Pink Post-its and Red Roses

            by Caitlin O'Donnell

 

            The tea was perfect. Nancy placed the delicate china back down on the table as she took in a deep breath of the chilled morning air. A small breeze played with her hair and she carefully tucked a rebellious gray lock behind her left ear. She liked this time of the morning. She would observe her surroundings as if she was watching a play from the best balcony seat in a theater. The balcony was the porch on the third floor of her sagging Victorian and the stage reached as far as she could see. For forty-five years, ever since she married Charles, she had watched the same play unfold below her and yet it never got boring.

            It was quieter than usual.  The garbage truck had not yet begun its daily rounds and the humming of the freeway sounded almost like a muffled lullaby. Two sparrows chatted with hushed voices in the skeletal branches of the dawn redwood in her backyard.

            “It’s a beautiful morning isn’t it?” She sighed as she looked out dreamily, her head slightly tilted, as if waiting for a reply. No reply came. For a moment she broke from her gaze and took a quick confused look to the empty seat next to her. Then, as if it had never happened, the confusion slipped off her face and the dazed look returned to her pale blue eyes.

            The shadow of a crow flying by fluttered across the Anderson’s roof. And, next door, Nancy could see Ms. Priestly bending over in a silk nightgown that brushed against the pavement as she picked up the paper. The nightgown, just like most of the other items in Ms. Priestly wardrobe, didn’t seem very age appropriate to Nancy. Though Ms. Priestly was a few years younger than herself, Nancy felt any woman over the age of sixty should strongly consider serious wardrobe revisions. Ms. Priestly dressed as if she was in her early thirties, in low cut blouses that clung to her body and pants that hugged her every curve. As Nancy watched, her nose wrinkled as if a stench was creeping into her nostrils.

            Nancy could hear the steady churning of wheels as a car rolled along the street in front of her house. The car was out of sight from her spot on the porch but she could tell it was coming to a stop as the wheels churned more and more gradually. Silence. Then slam, slam, two car doors opened and shut in unison. Heavy footsteps came up the stairs and then she heard the ring of the doorbell.

            It wasn’t often that Nancy got visitors in the morning; in fact it wasn’t often that she got visitors at all. Whoever they were, she was excited to have guests. She would warm up another pot of peppermint tea and she knew that in the cupboard were cookies that could go with the tea quite nicely.  But as she walked downstairs she couldn’t help feeling that she had forgotten something. 

            A pink post-it was stuck to the doorknob REMEMBER TO LOCK. Did she put that there? The door appeared to be unlocked anyway. With a warm smile she opened the door. The icy faces of two policeman stared back at her. Nancy’s eyes scanned the two of them, stopping at the barrel of the pistol that protruded from underneath the round belly of the policeman on the left.  “Hello, Ms. White,” said the round bellied cop, “We are here to talk to you about your husband. Is it alright if we come inside?”

            Nancy’s mind was spinning. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen Charles all morning. She wasn’t quite sure how his absence hadn’t occurred to her sooner. “Is he alright?” She could feel her heart sinking and her throat felt hollow.  She knew she should move and let the cops in but her body froze in place.

            The policemen looked at her, their eyebrows narrowing as wrinkles formed on their foreheads. The round cop spoke, each word coming out slowly. “Ms. White, your husband died last week. You were the one who found his body.”

            Nancy’s legs wobbled, and the cop reached out to steady her. It couldn’t be true. They had just watched Fox News when that specialist came on to talk about a new disease that had been sweeping across Europe. Right on the coffee table, Charles had left wet ringlets from the gin and tonic that she prepared him every night before he went to bed. That was last night, wasn’t it? Everything seemed blurry as she searched her memory. It was impossible. Maybe it was a prank. There was no way that she would forget such a thing. Was there?

            “Ms. White, let us help you inside.”

            Nancy felt her body being supported but she couldn’t see what was going on around her. She felt herself being placed on the living room couch and she sank into the soft cushions. Salty tears fogged her eyes and ran along her wrinkles, dripping onto her flannel nightgown.

