'Til Grits Do Us Part (29 page)

“We'd better get out of here soon, huh?” I said in disappointment, glancing back at the rose case as I shifted Macy on my shoulder then lowered her back to the stroller. “Macy's got to get home, probably. And I've got to finish up a story.”

“I reckon.” Becky sighed. “I'm jest sorry we didn't find nothin' for ya. We got some ideas though.”

“Exactly. We'll figure it out. Don't worry.”

Becky checked a couple of things off on a little planner she'd designated “Shiloh's Wedding Stuff” on the cover. “How 'bout decorations for the church? You thought about 'em yet?”

“Sort of.” I pushed the stroller toward the exit, shoving pots and overeager leaves out of the way. “How should I do it?”

“If you're goin' with somethin' Asian, it oughtta be real easy. Think about what ya like and go from there.”

“Like…what? I haven't been to a lot of weddings. I couldn't go to Ashley's wedding, and the Shinto ceremonies I saw in Japan bring back nightmares of giant moon-shaped white hats and too many cups of
sake
.”

Becky's face clouded into a look of absolute pity. “You really don't know much about this stuff, do ya?”

“No. I keep saying that, and nobody believes me.”

“Well, I was thinkin' more along the lines of candles and whatnot. Maybe some ribbons for the aisles, or ya might wanna scatter flower petals. Stuff like that.”

“Oh. Sure. Well, Wal-Mart, I guess. Right?”

“Wal-Mart's good. Harrisonburg's got a Target. But you can do the Asian thing, I reckon, if you find cheap enough stuff.” Becky turned to a new page in her planner. “Mama knows some craft place in Charlottesville that might have somethin'.” She scratched down some notes. “She can run ya by next week. Then once Ashley buys them red bridesmaids' dresses, we can settle on some flowers to match.”

Becky started to head to the exit then paused by a section of loose-cut flowers for do-it-yourself arrangements. I watched as she stood piecing them together, bloom by colorful bloom, into a pretty bouquet.

“What do you think a this?” She handed it to me—a striking mixture of pinks and purples—with a bit of yellow statice to brighten it up.

“It's nice, Becky. You're good at this.” I turned the bunch around.

“Yeah. Well. The Fashion Nazi ain't the only one who can match colors. I'm learnin' a thing or two.” She passed me another bunch. “How 'bout this'n? Stargazers smell real good.”

I sniffed a super fragrant lily, its petals curled back like graceful eyelashes, then put it back. Too much like the smell of Mom's funeral lilies.

“You know? Maybe I won't carry a bouquet.”

“Why in the world not?” Becky looked up from wiping Macy's milk-dribbled chin like I'd announced a wedding on Mars.

“I don't really like cut flowers. Even cut Christmas trees.”

“Well, ya shore ain't gonna carry no potted plant up the aisle,” said Becky, making a face at me. “An' you say my fashion sense is weird!”

“Well, that's why maybe I won't carry anything.”

“Why, for Pete's sake? Cut flowers are pretty, too.”

“That's just it. All they do is die. You cut them—and snip! They're gone. Their days are numbered. Maybe even their hours.”

I shook a cut stem of a white snapdragon for emphasis, remembering the wind on my unfeeling face as I stood by Mom's fresh grave. Her photo on my cubicle wall, smiling back at me. Ray's sad eyes. Kate Townshend's lonely photo of Amanda on her mantel.

“A minute ago it was growing and blooming, but now it's going to die.”

Becky fell unusually quiet as she smoothed Macy's overalls that had scrunched under her legs. A tender gesture probably nobody else had noticed. “I don't wanna say this the wrong way, Shah-loh, but we're all gonna die.”

“Of course we are.” A drop of water fell from the end of the snapdragon stem. “But I prefer not to kill my flowers before their time.”

“Well, cut er not cut, we're all goin'.” Becky spoke so soberly that I turned my eyes to her. “Ain't no stoppin' it. You know that.”

