The Race and Other Stories by Sinclair Ross

The Flowers that Killed Him

The Flowers That Killed Him "The flowers that killed him," my mother said this morning as she picked them for the coffin, nasturtiums and petunias, a few white geraniums. "And all the buds coming —just another day or two what a sight they'll be." Thinking of me, though, as she said it, not him. Easy to tell — the white, tight mouth, the scared eyes. Scared so bad they looked frozen, not far off crazy; and why would you be scared for somebody who's already dead? Thinking, too, perhaps, how it was all tied in. For if Larry Blake hadn't been killed we wouldn't have had to move into the apartment (our house wasright on the edge of town, with cows and poplars fifty yards away;she said it wastoo dangerous) and if he could have kept his garden my father wouldn't have had to use window boxes for his flowers. Larry Blake was my best friend. He was killed — sexually assaulted and murdered was what the papers said — four months ago. Red Cochran was my other best friend. He was killed — sexually assaulted and murdered —last Saturday, and yesterday we had the funeral. I wasa pallbearer for both of them. Mymother said maybeit wasn't right to be a pallbearer for Red with my own father lying dead and the funeral coming up tomorrow — that's today — but I said why not? He was my best friend. He'd have done itquick enough for me. Same age: thirteen. Same class in school. The three of us close, always together. My father used to say "the inseparables." So now it's only natural the town's all wondering about me. That's why there's such a crowd. I'm up in the front pew with my mother — the mourners' pew — and I'm not supposed 120 THE RACE AND OTHER STORIES to look around, but when we came injust about every seat was taken and they were still coming along the street. So by now it must be packed, people reaching right down the steps to the sidewalk. Everybodycraning to see me, how I'm standing up — you might say a last look — as if it was going to happen again at six o'clock tomorrow morning. It's hot again — the hottest yet — and up here close to the coffin we can smell the flowers. Strong and sweet, just like in a movie when there's someone next to you with too much perfume. My mother keeps holding my hand — hers sticky,squeezing hard. Scared: she doesn't know how hard. But I sitquiet and let her, don't pull mine away. Because I'm all she's got now. That's what I heard her saythis morning to the woman across the hall, "He's all I've got now." Not that having him too — my father — made much difference. I mean they weren't exactlywhat you'd call a happy couple. For years they haven't even been sleeping together, and in the spring when we were looking for an apartment that was the big problem, finding one we could afford with three bedrooms. Still, he was her husband, and now that it's over I suppose she's got a lot to think about and remember. McNulty's slow getting started — likely practising up on his sermon. Mrs. McNulty's at the organ, playingy^ws Lover of My Soul. It must be the third or fourth time. And all the flowers —somanyyou canjust seeone corner of the coffin (It's closed. They're not letting people walk past to see him — "to view the remains" — like they usually do.) A big wreathe of white roses from the students; carnations from the teachers; another wreathe from the Board. (Mixed in somewhere , buried, lost, his own little bunch of petunias and geraniums.) Sweet peas and mignonette from gardens. White lilac from Miss Blake—RubyBlake,Larry's mother—and more roses from the Cochrans'. People didn't like my father very well but they allrespected him.And they knew about his garden, and that he "just lived for his flowers." Ruby Blake's here, but she's not up singing in the choir. Instead, just like anybody else, she's in a pew at the side, nearly level with us, wearing the same black hat she got last spring for Larry. I don't know about the Cochrans'. Most likelynot — not Mrs. Cochran anyway...