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Chapter Fourteen
Gina
The funerals were over and the guests had all left, but I couldn't stop thinking about the man who had written those letters. I had to find him. It was ironic, because just a week ago, I hadn't even been thinking about a man. And now here I was, desperately searching for one.
I didn't have any leads, so I started writing to potential suitors, inviting them for a visit. But I quickly realized that I had a problem: I had no ideawhoI was looking for.
To add insult to injury, I had lost big at poker. I’d needed a win and I ended up worse off than when I went in. It wasn’t just a little bad, it wasverybad. I went full tilt, so I am now equally indebted and desperate. I know I’ll find a way out; I always do. But the meantime isn’t going to be fun.
To distract myself, I focus on the letters. The first man to catch my attention, the one I thoughtmightbe him, is the one who is most persistent. He phones my father day and night, and when he isn’t calling, he’s sending flowers. Daddy wishes that he’d send something practical, like a ham or a vacuum cleaner, but the flowers make me happy. They brighten the place up, and what signalspassionmore than flowers?
“It looks like a funeral home in here,” my father says, standing over the coffeepot, waiting for it to brew.
I can’t entirely disagree, but it bothers me he’s bringing up funeral homes, like he’s hinting I need a job.
“I’m going to give Mr. Walton a call today,” I tell him. “See if he might want to hire me back.”
“That’s good. But what are we going to do with all these flowers? They’re bothering my nose.”
“Well, I can’t get rid of them,” I say as Annie circles my legs frantically, begging to be let out. “Not until tomorrow, after Mr. Fells comes to meet us.”
“Maybe you could ask him to send a can of coffee or two instead. We’re down to the last of it.”
“The flowers are nice,” I say, shifting a vase.
“If you ask me, this Norman fella is trying too hard,” Daddy huffs.
I don’t really have an opinion about that. It has been a long time since I’ve received a bouquet that wasn’t handpicked.
My father grumbles about, speaking under his breath. “You can’t eat or drink flowers.”
I tell him that's precisely the point. “They’re like all beautiful things, Daddy. They’re meant to be looked at and appreciated.”
“Beauty fades, sweetheart. Marriage is forever. And forever can be a long time.”
I want to argue with him, but I know it is a sore spot. He ought to know better. Nothing lasts forever. Mama’s been gone a long time. I don’t much care to be reminded, either.
Just then, as if on cue, the phone rings. My father beats me to it. “It’s his secretary,” he says, putting his hand over the receiver. “She wants to know your favorite color of roses.”
I shrug. “Red?”
“Red,” my father repeats into the phone. “But we don’t need any more flowers. Tell your boss he needs to be more original.”
I think about the letters that are hidden under my mattress, and I don’t think my father means what he says.If he only knew.
I watch as he abruptly hangs up the phone, and I know I need to learn more about this man, this Norman Fells.Could he be the author of words with such intensity? Such heat?
So, I do what I think is the obvious thing: I phone him directly. Small talk to start, and then I hit him with the real stuff. Mostly reasonable questions, polite chitchat, purposefully demure, nothing too direct or intrusive.Do you fuck random women and write perfect strangers about your experience?No, nothing like that.
I am careful to switch the questions up, circling back,alwayscircling back, wording things slightly different each time, almost as though I’m not really listening. But I am listening. Just like at the poker table, I’m listening, and I’mlookingfor patterns.
But I don’t find any. Not in his answers, and not in his voice. He sounds perfectly reasonable. Reasonable and set in his ways.
And then I pose the kicker. “Have you ever been to Texas?”
“Texas? No, why would I want to go to Texas? There’s nothing there.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been.”
