Things I Want to Say (11 page)

She rolled onto her side and dug in the pocket of her jeans. “I’ve still got this.” She pulled out the joint. “Why don’t we smoke it and get happy?”

“Alice!” I tried to sound horrified, but I wasn’t really. I’d been sort of expecting this ever since she’d showed me the joint in the first place. But I still didn’t quite know how to react.

She sat up. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to smoke a joint, either.”

For half a second I thought about lying, but what was the point? “I’ve thought about it, but never had the opportunity,” I said. “I tried cigarettes for a while because I heard they were a good appetite suppressant, but Frannie nagged at me so much about it I ended up quitting.”

“Well, Frannie isn’t here right now.” She scooted to the edge of the bed and swung her legs to the floor. “And I promise not to tell a soul.”

I glanced toward the door, as if I expected a cop to burst in at any moment. “Aren’t you worried it’s illegal?”

“Who’s going to know?” She shrugged. “And who cares? It’s just one joint. It’s not like I’m shooting heroine or anything.”

“I know.” And I believed her. My hesitation was like an itchy sweater—familiar but increasingly uncomfortable. I was probably an endangered species—the only child of the sixties who had never smoked dope.

“Is it a moral objection that’s holding you back, or are you just scared?” Alice asked.

“Why would I be scared?” I winced at the quaver in my voice.

“Lots of people are scared of new things.” She leaned forward and grabbed the pack of matches out of the ashtray on the dresser. “My theory is that the more new experiences you try, the less you have to fear.”

Everything she said made sense, yet a lifetime of avoiding any kind of change held me back. “All right,” I admitted. “I
am
afraid. I’m afraid I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“We’ve all been fools at one time or another, thank God.” She struck the match and held it to the end of the joint. The end glowed and a thin trickle of smoke curled up like a genie escaping from a magic lamp. “I’d hate to be the only person in the world who’d made mistakes.”

I came and sat on the end of the bed next to her. She handed me the joint. I stared at it as if it were a lit firecracker. “What do I do?”

“It would be better for your first time if we had a bong, but we don’t, so just inhale slowly and hold the smoke in as long as you can.”

Feeling very self-conscious, I stuck the joint between my lips and inhaled—and immediately exploded in a coughing fit. My lungs burned and my eyes watered.

Alice took the joint from me. “Go slower next time.” She demonstrated. “Like that,” she squeaked. She held the smoke in her lungs for a moment, then released it in a fragrant cloud.

I did better on my second try. I handed the joint back to Alice and waited. “So what’s supposed to happen?” I asked.

“Give it a minute. You’ll start to feel mellow.”

We smoked in silence for a while, passing the joint back and forth. At first I didn’t think this was anything special
and was disappointed. Then I noticed my mouth was dry. That was it?

“Look at the bedspread,” Alice said. “Aren’t the colors pretty?”

When we’d first entered the room, I’d noted that it was done in what I’d come to think of as typical motel decor, complete with odd-colored chintz bedspreads and matching drapes.

Except this bedspread didn’t look odd-colored at all. The tones were deep, almost jewel-like. I ran my hand over the floral design. I could almost feel the flowers.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Alice lay back and took another deep drag on the joint, then handed it to me. “It
is
nice.” I smiled and admired the way the light glinted off the brass lamp base. “I feel…good.” Better than I’d felt in a long time.

“It’s good to let go of our inhibitions,” Alice observed.

“But I like my inhibitions,” I protested, then started giggling.

Alice giggled, too. “That’s like saying you like wearing a girdle.”

“I liked that wearing a girdle made me look better,” I said.

“You don’t need a girdle to look good now,” Alice replied. “So maybe you don’t need a lot of those inhibitions anymore.”

I stared at her. “For a woman smoking dope, you make a lot of sense.”

“That’s not much of a compliment, considering you’re high, too,” she said.

“I am not.” I discovered it’s hard to sound indignant when you keep falling over and giggling.

“You are, and it’s a good thing. I’d hate to be having this much fun all by myself.”

“Are we having fun?” I asked, giggling again.

“You sound the way we did when we were kids and would try to stay up all night,” she said. “We’d get the giggles and couldn’t stop.”

