

Writer/Creator: N. J. Scribe (N. J. Simmons)

Cover Image: Rebecca Brown (Instagram: @beckyssketchbook)

Cover Design/Formatting: www.damonza.com

www.njtheauthor.com

Copyright © 2019 by NJ SIMMONS LLC

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of NJ SIMMONS LLC, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews and the like.

This is a work of fiction. Any and all references to actual people, places, and things are the product of the author's imagination and are used fictitiously. Any and all resemblances or references to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, historical events, real people, real names, actual or existing characters, real places, or actual incidents is entirely coincidental.

For information regarding legal matters, please contact:

NJ SIMMONS LLC

P. O. Box 1317

Winterville, NC 28590

njsimmonsllc@gmail.com

...this story has interrupted every facet of my life for three months...

...including my work on the sequel to, "The Yahweh Gene"...

...so, I know that it must be important...

-N. J. Simmons

"The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that each year approximately one million people die from suicide, which represents a global mortality rate of 16 people per 100,000 or one death every 40 seconds. It is predicted that by 2020 the rate of death will increase to one every 20 seconds."

Sources:

<https://www.befrienders.org/suicide-statistics>

<https://www.who.int/mental_health/en>

You're not alone.

Contents

Petal One

Mogman

Petal Two

The First Time—Beatrice

Petal Three

The Second Time—Philippe

Petal Four

The Third Time—Diane

Petal Five

Magnolias
Petal One

Mogman

...I've lived more than one life—not in a figurative sense, but literally...

...at least three, distinct, individual lives—that I can remember anyway...

She takes a sip of tea from a white porcelain mug with yellow decorative flowers around its lip as she walks over to the window.

...haven't we all...been here more than once? Have you felt it before? Those moments where you know that a time has happened before. Or, an instance when you knew something—you knew it deep down in the core of your existence—down in your bones—but it was something that you didn't have any logical way of knowing. But...you still... just...knew?

She sips again.

I think we've all been here before...

The woman let's out a breath of air and leans toward the windowsill, letting her forehead rest on the cool glass.

I've killed myself twice so far—in each of my two previous lives, that is. And likewise, each time I've returned, in some new form—like wind as it assists a flower in spreading its seed across an open field; a different place, a different time, a slightly different shape and color, but essentially—the same flower. First, I came here as Beatrice, a sweet little girl, and then, Philippe, such a creative and passionate mind. And now, I'm Diane; Mrs. Fisk, to be proper.

She places her mug down on the edge of the wooden dresser. The room is about as much as you could expect from a woman like Diane; very clean, very spacious and very lonely.

She inhales deeply then opens one of the drawers of the dresser. A metal flask sits on top of some neatly folded blue denim shirts. She picks up the flask, twists the top open and takes a sniff. The smell of the liquid inside is strong; nearly unbearable.

Brandy.

She takes a sip and squeezes her face together like writing paper with penned errors. She looks up again, out of the window, and notices a small garden with a single magnolia bush full of magnolia flowers; all of them with bulging bulbs—white petals doing their best to press themselves open.

My magnolias never did fully blossom did they...humph...

Her gaze wanders from the garden to the old tree in the background. Her demeanor changes almost immediately. A yellow rope hangs from one of its sturdy yet aged branches, at the bottom of which is an old, worn tire.

It sways gently with the breeze.

She touches her belly.

A tear forms in her eye then trickles down her cheek after a few seconds.

She cups her hand and wipes it away as she turns away from the window completely.

Diane sits down on the bed and lowers her head toward her knees. A cry rises up inside of her again but she fights it back and breathes deeply. After a few moments, she lifts her head and her eyes land on another dresser that's directly in front of her. Atop of it sits a picture.

It's her, looking as happy as she can remember seeing herself, and standing next to a man with a thick beard and a blue denim shirt.

I was so sad that day, but you'd never be able to tell...

Just next to the picture is an envelope that's torn open. The bottom edge of the letter it contains protrudes out of it. Diane gently touches it.

She drops her head again.

She cries, again.

The sorrowful moments have come over her in waves many times today, like commercials interrupting a pleasant show.

Diane picks up the letter and reads the end of it.

She's looked at it so much over the past few days that she knows the words by heart.

She whispers them to herself as she reads.

...it's only right that you know, Diane. I'm sorry.

—Emily

Diane wipes a bit of moisture from her nose, then places the letter back onto the dresser. Another corner of something sticks out of the envelope; a photo.

A blue denim shirt sleeve grazes its edge.

She doesn't look at it.

Instead, she tucks it back into the envelope with her finger.

Another monsoon of emotion attempts to rush into her heart, but Diane backs it away. She wants to enjoy every second.

She looks to the window again, at her magnolia bush in the garden.

A grin forms on her face; her curled lips glistening with tears.

She closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, filling her lungs to their capacity and tilting her head back, savoring the scent of her bedroom.

She feels every part of her life in that moment; every second she's ever lived seems to rush through her mind in a condensed and abbreviated montage.

As she opens her eyes and releases the breath of life resting inside of her chest, her gentle smile twists and warps into a frown.

The wave can't be suppressed this time.

Her cry is agonizing.

Her shoulders rise and fall like pistons under the hood of a muscle car.

She manages to calm her trembling arm enough to reach into her drawer and retrieve a large, silver revolver.

She holds it in her hands; the cold, unforgiving metal feels like ice to the touch.

She watches as a couple of her tears fall onto the handle then trickle down onto her lap.

She lifts it and points it toward her face. The barrel rests on her closed right eyelid.

Her hand trembles violently.

A series of tears patter on her chest as her body tenses.

She lowers the weapon into her lap and strokes the barrel with her thumb.

3-5-7-M-O-G-M-A-N

It's written on the side of the barrel. She reads it carefully; studies the craftsmanship of each engraved letter.

She raises it once more and inserts the barrel into her mouth this time.

The cool stainless steel touching her lips sends a chill down her spine.

She slowly pulls it from her mouth.

Her hands slowly drop to her lap while still holding the gun.

Her tears stop.

Her chest relaxes.

Her belly stops churning.

She's calm.

She stares at the dresser directly in front of her, but seems to look into eternity.

Perfect quiet.

Not even the chirping of birds or the buzzing of bees.

Not even the wind.

Nothing.

Her mouth hangs open.

Diane is present, but not present, simultaneously.

Still.

Perfectly still.

Then, a sharp gasp.

She blinks.

She lifts the gun, quickly, from her lap.

The muzzle finds a home on her right temple.

Third time's a charm, I hope...

The blast is loud.

Terribly loud.

The scent of burned gunpowder wafts through the room like a thousand exhales of cigarette smoke.

And then, everything is quiet again.

Very quiet.
Petal Two

The First Time—Beatrice

"Bebeeeeee!"

A woman stands on the front porch of a white house with cracking paint in many places. She's holding a pie in her hand. There's a bit of flour on both of her arms. Her peach dress blows in the wind gently as she looks from side to side across her yard.

It's warm outside today.

Her chocolate skin reflects the sunlight like glass; it's anointed with homemade creams and butters.

"Bebe! Come here, sweetie!"

She's calling to a small girl with long black pigtails; a tiny version of herself. The girl wears a light blue dress decorated with yellow flowers. Her shoes are white, but a bit soiled from the dirt road that she and a small boy have been playing on all day long. Her socks are yellow, matching her dress, with extra fabric that looks like flower petals around the tops of them.

The boy follows her as they jog to the porch. His overalls make a zipping sound as their jog turns into a playful footrace. He clutches a football by his side and runs as hard as he can.

He wins.

The woman pinches the little girl's cheeks.

Bebe smiles.

"You two, take this over to Mr. Johnson's for me, okay?"

Bebe and the boy, June Bug, glance at each other—just for a moment.

"Hurry right over and do NOT drop it; I've spent all day cooking and don't have time to make another one. June Bug, you look after your sister..."

"Okay mama," the boy responds.

With that, they scurry down the dirt road to a large white house that sits at the very end of it.

***

When they reach the gate, both of them pause.

"I don't want to go in Junie..." Bebe says with a sad voice.

June Bug places his hand on her shoulder as she holds the warm pie in her hands.

"It's okay Bebe, I'm going to be with you the whole time...promise."

She nods.

They walk into the yard.

A woman is off to the side of the house hanging clothes. When she sees the children approaching, she calls into the house:

"Honey, Beatrice and Jonathan are here!"

She drops a couple of shirts into a basket and turns to them.

"Hey there little ones, how are you? What's that you have?"

"It's...it's a pie, ma'am...mama made it for y'all," June Bug stammers.

"Oh well! Isn't that the sweetest thing! You know, your mother has done such great work for us over the years, I mean, the woman is a machine! Even on her days off she takes good care of us!"

"She sure does—that woman is a life-saver," a scruffy voice says from the porch.

Mr. Johnson stands at the door of the house with shaving cream on his face, his right jaw half shaven and his razor still in his hand.

"Well, come on up here and bring that pie inside," he says.

The children stand still.

"Well come on, y'all...did you hear me?" he urges while motioning with his free hand.

They glance at each other once more, then slowly make their way inside.

***

"Just sit it right down there; that'll be just fine Bebe..." Mr. Johnson says, pointing at the kitchen table.

She slowly approaches the table and puts the pie on top of it, awkwardly.

"Yep, that's just fine..."

She backs away next to her brother and stands still.

"Well, what have you kids been up to today? I sure hope you've been helping your mama around the house down there..."

"Yes...yes'suh. We're going to help mama as soon as we get back..."

"Humph, well that's good. That's real good..."

Mr. Johnson looks at Bebe.

"And you're going to help too aren't you, pretty little lady?"

June Bug nudges her shoulder with his arm in an unnoticeable fashion.

When she feels it, she says, "Yes...yes'suh..."

"Good, that's real good..."

There's an awkward silence, then Mr. Johnson speaks again.

"You know, it's a shame, y'all just missed Lauren. She went with her aunt into town for some things. If you had time, you could stick around until she gets back?"

"No'suh...we actually...we need to get back to mama so that we can finish helping her..."

As June Bug says it, his entire body tenses up.

Mr. Johnson looks at him, puts his hands on his hips then nods slowly.

"Yeah, I reckon I can understand that. Work needs to be done. Always; work needs to be done..."

After another couple of breaths, Mr. Johnson inspects Bebe's face with his head turned to the side. Both of the children look back at him with puzzled expressions.

"Well won't you look at that? You've got some dirt on your face girl! Come here, let me get it off for you..."

Bebe looks at her brother.

"Well, come on over here!" he says persistently but with a chuckle that only vaguely hides his impatience.

She walks to him and stops just in front of him.

He rubs her shoulders for a second.

"Such a pretty little girl you are. Yes indeed..."

As he wipes at her face gently, June Bug blurts out, "Well Mr. Johnson, I'm sure mama will be expectin' us back fairly soon...we should get goin'..."

Mr. Johnson looks up at June Bug then back at Bebe.

He wipes at her cheek once more, pulls at one of her pigtails, then drops his hand to his side.

"Humph," is all he says.

"Come on Bebe; mama wanted us to come right back she said..."

A long, strange pause.

"Well, I reckon y'all should get on back home. Thank you for the pie; be sure to tell your mama that, alright?"

"Yes'suh, we will," June Bug replies.

Mr. Johnson glances at Bebe one last time then says, "Such a pretty little girl..."

Within minutes, they're running back down the dirt road.

***

Mr. Johnson has always been very fond of Bebe, ever since she was born.

Perhaps, a little too fond.

When a man is fond, especially a man like Mr. Johnson, and even more especially in those days; it can mean trouble for other people...people like me...who were insignificant and went unnoticed. Everyone in town loved him. He could do no wrong, even if that wrong stared everyone in the face. It didn't matter.

He had money.

He had power.

He had a voice.

Everything that me and Junie and mama didn't.

And I guess that made all the difference in the world. In our world. The same went for his daughter, Lauren. She was just like her father; he spat her out himself. Mrs. Johnson wasn't so bad. She was a good lady in fact, I believe.

But Lauren; she was truly her father's daughter, and Junie knew it better than anyone else.

***

Weeks have passed.

"Now, I don't want to hear another word about it!" Ethel, the children's mother, says.

"But mama, can't we stay with Granny over the weekend?" June Bug pleads with her. Bebe sits off to the side playing with a doll.

