Flowers from Afghanistan

by Suzy Parish

  Sophie was already talking to the coordinator.

  “Can you tell me where our table is located?”

  The woman, small and stout in a flowered straw hat, pointed down the end of the lane. We would be on the front row, near the end. A pretty good spot according to my calculations, as people who walked the first aisle would have to circle back past us when they reached the end.

  We carried the tablecloth and banner and set them up first.

  Sophie set her business cards out on the holder. They matched the graphics on the banner.

  I made a couple of trips back and forth with stacks of bread and cinnamon rolls. At last, we were set. I stood back and admired our work.

  Sophie stood behind the table.

  “Hey, let me get a picture of you to show the guys back at camp.”

  “I’m a mess from carrying all this in the heat.”

  “Come on, Soph, please?”

  She nodded reluctantly and smiled when I took a camera shot on my phone. I pulled the photo up and showed her. Her hair shone in the afternoon light. One day she’d be glad I took this photo. She could look back and remember how it all started.

  I pulled up a chair behind the table next to Sophie and sat with my hands in my lap. “Now what do we do?” I asked.

  “Now we wait for customers to show up.”

  “Is that all?”

  Sophie laughed. “Yes, that’s all. However, if you get antsy you can take that old milk glass plate I brought with me and cut up some of those cinnamon rolls into small pieces, about the size of a piece of fudge. Put them on that plate, and we’ll give out samples. That always gets us a lot of sales.”

  I pulled out my knife.

  Sophie jumped. “Wait, what is that?”

  “It’s a knife.”

  “It’s a dastardly looking knife.”

  I grinned wickedly. “I know.”

  “Well, keep that thing out of sight. I don’t want to be thrown out of Baker Street Market for brandishing a weapon.” She smiled, and her eyes had a dancing sparkle in them that I loved.

  “This knife is one of the tools of my trade.”

  “Keep that particular tool of your trade hidden.”

  I started to carve up the rolls when Sophie grabbed my wrist. “Wait.” She produced a squeeze bottle from her purse. “Hold out your hands.”

  “What is that?’

  “Hand sanitizer. I can’t have you getting germs on my rolls.”

  I held out my hands, rubbed the gel into my palms and quickly waved them in the air to dissipate the smell before it threatened to saturate more than the surrounding air.

  Behind us, someone dropped an aluminum pan on the gravel, and the metallic bang made me jump. The lines between Huntsville and Kandahar blurred. My knife reflected light off the keen blade. The crowd noise could have been Taliban, could have been an attack. I jumped up, knocked my folding chair away from the table.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I just need to clear my head,” I said.

  Sophie’s brow wrinkled. Her eyes darkened with concern. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, it’s that hand sanitizer, the smell of it. I practically have to bathe in that stuff in Kandahar. The smell’s just a reminder. That’s all.”

  “Oh, babe, why didn’t you say so?” She capped the bottle and put it in her purse then taking it out, she chucked it in the metal trash barrel across the table. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that bothered you.”

  I didn’t need a fuss made over me. I returned to my seat and picked up the knife. “It’s OK. Let’s get these rolls sold.” I made quick work of the cinnamon rolls with my knife and laid them out on the plate like Sophie wanted. I sheathed the knife and stuck it in the cooler under our table.

  It looked like sale day at Abdul’s. Customers were converging from two different parking lots.

  “How many people come to these things?”

  “Enough that I sold forty loaves of bread last week, and I forget how many trays of cinnamon rolls.”

  They surrounded our table and gathered samples from the roll platter. In minutes it was empty.

  “You could go broke handing out samples like that.”

  “I know, that’s why I limit myself to one platter per week. It’s just enough to get good word of mouth going, but I don’t lose that much inventory.”

  I popped a piece of a cinnamon roll in my mouth.

  “Hey, are you eating our profits?”

  “No,” I mumbled through the crumbs.