“Sure I do, but isn't it a waste? All that beautiful bloom for what—an hour?”

“Mebbe in some ways, but…” She gathered a handful of roses and freesia, delicately perfumed, and pressed them in my hands. “Ya gotta remember though—this was their purpose all along. And they did it to their fullest. It's their gift.”

I felt strangely moved, standing there with shoppers laughing in the background. And me looking down at those beautiful, doomed flowers in my hands, their glowing colors trembling with drops.

“But it's such a waste, Becky!”

“Or a sacrifice. Depends on how ya look at it. They lived and bloomed, jest like they were made to do. And when it was time to go, they gracefully said yes.”

She ran her hands over the petals, which gleamed like bits of satin. “We're seein' their last magnificent moments and enjoyin' 'em. If you was a flower, wouldn't that make ya happy to know you'd done what you was born ta do? Even if ya didn't get to do it very long?”

I swallowed hard, thinking of things far deeper than flowers. Thinking of Mom. Of her shining life given over to God. A sacrifice, cut down in its last and brightest hour.

“One last flourish,”
she'd written in her journal.
“Ill-timed but unspeakably beautiful in its quiet fanfare…. Come, fall! Come, winter! I am not afraid. I will keep on singing until my last petal falls.”

The freesia blooms swirled together in a blur, and I turned the bunch over in the light, watching their petals glisten.

“So I don't think it's wrong to carry a weddin' bouquet. We're jest rememberin' why we're on this earth.”

I glanced at Macy, who was sucking contentedly on her bottle—a tiny soul, still destined for great days to come. Becky and her strong-hearted faith, facing the future as she had faced her childless days: tender, yet unafraid.

Like Mom. The new Mom I wish I could have known. But would one day meet face-to-face in heaven, with a body that would no longer wear out and a mind that would never again know pain or depression.

“What you sow does not come to life unless it dies,” the apostle Paul had written to the people of Corinth. I'd learned that in church. “The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body.”

None of us knew when God would call us home. And that would be the response of a believer in Christ: to bow our head and bend our will and gracefully say yes. No matter how new the stem or how bright the bloom.

Adam's words in Dairy Queen:
“I'd die for you,”
he'd said.
“Without a second thought.”

“I think maybe you're right, Becky,” I said finally, tears stinging my eyes.

I chose two bright stems of freesia, one for me and one for Becky, and carried them up to the register to check out

Q
uiz. Who won the last NASCAR race?”

I nearly dropped the phone, typing away at a larceny story at the Sprouses' walnut kitchen table—post five-mile run on Faye's ancient treadmill. Her sunny yellow kitchen walls and checked curtains gleamed back at me, all trimmed with new sunflower decor.

“Kyoko? Why are you asking about NASCAR at this hour?” I took off my old Prada glasses and rubbed my eyes. My sprig of yellow freesia smiled at me from a vase in the midst of my mess: notes, tape recorders, info printouts, and a tube of mod-red nail polish.

“Which race? The Quaker State 400 in Kentucky?” I shook my feet to dry my freshly painted toes. “I think Vic Priestly won that one because…”

The line fell silent. I groaned. I'd walked right into Kyoko's trap.

“Okay, okay,” I snapped. “I only know because Tim told me.”

“But you REMEMBERED! Seriously, Ro, you're disturbed. I'm sending you a spittoon as a late birthday present.”

“A…what?” I ran my hand through my damp hair, still grapefruitjasmine scented from my shower.

“Never mind. I give up. You're past all hope.”

“Probably. I can send you the race scores if you want though. There's a website.”

“See? The fact you know that is scary.”

I took my hand off the keyboard, sensing impending doom. Normally I'd push Kyoko's buttons and rant about gun racks and Confederate flags, but I wasn't in the mood. “You're leaving Japan, aren't you?”

“Yep. My flight's this afternoon.”