Ethel stops packing clothes into her suitcase and turns to June Bug. She kneels down and holds both of his arms gently, then speaks with a calm voice:

"Listen, I know that you don't want to stay with the Johnsons over the weekend, but I don't have a choice baby, okay? Your grandma is too far away for me to take you there, and I've got to catch the bus to New York tonight. This will give me a chance... _us a chance_...for a better life. I have to go. The Johnsons were kind enough to say that you could stay with them for a few days. Just a few days Junie, and I'll be back, I promise you..."

Bebe begins to cry.

"Oh Lord, what's wrong sweetie? I'm not going to be gone long..."

Ethel walks over to her and hugs her.

"What is it? Why are you so sad?"

"Be-because, mama..." she sniffles.

"Because what?"

Just over Ethel's shoulder, June Bug slowly shakes his head at her.

"Because what, Honey?"

Ethel waits for a response.

Bebe says nothing.

***

An hour later, the children are on the front porch of the Johnsons' home. Lauren and Mr. Johnson both wave at Ethel as she heads to the bus stop. Mrs. Johnson's arms are around both children as they stand as still and stoic as statues.

"You take that football with you everywhere you go don't you, Johnny? I don't think I've ever seen you without it!" Mr. Johnson says as they enter the home.

June Bug doesn't say anything, just a half smile and a nod.

"Well kids, I'm going to get started on supper; you all go on upstairs and play. Lauren, you be sure to look after them, okay?"

"Yes mama, I will," Lauren says as innocently as a teenage girl can say.

Bebe nearly tears up, but holds back her emotions with the poise and control of an adult woman.

She dreads being alone with Lauren, probably just as much as she dreads being alone with Mr. Johnson. Both of them have been the root of her torment for quite some time now. June Bug's too, but he's always been so strong. Bebe loves that about her brother. He's been her strength in the few years that both of them have been alive.

"So, what do you want to play, little monkies?" Lauren says, closing the door to her room.

She walks past Bebe and pushes her head.

It hits one of the wooden legs of the bed, hard.

"Ouch!"

"Oops, sorry!" Lauren says with a giggle.

June Bug pulls his sister closer to him, briefly inspects her head for any cuts then looks back toward Lauren.

"Don't do that," he whispers.

"Or what, little monkey?" Lauren says.

June Bug looks down and says nothing.

Sixteen is basically an adult to a twelve and eight-year-old; it certainly seems so to them anyway.

June Bug and Bebe are both fairly small in stature too, like their mother.

Lauren towers over the both of them, like her father.

"Here, we're going to play this," Lauren says as she tosses a board game onto the floor after rummaging through her closet for a few moments.

The children sit there and look at it briefly, uninterested.

"I said, we're playing this," Lauren says sternly.

The children comply.

It doesn't take long for things to turn south, as they usually do.

***

"Well, you lose Johnny," Lauren says with a clap of her hands.

"No fair, I didn't lose, you cheated Lauren," June Bug says, quietly.

"I don't cheat! How dare you, MONKEY BOY!" Lauren yells at him, just loud enough to not be heard by her parents downstairs.

She reaches across the board game and slaps June Bug.

He holds his jaw with his hand, still looking down at the floor.

Lauren has a split expression; one of shock at her own quick temper, and more sinister, one of sadistic enjoyment.

"Corner..." Lauren says strictly as she points to the corner by her closet.

Words that the siblings have learned to fear and dread.

"And you better not look," she says to Bebe as the two walk behind her.

Bebe usually covers her ears and eyes while crying, hating the things that Lauren does to her brother in the corner of Lauren's bedroom, which feels more like a tomb.

A few years ago, she peeked.

June Bug's pants were down.

Lauren was in front of him.

Her rapid motions with her hands forced June Bug to make sounds of pain and discomfort.

Before she knew it, her head was ringing from the sharp blow that Lauren delivered.

She stopped looking from that day on.

***

Lauren finishes with June Bug just about the same time that Mrs. Johnson calls up to them from downstairs to get ready for supper.

June Bug and Bebe wash their hands in the restroom.

The door is closed, but they still whisper:

"I'm tired of this Junie," Bebe says, tossing her rag into the sink forcefully.

June Bug doesn't say anything in response. His face is apathetic and his lips are pressed together tightly.

Bebe rubs her head; it still hurts a little from the hard, wooden bed.

"I'm going to tell mama," Bebe mutters, as all of her past experiences with Lauren and Mr. Johnson flash through her mind all at once.

Her bruises.

Being called monkey girl.

Tiny bald spots being cut into her hair with Lauren's scissors.

Mr. Johnson's cold, wandering hands.

She just doesn't think that she can take it anymore.

"We can't say anything Bebe," June Bug responds as he turns around quickly, startling his sister a bit.

She pokes her lip out a little more and her eyes fill up with water.

"Why Junie? Why can't we," she asks as the tears begin to drip down her cheeks and neck.

"We just can't Bebe," he says in a deeply sad voice, looking away from her.

He can't stand to see his baby sister cry.

"But...but why Junie?"

***

"Because people like us can't say anything...EVER...that's why, okay!?"

***

His words are quiet, but forceful.

She cries harder now, covering her mouth and nose with her rag to muffle the sound.

June Bug turns the water up a little louder to drown out his sister's whimpers, sobs and sniffles.

He takes his towel, lifts her face and wipes at her tears.

"I'm sorry...okay?"

He hugs her and fights back his own buried cry.

They gather themselves while embracing.

After a short while, June Bug turns the water faucet off.

"Come on. Let's go eat..."

***

Later that night, the children are preparing for bed.

Lauren is in her bedroom with her mother.

June Bug has just gotten out of the wash room closest to Lauren's room.

He and his sister sleep in the guest bedroom across from Lauren's whenever they stay with them.

The Johnson's room is down the hall.

Bebe has on a towel as she sits in the bathroom on the opposite end of the hallway, preparing to bathe.

Since she's so young, and so small, Mrs. Johnson usually helps her.

Mrs. Johnson.

Bebe likes her. She's a caring woman; always vibrant and full of energy. She's been kind to the children and their mother over the years. Lauren is nothing like her, though Bebe often wishes that she was.

She sits on the side of the tub and waits for Mrs. Johnson to come in, thinking about her mother.

She wishes she would come back soon.

She misses home already.

The bathroom door creaks open, slowly.

Bebe stands up, preparing for her bath.

Mr. Johnson stands there.

Bebe shudders.

He closes the door behind him.

"Well look at you, pretty girl," he says; his eyes red from the moonshine after dinner.

"Come give Mr. Johnson a hug..."

Bebe wants to scream but is too afraid. More than anything, she wishes that Mrs. Johnson would come and rescue her.

Or June Bug.

Or God.

Anyone.

The next few moments consist of her towel being removed and Mr. Johnson's hands exploring her premature body.

There's a bit of blood.

He simply wipes it on the towel, and continues.

Eventually, Mrs. Johnson does walk in.

***

The crude and inebriated man stands up from his knees, turns to her and says: "She's ready for you to bathe her now, honey," as he kisses her cheek and walks out.

Mrs. Johnson places her shaking hand on her mouth in silence.

Her countenance is one of sadness, but not as sad as Bebe's.

She's tired of his hands; they're never comforting or comfortable.

Only painful.

Only unsatisfactory.

Like lizards and spiders crawling across her skin unwantedly.

For almost as long as she can remember.

His hands.

Mrs. Johnson has wondered, even speculated that things like this were happening right under her nose, but tonight is the first time she's encountered it head-on.

A woman always knows.

Even if she wonders—she knows.

She evaluates her two choices in a flash.

In their day, women know things about their husbands, but they place them on the back shelf of their lives and leave them there.

That's the best place for them, she's learned.

"Boys will be boys, and men will be men," the women in town often say.

Without much more contemplation, Mrs. Johnson decides to place tonight on the back shelf.

A long sigh, a single tear, then Mrs. Johnson says with a shaky voice:

"Welp, come on sweet girl, let's get you all washed up..."

It's not until about two months later that everything changed, for good.

For worse.

Forever.

***

The children's mother was away again, this time caring for her sister in Tupelo, Mississippi, who has been sick for a few weeks now.

They find themselves again at the residence of the Johnsons.

Surprisingly, everything seems normal.

Lauren has been away at camp for a few days, so June Bug has been mostly safe.

Mr. Johnson has been all worked up and stressed about a few things that have been going on in their region of the state. Apparently, some of his brothers throughout the area have had some concerns about different uprisings being carried out by the "colored folk" in the surrounding towns.

It's been happening more and more often lately and it's starting to hit closer and closer to home; it knocks at their very doors even.

It's starting to feel like a runaway train, headed right in the direction of all that the powers that be have built for centuries.

Men like Mr. Johnson, who have status and power and positions, have to deal with such things when they occur.

They have meetings sometimes.

At night, the children see Mr. Johnson walk out onto the porch as men pull up in old trucks and carry rifles and shotguns.

Sometimes, they have on white sheets.

They talk on the porch with whispers.

Sometimes their voices get a bit loud, but then they calm them back down.

Bebe and June Bug listen, but it always makes them feel uneasy, so they end up getting back into bed and putting their fingers in their ears until they fall asleep.

The men in sheets don't seem friendly; even Mr. Johnson has one, but his is red.

Bebe saw it by accident one day about nine months ago when she was getting towels for Mrs. Johnson out of one of the closets.

They'll be glad when their mother comes back tomorrow evening.

***

The next morning, Lauren comes back from her camp just in time for breakfast.

Mr. Johnson had been out all night long and has to go back out into town today after they eat; there's another planned boycott that he has to be present for with his brethren.

His shotgun waits for him, propped up by the door.

"Honey, I've got to go in a few. What time is Ethel supposed to be back?"

"It won't be until later this afternoon or evening I think."

"Hm, okay."

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, somebody has got to tend to them while I'm gone," he says as he nonchalantly points to June Bug and Bebe.

He's been much colder to them lately.

"Oh honey, they'll be fine..."

He looks over at them smugly.

"I'll keep an eye on them while you're gone, dad," Lauren says.

He stands up and scratches at his morning shadow.

"Are you sure, sweetie?"

"Yes dad! You go on into town and I'll make sure to keep an eye on them while you're gone. Mama is right downstairs too if we need her for anything."

He taps on the table a couple of times with his fingertips while staring at the children.

"That's my little responsible young woman!" Mr. Johnson says, pinching her cheek.

Before long, his gun is over his shoulder and he's headed to his truck.

***

Half of the day passes.

Bebe and June Bug sit upstairs in a separate room from Lauren; she's fallen asleep after a draining week at her camp: jumping rope, camping, swimming, foot races and the like have taken quite a toll on her.

June Bug silently prays that she sleeps for a few more hours.

His mother will be back so soon, he can just feel it.

Today, his prayers go unanswered.

***

"I'm bored," Lauren says as she bursts into the room that the children are in.

She walks by Bebe and slaps the back of her neck, making a loud pop, then flops down onto the bed.

Neither of them hears Mr. Johnson's truck pull up, about the same exact time.

Ethel is with him; he's picked her up from the bus station after the boycotts and protests.

"I'll go get the children and send them down to you," he says.

Mr. Johnson walks in, places his gun beside the front door and heads upstairs.

***

Lauren has already made her plans for the night for her two subjects.

"Come here, Johnny," she says.

June Bug sits there, not even looking in her direction.

For whatever reason, his disobedience immediately sends Lauren into a fit of rage.

She jumps up from the bed and punches him in the back with all of her might.

"Ouch, Lauren!" he yelps.

By now, she's dragging him to the corner of the room.

Aggressively she pulls at his belt until she gets it undone.

Bebe turns to the door and away from them reflexively.

It's not long before she hears her brother's grunts and straining as Lauren has her way, giggling as she watches him squirm with each of her motions.

Bebe only hears about five of Mr. Johnson's heavy footsteps; they come too fast for her to react in any way.

She just stares at the door.

Her entire little world stands still.

The door swings open.

***

There are only two times in my life that I remember hearing perfect silence up until that point.

The first one was at my uncle's funeral.

Mama made us go but I really didn't want to. The reason I remember it so well is because nobody cried. Not a single person. They were perfectly quiet when the reverend finished preaching. I watched that wooden box get lowered down into the ground with ropes just as calmly and easily as the sun sets in the evening.

Not a single sound.

Not even a bird chirping.

The second time was the evening that Mr. Johnson walked into that room and saw me, Junie and his sweet little Lauren.

***

I truthfully don't remember much of what happened immediately after that. My heart was beating out of my chest as we sat there, all three of us, staring at Mr. Johnson and him staring right back at us. I think he ran in the room and tried to grab Junie, but Junie was fast. Really fast.