  “Do you want to walk around the market? I have to stay with the table, and I’ve seen almost all the vendors before,” Sophie said.

  “I’ll stay here with you,” I said.

  “No, Mac. Go take a look. I want you to see what they have available. These are the people I work with every week, and I’d like you to meet them.”

  I reluctantly got up and pushed my chair back under the table. “I’ll just make a quick run through and be right back.”

  I wondered if she was getting tired of me being home already. I wandered down the straw covered lanes lined on either side with tables. Just about any organic fruit or vegetable in season was available.

  After a while, I relaxed and enjoyed watching people shop. Time slipped by me. I appreciated the luxury of not knowing what time it was, not having to be in any place at a particular time. I walked lazily past an ice cream vendor and watched as people juggled ice cream cones in the scorching heat, ice cream dripping down their hands. Again, I thought of Bashir. He would have loved cold ice cream.

  I turned to the back corner and discovered jewelry vendors. One booth had delicate necklaces that reminded me of Sophie. Handmade pottery pieces were strung on a thin black strip of leather. They were individually numbered, and the artist was right there, ringing people up.

  I wandered down the side of the table just looking. I turned to go when something glittered in the sunlight. It was an intricate carving of a small butterfly, strung between two beads on a delicate silver necklace. It was simple, but it made me smile and think of Sophie. “How much is this one?” I asked the artist.

  The price she quoted made me step back for a moment, but I couldn’t get away from that necklace. It reminded me of Sophie, tiny and fragile, but so fearless she could fly. I reached into my pocket for my wallet. The woman wrapped my purchase and handed it to me in a bag. I carefully hid it in the pocket of my cargo pants.

  “Is this for someone special?” the artist asked.

  “Yes, I’m home on leave from Afghanistan. It’s for my wife. She runs the bread business on the next aisle.”

  “I think I’ve met her. Is her name Sophie? She helped me set up my display one morning when a worker failed to show. She’s a kind person. You’re very fortunate to have her for a wife.”

  My mouth turned up in a smile. “I’m the lucky one,” I said.

  The artist nodded. “Let me get you a gift box. I’ll be just a minute.”

  She dug around in a packing box under her display table, and as she did, I had a clear view to the next aisle over.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the dispatcher. She was in the next aisle buying flowers. I placed my hand on the display table to steady myself. Then I took off around the corner headed to Sophie’s table.

  The artist straightened and called out to me. “Did you change your mind about the box?”

  I didn’t answer her. I was already moving as quickly as I could to our table. I glanced at my watch. It was almost time to shut down. I arrived in front of Sophie’s table, panting and sweating.

  “Mac, are you all right?”

  She always could read me.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Is it the heat?” And then, almost to herself, she added, “How could it be the heat? You’re used to working in hundred-degree temperatures in Afghanistan.”

  “Do you have a bottle of water?”

  She dug around in the cooler and pulled out a dripping bottle. I took
it from her and held the cold plastic to my forehead. The chill felt good, took some of the pain away, almost as good as chugging an iced coffee. I twisted the top off and took a long drink. “Thanks.”

  As I was handing the bottle back to Sophie, the woman worked her way down our aisle. I saw her at the far end. Six tables between her and me. She hadn’t spotted me. Yet.

  “Let’s pack up. Are you done for the day?” I asked, keeping my back to the woman.

  “Yes, let me find my keys, and we can take all this down and pack the car.”

  Sophie dug around in her purse for her keys. “I can never find my keys.”

  “Why do you need keys?”

  Five tables down.

  “To unlock the trunk, to put this stuff in.”

  Four tables down.

  “OK, give me the keys, and I’ll unlock the car, I’ll pull it around the side street, and we can load it there. It’ll be less walking.” I grabbed the purse and started digging past the makeup, lipstick, and coins. “Where are your keys?”

  Three tables down.

  “Mac, what is wrong with you?”

  “I need to get home.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  Two tables away.

