had always seemed plausible to her and Kent obviously concurred.

“And then there’s some that say they call it Marstown because Martians been seen in the water off Begaman Cove,” he added, piquing her interest.

She leaned back, shifting her weight. She had been listening to him absently, watching him, her chin cupped in one palm. “Martians.”

He eyed her, eyes twinkling. “Martians. In little red spaceships.”

Lisa slid an oval-shaped, steaming platter full of burger, french fries and sunny-side up eggs in front of him. He unwrapped his set-up and looked at the empty spot on the counter before Marya. “Not eating?”

“I know,” she said, nodding in agreement. “Too skinny. I just have a high metabolism. Believe me; I’ve been stuffing my face all the way across the country, with a carload of snacks you wouldn’t believe.” She indicated the coffee cup that Lisa was refilling. “Just needed a wake up.”

Kent nodded and dug in. Half a fried egg and a quarter of the burger disappeared before he spoke again. “What’s your field, Marya? You got a job here?”

“Not at the moment. I’m a journalist, though, a writer. I’m hoping to find work in Myrtle Beach, but if not, I’ll just wait tables until I find a reporter job.”

Kent nodded as he chewed. “Yeah, anyone can do that…for a while,” he said.

They both looked at Lisa simultaneously. She was standing off to one side, flipping through a garish tabloid.

“No offense,” he muttered.

“None taken,” she replied, setting the magazine aside and leaning in to top off his coffee cup.

“So, reporter, huh? I bet you’ve seen it all,” Kent continued.

“Oh, enough. People never fail to amaze and amuse me.”

And Kent was off, telling Marya story after interesting story, each one more comical than the last. Lisa joined in on the ones she remembered and laughter rang in the tiny, mostly deserted diner. Marya stayed and listened, even though it was getting late and she should have been moseying on to her parents’ house. But, after all, this is why she became a journalist; she enjoyed people’s stories. But soon afternoon turned into early evening and Kent finally seemed to be talked out.

“Well,” he said, balling up his paper napkin and tossing it into his empty plate. “Guess I’d better be moving on. That road doesn’t get any shorter the longer I wait.”

Marya nodded and rose, stretching stiff legs and arms. “Some say it gets longer,” she offered.

Kent laughed and stood. “Some would say that and it might be the truth. Listen, young ’un. You be safe out there, and I hope you have real good luck while you’re in Marstown.”

She took his hand, shaking it firmly in farewell. “Thanks for the stories, Kent. You made my day. Drive carefully on that long road, you hear?”

She stood and watched his huge silver truck roar past her SUV before getting into it. Minutes later she reached the Braxton Hills subdivision where her parents now lived. Two blocks further and she arrived at their modest, ranch-style brick home, which she had only visited once before. She was surprised that she remembered all the convoluted turns through their subdivision.

She parked in the driveway, pulling her car in next to their white Lincoln, switched off the engine and the lights and took a deep breath. Then her mother was there, hugging her close. She began to feel better immediately. The bosom of the family was just that, she thought, our first place of nurture. This was home, the beginning and the end.

“There’s just no hope for it,” Mama said as she peered through the front picture window. It directed her gaze out into an empty suburban street, but I knew that wasn’t what Mama was seeing. She saw old betrayal and lies looking back at her.

“What do you mean?” I asked slowly. When Mama got that faraway look, I knew trouble was afoot. I studied her pale, carefully curled hair and wondered about the drama of her day. I guess she had tried to get money again. I sort of wished she’d give it up. We seemed to be doing okay and every time she went through this, it…changed her a little. That scared me.

“The bitch said no again. Said you were too full-growed for help. Didn’t matter about college, nothing,” she added, turning to study me with weighing eyes. “Like you look growed.”

I looked down at my arms and legs. They looked fine to me. I knew I was powerful even though she would never see it. The baggy jeans I was wearing didn’t help, I guess.

“It’s not bad, Mama. I’m getting stronger.”

“No thanks to that battle-ax, you ain’t.”

Her tone softened. “Go on, honey. I left you some hot food in the kitchen. Eat up, now. You just let Mama handle that cursed family of yours.”

I leaned to kiss her cheek and I smelled the lemony perfume that defined her for me. She always smelled the same, had ever since I was a kid. I had learned one thing in my secretive, sorry life. I could always depend on Mama.

“Imagine the nerve of her, full of secrets and lies but still making out like she’s the high-and-mighty queen over everyone. I hate her so much,” she said softly, her eyes gazing at stuff I couldn’t see.

I left the room, taking care to be very quiet. It was always better, when she got like this, just to disappear for a while.

“I called the receptionist over at the
Times,
and she wants you to come in first thing Monday to meet with the editor, Ed Bush. You got here at just the right time; one of their reporters moved away this past week.”

Marya’s mother dumped a second spoonful of sugar into her tea, stirred it, then took a cautious sip. She was sitting across the table from Marya in her warm, welcoming kitchen.

Marya’s tea was Earl Grey. She let the rich aroma of the brew wash across her before she ruined the anticipation with a first sip. A discarded copy of the
Schuyler Times
lay on a nearby counter. She fetched it.

“What’s he like?” she asked, perusing the paper with a practiced eye. It was very much like the small-town papers she had worked on for the past ten years. She knew exactly how it was put together.

“Who? Ed? He’s okay, I suppose. Seems to have a good sense of humor.”

She lifted her eyes and studied her mother, feeling as though she were looking into a slightly distorted mirror. They both had the same short, copper-colored hair, although her mother’s was straight and hers naturally curled. They also shared the same dark blue eyes and pale, freckled skin. She was thinner than her mother, however, not able to shake her teenaged lankiness.

“How did you meet him?” she asked, wondering suddenly what her parents’ day-to-day life was like.

Her mother laughed, surprising her. “A dog,” she said, then added in explanation, “This little terrier appeared one day at our back door and just stayed and stayed. I felt so sorry for it. I fed him and washed him and tried to talk him into going home but he seemed totally lost. So, after a day or so, I went down to the newspaper office to put a classified ad in the lost and found section. I’m glad I did because the owner, a sweet little old lady, had been frantic. She saw the ad as soon as the paper came out and called me. The reunion of those two was incredible. I wish I could have videotaped it.”

“So, what? This Ed Bush took the ad?” Her mother hadn’t really answered the question.

“Well, actually, it was funny. Your father was with me, and though Ed started taking the ad, he and your dad started talking about fishing and that was that. I bet it took us two hours before we got out of there. He’s a real friendly guy.”

Marya chuckled and took a deep sip of her tea. “I hope he’s a good boss. That’s all I care about.”

Her mother shrugged. “It is my understanding the other reporter left because he wanted to move inland, not because the job was bad.”

Marya nodded to show she understood. “Where is Dad, by the way?”

She laughed. “Deep sea fishing, where else? He’s developed a full-blown passion for it.”