He had his pants up and the both of us were out of the door before I knew it.

Mama nearly had to catch us in her arms out in the front. We could hear Mr. Johnson yelling from behind us the whole way: calling us all those words and names that mama would always tell us to not answer to if ever called them.

"What's wrong?! What happened!??

That's all she kept saying, but after a few seconds when she saw Mr. Johnson coming with that gun back in his hand, she was running down that dirt road just like us. All the way back home.

***

We didn't really know what to do for a few days, we stayed in the house mostly, but we knew something was coming.

Something bad.

And it sure did come.

It was maybe about three or four nights later when they came.

The men in the white sheets.

And one in a red one.

I knew who that one was, for certain.

I'll never forget that big burning cross they lit up in the front yard. I remember thinking that it just didn't seem right to burn the cross that the Savior was put on for our sins.

It just seemed so wrong to me.

They stormed in the house and grabbed Junie right out of his bed. Me and mama just screamed and cried; that's about all we could do.

They stayed there for hours, looking at Junie hang from that tree. Some of them even took pictures. They were cheering and laughing. Me and mama stood at the porch for a few minutes, then we just went back in the house. Mama fell to the floor and cried for hours.

She cried a cry so deep—until all of the cry in her was gone.

After a long while, she just got still. Just a little bit of rocking and humming; those songs that we sing at church.

She wouldn't even blink for a while, just humming there on the floor.

***

The next day, two of my uncles and some of my cousins came over.

They cut Junie's body down. Some parts of him fell off when they did.

They had burned him after we went back inside the house.

I just stood there, staring. I couldn't take my eyes off of him.

My uncles and cousins cried. Mama was still quiet, she sat in her rocking chair on the porch with slow tears falling. Just quiet.

I can't say exactly how I felt.

Empty.

Numb.

Still.

I didn't feel anything inside anymore, I don't think.

None of it seemed real but I knew that it was.

Junie's football was right under the tree, directly under where his body was hanging. It was stained with deep red over the threads. A lot of it had soaked into the brown leather too and gave it a different color.

I picked it up and kept it with me.

Mrs. Johnson came to the funeral. She didn't say anything. She looked just as in shock as mama did. She cried some, but didn't say anything to anyone. As a matter of fact, she couldn't stand to look at any of us; she just stood off to the side then walked away when everything was done.

***

It just took two days after Junie's funeral for me to realize that I had had all that I could take.

I figured life didn't have much more to offer me, now that Junie was gone.

And I couldn't bear to go back to the Johnsons' anymore.

I just couldn't.

Ever.

I waited until mama was asleep.

And I wrote her a nice letter.

I left her Junie's ball and my dolls; I knew she'd take good, good care of them while I was gone.

It was really warm that night, with just enough breeze every now and then to keep you from sweating through your clothes.

Junie taught me how to climb the tree, and I was glad that he did; it made it a lot easier.

I dangled myself from one of my jump ropes, just like the men in the sheets did Junie; like an out of place Christmas ornament in the southern summer heat.

And that was the end of it.

Beatrice "Bebe" Williams

Charleston, South Carolina

April 26, 1922 — February 3, 1931
Petal Three

The Second Time—Philippe

"He's simply one of the greatest creative minds in fashion, design, art...pretty much everything...in the past few decades. He's quite the trendsetter too...and a wildly attractive young man as well...I hope that he doesn't mind me saying so!"

—a well-known Parisian socialite concerning "Phil" Couture

An imaginative and passionate mind—Philippe Couture.

Even during the horror and aftermath of the war, Philippe had established himself as a staple in the artistic, creative and social spheres of Paris. Everyone was rebuilding during that time, and without even consciously doing so, Philippe had interjected himself into the French artistic scene masterfully.

He had always been into the arts.

It started with his mother teaching him the piano as a young boy. He would practice with her every single day. They'd laugh and play and sing, much to her enjoyment.

"A boy should be doing a craft, or something with his hands," his father would often say, peering at them over the top of his newspaper.

"He's just a boy, let him express himself," she would respond.

The piano was just the start. He fell in love with the rest of the arts too—all of them.

He began to stitch together his own clothes with scrap fabrics from his mother's side work as a seamstress. He would write simple plays and then assign his friends roles in his bedroom upstairs; then, he'd act in the lead roles while directing the productions at the same time. Sometimes, he'd play multiple parts himself if not enough of his friends were present on a given day.

He would sketch and draw miniature masterpieces on blank sheets of paper, and even on top of some of his father's scrap newspapers—right over the lettering in the articles. He'd use oil pens and chalk since they covered up what was underneath better.

"Phil, this is beautiful! Just beautiful!" his mother would say, much to his delight.

Some of his teachers, recognizing his talents early on, suggested that he attend an art school for youth. His mother talked his father into allowing him to do so after much deliberation. The true cultivation of his gifts started then.

His father had always been a very stern man; most Jewish priests were at the time. He didn't hesitate to make his displeasure known about certain things.

***

The door slams closed.

In walks a short and stocky man who wears a scowl as if it were a fashionable masquerade mask.

A black hat sits on his head.

He wears a black suit and black shoes. A white prayer shawl with blue and gold decorative lines is draped over his shoulders.

He smells of the incense and fragrances of the synagogue; a scent that Phil has grown to despise.

After hanging his hat, coat and prayer shawl on the coat rack next to the door, he looks over at the woman and the boy as they sit at the piano.

The woman, his wife, turns to him.

"Oh, my love, I didn't expect you back so soon," she says sweetly.

He gazes for a moment, then walks into the living room and picks up his newspaper.

He sits in his chair in the corner.

"He should have come with me to the synagogue today," he mutters.

His wife says nothing.

Phil strikes a couple of notes, softly and slowly, on the piano with his pointer finger.

His mother rubs his shoulder and smiles at him.

"I'll get your dinner ready, my love," she says to her husband.

***

His father isn't a talkative man, and most of what he does say is directed toward his wife.

He's kind to her.

He respects her.

Mostly.

She's probably the only thing that brings him any form of comfort outside of his priestly duties at the synagogue. But, even his patience with her can run thin every now and again.

A few arguments arise between the two from time to time. They try to keep them concealed from Phil's eyes and ears—but, he sees, and hears—far more than either of them thinks.

Children oftentimes do.

***

That evening, pasta sits in a decorated bowl in the center of the kitchen table.

There are plump, buttered dinner rolls arranged around it.

Tossed salad with oil and vinegar dressing.

A couple of glasses of wine.

And one cup of water, for Phil.

Once they're all seated, they hold hands and say grace.

"So, my love, how did things go today? At the church?"

Since Phil has been on break from his art school, his mother stays at home to tend to him, and to practice with him of course.

She's an extraordinary pianist; she won many awards when she was younger. They line the mantles throughout their house, like golden treasure in Aladdin's cave. Slowly, but surely, Phil's awards are beginning to gain ground on hers.

Since the conclusion of the prayer over the food, Phil has kept a light and faint rhythm on his dinner plate with his fork.

In his mind, he's composing a song.

He often goes into tiny trances during which his heart, mind and soul are full of sounds, colors and love. It's a part of his creative process. He can hear every note, see every hue, and feel the vibration of every tone that's whirling in his mind.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His mother waits for his father's response to her question about his day of doing the work of God.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

His father grinds his teeth together inside of his mouth, staring at Phil.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Phil is in another world.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Boy! Would you stop making such noise!?" his father yells suddenly.

Phil drops his fork after jumping.

His mother jumps too, then covers her mouth.

Phil looks down.

"Sorry, papa," he says sadly.

"Go to your room," his father says.

Phil stands, slowly trudges around the table, and then up the steps.

A couple of hours later, his father's belt strikes him over, and over, and over.

It's not as bad tonight, since he didn't make him strip away his clothing.

Once his tears have ceased and his parents are asleep many hours later, he completes the song in his head.

He taps on his pillow with his finger this time, instead of on something hard—very softly—so as not to wake his father.

***

Once mama passed away, I think something broke in both of us. She was my shield from him, and she was his soft, gentle breeze. She would calm his soul, probably even more than God himself could, I'd imagine.

The beatings got worse, and far more frequent. The smallest, slightest thing would set him off. It's ironic, now that I think back—it was usually worse when he would come home from the synagogue. Hm, I never thought about that until just now. Maybe it was stressful there. Or maybe it was because it reminded him that his son, his only child—didn't want to be there. I think he desperately wanted that; for me to be like him. I used to try. But, I just couldn't. I tried to love him, I did; but he made it so hard. So very hard. He wanted me to fit into his world, but I think I was just too big for it.

The place that he loved most was the last place that I wanted to be.

He couldn't take it.

Once I was old enough, I was off to another art school, amongst people who understood me, at least more than he did. Not as much as mama, but far more than papa ever could.

Papa's breeze stopped blowing, and my shield was gone.

There was no more reason for me to stay.

***

The bus stops just outside of a large iron gate.

School of the Arts is inscribed on a rectangular placard in the center of the bars just beneath the school's name—the stylized letters stand out to Phil more than the name above it does.

There are many brick buildings behind the gate, and young men wearing colorfully designed cardigans, grey dress pants, and black shoes, waiting on the sidewalk. They don't look much older than the boys on the bus, but they have such apparent auras of confidence and experience about themselves. Phil takes notice of it and desires it for himself, one day.

All of the teenaged boys stand up and begin to exit as the door of the bus screeches open. Phil is in the very back. As he walks down the steps, his luggage shifts and he tumbles forward onto the ground. Many of the boys snicker as he attempts to gather his things in embarrassment. Only one of the young men helps him; one of the greeters who is wearing a cardigan.

"Marco," he says with his hand outstretched to Phil once they're done.

His smile is just about as perfect as Phil has ever seen; more perfect actually.

His teeth are faultlessly straight.

His hair is shiny and brown; nearly reflective in the sunlight.

All of the boys are in physically and aesthetically pristine condition, but Marco seems to glow and radiate so much so that Phil cannot take his eyes off of him.

"Ph-Philippe..." he stutters as he shakes the boy's hand.

***

The first few weeks are a breeze.

Marco and Phil end up becoming roommates. It is the custom that one of the "second-year" students take on one of the "first-year" students as a mentee.

The two become inseparable.

For the first time in his life since his mother has passed away, Phil feels a sense of belonging. A sense of home.

He excels in every one of his diverse courses: physical sciences, design, mathematics, history, architecture, art, music, philosophy, sculpting, engineering. There are no limits to his mental capacity or imagination, which becomes apparent to him, and to the rest of the school, on one particular day.

***

"I just don't know, Phil, it's not coming together," Marco says as he splashes another blotch of paint onto his easel with his broad tipped brush.

Phil peeks over for a brief moment, then puts his attention back onto the easel in front of him.

"It's not too bad," Phil snickers.

Marco pushes his shoulder and chuckles as well.

Fifteen minutes is all they've been given, to express as many of the artistic methods that Dr. Altier has taught them over the course of the semester: certain distinctive and precise brush strokes, the mixing of particular colors and their emotional effects on the viewer, different textures, various aspects of spacing and perspective, methods of fading, the use of shadows and whitespace, creating spatial and dimensional effects—everything will be taken into consideration.

Dr. Ferdinand Altier.

A firm man.

A blunt man.

An absolute genius.

He's studied and worked with the top artists, thinkers, philosophers and world-shapers of their day.

He was an orphan as a boy and his only comfort was his work, which has taken him across seas and to forty-four countries thus far.

No nonsense is his only policy, along with perfection and excellence.

He consistently sets bars, purposely, that none of his students could ever dream of reaching, and he doesn't hesitate to let them know that they've failed miserably.

Dr. Altier teaches at the boys' school in Paris only once every five years—and only for one semester during that time away from his work and travels.

To be selected for one of his courses out of the thousands of aspiring artists, thinkers, designers and creators at the school—to learn from one of the greatest and most legendary of all greats and legends in modern French history—to even be in his presence at all—is considered to be an honor bestowed upon humanity by the gods themselves.

Phil is a lucky chap, indeed.

"Brushes down and hands at your sides!" Dr. Altier says as he enters the room like a rush of winter air.

His posture is impeccable. He stands about six feet tall and smells of rare oils and ointments. His suit fits him perfectly and the chain of a solid gold pocket watch dangles out of his jacket.

The man almost doesn't seem human.

It's as if Apollo has decided to take an anthropological form briefly to interact with his earthly subjects for a short time, perhaps to provide divine instructions, or to offer a gift crafted on the apex of Mount Olympus.

