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Midge picked me up this morning, took one look at the pathetic love seat situation, and said, “Oh, hell no.” She helped me pack my few things and told me she’d book me a room at the hotel she’s staying at.
Mom chose that moment to come out and throw a fit about how the church couldn’t host a service for him. Bee intervened, bless her heart, and sent us out to find an alternative. Midge drove me from motel to motel in town, looking for a space to hold a funeral for someone I hate.
When Mom got here this morning, there was nothing here. It was only then, during her first freakout of the day, that I realized she hadn’t planned anything other than giving people a date and time. I got her a hotel room and told her to take a shower. But then she justneededto fix up her hair. So I truly don’t know what nonsense she’s referencing. The red dye that’s coating her hands, shoulders, and forehead? The platters of cold cuts, pasta salads, and cookies that were just delivered without any sort of invoice to be paid? Or the cornucopia of flowers that was delivered while she was in the shower? It could be anything.
“When did that shit arrive?” She waves her arm toward the flowers.
“I thought you’d be happy about that,” I say, sitting down in the folding chair next to the table that’s going to be the buffet.
The flowers were actually one of her chief complaints. Bee flinched as she berated the hotel manager for stealing them. It never occurred to her that maybe Kyle was a lying piece of shit and nobody is sad he’s gone, much less moved enough to send flowers.
But then, when she was showering, they started to arrive. Beautiful, colorful arrangements, most of which didn’t have cards. There’s one arrangement in particular that she’s upset by, enough that she’s starting to pull the red poppies and cream spider mums and crimson calla lilies out of it.
“Momma, stop that!”
“Who sendsredflowers to a funeral?”
“They’re beautiful, Momma. Just leave them. I’ll take care of them.”
“Of course you would love the red flowers. You always were a whore.” She nods at my outfit as if that’s proof. I look down at the stretchy black swing dress and wonder what about it or my black slide sandals that screamswhore.
“The fuck?” she says, staring at the card. “Who’sDick? Who in their right mind would send such a tacky arrangement?”
“Momma, you’re going to get your hair dye on the food if you’re not careful,” I say.
She hesitates, realizing she’s next to a massive tray of cold cuts, cheese, and sandwich fixings.
“Who sent that?”
“I don’t know, everything just started to arrive.”
She sniffles as if this gift of cold cuts is enough to sober her up.
“He was really well respected in the community. It’s about time people stepped up.” She drops the card in the arrangement and then sneers at it again. “Get that out of here before people see it.”
Yes, as if this arrangement will single-handedly diminish the funeral for a pimp. I wait for her to leave and then pick up the arrangement. It really is beautiful. All the different colors of red blend together in a lush arrangement. I wish I could find a way to take it home, although it’s probably tacky to steal flowers from the dead. I set it on the counter in the small prep kitchen area, and the envelope catches my eye.
I pick it up and open it, curious to know who sent it.
Thinking of you both. Love, DC
My stomach flips as I realize this arrangement wasn’t sent for Kyle.
It’s for me. I look at the other flower arrangements and realize they’re all made with the same level of care and the same lush flowers, just in different colors.
“Those are pretty,” Bee says as walking in with a case of bottled water. “I can’t believe anyone cared that much about Kyle,” she says, setting the water down at the end of the table with the food.
“Yeah, it’s weird,” I say, working something out in my head. All the flowers arrived at about the same time. Maybe from the same place?
“How are you doing?” she asks, flapping her hand at my belly.
I rub at my lower back where it’s been aching all day, the pain exacerbated by my poor sleep last night.“Eh, you know.”
“You should probably sit down for a bit.”
“I’m fine,” I say, waving her off as the hotel manager enters again, this time with an arrangement of daisies of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
“Got one more for you,” she says, passing the arrangement to me.
