Poison Flowers

by Nat Burns

  “So what brings you to the East Coast, Marya?”

  Marya studied her, noting the glossy sleekness of her long, dark hair and the brightness of her gray eyes. She was very attractive. “Well, I guess I needed a change. And my parents live here.”

  ‘‘Oh, you’re living with them?”

  “Yes. Well, I was, but I just moved into a new place a few weeks ago. It’s over on Begaman Cove.”

  Karen nodded. “That must be near Master Wood’s house. She lives over there. Have you met her yet?” She studied Marya calmly.

  “Yes, yes, I have, but…”

  “Let’s line up, please!”

  Marya jumped nervously as Dorry’s authoritative voice echoed across the dojang. She had entered the practice area from behind her, and chills jittered along Marya’s spine as she imagined those cold blue eyes raking across her back. Warily, she turned and caught Dorry’s gaze. The master was unreadable, her face impassive, her eyes icy as she glanced away to watch younger students scurry from the room.

  Karen grasped her numb fingers and gave them a squeeze. “We’ll talk more later,” she whispered as she pulled Marya into line.

  There were just eleven students in this high-ranking class. Because they were well-trained, they joined the line as though materializing from thin air. Marya glanced along the line, noting that most were close to her age except for one teenager who had already acquired his first belt.

  “I see we have a new student. Karen, since it seems you have already met her, perhaps you would like to make the introductions,” Dorry said, her gaze resting on anything but Marya.

  Karen stepped forward one pace. “I’d like to introduce Marya Brock from Seattle, Washington, sir!” she announced in a crisp voice.

  She stepped back into line, and the whole class as one unit turned toward Marya and bowed in welcome. When Master Wood turned her eyes upon her, they were as cold as ever.

  “Welcome to our dojang, Marya. We hope you will find balance and peace with us.”

  Marya bowed, deliberately dropping her gaze to the floor. Though it was subtle, she knew Dorry would understand and accept the message. In class she would always be subservient to her. All their differences were to be forgotten once she passed inside the doors of the dojang. When she raised her head, she saw Dorry’s eyes soften in acceptance, then the master inclined her head in a small nod of understanding.

  Classes under Master Wood were much the same as those in Seattle under Master Hayes, comprised mostly of powerful kicking and hand-arm strike exercises. They worked together well as a class. Marya was paired with Karen in tumbling and sparring work.

  Later Dorry moved the entire class together in the kebong form. Marya was impressed with the quality of the students’ performance. Even the youngest and oldest of them moved through the graceful stylized defense moves with near-perfect form. Obviously Master Wood spent a lot of time and energy with her classes.

  At the end of the ninety-minute workout Marya was winded, but her body was glowing with vitality. She smiled at Karen as they walked to the changing room together.

  “That was a good class,” Marya told Karen as she slipped out of her uniform trousers and into a pair of sweatpants. “What type of master is she?”

  “Master Wood? She’s a great teacher. I worry about her, though. She seems to have no life other than this school. I mean she’s here almost all the time.”

  Karen, already dressed in T-shirt and jeans, was brushing her long hair.

  “Why? Is she the only instructor?”

  “Oh no, she’s got at least three belts she has trained. I guess she has a hard time delegating authority or maybe she’s just bored, not an uncommon occurrence here in Marstown.”

  Marya chuckled and stabbed at her own hair with a brush. “What? With an exciting mecca like Myrtle Beach nearby?”

  “It gets old quick, believe me. Listen, I always go to Sissies after class for a milkshake. Would you like to join me?”

  Marya eyed Karen’s placid face and stuffed her uniform into her gym bag. “Sure, that would be great.”

  ***

  Dorry watched Karen and Marya leave the parking lot and an unwanted trickle of jealousy ran through her. As if she had any claim on the girl. Or wanted one.

  She turned from the window and reared back in her office chair. She wove her fingers together over her hard belly, the hands looking extremely white against the black of her dobok. She studied the desk blotter, letting her mind drift.