If artistry and creative genius had arms, legs and a face; they would be Dr. Altier.

"Horrendous," he says matter-of-factly as he passes by one of the pieces.

There are a few light gasps, then silence.

"Wretched," he says, looking at the one next to it.

His facial expression barely changes.

He simply moves on to the next.

He squares his shoulders up toward it, looks at the young man next to it, then back at the painting.

He twists his face a bit, eyeing it with his head tilted.

"Ugh, disgusting..." he says with a wave of his hand as he moves on to the next.

The boys are in such shock that they can barely react.

They don't know whether to faint, cry or just stand petrified and motionless.

Each of them chooses the latter.

"No, no, no," he says as he passes three pieces in sequence without as much as the dignity of more than a few seconds of a glance.

Phil and Marco both sweat and cringe nervously.

Based on Dr. Altier's trajectory, their pieces will be the last two seen, with Marco's being first.

He approaches.

Out of pure nerves, Phil picks up his brush and attempts to add something to his piece. He positions his body so as not to be noticed, so he thinks.

Marco whispers, "What are you doing?!"

"Shhh!" Phil whispers back.

Dr. Altier sees the whole exchange and watches the boys out of sheer amusement. He puts his hands on his hips and nearly smiles; he finds their blatant ignorance quite entertaining. How could they be so silly and idiotic?

He slowly walks up behind Phil.

"I said, STOP!" he yells into Phil's ear.

Phil drops his brush onto the floor.

The paint from it splatters onto his shoe.

Dr. Altier's eyes slowly pan from Phil, to Phil's piece.

He breathes heavily out of anger, but slowly, his breaths transform into contemplative inhales and exhales.

He stares at the piece.

Three seconds.

Five seconds.

Ten seconds.

Thirty seconds.

It's the longest that he's looked at any of the works in the room.

Phil's heart descends into his stomach.

He drops his head, preparing to hear the most defiling and degrading words he's ever heard; even worse than those from his father.

Dr. Altier continues to gaze at it, now with his finger on his chin.

"Humph," he says, almost as if asking a question.

Phil looks up at him.

To his, and everyone else's utter surprise, Dr. Altier smiles at him.

Not a very large or pronounced smile, but indeed a smile, nonetheless.

"I'm impressed...well done..." Dr. Altier says.

He stoops down, picks up Phil's brush, hands it to him, then walks toward the door.

He stops, turns to the students and says, "Class dismissed!"

He leaves and the door slowly closes behind him.

Complete silence.

Phil stands there, still holding the brush in his hand by the bristles, and with his mouth dropped completely open.

Everyone stares at him.

Not a sound.

And then, suddenly and emphatically, the room erupts with cheers and laughter.

The boys rush over and literally lift Phil into the air in celebration.

"You'll be famous!"

"You've done it!"

"You're the greatest!"

That night, in their room, Phil and Marco reflect on the moment.

"Dr. Altier doesn't compliment his students, EVER," Marco says.

"I mean...do you have ANY idea what this means?!"

"It means...it means...everything," Phil says softly.

It's the best night of his life; he's never felt such enjoyment and satisfaction. Being able to share this with Marco makes it all the better. He looks at his shoe sitting beside his bed with the bit of paint on the toe. He'll never clean it.

Ever.

***

For weeks the other boys rave about Phil's successful work. He was already a very promising student with a great amount of potential, but now with impeccable self-confidence backing him, he's unstoppable.

The other teachers have heard the news as well and push Phil to excel even more. Everything he touches is pure gold; some of the students and teachers have nicknamed him "the Midas of the arts," a name that will follow him throughout his life.

He is received, loved and admired beyond his expectations; it's night and day from his home life with his father.

He spends his summers at the school and decides to never go home again.

That is, until his final year.

***

"It'll just be for a few weeks," Marco says.

"How bad could that be?" he continues.

"Worse than you know. You don't know my father," Phil replies.

"And neither do you. Not anymore anyway—it's been years since you've even seen the man," Marco responds, placing one of Phil's shirts into a suitcase.

Marco has convinced Phil to spend this summer at home. It's the final summer that he has before he begins his travels as an artist.

He's written a play that has been championed by Dr. Altier—"Lumière des Ombres"— and will be going on a tour with him right after his graduation. Phil has not only written the stage play, but he's scored the music that accompanies it, designed the wardrobes, and created the artwork for the backdrops and props. Stages across the country want to be in attendance to admire, and to critique, the work of the young "Midas."

It's unprecedented for a student to be so closely knit with someone of Dr. Altier's caliber, but Phil is a prodigy and the world is beginning to recognize it.

"This will be your last opportunity to connect with him, Phil. You should try. After this, the world is your oyster," Marco says with a grin.

"Oh, is that so? My oyster, eh?" Phil laughs.

"Why, yes...you'll have every woman in France begging to just touch your hand as you pass them on the boulevard—'Oh, great Midas! Might I court you for the night, beautiful sir?'" Marco says as he playfully grabs Phil's hand.

Phil pushes him away—the two boys laugh hysterically.

Marco continues to grab at him, playfully, while Phil laughs and pushes him.

"Oh Midas! Mr. Couture! Please sir, PLEASE!?!" Marco continues to say in a soft voice while grappling with Phil.

Eventually the boys both fall over onto the bed with their horseplay, knocking over a few piles of neatly folded and stacked clothing.

There's a moment of pause, and quiet.

The boys stare into each other's eyes—their faces just inches apart.

Philippe feels as though a surge of warm water has just gushed through his heart and belly. He can feel the cozy heat of Marco's toned body emanating like a furnace's fire during the dead of winter.

He momentarily relapses to the day that he first got off of the bus outside of the school years ago. He remembers how awestruck he was by Marco—his willingness to help him, his kindness, his physique, his aura, his smile—his beauty.

In the midst of his thoughts, Marco slowly inches his face toward Phil's.

At first, Phil backs away, but then is compelled to move closer.

It's as if he's drawn in to him by an invisible force that he's felt hints of in the past and ignored, but that has increased its strength to an undeniable, insatiable level all of a sudden.

Tonight, he falls into Marco's presence like Newton's apple to the ground.

Marco's gravity is inescapable.

The boys kiss.

Slowly.

Passionately.

Firmly.

Powerfully.

Intimately.

Pleasantly.

Their first of many.

***

"Thank you," Philippe says as he hands the taxi driver some money.

The man puts the money into his pocket then helps to get the luggage out of the trunk. Phil stands there, on the sidewalk in front of his home, looking at the building almost like it's his first time ever seeing it.

The door opens.

His father stands there; aged a bit, and with a much sadder and more stern expression.

He walks inside and drops his bags by the door.

"Father," Phil says, not completely sure of what to do.

A hug would possibly be too affectionate.

A handshake?

That may be too impersonal.

"Thomas," his father says, stretching out his hand.

They shake.

The days of the summer go by swiftly. Phil mostly stays to himself in his room. His father does the normal things: he goes to the church, he comes home, he sits in his chair and reads the paper, he goes to sleep.

The two eat together, but not many words are exchanged, except for a, "How is school?" and "How is the synagogue?" early on. Eventually, there's no talking, to the extent that after a few weeks, it would seem almost rude for them to speak to one another.

Phil sketches in his room and talks on the phone to Marco pretty much the entire summer. Of the two rotary phones in the house, he's moved one to his room, for quicker access and more privacy. The other is in the living room, next to his father's chair. He usually waits until late at night to call Marco, when his father is asleep.

Although, he does hear light clicking and rustling on the phone some nights.

"Do you hear that?" he asks Marco.

"Yes, is that you?" Marco will then say.

"No, no I don't think so," Phil responds.

Philippe has made an honest attempt to re-insert himself into his father's life, like a lion into the confines of a cage. It's clear that they've both outgrown each other. Philippe is nearly a man now, and his father is much older and much more settled in his ways. They are worlds apart.

This truth becomes very clear on one late and memorable night—the final night—of Philippe's stay.

"I've heard you," Phil's father says as he bursts into Phil's room without so much as the courtesy of a knock.

"Excuse me?" Phil says with shock decorating his voice.

"I've heard you, with your...your friend," his father says motioning with his hand in disgust.

Phil stands up from his bed with a look of confusion on his face.

"You've been eavesdropping on me, father? I knew it...I just knew it!" Phil says angrily.

"God is not pleased, Thomas...God is NOT pleased!" his father says even more angrily.

I remember my mind immediately retracting back to the many conversations that I would overhear my father having with the other priests about me. They didn't think I could hear them, or understand them, but I did. "Your boy, so he's...a musician, is he?" they would ask him. "Well, he's still finding his way, he loves to be with his mother," he'd say. "A boy should be with his father, in the synagogue, and should be interested in maybe, sports, or something like that, shouldn't he?" they'd say. "He's just a bit confused." That's what I was to him. A confused little boy. Confused about God, and life, and my sexuality. I guess tonight, his fears concerning me resurfaced.

"Oh, but GOD is pleased with you?! Is that it? Was he pleased with you when you would BEAT me half to death?!"

His father peers at him and tightens his lips.

"Do you love men or women?" his father says sharply.

Phil looks at him in complete surprise.

"What?! Are you serious!?" Phil responds, not knowing what else to say.

"Do you...love men...or women, Thomas?" his father says, more slowly and seriously this time.

Phil drops his head.

Partly out of shame for himself, and partly out of shame for having this man as a father.

He looks over at his dresser.

"Did you love her?" he says, pointing to a picture of his late mother.

He's never challenged his father in this fashion before, not in all of his years. He's shocked even at himself. How could he have let those words come out of his mouth?

When he glances back toward the man who has caused him great turmoil for most of his life, he sees the astonishment that he feels inside stitched onto his father's face.

Before he realizes it, he feels his father's strong hand rake across his face, swiftly and painfully.

And then again.

And again.

And again.

Phil crouches down onto the floor in a fetal position and takes blow after blow from his father's hands and feet.

He doesn't stop.

Until he is tired.

When it's all done, Phil hears his bedroom door close and his father breathing deeply in the hallway, while crying as well. Soon, his noise becomes lighter as he goes back to his room on the other end of the house.

Phil eventually hears his father's bedroom door close lightly.

Phil crawls onto his bed.

Every inch of his body is in pain.

He cries, deeply.

So deeply, that his sleep tonight will actually end up being quite peaceful, ironically.

Just before he dozes off, he glances back at the picture of his mother and whispers, "I miss you, mama."

His protective shield is gone and won't be returning.

Tonight, is the last night he'll ever spend with his father.

***

Once back at school, Phil finishes the semester with flying colors. His graduation is attended by the stars of his day and his fame and accomplishments continue to spread. He journeys far and wide with Dr. Altier showcasing "Lumière des Ombres", and subsequently creates various other stage plays and productions that leave attendees captivated across the globe. He releases music with details and intricacies never before heard. He manifests architecture, artwork, films, novels—pretty much anything that he decides to—all of them reaching pinnacles never before accomplished by a single creator.

"He truly does have the touch of the gods," they say.

He's a commercial and international success beyond measure or comprehension. He releases the full force of the lion that had been raging inside of him his whole life. He holds nothing back and sets his mind, intentions, heart, hands—his entire being—to every creative task, every idea and every imaginative thought that happens to spawn from his intellect.

Philippe "Midas" Couture has become a household name.

There seems to be no limit to his genius and abilities.

No limit except himself, that is.

Although his life is a wondrous spectacle on the surface, he carries a deep rooted and unfathomable amount of pain, darkness and rejection within him, behind closed doors.

Only Marco knows about it.

It was the best time of my life. I couldn't have asked for anything more.

Not a single thing.

But, then, it was also the worst time, equally.

On the outside was Midas' gold; constantly at my fingertips.

But inside—inside of me were the burning, scalding coals that purified the gold.

***

It was so dark at times. Whenever Marco wasn't around, it was even worse. No one had any clue except him, and even he didn't know the full tale. The sorrow felt like waves of heat overcoming me in a desert, with no oasis or other travelers in sight. Much of it I could say was my father's doing. His constant rejection of me never rested well in my soul. But it wasn't all him.

No.

This darkness came from someplace else.

The measure of plight that's necessary for a highly advanced mind, perhaps.

At least that's what I convinced myself of after a while.

Great heights, necessitate great depths.

***

Admirers pass by, or stop dead in their tracks, and shout out:

Couture!

Look, it's Midas!

We love your work, Midas!

Phil Couture is a god!

It's him! It's really him!

I love you, Midas!

