Pigment of Vulnerability

 by Ada Ruzer

 

            At ten o’clock Sheila begins her walk home. It is the same every night, straight as an arrow. She walks down Main Street as if someone is out to get her. Past the electric store, a left at the post office and then a right onto Cordelia Road. 1134 Cordelia Road, to be exact. Unmarried at seventy-three Sheila’s hobbies are limited to her glass cat collection, fly-fishing and obsessive coupon clipping. She is not sick nor does she have any allergies, yet she is often seen at the doctor’s office, complaining of unexplainable distress. The town spinster Sheila is someone who attempts to garner attention by reverting to childhood by obsessively creating imaginary maladies. Most in her quiet suburban town think of her as a little pathetic, a little mysterious, but really a person of no harm.

                        Once a playboy, Jack now at seventy-eight has been all but forgotten. His wife is long dead, and though he no longer misses her, he does miss the life they shared. The stability of having a partner, someone to put up with a crabby attitude is something he knows one can’t buy. His children do not call. He lives on a tiny pension, scrimping and saving every nickel and dime. He is stubborn, highly particular, and not friendly. Dirty gnarled fingers and a graying grizzled beard cover his sunken cheeks. The neighborhood mothers have long stopped calling and inviting him to their holiday parties. Jack is the kind of person that gives out apples on Halloween and whose house local teenagers constantly vandalize. In reaction to his isolation his temperament is foul mouthed and cut throat. Bitter, like horseradish, he sinks his teeth numbly into his existence and holds on for dear life. The town regards Jack as mean, rude, and unnecessary. Often, Jack feels as if he is wearing a wool sweater, shrunken in the wash. The neck is too tight and the sleeves itch horribly but it is the only one he has. Jack knows but two pleasures. The first is his daily lunch of tomato soup and rye bread (toasted and cut diagonally). In his everyday visits to Flapjack Frank’s Diner he orders the red soup, which brings the only color to his otherwise bland day. Today is no different. At exactly 12:04 he settles himself at the counter.

            “The usual for you, Jack?” the waitress asks.

            “Tomato soup and toasted rye”, Jack’s answer is acidic but falls on disengaged ears.

            “Here you go”, the waitress says as she rolls her eyes and carelessly slides the bowl across the counter.

            “Fresh-“ he begins,

            “ Can- fresh can everyday.” Her curt answer is coated with an annoyed note intertwined with a disinterested air. His bark has lost all of its bite. The waitress turns her attention to the other customers. Seeing none in need of her assistance, she begins to refill the sugar holder absentmindedly. Jack grumbles and grudgingly accepts his soup. Everyday it is the same thing.

            His second pleasure is one he fiercely hides and embarrasses him greatly. It is Sheila. Sheeeilla. Her name rolls off the tongue, the S melting into the H, and the A like a last breath of air. Dizzying and dissolving, Jack feels and understands her aching loneliness, an arthritic confinement to a life she did not choose. A life that parallels his own. Both are like bad cuts of meat from the butcher who are the last picked and in dire need of flavoring. She is neither attractive nor warm. Her beady eyes make Jack uncomfortable. She sparks something in him and it makes him nervous.                                                                                     *   *   *

            On her walk home when she believes no one is around, Sheila stops in front of the flower shop, bends over, and deeply inhales. You can tell her favorites are the roses as she works her way around the stand. She does not touch anything, merely smells. Unbeknownst to Sheila, a forest green Cadillac follows her slowly every night. Jack wistfully watches and stares intently as she smells the fragrant flowers. The idea comes to him on October 23^rd. Its genius baffles him.

            Starting the following morning like a bear out of hibernation for the first time in years, Jack is aggressive as he pours body and soul into the project. 

                                                            *  *  *

            “You know...pink roses are the least fragrant of all roses”, the florist says over the telephone trying not to disappoint the man who sounds so eager.

            “Humph!’ Jack snorts and answers quickly, “ I don’t need your opinion, thank you.” Though as the words tumble out of his mouth he envisions Sheila’s face, her pink cheeks and dancing eyes when the aroma reaches her nose. His affection is only blossoming. Put those feelings away, he commands himself. Jack feels the situation is absurd. However, he knows that one day he will give her real red roses, roses that truly show his affection. But for now they will have to be pink.

            “ Deliver the roses right away.” Jack says, thus closing the brief conversation. Fingers shaking he picks up a pen and begins composing a letter. Jack drafts and rewrites a dozen copies before the roses are delivered eighteen minutes later.

            “What took so long?” Jack’s voice is hoarse and cutting but he does not actually care and knows that the roses were delivered rapidly.

            “Sorry sir. Won’t happen again.” The delivery boy is polite, (with little feeling) and Jack is surprised at himself when he decides to tip him well.

                                                            *   *    *

            The large brown box arrives on Sheila’s porch on a frigid morning. Lying in their cardboard box the crisp fresh roses await to be found. At 10:15 Sheila on her way to retrieve the newspaper stumbles upon the simple, but large brown box. Curiously she picks it up and brings it into the house.

            The flower’s faint fragrance reach Sheila’s nose with warmth that sends her stumbling backward. Roses? These must not be for me…” she thinks guiltily inhaling the sweet smell. The house seems to grow cheerful as she picks up rose after rose, each a more beautiful and delicate softer shade of pink than the next. The last one seems to smell like the future; it is raw and cold, but full of promise and it fills Sheila with hope.

