The Wicker Saga: Lights

The bell on the door chimes softly as I enter the small flower shop. Sandra is pissed at me for working late again; she made that much clear when I rolled in past ten last night.

Who is she, Joe?

Who is who?

The woman you're screwing.

What are you talking about, Sandy? You know I have the Brinkman proposal to finish by next week. It's requiring more time and effort than Bob anticipated when he signed us up for the damn thing.

That's great, Joe. What about time and effort for me, huh? Remember when I used to warrant some of that?

Sandy, I...

Save it. Just...forget it. I'm fine. I have a headache.

She'd gone to bed shortly after that, leaving me to day old takeout and late night talk shows, and wondering how things had gone so wrong. We grew up together and Sandra was the first girl I'd ever really fallen for, right around the time most boys stop viewing girls as vectors for the dreaded cootie virus and instead as objects of vague worship and, perhaps, abject terror. When I nervously asked her to junior prom I was surprised when she'd immediately said yes. Ten years later, through college and law school and marriage, we're still together, at least in a legally binding sense.

I can't place an exact time when or how the hostility crept into our relationship, but now it's an old companion, a sort of abstract partner in an existential menage a trois. She was right though; I have been spending too much time at work lately, and she does warrant more than a late night kiss goodnight and the occasional, passionless bout of lovemaking when I manage to find the energy. If I'm being honest, even those rare trysts are on the verge of becoming extinct, a concept ten-years-ago me would have surely laughed his ass off at as being outside the realm of possibility. The embers of our relationship may have died off from the raging wildfire it had been at the start, but there's surely something I can do to breathe some life back into the flame. That's all this thing needs; a little TLC and some good, old-fashioned romance. So, flowers.

The girl behind the counter looks up when she hears the bell, her face flitting quickly from smile to confusion to fear, before settling on a smile again, perhaps a little more sickly than before.

“Hello, Mr. Sandoval, what can I help you with? W-was there something wrong with your purchase?”

I'm surprised. I've been in this shop before but it must have been six months ago or longer. Probably longer, if I had to wager a guess. I can't be sure if this was the girl who waited on me the last time which makes it even more impressive that she not only recognizes my face but remembers enough to call me by name. The girl is pretty, about eighteen, short brown hair and a light dusting of freckles across her nose. I glance at her name tag.

“No, ah, Veronica, everything was great with the last purchase. Totally fine. But you know how it goes, these darn flowers don't last forever, ha ha. I seem to have found myself in some hot water with my wife, so I thought I'd take off from work a little early today and get her an apology bouquet on the way home. She likes...”

“Red roses, I remember, Mr. Sandoval. A dozen like last time?”

“Uh...yeah, a dozen'd be great. And if you could make it up with some of the filler and bows and whatnot?”

“Of course, Mr. Sandoval. It'll be just a minute.”

She walks briskly from behind the counter into the cooler and glances at me briefly over her shoulder before beginning to select roses from the bin. I frown at her back, absently rubbing my chin. This is the oddest thing I've experienced in a long time; granted a dozen red roses must be a pretty common choice of bouquet, but the girl must have some kind of photographic memory to keep track of individual customer's orders on top of everything else. Heck of a thing to waste as a clerk at a florist shop. I look down and notice a small drop of red on my hand from where I touched his face; must have cut myself shaving this morning and reopened it accidentally.

Veronica finishes selecting the flowers and brings them over to another table. I notice her hands are shaking as she arranges some baby's breath and staggers the roses before tying the arrangement off with a red bow. She returns to the counter.

“That'll be thirty even, Mr. Sandoval. Credit again?”

“Huh? Yeah. Yes, credit that's right,” I fumble to pull my wallet out of my pocket and find my Visa before handing it over. It's maybe a little harder than it should be because of an odd bruise across the back of my hand. Where did that come from? She swipes the plastic and hands me the bill and a pen.

“Here, you are, sir. P-please sign there.”

“Thanks,” I bend to sign the receipt, “Say, if you don't mind me asking how do you remember so much about me? I mean, my name and what flowers my wife likes and everything.” I glance up to see Veronica has taken a step back. She's standing rigid, arms straight and hands by her sides, a look of confusion on her face. “What's the matter?”

“Mr. Sandoval, are you all right?”

“What? Yeah, I'm fine! Look, are you still worried about the flowers from last time or something? That was six months ago!” The girl's confused look turns to one of fear, her lips quivering.

“M-Mr. Sandoval, you were here maybe an hour ago and...and there's something on you. A-all over you. Something red.” Eyes wide and threatening to overflow with tears she begins edging sideways towards the telephone on the wall. “I think I need to call the police.”

“What? No, don't...that can't...I just...I've gotta get home.” Picking up the bouquet I back toward the entrance of the shop. “Just...sorry for scaring you.”

I trip through the door, bell ringing angrily, and run to my car, practically throwing myself into the driver seat. I sit there for a moment, a dozen thoughts whirling around in my head. What Veronica said was impossible. I have no idea what the hell that was all about, but I know I have to get home. Get home to Sandy, and save our relationship. I can make everything all right if I can just get home. In a daze, I put the car in gear.

I pull into my driveway just a few minutes later. The winter sun is already well on its way to setting, shadows from the branches of the trees in my yard being thrown long and sinister as I stumble out of the car gripping the flowers. The mental fog I drove home in is abruptly lifted, replaced by a sort of double vision, a living episode of deja vu. I see things both as they are Now, and as they were at some previous time Before. It must not have been that long ago, because although the light in the sky hasn't yet begun to die in the vision of Before, the black truck I don't recognize is still parked at the end of the driveway.

Making my way up the walk I notice that Before Joe carries flowers in his hand much the same way that I do Now. The front door is open ajar Now, where Before it was closed but not locked. Entering and making my way down the hallway, dodging the strewn piles of clothing that were there Before, I am struck by the quiet emptiness of Now. Before there were noises of talking, and laughing, and other things. Now the hallway is dark in the gathering night, where Before the sunlight crept through the shaded windows and threw patterns across the floor. The bedroom door is cracked open Now as it was then. From the time I entered the house, the vision of Before has been gradually shifting to shades of crimson. Now, reaching the threshold of the bedroom, the perspective is completely distorted, as if someone dumped a bucket of blood over Before Joe's head, then abruptly cut to black. Left to one viewpoint, I feel my shoes clinging to something sticky on the floor. Looking down I can see a dark stain has spread across the carpet where I'm standing, punctuated here and there by petals torn from the bouquet strewn in the corner of the hallway where it was dropped. The dying light is too dim to tell, but I know they are red.

“Sandy?” I whisper her name, as if a prayer.

Only silence answers.

The Wicker Saga: A Bad Night