"My boyfriend is famous," Marco says with a light giggle as the two walk to their booth in a lounge one evening.

Phil waves shyly at the people calling out to him in admiration.

He hears Marco but doesn't look at him as he responds.

"Oh, is he?" he says, smiling.

"Yes, he is," Marco replies as he squeezes his hand.

The two don't go out much in the public, only on occasion.

It's usually Marco who wants a taste of the night life. Phil would much rather be at home, especially during the months leading up to another tour, as is the case currently.

They sit.

They order drinks.

Phil signs a few autographs.

The venue begins to thin out and settle.

The lights dim.

A jazz musician from America takes the stage and plays mellow tunes.

Phil finally relaxes a bit.

The two talk about the things that most young couples talk about.

"I always miss you when you're on the road," Marco says as he caresses Phil's arm.

A light chuckle from Phil.

"Do you really?"

"Yes, I do," Marco says with a smile.

As he continues to rub his arm, he notices small ripples underneath Phil's shirt sleeve; his forearm area.

He gently slides his fingers up Phil's sleeve then feels the ripples in a more pronounced way.

They're not just ripples.

They're scars.

Marco glances down at Phil's arm and sees the cuts.

It's the first time he's ever seen them.

Phil usually wears jackets, but with his jacket off and with such a thin shirt on, it's undeniable—even in the low lighting of the lounge.

In a moment, the revelation comes to Marco as to exactly why Phil seems to love jackets so much; he had never thought of it until now.

Marco stares at the marks, and Phil lets him, slowly turning his arm so that his forearm is even more visible.

Marco touches the scars as delicately as a person can touch another person; gently and curiously. He feels the rise and fall of them like a child at a beach exploring the waves of the ocean for the first time.

Ironically, they remind him of artwork; the thin lines—streaks of reds and browns—overlaying his peach-banana tinted skin. A painful and beautiful painting, created by the same hands that would repeatedly have to apply bandages and ointments onto the flesh canvas once the work was done.

Year after year.

They tell a story.

Phil finally pulls away.

They stare into each other's eyes momentarily.

Marco says nothing, but his mind and heart are communicating every affectionate, consoling emotion ever felt by a lover.

"My light," Phil says as he looks around the room at the remnant of his admirers.

"...and my darkness," he says as he looks down at his arm.

They kiss.

***

Nearly six months later, Phil's father is at home preparing for something; something apparently important. He hardly ever dresses up anymore since retiring from the priesthood, not in suits anyway. His clothes are typically neat and well kept, but suits are not his frequent attire by any means.

Tonight, he wears a suit.

He paces back and forth in front of the mirror in the hallway between his bedroom and the living room.

"Which one, honey? Which one?" he says to himself.

Two ties are in his hands; one red and the other blue.

He weighs the two options as if his very life hangs in the balance, and even the slightest mistake will cost him everything.

He pauses—his eyes land on a picture of himself and his wife.

A slow, long breath leaves his body through his nose.

He places both ties in the same hand, and with the empty one, reaches up and touches the picture.

"You were always so good at helping me choose," he says quietly and solemnly.

***

I suppose in all of his pacing and contemplation—and nervousness—he never heard our taxi pull up outside.

I still can't believe I let him convince me to go.

But, that's Marco.

He's persuasive.

And I just loved him so much.

We were leaving for another tour, and a few nights before, he begged me to go and see my father. I utterly refused, again and again. I guess he could see how much not having his love and approval still weighed on me. And, truthfully—it did.

Heavily.

As heavily as the stones at Giza.

I had learned to deal with it—swallow it like bitter medicine and channel it into my work. It worked fairly well for me, but not well enough for Marco's liking. He wanted more of me; deeper love and commitment. I suppose I couldn't give him any of that until I dealt with my past, my pain, my truth—my father.

Maybe he was right? Maybe he was wrong? I'm not sure anymore.

"I'll come with you," he said.

I finally agreed, though hesitantly. I had a bad feeling about it all. Marco never made any mistakes, up to that point. That was his first; convincing me to go.

And certainly, his last...and most detrimental...unfortunately...

There are four slow, distinct knocks.

The man pauses, looks at the door, then slowly walks toward it, while attempting to peek through the tiny spaces around the hinges and see who it could be.

He opens the door and is shocked to see his son standing before him.

Neither of them smiles, they just stare at each other.

The man's stare then transitions to Marco, who is the only one of the trio with a smile etched onto his face—one as bright as the sun.

"Hi, papa," Philippe says.

"Hello, Thomas," he replies.

As they walk inside, the man closes the door and rubs his head in slight disbelief.

"I had no idea you were coming, is everything okay?" the man says, motioning for them to have a seat.

"Yes papa, everything is fine. I just...well...I will be going on another tour soon and I wanted to..."

Phil pauses and takes a couple of sniffs in the air.

A sweet scent—one that he only recalls smelling perhaps twice before in his entire life.

The first time was when mama and papa celebrated their tenth anniversary.

I was much younger.

I remember it because it was the only one that they ever celebrated.

Mama must've asked me about twenty times, "Well, how do I look?" throughout the day, just before papa came home with a bouquet of flowers that evening. He wore cologne—it was a thick and heavy scent—but it reminded me of flowers.

Papa never smelled like flowers.

The second time was at mama's funeral.

That cologne was her favorite fragrance of his.

"...I wanted to see you before I left..." Phil finishes.

Phil peers into his father's eyes.

"Where are you going, papa?"

His father looks down at the floor for a moment, then back up at Phil.

"Just...just out with a few friends, that's all..."

"Out with a few friends?"

"Well...yes..."

Phil looks off into the other room and notices a bouquet of flowers on the table; very similar to the bouquet that he saw years ago.

It doesn't take him long to piece things together for himself.

"Who is she, papa?"

"Who is...she? Just...just friends I told you..." the man says nervously.

Immediately Phil becomes furious inside, but maintains his composure.

Marco stands off to the side, a bit confused, but somewhat following along.

"You know what, papa, this was a mistake. I shouldn't have come."

The man says nothing.

"But, since I'm here, I might as well introduce you to my friend as well..."

Phil motions for Marco to come next to him.

He complies.

"Papa, this is Marco. Marco, this is, my...papa..."

The man looks at Marco blankly.

As he does, Phil reaches down and grabs a hold of Marco's hand, tightly.

Ten or so seconds of silence fill the air.

"Your life is very unclean, Thomas," his father says as he looks at Marco.

He looks back at Phil.

"And no unclean thing..." he says before being cut off by Phil.

"...can stand in the presence of God," Phil says with his voice trembling and tears filling his eyes.

"I suppose that yours is spotless, papa?"

A quick, sharp response.

Phil looks at a large photograph of his mother. His father's eyes follow.

"I wasn't the only one who felt your fists, papa...I wonder if she would think that your life was so clean..."

Rage rises in his father's heart suddenly.

He takes a step toward Phil.

For the first time, Phil's chest pokes out, his chin lifts and his fists tighten.

He stands there, not as a boy before his father—but as a man, before another man.

His father notices the quick shift in his demeanor.

He stops at just a step, then backs up to where he was first standing.

They each look at the photo of his mother.

"How could you..." Phil says.

"HOW COULD YOU?!" Phil's father says aggressively.

"I loved your mother, but she's GONE...okay?! She's gone...but you..."

The man points his finger and waves it back and forth between his son and Marco.

"...you've chosen your path, Thomas...you've chosen...this..."

Phil begins to cry and his voice shakes with each syllable that he speaks:

"Who said that love can't look like this, papa...just like this?! God?! Or YOU?! Is he not somewhere in this too, papa!? Is he not here!? Somewhere...in me?!"

Phil strikes his fist on the wall next to him, startling his father and Marco.

"Do you think that I choose a love that's wrapped in pain and rejection, just because?! For what, papa!? For what??! Do you think I choose this?! Do you think that for all of these years I would choose HATRED from my own father...INSTEAD OF HIS LOVE...YOUR LOVE...GOD'S LOVE?!"

His father is silent.

"All I ever wanted was your acceptance, papa...and you couldn't even offer me that...just your belt, and fists..."

The tears overwhelm him.

His father's eyes fill with tears also.

"This chose ME, papa! Even though you didn't...and wouldn't..."

He looks at Marco.

"He...chooses me...papa..."

Still silent, his father stands there for a few seconds.

Then, he slowly walks back to the door as if each step is painful.

He opens it.

"Leave my home, and never come back. You are no son of mine," the man says, with tears streaming down his face.

Philippe and Marco pause, but not for long. They walk out of the door, still holding hands.

Phil stops, let's go of Marco's hand, then turns and makes eye contact with his father as he stands on the sidewalk in front of the house.

"I'm sorry that I couldn't bring godly honor to the Couture name as you always wished, papa..."

His father lowers his head and shakes it gently; wiping a few tears from his cheek.

He looks back up into his son's eyes as his lips begin to quiver.

"So am I...Thomas..."

The door closes slowly and the lock clicks.

Marco feels such deep sorrow for Philippe as they stand there quietly for a few moments. His first instinct is to attempt to console the love of his life once he feels that enough silence has passed.

"You don't need him. You have all of the success and love that you could ever..."

"What do YOU know of success and love Marco?! What do you know of it!?" Phil yells, cutting Marco off.

"Excuse me? What do I know of it? I have been by your side since..."

"Enough! I don't care Marco...leave!"

"Phil..."

"I said LEAVE!"

Marco pauses, tightens his jaw, tugs at his jacket while balancing his weight on his heels and looking at Philippe, turns, and walks away.

And that was it for me. That was it; my defining moment.

The one that swallows all other previous defining moments of mine like the great fish that swallowed Jonah.

I pulled pain closer to me after that. I guess in an odd way, it reminded me of how it felt when I tried to pull my father's love toward me, again and again, and failed each time.

I wasn't failing now though; I was successful at my own destruction.

It was comfortable.

It was...home.

Drugs, parties, men, women—I didn't care anymore. I had always had access to it all, but I had never taken advantage of any of it, or them.

There weren't enough bottles and pills in all of Paris to fill the hole in my heart, but it didn't stop me from trying.

Marco tried to reach out to me a few times; I suppose he heard the horrendous rumors and stories. I just pushed him away too, though.

It became a fun game in a way.

I'd give him a bit of hope that there was a chance that I'd return to the way I was before that day, but then I'd snatch that hope away like the sun disappearing at dusk, over and over—sunset after sunset.

It was cruel of me, I know—I admit that—but I figured I owed it to someone since life had treated me in the same fashion. It was more consoling to push him away as my father had done to me so many times.

I guess...I truly am his son.

***

Philippe stands there, peering down at the rail. A crowd all around him, murmuring and rustling, concerned with only their own cares and lives. The trains whistle like love-entranced birds singing their mating calls to one another.

I had my treacherous fun for about nine months or so after that day with my father.

I rode the trains a lot in those days too. The train station had so many people there—many of them looking for the same things that I was. It was easy. Most of the time, someone would recognize me, "Hey, aren't you Midas Couture?!" and that would be the gateway.

They'd give me whatever I wanted.

I owned them.

On evenings that were the coldest and loneliest, I'd fill up with liquor and other things, and head to the station.

***

Tonight...tonight was different however.

I didn't want sex.

Or drugs.

Or even help.

Just, my escape.

It was time.

No one sees Philippe.

Perhaps they do in fact see him, but they don't really see him, sadly. He knows this. He understands it and feels it—he's felt it for a very long time, but never more than he does right now.

He knows this feeling well by now; his father's greatest lesson to him: how to shrink inside as much as possible, so as to go unnoticed and avoid being hurt.

How to not be seen.

"But Marco," he thinks.

"He's seen me..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe he hasn't..."

He'd like to believe so, but that doesn't matter anymore.

It felt good for a few moments, here and there.

But now, Marco's eyes may as well be closed.

At the same time, Philippe looks down at his shoe—a bit of paint, on the toe.

His feet haven't grown much, if at all, since his school days.

He remembers the many nights spent with Marco.

He thinks of how high he felt then—how low he feels now.

Philippe closes his eyes.

The train that was very far away is now very close, and at its optimal speed.

He leaps.

A woman screams.

Crunching and squishing.

Squealing brakes.

Now, everyone has seen Philippe.

Many moments later than they should have.

If only, sooner.

Philippe "Midas" Thomas Couture

Paris, France

February 11, 1939 — March 17, 1959
Petal Four

The Third Time—Diane

"He was a good man, just with skeletons and secrets that crept up on me from time to time..."

—Diane concerning Arnold, two months after his funeral

Their wedding day was such a blur.