             “It is a shame they aren’t for me... “ Sheila mutters. After one last look, she closes the box, sealing it up meticulously to hide her tampering. Put it down! With every movement which brings the box away from Sheila’s body, she sees a white note become clearer and clearer. The roses aren’t a mistake! There, on the ground lays a small white card, inscribed as follows:

            To:

            Ms. Sheila Isolute

            1134 Cordelia Rd.

            Stoneville, NC  27048

            I am neither eloquent nor brave

            Yet, you strike me as a woman of dashing character

            May this bring some charm to your day

                                    ~  Your friend

As Sheila reads her card for the fourth time, a green Cadillac pulls away from the curb. Sheila fails to notice a man with a smile so big on his face that it does not stop at his month but continues deep into his eyes. Jack’s eyes typically are a dull brown, today however they seem to shine in every angle in the dark.

            Jack feels and sees everything in a new way on his drive home. The look upon Sheila’s face! That soft glow that crept up, one that she seems to usually hide under layers and layers of armor, presented itself so effortlessly today. And he made her look like that! Him! Jack with the scarred pock marked skin, the feeble knees and gruff manner, the lonely Jack, has made that cheerless and heartbreaking woman smile.

            Jack sets his record player to his favorite Bach concerto and opens a bottle of wine on his arrival home. A toast to new possibilities.  Jack envisions a shared meal with Sheila where they both sit sipping wine, nervous as adolescents. One day it shall be so.

            Days go by and both Sheila and Jack continue to live in the glow of the flowers. Sheila sings around the house (making sure to keep her voice down, lest her neighbors should hear) and Jack putters around his home with a continual grin. A slight bounce in Jack’s step is so miniscule that he himself does not feel the quickening pulse hitting the pavement.

                                                            * * *

            The roses arrive monthly on Sheila’s doorstep for the next year. Each month the roses come in a slightly darker hue. A slowly growing spectrum of cherries and crimsons fill Sheila’s once dismal home.

            At first Sheila is amused, then flattered, and with each new arrival Sheila becomes more fascinated and more curious about her admirer. She imagines him as a wealthy gentleman who wishes to bring light into her unadorned life. A suave man who wishes to be her friend, one who finds her special. Every delivery builds up Jacks confidence more and more. Where Sheila used to merely take the box in with a blank expression on her face, she now beams and signs the parcel’s receipt with a flourish.         

            The neighbors even notice. Sheila’s nosy neighbor Patrice to the left watches her every morning, counting the flowers and the twelve vases that continuously hold fresh roses in her house. The waitress at the diner, at first taken aback by Jack’s abundance of “please and thank you’s” now greets him warmly every day.

            On March 3, a blustery and icy day, the inevitable happens. Out of milk in the morning Jack feels dissatisfied with his Earl grey and honey tea. He dresses quickly and starts his car; the leather seats hug his body and warm him as only something worn can. On his way out to the supermarket, Jack picks up a brown box delivered intentionally to him. A plastic screen reveals scarlet rich red roses. The roses are near the color of blood, or a ripe tomato or strawberry. Across town at the same time Sheila bends over to tie her shoes and begins her stroll around the neighborhood to take advantage of the good weather and her unusually high spirits. Sheila’s walk is slow and steady and she catches Jack’s eyes as she strides down Main St. Curious to see if any new coupons have arrived Sheila, walks into the supermarket and through the aisles aimlessly lost in thought wondering about her next bouquet of roses. Each bouquet is more spectacular than the one before. It is as if he is building a sunset with their petals, she concludes. Parking quickly, Jack walks in and finds he is standing frozen in the dairy aisle. Beads of sweat collect on his forehead as he sees Sheila’s long silver braid. Jack feels paralyzed. The wind has been kicked out of him. Here is your chance! Go! Profess! Yet as his thoughts whirl and swirl around inside his head, Jack seems to be sinking into quicksand. The love of his life stands ten feet away! He can’t tell her. Her piercing gaze will break him and if she laughs in his face his will never be whole again. Memories of childhood mockery, countless grown-up disappointments, a life well worn by family failure seems to rest with his love for Sheila. With her refusal, she will break him completely, and after all this time, he cannot hand over the box he holds in his hands. Jack clears his throat. Adrenaline courses throughout his veins as he takes his place in line directly behind Sheila. Sheila, Inhaling he smells her sweet desperation. Stale and pathetic, it is a smell Jack has continuously attempted to wash off of himself. It is also a smell that seems to be disappearing quicker and quicker as he opens his eyes to Sheila paying and walking away. Throwing down his twenty, he urgently growls, “Do I look like I have all day?”

            Something in the stern words catch Sheila’s attention. Sheila looks over her shoulder to find the owner of the harsh words and for an instant, recognition registers across her face. Jack’s eyes meet with Sheila’s and she blushes. She recognizes me! Although Jack’s fingers shake and his knees seem ready to give out, he takes a step in slow motion, pulling his entire weight forward. Slowly but with certainty Jack places the brown box in Sheila’s hands. For some reason the box feels heavier than ever before and she silently struggles with is packaging. Gingerly Sheila’s fingers free the fastenings and the decadence of color floods her senses. We really are nervous, Jack thinks, as Sheila’s hands quiver and a single rose drops to the floor.

            “They are…the most...stunning and important…beyond words…” Sheila stumbles over her words speechless to the roses’ beauty. “Thank you, thank you for showing me that there is a world out there.”

            As Sheila’s lips part Jack’s face glazes over, and with a frozen smile upon his face his body grows limp. Collapsing to the floor he thinks to himself, She knows I love her I have finally done something right.

            The shade of red blood, formed through the mixture of red and white, spills around the rose and surrounds it.