  Marya. “Star of the sea.” Seeing her on the deck of her Begaman Cove property, Dorry could believe she was indeed a star from the sea. A bright gift left there for Dorry. A gift she wanted to claim, she admitted to herself at last. For the first time in a very long time, she wanted to lay claim to someone. To Marya Brock.

  She sighed and shifted her eyes, gazing blindly at the many framed plaques and certificates of accomplishment that peppered her walls.

  Marya Brock.

  It had been good to see her in class earlier. Too good. This had Dorry worried. She found Marya attractive, but there was no way she could be in a relationship. Not in this town. She would have to move away, give up her business, give up her life here in Schuyler Point. She could not allow the public here access to her private life ever again. Which meant the skinny redhead was off limits. Dorry would not, could not, choose her over the life she’d built from a good measure of tough forbearance as well as years of blood, sweat and tears.

  A sound penetrated the silence. Her phone was vibrating. She snatched it from the desk and eyed the caller ID. She grunted absently. It had been a while since she’d heard from him. He knew better. He was not allowed, by law, to contact her or get within one hundred feet of her. She was tempted, just from curiosity, to pick up the call, but doing so might encourage him. If there was one thing this caller did not need, it was encouragement.

  She replaced the phone on the desk, ignoring the call and putting her old friend from her mind. She thought instead about an old love. Isabel’s call had unsettled her. No matter how hard she tried to get her out of her mind, all she had to do was hear her voice and all bets were off. She dreaded the emotional upheaval she would experience upon seeing Izzie again, but curiosity was eating at her; she wanted to find out what was plaguing her.

  Dorry closed her eyes and allowed herself to remember how it had been between them, how their combined chemistry had set them afire. A heat kindled between Dorry’s thighs as she relived those moments of passion. She saw candlelight. Saw the pale blush of frothy champagne, the drink that had always been Izzie’s favorite. Saw her hands smooth their way along long, slender legs as she kissed her way up along one flank. Rising, she looked deeply into eyes that gazed lovingly back at her. Watched the deep blue eyes close in pleasure, pale lashes feathering against freckled cheeks, as she lowered her face for a kiss.

  Dorry rose on shaky legs, her heart leaping in her chest. She strode to the door, pausing at the portal to try to regain her composure. The legs she had been caressing had not been the tanned ones she knew so well. They had been pale. And freckled. And God forbid, those had not been Isabel’s eyes. Izzie’s eyes were brown.

  Dorry staggered along the hallway and into the dojang. The room was empty but chaotic with scattered equipment. With a frenzy born of desperation, Dorry started putting things away, hoping the chores would force Marya’s sensual image from her mind.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “A reporter, huh? I thought your name sounded familiar. I saw one of your stories this past week. You write well.”

  “Thank you,” Marya replied as she pulled the paper wrapper off her straw.

  Sissies turned out to be a small diner fronting on one of the small side streets in Marstown. The proprietor, aptly named Sissie, was a loud, boisterous woman who delighted in reciting riddles to see who in the dining room could guess the answer. The atmosphere was relaxed and jovial. Marya decided to be a frequent customer.

  As Karen had promised, the mil
kshakes were excellent. Since Marya had missed dinner, she also had a salad and an order of french fries. The food was delicious; the salad was even loaded with fresh veggies. “I’m afraid others do not share your love of journalism.”

  Karen frowned. “What do you mean? Has someone been bothering you about your writing?’’

  “No.” She shook her head, feeling foolish for having brought up the subject. “It’s just before I knew how Master Wood felt about reporters and the media, I was goaded into asking her for a story. Big mistake, let me tell you.”

  “I can imagine,” Karen commiserated, nodding her head as she sucked loudly at her milkshake. “Ever since that Francie Rose thing, Dorry has really avoided the press.”

  “Francie Rose?” Marya’s ears leapt to attention on either side of her head. “What’s that all about?”