Diane hardly remembers any of it, just a few significant and funny moments that stand out—like colorful outfits at solemn funerals.

Her brother-in-law, Gus, falling off of the porch and into the bushes—clutching a beer, while yelling, "I was the best ball player in the whole country!"

Her niece, the ring bearer, stumbling just a bit over a ribbon that hung from one of the church pews—and her brother and three male cousins snickering at her for the rest of the day.

Her younger sisters having a passive aggressive argument about who should oversee the guest list and who should assist the wedding planner.

And cake, lots of bright, yellow cake.

But of all of the moments, what stands out to her the most is when Arnold looked into her eyes at the altar after being asked by Reverend Fields, "Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To love, and honor, and cherish, through sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live, and until death do you part?"

He paused, for a very long time.

Not an uncertain and contemplative pause.

But a certain and emotional pause.

He nearly began to cry; Diane could see it on his face, and silently prayed that he wouldn't—because she'd be no more good after that.

He looked deep into her eyes.

Into her soul.

With a trembling voice he said:

"I do...of course I do...she's my little magnolia."

The best moment of her life.

If only the rest of their moments had been the same—or at least pleasantly similar.

***

Shelby was the only town Diane had ever known, such was the case for Arnold too.

High school sweethearts.

Arnold was a star baseball player; he and both of his brothers were, as a matter of fact. They were only a few years apart in age, and for three of those years they won consecutive state titles. That's when the magic first happened for both of them, right after the first state title game.

***

"Arnie! You guys were amazing," a teenaged girl says; one of a small group—all with pastel colored dresses, their hair in ponytails, and clutching a few books against their chests.

Arnold and one of his brothers sit in the parking lot of the school inside of their father's beat up blue Ford pickup truck after the game. Two cases of beer are in the truck's bed, along with various leather baseball gloves, some wooden bats, and about six baseballs that are smudged all over with brown clay.

"Why thanks girls! Did you enjoy the game?" Arnold says.

"I looked great, didn't I! Did you see those two home runs?" his brother blurts out from the passenger seat.

Arnold laughs and pushes his brother's shoulder.

"Yessss Gus, we saw them," the girl says, rolling her eyes and looking at her friends; they all giggle.

"So, where are you girls going? Gus and I are headed to the milkshake shop; you should come!"

"Well, that sounds grand! We'll see you there!"

Immediately, the girls sprint away, then crowd into a yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

Once inside, they take off behind the locally famous Fisk brothers.

The entire way there, cars honk and shout cheers at Arnold and Gus. Word about the game has already spread; everyone recognizes their father's truck because Shelby is only so big.

Once there, Arnold holds the door open for the four ladies, after his brother dashes into the restaurant ahead of them yelling, "We won!"

As the girls enter, the last one catches Arnold's eye. She has on a blue dress and has dark, full hair. He's seen her at school before, maybe in the hallways here and there, but today she stands out to him—by not standing out at all. She's as quiet as a mouse, but something about her makes his belly tingle. On the surface, she seems very plain and average, but for whatever reason, Arnold senses much more than that which meets his eyes.

She passes him and grins shyly before looking down at the floor to watch her step.

"Okay, so what are you ordering?" the waitress asks after they begin to get seated.

"We want...well...milkshakes!" Gus says.

The girls laugh.

Arnold manages to get a seat directly across from the shy girl in the blue dress.

The leader of the girls who initiated contact in the parking lot, and who drives the yellow Beetle, notices their chemistry and decides to capitalize.

"Sooo, Arnold...I don't think you've met all of my friends..."

She smiles and presses the backs of her hands under her chin.

"This here is Kate," she says, pointing to the girl in front of her.

"This is Megan," she says pointing to the girl beside Kate.

Then, she dramatically raises both of her arms into the air as she turns her head and body toward the friend sitting next to her—the shy girl in the blue dress.

Immediately, the girl drops her head and smiles, knowing that her friend is probably about to make a spectacle of her, and bring about a great bit of embarrassment.

"And thissssssss...is Diane!"

She grabs Diane's shoulders and rocks her entire body back and forth.

Diane covers her face with her hands and giggles.

"Isn't she lovely?! Just dreamy! I mean...look at her!" the girl continues.

The waitress slides chocolate, vanilla and strawberry milkshakes across the table at the very same moment.

Perfectly timed, as if it were choreographed, Arnold grabs one of the milkshakes—a vanilla one—and takes a slurp of it from the straw.

He swallows, smiles, and says: "She absolutely is..."

Diane's heart leaps like a gazelle in an open field.

***

The two become an item.

Arnold is a local celebrity; Diane is the quiet and smart girl who tutors, works in the Shelby Library, and will probably one day go on to become Teacher of the Year.

Diane's parents absolutely love Arnold, and his parents love her just the same.

"You two balance each other—I like it," Arnold's mother says one evening as Diane joins them for dinner.

Again, she drops her head and grins, poking at her chicken with her fork.

***

Another year, another state championship. Arnold's youngest brother, James, has joined him and Gus as a freshman starter on the varsity team; the Fisk trio is complete—and unstoppable.

James plays shortstop; easily the best in the state, at only fifteen years old.

Gus is the braggadocious outfielder, and a pretty good batter. He can usually be heard yelling, "Here we go, boys!" throughout the whole stadium when he takes the field.

Arnold is the face of the team—starting pitcher, as well as a power hitter. That's usually a rare combination, but he's truly a once-in-a-lifetime caliber athlete. His quickness, mobility and agility would allow him to play nearly any position. Scouts from all of the best colleges, and even from a few of the Major League teams, frequent the Shelby High School games, just to see the "Phenomenal Fisk Brothers," as the papers refer to them.

It's Arnold and Diane's senior year.

***

"Chug, chug, chug, chug!" the teenagers cheer as they encircle Gus.

After a game, many of the Shelby High students have gathered at a fellow classmate's home whose parents are out of town for the weekend.

"Wooooo!" Gus yells to the enjoyment of his fan club as he finishes funneling another three beers.

Arnold stands in the doorway shaking his head and chuckling at his brother.

The yellow Beetle arrives.

The four girls hop out and Diane immediately finds Arnold once inside the house—they embrace and kiss.

"It's so loud in here!" she yells to him.

"I know...kids will be kids I guess!" he says with a huge smile.

They laugh with each other.

A few moments later, his brother wobbles toward him with the tube of the "Fun Funnel," (so named by the baseball players who built it—of course including Gus) in his hand and two of their teammates carrying the rest of the makeshift contraption behind him.

"Now as you alllll know, my brother is my BEST friend in the whollllle world," Gus stammers.

"Gus..." Arnold says, shaking his head and pushing his brother in the chest.

"He's a stiff...but, look at him, he's just sooooo cute!" Gus says, pinching Arnold's cheek.

The crowd laughs.

"He doesn't drink, yet...but tonight...how about we see our star player have some FUN FOR A CHANGE!"

The whole room cheers and shouts!

Arnold still laughs and shakes his head, pushing his brother away.

Diane has a worried look on her face.

After a number of advances from his brother, "Come on!" and "Just one!" being repeated over and over, Arnold finally says:

"Okay, FINE!"

The room erupts even louder when he says it.

Arnold grabs the tube, shoves it into his mouth, and raises his free hand repeatedly to excite the crowd.

"Chug, chug, chug, chug!"

Diane finds a quieter room to sit in while he enjoys himself.

***

By night's end, the crowd starts to thin and Diane is still sitting in the quiet room.

Arnold has stumbled around and navigated his way past unconscious teenagers like a hiker over rocky terrain until he's found her.

He plops down on the couch next to her.

"Heyyyyy...heyyyyy, there you are babe!"

He leans over to kiss her, but reeks of alcohol and beer.

She pushes him away and moves her face.

"Yuck! You're drunk, and you smell horrible..."

"Huh?" he says with a confused look.

He leans in to kiss her again. She does the same.

"Move Arnold...you're drunk," she says in a serious tone.

He slumps down into the seat and pouts.

"You don't love me anymore..." he says as he crosses his arm, pokes his lip out and looks over at her.

She looks straight ahead at first, angrily, but then can't help laughing at his silly expression when she finally does glance in his direction.

The two of them laugh together at their brief but colorful couch conversation.

"Arnold, I don't like you drinking..." she says with a sad and sincere voice.

"Aw babeeee, I knowwww...I'm sorry..." he responds, striking his forehead with his palm.

"I just wanted to have a little fun...that's all...it won't happen again...I promise babe...I promise..." he says.

Diane smiles and rubs his thigh.

She believes him.

Eventually, they leave—Arnold with his arm draped over Diane's shoulder to walk more steadily.

Diane drives the truck tonight, wisely.

***

It was his first lie to me, but I didn't know it at the time.

The first of many, I imagine.

I stopped keeping count after a while.

He promised me. But there were many more parties. And many more "Fun Funnels." Our whole senior year.

I think it was his nerves, you know? There was a lot of pressure on him, to be fair...a WHOLE lot. I mean, everyone had an expectation of him.

He was going to be the local kid who went on to the Majors, would start a local scholarship fund, and maybe do baseball camps in town for the kids during the off-seasons.

He'd become a great motivational speaker once he retired, and then he'd travel the world inspiring other people to follow their dreams and be great like him, since he'd be all rich and famous and all.

And I'd be his humble and quiet wife, always cheering him on from the sidelines.

Being his "balance."

I honestly think that's how we both imagined it—and everyone else too.

But boy, were we wrong.

After his lie came the fear...and finally, the tragedy...

***

"I don't know how any of this works Diane! I've never done this before! Okay?!" Arnold says to Diane as they sit in his father's truck one evening.

"Arnold, listen...it will be okay..."

"How do you know? You don't!"

He punches the steering wheel and drops his head onto it.

Diane rubs his back.

"Honey, you're scared...and so am I...it's okay..."

Graduation is just around the corner. Arnold is deciding whether to take the college route or to go straight to the Majors. He has many offers on the table and has to make a decision soon—his biggest fear is making the wrong one.

His second biggest fear is leaving Diane behind.

"I don't want to leave you, Di...I just don't..." he mumbles, barely audibly, with his forehead still on the steering wheel.

She nearly cries.

"You won't...You won't ever lose me, Arnie..."

"Do you promise?" he asks, looking over at her.

"I promise," she says as a tear finally rolls down her cheek.

"I'll come back for you...I promise, no matter what..."

She nods her head, unable to speak at all now because of her sobbing.

They hug, tightly.

***

It's a hard couple of months for them both.

The scouts however, love Arnold. He's listed in everyone's Top Five list of all baseball recruits in his recruiting class across the country.

"This kid is going places!"

"Best pitcher we've seen in decades!"

"Iowa's golden child!"

"A true star in the making!"

Arnold still has no idea what to do, but he must make a decision within the next two weeks.

He's become a bit distant from Diane in the meantime.

She tries her best to give him space, but still wants him to know that she's there for him. She wishes that she could fix it all for him, but knows that he must do it on his own. He's very independent and headstrong.

One Saturday night, he randomly comes by her home, after she hadn't heard from him at all for a few days. It's about nine o'clock at night when she hears his father's truck pull up.

"What are you doing Arnie? Is everything okay?"

"Just...come with me," he says waving for her to come with his hand.

She doesn't question him, she just pulls her front door closed, scurries off of the porch, and hops into the passenger seat.

They ride in silence most of the way although so many questions are in Diane's mind.

"Is he really okay?"

"Did something happen?"

"Where are we going?"

Before long, she realizes that they are going to the high school.

Once there, they get out, and Arnold grabs his bat and a bucket of baseballs from the truck bed.

"I just need to...blow off some steam...I wanted you to just...I don't know...be here for me...I guess?"

She smiles, honored that he's finally opening up to her a little, in his own way.

They enter the baseball stadium.

Arnold goes down to home base.

Diane sits up in the stands.

***

For nearly an hour, Arnold grabs baseballs out of his bucket, softly tosses them in front of himself, then rips them through the sky. A few times, he's had to run out into the field to gather them in the bucket and bring them back; the ones that he hasn't slammed completely out of the park, that is. He's worked up a pretty good sweat.

"I should've stretched first," he whispers.

Diane is laying down on the bleachers by now and has nearly dozed off. The warm summer air is perfect. The stars are bright. She's finally somewhat at peace, knowing that Arnold is safe and that she's near him.

"Crack!"

A baseball flies through the sky like a shooting star.

Arnold stoops down and picks up another.

"Crack!"

He's distracted, thinking about all of the college offers.