            She looked around the room, searching desperately for something that would explain what was happening. Their wedding photo sat on the coffee table on top of a pile of gardening magazines. She was smiling with dark curls tumbling over her shoulders and she held a bouquet of red roses in her arms. Charles was looking at her with that passion in his eyes that she hadn’t seen for so many years.   

            “I… I don’t remember,” she managed to whisper.

            “Well, It appears that there has been a discrepancy in your husband’s autopsy report. There is some evidence that his death was not from natural causes. We would just like to ask you a few questions.”  The policeman’s voice was a distant echo to Nancy, like a TV playing on the other side of a closed door. 

            “Ms. White, did you hear what I just said? It appears your husband was, well, that something may be going on here. Can you think of anyone who might have had something against your husband?” the cop was beginning to sound frustrated and both were shifting uncomfortably as they fumbled with their thumbs in their belt loops.   

            Nancy was staring out the window, shaking her head. “No, No, it can’t be … he was with me last night, he was there when I fell asleep and when I woke up …” her words trailed off.

            The two policemen looked at each other. “I am very sorry for your loss. We will drop by again tomorrow to ask you our questions then. Please try and remember what happened.”

            Nancy nodded.

            An hour passed before she pushed herself up and walked upstairs. Nancy wasn’t ready to call any of her friends yet; she needed some more time alone to just think. She stumbled into her small bathroom and reached towards the sink for support. Turning on the tap, she let a cool stream of water run through her fingers and held her damp hands against her cheeks. Her face looked pale and blotchy in the mirror. Tears still clung to her high cheekbones and in the crevasses that lined her face. Another bright pink post-it on the mirror caught her eye. In all capitals were the words: TAKE YOUR MEDICINE. 

            Sitting on the sink was a long box divided up into seven sections, each with a different day of the week written on it. Inside each compartment was a pill. Monday’s pill was gone but Tuesday’s and Wednesday’s pills still lay in the box. It was now Thursday, wasn’t it? Ah, yes, the medicine.  Now she was beginning to remember. A bottle that seemed to be the original container of the pills appeared almost empty. On it she noticed a label written in bold: Caution- Take only one a day.  She took Thursday’s pill and walked out onto her porch.

            As Nancy looked around, she didn’t find the sense of comfort she’d felt earlier. Instead she felt betrayed. Each house seemed to be hiding some secret or clue to her husband’s death that it refused to share, shutting her out with closed blinds and locked doors. Locked doors. Her door hadn’t been locked. Anyone could have been walking in and out. That was it! Somebody in the neighborhood had killed Charles.

            Her eyes darted from one house to the next as she thought about each occupant. Anyone could be guilty. She took a sip of her tea but it was cold and unsatisfying. Everyone was hidden in their homes except Jimmy, the Anderson’s boy who was playing in his backyard. He was throwing a baseball high into the air and then trying to catch it in his mitt. Every time he caught the ball a smile spread across his face indicating surprise at his own success. Nancy didn’t have any children. She had always wanted one but Charles hadn’t thought it was a good idea. Charles had said if they had children they could never do anything spontaneous. In the last forty years of their marriage, Nancy didn’t remember once doing anything spontaneous.

             Nancy could hear the thud, thud each time the ball hit Jimmy’s mitt. It amazed her that such a naïve child could have such conniving parents. The Anderson’s had always been jealous of Nancy’s flower garden. California poppies, lilies, tulips, and lavender, were woven together into a sea of colors. Each flower was precisely placed in a way that every last tulip seemed to hold a purpose in the gardens over all design. Nancy would spend hours skimming through bulb catalogs and marking the bulbs she intended to buy with pink post-its and the ones she had already purchased with yellow post-its so as not to lose track.