  I dug some more in Sophie’s purse, finally found the keys, and dropped her bag back in her lap.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “Going to get the car. I’ll pull in that alley right behind you, and we can load up.” I didn’t even wait for an answer. I took off at a run behind our table, doubled back up the other aisle and across the road to the parking lot. I breathed like Travis on the treadmill the day he found out his wife was divorcing him.

  I reached the car, opened the door, and threw myself into the seat. For a minute I sat, hands on the steering wheel. Sitting behind a steering wheel was the last place I wanted to be. I had driven as little as possible since the accident. At least I was away from that woman.

  After a minute, my breathing slowed, and I turned on the ignition, rolled up the windows, and blasted the air conditioning. There was one good thing. We had a new air conditioning unit put in the old car. It worked like a dream. I turned the vents toward my face and held it there like Phoenix might when he rode in a car. I closed my eyes.

  After a few minutes, I drove out of the parking lot. I drove slowly beside the market. I could see in between the tables, and the woman was gone. I pulled slowly into the alley behind Sophie’s table and hopped out of the car, leaving the air conditioning running so it would be comfortable for Sophie. I popped open the trunk. “Are you ready to go?”

  Sophie rolled up her banner and stacked empty bread boxes.

  I picked up the cooler and placed it in the trunk.

  Sophie came up beside me with the empty boxes and put them in the trunk. “Mac, are you OK?”

  I put my hand on her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m fine, Soph. Really.”

  She looked at me oddly. “I’ll believe you this once. But don’t do that to me again. You scared me to death. And I’m driving.”

  That was OK with me. I didn’t want to be behind a steering wheel right then.

  We drove in silence to the house, but it wasn’t the comfortable silence that signals togetherness. It was a silence that felt like separation.

  When we got home, I jumped out and unloaded the car. I was beat. I slumped down in my recliner. Sophie went into the kitchen, and I heard her banging pots and pans around.

  “Mac, I’m tired. Do you mind if we eat out?” she asked, reappearing from the kitchen.

  “Do I mind? I’d love to eat out.”

  “Are you sure you feel up to it?” There was hesitation in her voice.

  “Yes, Soph, I feel up to it. I’m sorry about back there. I just had a headache.”

  “A headache?”

  “Yeah, but I’m better now.”

  “Do you want some aspirin?”

  “No. I’m better now, really.”

  “Maybe if you get some sleep tonight, you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Yeah, that’s all it is. I just need sleep.” Sleep and then the truth. Sophie deserved the truth.

  25

  Sophie jumped out of the car. “Let me check the mail.” She came back down the sidewalk, shuffling envelopes in her hands.

  I unlocked the front door, and a fresh, sweet breeze of lavender enveloped me.

  Phoenix rose from his dog bed and stretched. He must have been napping, but his guilty posture gave him away.

  I ran my hands across the couch cushions, still warm. Phoenix had been sleeping on the sofa. The mischievous guy must have jumped down when we pulled into the driveway. A smile tugged at my mouth.

  “Mac, another bill from Body Rip?” Sophie called from the kitchen. She leaned around the doorway.

  “Remember what you said, that I work hard, and I deserve to do something for myself.” I made a muscle. “Do you really want to give this up?”

  Sophie shook her head in exasperation.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” I asked.

  Sophie checked off items on a notepad. “We need to finish packing for the beach. We leave at seven tomorrow morning.” She tapped the pen she was holding on the side of the counter.

  “What else?” I said.

  Her lips formed a tight line.

  “I want to visit Little Mac’s grave.”

  “Tonight?”

  “It’s just a short walk.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t?” Sophie exhaled and seemed exasperated.

  “Don’t ask me to do it, Sophie.”

  Sophie moved from the kitchen and tried to squeeze past me to the bedroom.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to suggest going to the cemetery, and you haven’t. I’m visiting our son’s grave tonight. Whatever you do is your choice. Now please let me by, so I can get my jacket.” Sophie walked stiffly from the room and didn’t say another word.