"Crack!"

All of the news articles and calls from recruiters.

"Crack!"

His signing deadline.

"Crack!"

The radio announcer's voice echoes in his mind: "This kid is going places!"

"Crack!"

Diane.

"Crack!"

His heart races.

"Crack...SNAP..."

The snap wasn't a ball.

"AHHHHHHH!" Arnold yells as he falls to the ground.

Diane jumps up in sheer terror and looks toward the field. She sees him on the ground writhing in pain and holding his right foot.

She runs to him.

"AHHHHH...IT'S BROKEN...IT'S BROKEN!" he cries in pain.

"Arnie! ARNIE!" she yells back, not knowing what to do.

She finally gathers herself enough to help him up and assist him as he hops on one foot out of the stadium, through the parking lot, and back to the truck. He's in far too much pain to try and sit in the cab, let alone drive, so he just scoots himself backwards onto the truck bed.

Diane tries as carefully and quickly as she can to get him to the emergency room, still completely confused about what happened. She's in a daze.

Once there, the nurses take him to the back.

His family is called.

His brothers and parents arrive, along with Diane's parents and younger sisters.

They wait for hours.

***

The Doctor finally comes up front after what seems like an eternity.

"Unfortunately, he's torn his Achilles tendon; it's completely severed..."

They're all in complete disbelief.

"He's a very strong kid. He creates a lot of torque when he swings his bat. I suppose after all of these years, he's been wearing away at it and it eventually...snapped..."

***

And that was the tragedy.

When he got the news, he was devastated.

Fewer recruiters called.

A few of the colleges retracted their offer letters.

The radio station didn't talk about him as much.

And, that was pretty much it.

They weren't willing to wait for him to recover. I mean, people have come back from Achilles tears before, right?

The timing of it all couldn't have been any worse.

He eventually started to recover, he really did. But I guess it was too late for them. And truth be told, that night took something from him...a lot from him.

His confidence just wasn't really there anymore. He couldn't move the same as he did. He would try to do some of those same drills from before, but...it just wasn't the same.

The wind in his sails was gone.

I remember us being out there on that same field again, maybe about a year and a half later; when he still had a glint of hope in his eye. He was in that same spot, with that same bucket. Hitting those balls. They looked pretty good too. Good contact. Good distance. Good power.

And then, a twinge.

He dropped the bat and hobbled around the plate a couple of times.

I, of course, immediately stood up from the stands again.

He looked over at me and shook his head.

He picked up the bat again and threw it as hard as he could into the fence, then he just dropped down in the clay on his butt and cried.

He cried hard.

When I got to him, I didn't say anything, I just buried my face into his shoulder and rubbed his back.

I didn't see the glint in his eye again after that.

***

One of us never realized our dream, but the other did.

I became a teacher; Shelby Middle—and eventually Shelby High.

I was even nominated "Teacher of the Year" a couple of times. That's all I wanted. I loved those kids, I truly did. I just love kids in general in fact.

Arnie became a mechanic, like his father. It at least allowed him to work with his hands still, as he had always done. He was pretty good at it too; a natural.

His father taught him everything he knew.

Arnie did well at it, but I could tell that he wasn't really happy.

Not the type of happy that he was during those championship years back in school.

There was at least one nice highlight in there. Our wedding day.

I've already told you about that. It was so beautiful. It was one of the few days around that time that I remember him smiling...I mean, REALLY smiling. I loved every minute of it and didn't want it to end.

But days go by.

Arnie's brothers both did pretty well.

Gus and James both went on to play in the Majors for some years; one in Seattle, and the other in Tampa. I always forget which one went where, but they did really well. We were proud of them, even Arnie was.

But I know deep down, it hurt him. It hurt him bad.

***

The unhappiness had really set in by then, and the distance was more frequent. I'd find bottles in the den and out in the garage most evenings. I stopped saying anything about it after some years. What was the point?

If he needed that to cope, then who was I to take it away from him?

He would be gone for days at a time sometimes, but in those days a woman did what she had to, and kept her marriage together—even if it costed her happiness.

Looking back at it, I don't think that was the right way at all—in fact, I know that it wasn't, but it was the way that we all knew.

***

"I know that he loves me...I really do...I think he just has a hard time showing it...he can be so distant, and sometimes I just...I just wish that I could grab him and pull him close and let him know...it's okay...it's going to be okay..." Diane says in the famous Shelby Milkshake Shop one evening after teaching.

She cries.

Her friend hugs and consoles her.

"Thank you for sticking with me for so long, girlie," Diane says with an exhale.

"What did you ever do with that yellow Beetle?" she continues.

The two women laugh.

***

We had each other though, as much of ourselves that we could offer to each other at least.

I offered him everything.

Everything.

I just didn't know how little of him I was actually getting.

No idea at all.

***

"It would be good for both of us, something else to focus on," Diane says one evening as Arnold watches television and she looks at a baby magazine.

They're both in their mid-thirties now.

Arnold looks over at his wife after another swig from his flask.

He scratches his chin.

"Parents, huh? Us?"

They pause in silence and stare at each other. A few moments later, they both erupt with laughter.

Many months later, Arnold is outside tethering a yellow rope with a tire on it to the tree in their backyard. He wears his blue denim mechanic's shirt; a permanent fixture in his life for the past fifteen or so years.

Diane watches him from their bedroom and rubs her plump belly; she couldn't hide her smile even if she tried.

Everything finally started to feel like home.

It's so funny; after all of those years, it had just then started to feel like home to me—to feel like, hope.

Even Arnie got a little softer in those days. He spent more evenings with me. We'd watch television together. We'd eat dinner together. He'd leave the shop early and take me to the milkshake shop sometimes.

It was beautiful.

For a few months at least...

***

"Arnieeeee!" Diane yells from the bathroom one morning.

Blood is leaking from her body and onto the floor. Some is on her hand as she holds onto the sink for balance; red stains the white porcelain.

Arnold rushes in, looks around in semi-shock, but says nothing, and immediately takes her to the truck, that is no longer his father's—but his.

This feels all too familiar—the mad rush to the hospital.

The driver and passenger roles have just been swapped this time as opposed to many years ago.

"There's...nothing that we can do, Mr. Fisk...we are so sorry for your loss..." the doctor says a few hours later.

Diane is distraught in the hospital room when she finds out.

She cries for hours on and off.

Arnold sits in the corner, staring blankly at the wall.

When she's asleep, he stands up and leaves.

***

It was so much worse after that.

The drinking. The distance. The quiet. The coldness.

The days without coming home.

So much worse.

There was one bright spot, even in the midst of it though.

It didn't come for a few more years, however.

But when it finally came, I was glad.

My magnolias.

It was a total surprise to me; a pleasant one.

I came home one day to find that he had planted a small magnolia bush in the garden right outside of our bedroom window. I would look at it almost every day. He left me a little note that explained what magnolias represented and let me know that he planted them for me.

I wasn't expecting that at all, but it was nice.

***

Arnold died of cirrhosis of the liver just a few years after.

I told him back in high school that I didn't like the drinking; but Arnold didn't like to listen.

Mostly our high school friends and our family came to the funeral.

We all loved Arnold; we truly did.

The papers wrote about him and praised his high school years.

That was nice of them.

***

Most of everyone at the funeral, I knew, except for this one woman.

She was so pretty—a younger woman, holding a baby.

I didn't know them, but I felt like I should've.

I felt like, somehow...I did.

She stood off to the side, holding the infant, and left as soon as the funeral was over.

***

After that, life got really, really tough for me.

I honestly didn't know how connected I actually was to Arnold until that connection was broken. I resented him for it too. I guess it wasn't his fault completely.

It got harder to get up and teach.

It got harder to get up, period.

I'd find myself gazing out of the bedroom window at the tire, and of course at the magnolias. For hours at a time, sometimes.

Arnie didn't say much in those final years, but planting that magnolia bush said a whole lot. Just like the tire swing said a lot.

His hands had done many things:

With a baseball, his hands put him in newspapers and on radio and tv stations.

With a wrench, he used them to try and build a new life after he felt one had been taken away from him. And, it had certainly been taken away.

With a rope, they tied a symbol of our hope on a tree; a hope that again was shattered. A feeling that both of us had become all too familiar with.

With a tiny shovel, they restored a glimpse of love and promise back into my heart that I truly am grateful for.

With a bottle, they destroyed everything.

Everything.

***

I soon found myself taking up one of his habits. Drinking. It eased my mind, sometimes a little too much. I'd pass out all by myself some nights, then I'd vow to never touch another bottle, only to touch at least two by the following day.

***

It was about a year later when the letter came, and I knew who it was from.

A part of me knew—just knew, all along.

But I didn't want to believe it.

I opened it and read it, but I couldn't bear to look at the photograph that came along with it.

I just couldn't.

That finally brings me back to where you first began to read my story.

Damn you, Arnold.

Damn you.

The gun blasts.

The gunpowder scent fills the air.

Quiet.

***

It's a bright place.

In all ways that a place can be bright; it's exactly that.

Every wonderful smell of nature is there too.

And the feeling—the sensation—the atmosphere?

Goodness!

It gets down into your skin.

In your bones and heart—and spirit and soul.

It just...creeps down to the core and the bottom of you, like drops of water soaking into dry skin.

Heaven.

It feels...like heaven...

***

Diane is lying down in a huge field on her back with her eyes closed.

Peaceful, joyous and content.

The biggest smile that she's ever smiled is plastered on her face like a poster on a wall. She can't see it, but she can feel it.

It's the first time that she's actually felt her own smile in many, many years.

Slowly, she sits up and scans the perimeter.

Like a reflex, her hands shoot up to her mouth and cover it in amazement.

Magnolias.

As far as her eyes can see—all around and on all sides of her.

"There have to be...MILLIONS of them!" she says inside the core of her mind, excitedly—not with words, but with feeling and intention.

Fully bloomed and with a sweet scent wafting through the air—the magnolias sit on trees and bushes, tantalizing and welcoming her to this wonderful place.

She smiles at them and cries at their beauty.

The sun shines exquisitely bright here, but doesn't hurt her eyes one bit. The blue sky is full of cottony white clouds that don't block it, but instead compliment it—a deep, royal blue; silently bellowing bold grace.

"This whole place is one big garden of magnolias," she says inside of her consciousness as she walks along a path that was just in front of her after she stood up.

The path is made of pure white, yellow and rose gold—and lined with rubies, crystals, emeralds, diamonds and multi-colored precious stones along its edges. It glimmers in the sunlight beautifully.

Diane feels as light as a feather and perfectly at peace.

She feels free.

None of the darkness, sadness, regrets or fears cloud her head now. It's a good feeling. A great feeling. A feeling that she's lusted after for years.

***

She walks for quite a while, but enjoys the entire stroll. She's not headed to any particular place that she's aware of; she's never even been here.

She just feels compelled, to walk.

Ahead, she hears sounds, with her sense of hearing that isn't based on anything physical.

"Laughter? Children?" she says within her heart.

Just a few hundred feet ahead, there's a little boy and a little girl.

They have the most beautiful brown skin she's ever seen in her life, or afterlife.

The little boy wears overalls, and the girl wears a dress with flowers on it.

Diane stops, feeling deeply that she knows the children somehow.

She places her hand on her chest and tries to recollect.

The boy and girl stop their playing and look at her.

They grin and wave.

Diane waves back.

As she was approaching, they were tossing a football to one another.

The boy holds it up in the air, points to it and nods at Diane, asking if he may toss it to her with his thoughts.

Diane nods back at him.

The boy hurls the ball toward her.

It floats through the air. Gravity has very little effect on it. It lands softly in Diane's hands.

It looks brand new, as if the ball had just been stitched together moments ago. The brown leather is flawless and pristine. The white laces are as clear and pure as a pearl from an oyster.

Diane smiles, then tosses the ball back.

The girl catches it.

The three exchange smiles again.

The children turn and continue their play.

Diane continues to walk.

***

Up ahead, Diane stops for a moment, again just overwhelmed with how absolutely stunning the field of magnolias is. She stoops down and studies one of them.

It's virtually perfect; as healthy of a magnolia as she's ever seen.

"Far too beautiful...and too alive...to pluck from the ground..." she thinks.

"Life deserves to keep living...especially a beautiful life..." she ponders with her eyes closed.

"Every...life...is beautiful..."

She stands up, twirls in a few circles, then allows herself to gently fall into the field on her back.

She laughs.

Then cries.

Then both.

So overcome with, and full of, the emotions of love, joy, peace and happiness, that they apparently begin to leak from her eyes.