I fell silent, imagining Kyoko's empty apartment, stripped of its punk-rock records and posters, dark Indian elephant tapestries, and the purple lava lamp that bubbled. Her skull-and-crossbones purses. The weird smell of incense and musty books.

“Ro? You still there?”

“I'm here.”

“What, you're going to let me waltz out of Japan without so much as a good-bye? You're worrying me now.”

“I always worry you.”

“Good point.” She harrumphed. “By the way, you might be interested to know that my transfer request has been approved. It's all set.”

“Really? To where?”

Please say Japan, Kyoko! Please, please tell me you've changed your mind! Or at least California, where you're only a short flight away
.

“Italy.”

“Italy?”

“Correct. Land of cappuccino and gelato. I think even you'd be proud.”

“Italy,” I repeated, imagining Kyoko climbing crumbly, ancient steps surrounded by fountains, snapping photos. Driving an old Fiat up narrow streets. Picking olives.

“That's great.” I tried to sound excited.

“Dave said the housing's better than in Germany, and they're kind of short-staffed. They'd welcome me with open arms. I'll stay in the US until August for training and then go straight to Genoa.” She yawned. “Birthplace of pesto. Can't be all bad.”

“Congratulations.” I didn't mean to sound sarcastic, but it sort of came out that way. “I know you'll do great there.” I swallowed, my throat tightening. “Just tell me, Kyoko, before you go—what will you miss from Japan?”

“Besides giving you a hard time about Carlos? Not much.”

“What? You mean there's nothing you'll miss?” It pained me to imagine my last link to Japan slipping away—and Kyoko not even appreciating her loss.

“Definitely not the pickled plums.”

“
Umeboshi
? I love those!”

“You're sick. Those things are salty.” Kyoko grunted moodily.

“Okay. I guess there is one thing.”

“The cream puffs?” My ears perked up as I remembered Beard Papa's and the moist, delicious little puffs covered with powdered sugar.

“No, doofus. I can't eat that stuff,” she crabbed. “My hips are plenty wide as it is.”

“Stop it. So what will you miss then?”

The front door opened, and I turned around to wave at Earl Sprouse. Covered in grease and carrying his toolbox and an armful of wrenches and pipes, his gray hair a mess. He grinned and waved back, and I heard Faye's footsteps from the laundry room as she came (
ahem
—rather quickly, I noted) up the stairs to meet him.

“Hello? Kyoko?” I faced the table again to give them some privacy.

“I answered you. The thing I'll miss most from Japan is the
wa
.”

“You mean, like the balance?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Kyoko heaved a cranky sigh. “I know it's weird, but life here is very ordered. To a fault. I mean, sometimes it's nice to know what to do in each and every situation ahead of time. Like picking out your dinner from a row of plastic models that look just like the real thing, and you know exactly what you're going to get. You say all the preprogrammed phrases, and everybody's happy. Nobody disturbs the wa. If you do what you're supposed to, you never really make mistakes. It's all anticipated—even the compliments. If only real life could be so gaffe-proof!”

I didn't know what to say. Kyoko was so free and unordered that this revelation surprised me.

“On the other hand, though, it's what drives me crazy. I hate walking out of the bathroom in my toilet slippers so everybody stares and gasps at me. ‘Oh no! She's done it wrong again!' ” Kyoko grunted. “We foreigners crash all over the wa and stomp on it.”

“No,
you
do. I always remembered my toilet slippers.”

“Kiss-up. I bet you were teacher's pet in school, too.”

“That goes without saying.” I smirked.

“Ugh. Excuse me while I go throw up.” Kyoko made gagging sounds.

“I am kidding. My teachers hated me because they always had to buy me lunch.”

Silence. “Ouch.”

“I know. But I'll have you know I eat very well these days. Especially at Faye's.” I pictured the crispy country-fried steak she'd served at dinner, complete with mashed potatoes, creamed corn, and buttered yeast rolls. Maybe staying over at someone else's for a while wasn't…such a bad thing.