“Your mother would always come in and tell us to settle down and we’d laugh at her, too.” I smiled. “I always liked your mom. Better than my own.”

Alice patted my hand. “She liked you, too.”

“I wanted to be your sister,” I said. “And live at your house all the time.”

“You should have done it. I’d have let you move in.”

“I should have,” I agreed. I took another toke and thought again of those giggly slumber parties we’d had. “This
does
feel something like those nights we stayed up really late,” I said.

“One of the worst things about being an adult is we take ourselves too seriously,” Alice said.

“Being an adult is serious business.” I tried to frown and failed.

“Oh, yeah. It’s damn serious. Sometimes I want to chuck the whole thing and go join a commune. Sit and smoke dope and contemplate my navel all day.”

“That would get awfully boring,” I said.

“Yeah, and the hippie chicks I remember probably all look like hags now anyway. Twenty years of not wearing a bra or shaving your legs or cutting your hair are bound to haunt you by the time you’re forty.”

I doubled over laughing again. “Maybe the hippie dudes don’t care,” I choked out.

“That’s another thing.” She pinched the end of the joint between her fingers and waved it at me. “Have you seen an old hippie man? Bald on top with a little gray ponytail and beard and a pot belly.”

“Stop!” I screamed, holding my stomach. “I can’t stand it!”

“I can see it now,” Alice continued. “I’d show up at the
commune with my high heels and makeup and offer free makeovers for everyone.”

“You could be queen of the commune,” I said.

“More likely they’d kick me out.” She sighed and fell back on the bed. “Guess I’d better stick to smoking the occasional joint and doing the grown-up thing the rest of the time.” She smiled again. “It isn’t so bad. Grown-ups get to have sex.”

“Some of you do, anyway.”

She turned her head to look at me. “Your turn will come, my dear. You just have to find the right man.”

“Mythical Mr. Right. If he exists.”

“What about that good-looking florist?” She grinned.

I nodded. “A possibility. Except he’s in Kansas.” And he hadn’t called. I don’t know what I was expecting. I’d been away from Sweetwater less than a day. Still, I couldn’t help hoping my phone would ring and I would hear his voice on the other end of the line.

Another ridiculous fantasy, I guessed. “Do you think there’s a Mr. Right in California?” I asked.

“Maybe a movie star,” Alice said. “Robert Pattinson?”

“Too young,” I said. “Johnny Depp?”

I made a face. “Too scruffy.”

“Brad Pitt?”

“Taken.”

“Then who?”

“I don’t want a movie star,” I said. “I just want an ordinary guy.”

“There’s plenty of them out there, but I think you deserve someone extraordinary.”

Unexpected tears pricked my eyes. “That’s such a sweet thing to say.”

She sat up again, her gaze still locked to mine. “You deserve the best. We all do.”

“Do you think you’ll find Mr. Right in California?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’m not looking.”

“Maybe you’ll find him anyway. When you least expect it.”

“You always were a romantic,” she said.

“You were, too,” I said. “After all, you married your high school sweetheart and wanted to live in the woods and make bread and babies.”

“Yes, and look where that fantasy got me.” She shook her head. “But it’s not too late for you. I can live vicariously through you.”

I giggled. “I hope you’re not disappointed. My life hasn’t been very exciting so far.”

“That could change at any time.” She leaned over and dug the phone book out of the drawer by the bed. “Let’s order that pizza. What size should we get?”

“A large. I’m starved.” Funny, saying that would have usually made me feel panicky. I’d fought so hard to overcome my addiction to food, I didn’t want to backslide, but right now that didn’t seem to matter.

“See, you’re already going for the gusto. I’m proud of you.”

“It’s just pizza, Alice.”

“It’s a start. Today pizza, tomorrow the man of your dreams!”

She laughed, a wonderful, carefree sound that made my heart hurt. In spite of everything that had happened to her, the fact that Alice could still laugh like that made me believe anything was possible.

After we finished the pizza I fell into a doze, my stomach uncomfortably full and my mind still fogged from the marijuana.

I woke hours later, to a dark, unfamiliar room and the
tinny sound of
Bolèro
grating at my nerves. I sat up and blinked, then realized the music was coming from my phone. I lunged for the nightstand and grabbed my purse and dug for the phone.