Then, she hears more sounds, internally.

She sits up and looks from left to right.

Two men, laughing.

They're quite a bit of distance away from her, but they're coming in her direction on the jeweled path.

She stands up and begins to walk toward them.

The men hold hands, not speaking to each other, only laughing with their hearts—not audibly, just within themselves.

As was the case with the boy and girl, somehow Diane is able to hear the two men's love for one another, and all of the other sentiments that are typically only felt or thought in the plane of existence that she just left—or escaped—whichever term is more appropriate.

None of them have made any sounds at all; everything Diane has heard has been, within her.

As they draw closer, Diane can make out more details concerning them.

One wears a beautiful cardigan, with grey pants and black dress shoes. His smile is radiant—a smile that lights up the bright sky even more than it already is. The other is just as handsome, but is dressed more like an artist of some type.

By now, the party of two is directly in front of her.

Both men smile at her gleefully, and again, she feels as if she knows them.

Personally, and intimately.

In the same motion, both of the men look down to the ground. Both of their eyes stop at the artistic man's shoe. Diane's eyes follow theirs.

A splotch of paint, almost as if it's a tiny masterpiece.

Diane stoops down and notices the great detail of it.

It appears to have been created accidentally, but upon closer inspection—it's amazing.

She gently caresses it with the tips of her pointer and middle fingers; the man allows her to do so.

It's so familiar.

It resonates with her like a childhood photo that contains a distant and nearly forgotten memory.

When she stands, the two men smile at her again, look into each other's eyes as they squeeze each other's hands, then continue down the path.

Diane continues on as well.

***

She walks for a while without encountering anyone else, so she simply takes in all of the scenery. She's still amazed by how large this area is, and how pleasant. She scans from side to side to see what else may be there, but only magnolias fill the landscape—infinite, delicate, white petals.

In her scanning, she notices a shadowy figure very far ahead; a small bluish-grey dot on the horizon.

She walks, and walks.

The figure gets a little larger as she gets closer.

At a particular instance, she stops dead in her tracks.

Her heart rate speeds up and her upper lip begins to tremble.

"It can't be," she thinks.

"Can it be?"

A blue, denim shirt.

She nearly turns and goes the other way, but her legs won't allow her to.

It's him.

Arnold.

In a flash, she's standing directly in front of him, noticing every detail of the face that she's gazed at for most of her life. He looks exactly the same, as if time had never taken its effect on him at all.

So many feelings swirl around inside of her.

She wants to hug him, laugh, cry, sing, fight, scream, choke him and kiss him all at once.

All she manages to do, is cry.

He looks at her with a semi-happy expression; like he desires to hug her, but is afraid that she wouldn't accept it—so he stands still with his arms at his sides, waiting for her reaction.

"Why?" Diane says to him with her soul.

Neither of them says anything, of course, but she knows that he can interpret her feelings.

"Why Arnie? Why...why...WHY!?" she projects with her existence to him.

Her clenched fists strike his chest a couple of times, like pounding on a lunch table and demanding more food.

More tears.

She falls down to her knees.

He stands there, motionless, with the same semi-happy expression. He allows her to express herself as much as she desires.

For the first time in this wonderful place, she feels despair.

She leans forward onto her hands and drops her head.

As she blinks, tears fall into the bell of a magnolia that's just beneath her face.

When she looks up, she sees that Arnold is looking off to the side.

She looks as well.

When she sees the sight, her heart aches even more.

"...no...no...NO!" Diane screams inside.

***

A woman approaches; as beautiful of a woman that the Creator of the All has ever formed, fashioned, shaped and breathed the breath of life into.

A child is on her shoulder as she approaches Arnold and Diane.

Diane would know that face anywhere, even in the "beyond"—the woman from Arnold's funeral. The woman who wrote the letter to Diane.

Bitter weeping pours out of Diane like water from a fountain in a town square.

The woman stops, looks into Arnold's eyes, then they both look down at Diane.

The woman's expression is the same as Arnold's; they can both feel love and compassion for Diane—pity and empathy even—regret, and sorrow.

***

Arnold takes the baby, whose head and face are covered, into his arms.

He kneels down in front of Diane on one knee.

In the midst of her tears, Diane tries to push him away, gently, so as not to harm the child.

She doesn't want to look.

She can't bear to look.

Arnold persistently makes his best attempts to hand Diane the child.

Too weak and heartbroken to fight him anymore, she yields and holds the infant.

When she does, he pulls away the blanket.

Diane looks into the baby's eyes.

And, love.

Instant, love.

Love is the only way to describe what she sees.

The absolute, perfect and ubiquitous personification, of love.

It rushes into her heart and mind like a massive tidal wave over a small island; washing out any hint of sadness that was there just seconds before.

Bright, emerald-colored eyes, that dance like two green ballerinas in the sunlight. She's never personally seen such awe and wonder in human form. Diane's bitter and angry tears instantly transform into sentimental and compassionate ones.

The little girl begins to fidget and giggle in Diane's arms, which fills her spirit with even more joy, and pure, unfiltered, unhindered, unbroken, unabridged—love.

***

As she holds the child while still on the ground, Diane notices that Arnold has stooped down even lower in her peripheral vision.

He picks up something metallic and shiny that glimmers in the corner of Diane's eye.

When she looks at him, he's holding a small gardener's shovel.

A bit confused, Diane continues to watch him.

She hadn't noticed it until now, but in all of the field, there is only one unfilled spot, and it's right in between her and Arnold.

A single, small, unplanted magnolia bush lies on the ground between them as well.

Arnold digs a small hole into the fresh, healthy soil, plants the infantile bush, then wipes his hands on his pants.

As he looks at Diane, he says to her with his heart:

"Now, I'm finished."

Arnold has planted this magnolia bush, just as he had done the millions, possibly billions before it—all around her. Tears fill her eyes once more when this understanding floods into her brain like forty days and nights of rain water.

She looks at all of the magnolias again.

Arnold stands with a smile, takes the child and points off in the distance.

A small tree is there, with a yellow rope tied to one of the branches and a tire hanging from it.

Someone else is there too, but they're too far away for her to make out who it could be.

Diane looks back at Arnold, who smiles and begins to walk away with the baby and the woman.

Diane stands, wipes her tears, and walks toward the tree.

***

When she's close enough, she sees a small boy pushing the tire, repeatedly.

It sways back and forth like a round, rubber pendulum.

Again, she stops in her tracks.

Nothing within her wants to approach the child, but everything within her does at the same time; she's magnetically drawn and can't escape the intangible pull that he has on her.

Again, tears.

She's never met this boy externally, but she feels a connection to him that is just as strong, if not stronger, than the connection she feels to Arnold.

She knows this boy.

And he knows her.

She places one hand on her mouth and the other on her waist while looking down at it.

The blood.

The hospital.

"Hi mom," the boy says.

The only audible words that have been spoken thus far—and they ring within her louder and stronger than any other words that she's ever heard spoken.

She's too choked up to respond, but her tears and trembling body say it all.

"Come and play with me," he says, as he maneuvers himself inside of the tire and motions for her to come to him.

Diane goes over and pushes the tire.

He laughs as he swings.

The most magnificent sound—this child's laugh—her child's laugh.

Before long, she's laughing and giggling with him. She wants this moment to last forever, and apparently, that's very much a possibility, considering how she ended up here.

For hours, they play on the tire swing, but it feels like just a few minutes.

This is what she's dreamed of.

This is all she's ever wanted.

This.

Peace.

Happiness.

Family.

Motherhood.

Eventually, the boy wiggles out of the tire and falls to the ground, still laughing.

He rolls around a bit in the field.

Diane can't resist herself; she leaps down on the ground beside him and rolls too.

They laugh until their stomachs hurt.

Then, she grabs him and tickles him under both of his arms, which causes him to erupt with even more laughter.

She loves this, and loves him—in ways that she didn't know she had the capacity to love.

His silky brown hair, rosy cheeks, bright eyes and perfect teeth.

He reminds her so much of Arnold; he has his eyes.

He reminds her so much of herself; he has her nose.

He's perfect.

Everything about him, and about right now.

Perfect.

They lay on their backs now and stare at the sky.

Absolutely perfect.

***

More moments pass, but they don't seem to pass at all.

"Mom..." the boy says softly.

"I'm glad you're here..."

Diane turns her head toward him with a pleased grin.

"...but..." he says, with almost a hint of concern and remorse in his voice.

Her eyebrows raise.

She rolls over onto her side and props her head up onto her hand to be more attentive to what he's about to say.

"But what?" she thinks to herself and projects to him.

"You're too early..."

Immediately, the boy jumps up and takes off running through the field.

Diane gets up as quickly as she can and gives chase, but he's too fast for her.

Internally and emotionally, she calls out to him with her feelings and heart.

She knows that he can sense her, but he doesn't stop.

***

All of the scenery begins to fade in her view.

Darker.

Fading.

Darker.

Her pace slows.

She notices that the magnolias all around, in the entire field, are beginning to wilt.

Fading.

Darker.

Fading.

Her legs feel like they're made out of iron all of a sudden.

Fading.

"Beep!"

She hears it faintly, in the sky.

Darker.

She falls forward onto her hands and knees.

Her focus falls to one magnolia in particular.

She watches it bow before her and turn brown.

"Beep..."

Fading.

She breathes, ever so slowly.

She falls further forward onto her stomach—her face to the side and her cheek on the ground.

Darker.

"BEEP!"

She continues her labored panting.

She rolls over onto her back.

Fading.

A brightly lit white room.

Frigid, still air.

Beep...

Beep...

Beep...

The whirring and beeps of machines.

The scent of unappetizing cafeteria food mingled with the mild stench of sickness.

Diane's eyes float to her left.

Cords extend from her arms like spaghetti.

She sees men and women dressed in blue and white, and wearing tiny masks, standing outside of a large window.

A young woman with blond hair and a clipboard points to Diane when she notices her watching them.

The others look, then rush toward the door of the room. Diane gasps, painfully, then closes her eyes.

The beeps continue.

Diane Elizabeth Meadows—Fisk

Shelby, Iowa

March 25, 1967 —
Petal Five

Magnolias

"You're worthy of magnolias, too."

—Arnold's note to Diane on the day that he planted her magnolia bush

Depending on their color, the symbolic meanings of magnolias in different periods and civilizations vary. White magnolias have often been given as gifts to women in Chinese culture—symbols of the woman's delicacy and beauty. They are representative of the softer feminine energy as opposed to the firmer male energy. As can be speculated, white magnolias are also associated with purity and chasteness. Other themes have included nobility, grace and dignity. They've been used in various celebrations such as weddings and anniversaries, as symbols of peace, hope and love. Magnolias and their meanings have permeated time and remain staples in cultures and philosophies that have spanned the globe.

***

When Arnie was young, and even as he got older—he was really into flowers.

I had almost forgotten about that for years. In fact, I did forget about it, until the day that I saw the field of magnolias he had been planting for me.

I guess you can call it a day.

I suppose time doesn't matter in a place like that.

He would look them up in these books, lots and lots of books that he had collected over the years—he would figure out what species they were, where they were native to, what they symbolized—all sorts of stuff. It was sort of a cute hobby.

His favorite was the magnolia.

It eventually became mine too.

He loved my magnolias—probably about as much as I did.

Maybe even more.

He certainly took good care of them, sometimes better than me.

I suppose that to him, I was the magnolia bush, in a way.

What he couldn't seem to offer to me all of the time, he gave to the magnolias.

Diane sighs.

He really was a good man; I believe that.

I know that.

He really tried.

He just...he just had his issues and struggles, like we all do...

...and sometimes those struggles of his hurt me bad...

...so bad...

Tears desire to fill her eyes.

She pushes them back with her mind.

I loved him. I still do.

Another pause and deep sigh.

My Arnie.

She stands up in whatever space she's in, turns, and begins to walk away.

For a moment, she pauses, and turns back.

...and to think, you planted that little magnolia bush out back, just for me...

...just for us...

...and you're still planting magnolias for us...

...for me...

...in the by and by...

She smiles as she looks down.

You offered the best you could, Arnie.

And your best was clearly more than enough.

I can see it now.

I'm worthy of magnolias.

Thank you, Arnie.

I love you.

...I love you...

Thank you.

End.

...for every superhero, who's familiar with the recurring dark cloud...

...it's just a cloud—and we're superheroes...

Live, please?

You're worthy of magnolias, too.

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Copyright © 2019 by NJ SIMMONS LLC

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