            Jasmine curled over the fence bringing with it a soft fragrance that drifted through the breeze. A Velvet Touch Rose bush, with deep red roses sat in the center of the garden. Velvet Touch Roses were Nancy’s favorite flower. When people passed by they would stop and take a moment to breathe in the rich scent of that special rose and absorb the beauty of the garden, its warmth bringing smiles to even those with the gloomiest faces.  Since Nancy and Charles had no children, to Nancy each flower was a child to be nurtured.

            Whenever she was working in the garden, everything else in her life seemed to melt away. Nancy loved the feeling of the rich soil in her hands as she patted down a new bulb. She and Charles used to garden together but over the years he had seemed to lose interest. His working hours at the accounting firm had grown longer and he didn’t have time to garden. When he retired, the idea of gardening no longer appealed to him. 

            A few months ago, the flowers began disappearing. Where were they?  It started with a yellow tulip and then, a few days later, a white lily that had just gone into full bloom, then was suddenly cut and gone as well.  The most recent flower to be cut was one of her beloved roses. The flowerless stems revealed the absences of the flowers like tombstones and the garden began to feel like a graveyard to Nancy.  She knew the culprit, the Andersons. They had been the only people she had seen who seemed unable to find joy in looking at her flowers. As they looked from the perfect lilies to the lush poppies, their faces only showed annoyance and frustration. The Andersons spent hour upon hour a week tending to their own garden, but its beauty didn’t even compare. She knew they had cut the flowers out of spite. To anyone else they were just stolen flowers but to Nancy this act was murder.

            Jimmy was no longer the only neighbor outside. Now Nancy saw Ms. Priestly, laying on a deck chair with a large sun hat shading her face. A book was held in her frail manicured fingers as tenderly as if she were holding an eggshell she was afraid to break. Her other hand held a cigarette that’s thin trail of smoke rose up in slow spirals. Her right leg was crossed over her left and her body language mimicked that of somebody at a tanning salon. She had changed out of her nightgown and into a yellow sundress, which to Nancy seemed just as age inappropriate. Her lips were hooker red, in stark contrast to her pale face and dyed brown hair was visible underneath the hat. Who was that woman trying to tempt now?

            Putting down her cigarette to take a sip from her lemonade, Ms. Priestly left the imprint of her lipstick on the glass. Nancy shivered. She had seen the kiss marks from that lipstick before, years ago. It was a secret kiss on the collar of one of Charles’s shirts. When Nancy had found it, she’d scrubbed it out with a toothbrush out of fear. Fear of what Charles would do if he knew she knew his secret. Nancy had always been afraid, afraid of being alone.

            Closed curtains next door and two illuminated shadows. Late night work meetings and no call home. Nancy had  let it all go. The love had faded from their marriage like his joy of gardening. But neither of them had wanted to admit it. 

            Charles had ended it with her almost ten years ago. Nancy was fairly sure of that. It came as a relief as if a heavy burden that she had been carrying for years was finally being released. He had stumbled into the house, his words slurring together andhe smelled of gin and cigarettes. Charles didn’t smoke. She, on the other hand, did. Nancy could sometimes smell it on his clothing, Newport’s and cheap perfume, the fruity kind that reminded her of a smackers lip balm. “Honey,” he managed to slur, “ I’m sorry.” And that was that. No more smelling of Newports, no more cheap perfume. 

            And yet a few days ago, Nancy had seen Ms. Priestly and Charles talking, hadn’t she? It was dusk and their dim gawky shadows had stretched across the street. She vaguely remembered watching from the porch trying to distinguish what was going on below on the sidewalk.  Didn’t he hand her something or was it the other way around? Nancy couldn’t quite remember what it was that was being exchanged.

            As she rearranged her body now to get a better view of Ms. Priestley’s house, Nancy felt something shift in the pocket of her robe. Reaching inside she pulled out a handful of pills. How had those gotten there and why would she have put so many in her pocket? Confused, she returned them to the pocket and looked back over at Ms. Priestley’s house.

            Before going outside, Ms. Priestly must have pulled back the shades on the dining room window. Peering into Ms. Priestly’s dining room, Nancy made out a crystal vase in the center of the table with one perfect red rose. And she remembered.