  It wasn’t like Sophie to give up trying to persuade me so easily. I followed her to the bedroom. “If it means that much to you, let’s go.” What a horrible choice of words. I wished I could call them back.

  “I don’t know who you are. What do you mean, ‘If it means that much to me’? What does it mean to you, Mac?” She wasn’t mad, just hurting. Pain made her voice ragged.

  She needed me to be there for her. But I couldn’t. “It means everything to me. It means everything I’ve lost, all that I’ll never have again,” I said, stumbling over the words. I grabbed my jacket and shoved my arms into the sleeves. “Come on, Sophie. Don’t be angry. I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

  She gathered her jacket and a small bouquet of flowers.

  We left the house in strained silence.

  Little Mac’s gravesite was across the street, through the walkway, past the weathered stone wall that surrounded Dogwood Hill. That cemetery was just a big extension of Sophie’s childhood yard. Watching her march across the yard reminded me of the first time I’d been to Sophie Mullin’s house…

  I had knocked on the wooden screen door. It bounced in the wood frame, creating a hollow sound.

  “Just a minute,” Sophie had called from inside. When she opened the front door, Sophie smelled like spring rain and fresh-mowed grass. Her cotton sundress hung loosely from thin hips. Hips that made me want to dance with her in the fading sunlight on the lawn. She gave me that quirky smile and shut the door behind her. She sat down on her mama’s old wooden porch swing. I settled in beside her, breathing in her freshness, gazing at her like she was a goddess.

  “You live across the street from a cemetery?” I asked.

  “It’s not that weird,” she’d said.

  “I’ve lived here my whole life. I learned to ride my bike down those asphalt lanes. When I was a little girl, it was my playground. My best friend and I used to play hide and seek among the tombstones. When I had spend-the-nights, we’d sneak across the street with flashli
ghts at midnight and tell ghost stories…”

  Later, we inherited the house when Sophie’s mom passed.

  This night, cicadas sang in a crescendo from hundred-year-old oaks.

  It was an ancient cemetery and served as a history book of sorts. Each year storytellers dressed in costume and regaled visitors with adventures of cemetery residents. Because there were many notable people buried there, the stories were exciting.

  We passed the headstone of a man who was famous for being the owner of a top producing milk cow. The story had fired up Little Mac’s imagination. We spent many hours walking the cemetery together. Sometimes I’d bring his tricycle, and Little Mac would pedal furiously down the asphalt lanes…

  I paused to read the man’s tombstone. In 1892 his heifer won a world award for top butter producer. He threw one of the liveliest celebrations the city ever witnessed, just for his cow.

  “Little Mac made me tell him that story every night at bedtime,” I said.

  “Which one?” Sophie asked.

  “The one about the cow who had her own party.”

  Sophie circled back and gazed at the man’s headstone.

  “He loved the voices you did to go along with it. I always heard Little Mac giggling from his bedroom. You were in there tucking him in. I’d listen to the two of you over the running water as I loaded the dinner dishes in the washer.” She brushed dead leaves away from the gentleman’s grave.

  “Little Mac made me tell it every night, but I changed up the story and added voices and sound effects,” I said. And now Little Mac was buried in Dogwood Hill, not too far from his hero. “Sophie, there’s something I have to tell you…”

  Sophie had her back to me. She started off toward the east. “Hurry, Mac, the sun’s going down. It’ll be dark before we make it home.”

  I ran to catch up with her. The smell of new earth traveled to me on a breeze that made me shiver. A crimson tent awning was set up. Underneath were folding chairs on a hunter green funeral carpet. Someone would be put in the ground the next day. I felt compassion for the family, whoever they were.

  We picked our way across the grounds. Sophie knew all the shortcuts. She marched ahead of me, stepping wherever. It never bothered her to step on a grave.