  “Oh,” Karen leaned forward eagerly. “You don’t know about that, do you?”

  She shook her head and settled in for a story.

  “Francie Rose used to live with Dorry in the house Dorry lives in now. The two of them got together in this small town in Germany, though I think their families already knew one another. See, Dorry grew up here and her family has always had that big place on the cove. They were pretty well off, Texas oil, I believe, even though they’ve been here a while. Anyway, she was traveling through Europe and stopped in to stay with Francie’s father and mother who were stationed there. After they bounced around England and France together, Dorry brought Francie back here and put her through school. I think her dad wanted her to graduate here or something, because she did.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Dorry or Francie?” Karen screwed up her brow as she asked the question.

  “Both, I suppose,” Marya said, shrugging.

  “Well, Dorry was in her…forties, I guess, and Francie, though she was young by US standards, started her senior year in high school here. She graduated from Schuyler Point that year.”

  “How long ago was that?” She figured Dorry had to be pushing fifty.

  “About eight, ten years. But this is where it gets sticky. Francie got sick a few months after she graduated and, of course, Dorry took her to the best doctors. It turns out she had this bad type of cancer. Dorry changed a lot during that time, according to my mother. She used to be this real reckless-type person, always laughing and doing stupid things. Well, after Francie got sick, Dorry became a recluse and spent every day taking care of her. Francie went through all kinds of treatments, but she just got sicker and sicker. I think she held on for like three months until one night she just died in her sleep.”

  “God, how tragic,” Marya gasped. Her heart swelled with sadness. “What a horrible thing to have happen.”

  “Wait, you don’t know the whole story. See, Francie’s dad, who had originally consented to let Dorry care for Francie so she could attend school here, all of a sudden changed his attitude. He decided Master Wood was this lecherous old lesbian who had put the moves on Francie and seduced her away from her parents. He went public with it, and the story was on TV and in People magazine, lots of places. Oh, it was terrible. Poor Master Wood couldn’t show her face without some reporter shoving a microphone or a notepad down her throat.”

  “So that’s why she’s the way she is,” Marya mused. “I can’t really blame her.”

  Karen nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty awful. I was too young and self-absorbed to remember most of it but I’ve heard people in my family talking about it.”

  “So, do you think it was true?” She dropped her eyes trying to be nonchalant although her heart was pounding furiously.

  “What? That’s she’s a lesbian? I really don’t know. She’s never been married or been associated with anyone else other than Francie, so could be. Maybe they were lovers.”

  Marya eyed her closely. “Does that bother you?”

  Karen recoiled, a frown etched onto her features. “Gosh, no! Even though I’ve never thought about it too much. I mean, I really don’t care what she does. She’s an excellent teacher and that’s all I care about.”

  “I’m sure others aren’t as charitable as you.” Marya turned her face away.

  Karen agreed ruefully, her chin propped in the palm of one hand. “Yeah, she had a hard time. Most people just ignored old man Rose, especially toward the end when he got so weird and moved back up North with his wife. I’m sure a few of the good old boys here still give her a hard time though. Maybe that’s another reason why she stayed with the martial art; so she could defend herself.”

  “That may be.”

  Silence fell between them. Marya was glad that she finally learned the story of Dorry’s life, but she felt like an intruder, as if she had pried into a place forbidden to her. After a few moments she changed the subject, asking Karen about her life and career.

  “Me? I’m just a cashier, over in Myrtle,” she said, shaking her head with a frown.

  “Just a cashier?” Marya smiled at her, amused by the description.

  “Well,” she began slowly, “I do go to the community college…studying art. My mom and dad aren’t thrilled but that’s okay. I just love graphic art. I want to be in advertising someday.”

  “Way cool,” Marya responded. “There’s always a need for that. Your parents should look on it as job security.”

  “It’s the whole starving artist thing, I’m thinking. How could I ever be financially successful at something I really enjoy?”

