Ivory and Marigolds

Sharp, crisp notes lilted through the parlor. John’s long fingers danced over the ivory keys while his mother swayed nearby, a tea cup clutched delicately in one bony hand. Each chord John struck brought Chopin’s masterpiece to life. He would play the piano forever just to see his mother smiling like that. His father hated the sound—like broken glass clobbered under a horse’s hooves—because it stood to remind him that John would never be the son he’d wanted. Despite his mother’s efforts to shield John from his father’s disdain, John could see it clearly.

“That’s very beautiful, John Henry,” Alice said when he brought the song to a close.

“Should I play another?” John asked, flipping through his sheet music. “How about a piece by Bach?”

Alice crossed the room to stand at his shoulder. John tilted his head back to look up the length of his mother’s frail frame. He couldn’t remember a time when his mother couldn’t be blown over by a strong gust of wind.

She smiled down at him. “No,” she murmured. “I was thinking we ought to take a stroll over the new property.”

John fought back a frown and replaced the sheet music. He slid the cover closed over the piano keys, dragging out each movement. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go outside with his mother; it was more that he couldn’t control what happened to her outside this room. He couldn’t guarantee she’d smile. And it was highly possible that they’d run into something that’d make her unhappy. Even though he had just barely turned thirteen, John could see clearly the way his father eyed their new neighbor, Rachel Martin. He wasn’t blind to when his father came home late either, or when he snapped at Alice for worrying over where he’d been.

“Have you seen the flowers, John Henry?” Alice asked as John stood. She put a hand on his back and guided him through the front door.

John followed his mother down the front steps of the estate and onto the garden path. A horse carriage rested nearby, indicating that John’s father was either just leaving or just returning from the town of Valdosta. Not wanting to be anywhere near when his father emerged, John skipped ahead.

A vast green field, lush with golden yellow flowers, spread out before him. John ran to it and twirled in a happy circle. “They are beautiful, dear Mother,” he called, wanting desperately to distract her from the man who did not love her. “What are they?” John dropped to the ground with his arms out to his sides like he was Christ on a cross.

Alice’s shadow fell over him as she joined him in the field. “These are marigolds,” she said, voice tight.

John winced at the sound. It meant that she was still ill and the new doctor had done nothing to help. “Do you like them, Mother?” John fanned out his legs and flapped his arms through the flower bed. He’d heard of snow angels, but the effect wasn’t the same for the flowers.

Alice sighed heavily. She lifted her skirts and lowered herself slowly to the ground beside him. “They are not my favorite.” She plucked the golden head from one of the stems.

I bet Miss Martin likes them fine, John thought bitterly. “What flower do you like?” Her favorite flower was a lily and then a cherry blossom second. Only an ungrateful child wouldn’t know that, but John asked anyway. Anything to keep her focused on him.

Alice trembled as she stifled a cough. John wanted to shake her and beg her to let it out. He knew it’d hurt her worse, later on in the night, if she held it all back now. She would never know that he’d heard her, having crept up the hallway one night when his father had been out late. The force of her fits shook the door on its hinges. John had hover just outside, longing to give her comfort but knowing she wouldn’t want him to worry. After all, why else would she try to hide the evidence? John hadn’t meant to, but he’d found her stash of blood soaked handkerchiefs.

“I must fancy a lily,” Alice murmured. “It is endearing how the leaves float calmly on the surface of a lake.”

John rolled over and propped his head up on his arm to look at his mother. “And the frogs, right?”

Alice twirled the marigold bud between dainty fingers. “Yes, of course.”

“I caught one in the school yard,” John said. “Before we left Griffin. The teacher would not let me bring it home.”

There! Alice’s smile returned. An identical smile stretched over John’s lips.

“I can catch you another one,” John offered.

Alice shook her head, smile threatening to fall. “I am afraid I would not know the proper care for such a creature, dear boy,” she said.

John forced his smile not to falter. He plucked his own marigold, being sure to leave a good length of stem attached. “Then I shall weave a floral hair piece for my dear mother,” he said and plucked a few more.

She stifled another coughing fit before lying back to the grass. Her gaze was fixed on the distant heavens. John hoped she wasn’t yearning for their promise of paradise.

“That would be wonderful, John Henry.”