“Hello?” I was out of breath, clutching the phone to my ear and trying to orient myself in the darkness.

“Ellen, this is Martin Franklin. Did I call at a bad time?”

“Martin!” I sat up straighter, my heart in my throat. “No! No, this isn’t a bad time at all.” I smoothed my blouse—pure reflex, since obviously he couldn’t see me.

“How was your drive today?” he asked. “Where are you now?”

“Salina, Kansas.” I looked over at the other bed. Alice was an inert lump under the covers. I scooted back on my own bed and settled against the pillows, pulling the blankets around me. “The drive was okay. I got pulled over for speeding.” Even at this distance I felt queasy, remembering.

“Tough,” he said. “I’ll admit I like to drive fast, too. Especially on the long, straight stretches of highway we have around here.”

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for a speed demon,” I said.

“There are a lot of things about me that might surprise you.” His tone was teasing, flirtatious.

I swallowed, wishing I could think of something witty to say. “What are you doing right now?” I asked.

“I’m working. I’m doing the arrangements for a funeral tomorrow.”

“That’s sad,” I said.

“It is and it isn’t,” he said. “I didn’t know this gentleman, but his family obviously think a great deal of him. I like to believe that the flowers I put together will help comfort them in their grief.”

“That’s a beautiful way to look at it. The only funeral flowers I’ve ever done were for characters on soap operas.
The only grief involved was what the set designer would give me if I didn’t get them right.”

He laughed—a warm chuckle that sent desire curling up through my middle like smoke. “I bet you always get them right.” There was a burst of static. “Sorry.” He came back on the line. “I had to shift the phone to my other ear. What do you think of lilies for funerals? Too cliché?”

I frowned, seriously considering the question. “Depends on the person the funeral was for. Was he a traditional, formal man? Then lilies are good. But if he’s more colorful, less formal, the flowers should be less formal, too.”

“Exactly what I told the family! So we’re going with blue and red delphiniums and asters.”

Flowers were such a natural topic of conversation. Non-threatening. I felt myself relax. “It sounds beautiful.” I smiled.

“You’re welcome to use the same idea the next time you do a television funeral.” He laughed. “My life must sound pretty dull compared to all that Hollywood glamour.”

I shrugged. “There’s nothing glamorous at all about my life, really.”

“No one’s ever going to see my work on TV.”

“No, but your work will mean more to the people who
do
see it.” I hugged my knees to my chest. “I envy you,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“You work with real people. The flowers you provide make a difference in their lives. They cheer them up when they’re sick or mourning and help them celebrate all the landmark events. They
mean
something.” For all their beauty, my fantasy creations for pretend situations didn’t mean anything to anyone.

“I think that’s one of the reasons I enjoy this work so much,” he said. “I really like most of my customers.”

“The movie people I work with can be fun,” I said, “but
it’s not the same as putting together an arrangement for a birthday party or a real wedding.”

“Maybe you should think about adding a retail section,” he said. “That way you could keep your movie business, but do other work that was more satisfying on a personal level.”

“I never thought about it that way before.” I shifted my position in the bed. “There are a lot of florists in Bakersfield. I’m not sure I could compete.” I could almost hear Frannie’s voice in my head, telling me to stay in my niche, to stick with what I knew. Taking risks was dangerous and could only lead to grief.

“That’s one of the advantages of a small town,” he said. “There’s not a lot of competition here.”

“I liked Sweetwater,” I said. “What I saw of it.” Mainly I liked
him
.

“I hope you’ll come back to visit. I’d like to see you again.”

“I’d like to see you, too.” I’d like a lot of things—to have a real home and real friends with whom I could be close. The question was, did I have the courage to break away from the familiar to pursue all that? I didn’t want to abandon Frannie, but I could see the attraction now of not always working so hard to please her.

“I don’t want to hang up, but I have to finish up these arrangements,” he said. “It’s getting late.”

“Call again anytime.”

“I will. And you feel free to call me.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a very special lady,” he said. “I knew it the minute you walked into my shop.”

The praise made me feel like laughing—and like crying. I had never thought of myself as special. And for a lot of years—my fat years—I wouldn’t have enjoyed being singled out as such.