  Marya nodded her understanding. She munched the last of her crispy fries while Karen told her about her boyfriend, who was an expert with computers. They had gotten engaged a few months ago, and she had been allowing a preoccupation with wedding plans to sabotage her artistic career.

  As she listened to Karen talk, Marya quivered inside. The thought of Dorry being a lesbian like her filled her with unreasonable joy even as her heart sank. It wasn’t as if Dorry would ever be her friend or a confidante. She could barely tolerate being her taekwondo instructor.

  “Hey, how does a witch know what time it is?” Sissie leaned across the back of their booth. “Do you guys know?”

  Karen grinned and shrugged her shoulders. “No idea, Sissie. How does a witch know what time it is?”

  “I’ll handle this,” Marya said grandly, motioning for Karen to back off. She used her paper napkin and slowly wiped her hands before speaking. “I’ll bet she looks at her witch watch, right?”

  Sissie laughed and slapped the back of the booth. “Right you are, she looks at her witch watch. Get it? Witch watch.”

  Karen screwed up her face in distaste. “Yeah, Sissie. We got it.”

  Still chortling at her own wit, Sissie moved away. Marya lifted one questioning eyebrow to Karen.

  “It was probably drugs,” Karen explained in a whisper as they rose to leave. “She’s a child of the sixties.”

  Marya looked at Sissie, dancing behind the counter in her flat sandals and cobalt blue waitress uniform, wild brown hair escaping various confinements.

  She nodded as they moved toward the door. “Yep.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  He seemed to have gotten smaller. Mama swore she was feeding him, but I wondered. Maybe it was because he was in that huge metal dog crate, though I would have thought it would make him look bigger.

  I sat and watched him a long time. Until he started to squirm and look at me with those washed-out angry eyes.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked finally.

  “What do you care?” he said, his voice raspy and quiet. “You and your mother are both crazy. I can’t wait until y’all are found out and have to pay the piper.”

  He looked at me, his gray hair messy and laying limp on his forehead. I saw where he had sweated through his shirt in several places. Mama had taken his tie and his belt, and his clothes hung loose on his thin body. He looked like a scarecrow.

  “Yeah, it’s hot in here,” I whispered.

  I stood and nodded. “Could be. Could be we’re crazy. Could be w
e’ll get caught for stealing you. Not much I can do about that now. Is it?”

  His mouth flapped open and closed a few times, like he was getting ready to say something. After much effort, words came out.

  “What I want to know is how y’all kept it secret for so long. Didn’t anyone put two and two together?”

  I noticed how dirty and disorganized the cellar had become. The man’s water cup had toppled. I fetched a cloth from a nearby shelf and started mopping up.

  “Just no sense in anybody being such a slob,” I muttered. “I just don’t understand why people can’t do things the right way.”

  He leaned forward, wrapping his fingers through the crossbars of the cage. His knuckles were white from the force of his fingers pressing against the diamond-shaped holes in the wire. “Which means your way, right?”

  I studied him, twisting the cloth in my hands. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”

  “So what’s your name, anyway? The one you go by.”

  “Puddintane. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.” The old rhyme made me smile.

  “Bat shit crazy,” he muttered.

  I had tried to be nice, but I had had just about enough of his mouth. I moved as fast as I could and slammed my palms against his fingers, pinning them to the metal with my body weight.

  He screamed as much in fear as in pain, it seemed, and exhilaration raced through me. I’d show him crazy.

  Inserting my own fingers through the holes of the metal fencing, I grasped his middle finger and pulled it as far through the fencing as possible then pressed backward. The clean snap of the broken bone was immensely satisfying, and I closed my eyes to better savor it. Opening them seconds later, I watched his eyes, saw him struggle not to scream again. Hatred flared in his eyes for a brief moment, and I studied it, pleased that I had caused such an emotional response.

  I cooed at him as I let his hand go. He cradled the hand to his chest, and I saw beads of sweat pool on his broad forehead. One pool overflowed, and droplets scurried along his cheeks.