The Sky is Everywhere(48)
Author: Jandy Nelson

“Sarah,” I say when I flop back onto the bed. “The roses, they’re aphrodisiacal, remember?”

She gets it immediately. “Yes, Lennie! It’s the last-resort miracle! Flying figs, yes!”

“Figs?”

“I couldn’t think of an animal, I’m too wasted.”

I’m on a mission. I’ve left Sarah sound asleep in Bailey’s bed and I’m tiptoeing my thumping vodka head down the steps and out into the creeping morning light. The fog is thick and sad, the whole world an X-ray of itself. I have my weapon in hand and am about to begin my task. Gram is going to kill me, but this is the price I must pay.

I start at my favorite bush of all, the Magic Lanterns, roses with a symphony of color jammed into each petal. I snip the heads off the most extraordinary ones I can find. Then go to the Opening Nights and snip, snip, snip, merrily along to the Perfect Moments, the Sweet Surrenders, the Black Magics. My heart kicks around in my chest from both fear and excitement. I go from prize bush to bush, from the red velvet Lasting Loves to the pink Fragrant Clouds to the apricot Marilyn Monroes and end at the most beautiful orange-red rose on the planet, appropriately named: The Trumpeter. There I go for broke until I have at my feet a bundle of roses so ravishing that if God got married, there would be no other possible choice for the bouquet. I’ve cut so many I can’t even fit the stems in one hand but have to carry them in both as I head down the road to find a place to stash them until later. I put them beside one of my favorite oaks, totally hidden from the house. Then I worry they’ll wilt, so I run back to the house and prepare a basket with wet towels at the bottom and go back to the side of the road and wrap all the stems.

Later that morning, after Sarah leaves, Big goes off to the trees, and Gram retreats into the art room with her green women, I tiptoe out the door. I’ve convinced myself, despite all reason perhaps, that this is going to work. I keep thinking that Bails would be proud of this harebrained plan. Extraordinary, she’d say. In fact, maybe Bails would like that I fell in love with Joe so soon after she died. Maybe it’s just the exact inappropriate way my sister would want to be mourned by me.

The flowers are still behind the oak where I left them. When I see them I am struck again by their extraordinary beauty. I’ve never seen a bouquet of them like this, never seen the explosive color of one bloom right beside another.

I walk up the hill to the Fontaines’ in a cloud of exquisite fragrance. Who knows if it’s the power of suggestion, or if the roses are truly charmed, but by the time I get to the house. I’m so in love with Joe, I can barely ring the bell. I have serious doubts if I’ll be able to form a coherent sentence. If he answers I might just tackle him to the ground till he gives and be done with it.

But no such luck.

The same stylish woman who was in the yard squabbling the other day opens the door. “Don’t tell me, you must be Lennie.” It’s immediately apparent that Fontaine spawn can’t come close in the smile department to Mother Fontaine. I should tell Big – her smile has a better shot at reviving bugs than his pyramids.

“I am,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Mrs Fontaine.” She’s being so friendly that I can’t imagine she knows what’s happened between her son and me. He probably talks to her about as much as I talk to Gram.

“And will you just look at those roses! I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. Where’d you pick them? The Garden of Eden?” Like mother, like son. I remember Joe said the same that first day.

“Something like that,” I say. “My grandmother has a way with flowers. They’re for Joe. Is he home?” All of a sudden, I’m nervous. Really nervous. My stomach seems to be hosting a symposium of bees.

“And the aroma! My God, what an aroma!” she cries. I think the flowers have hypnotized her. Wow. Maybe they do work. “Lucky Joe, what a gift, but I’m sorry dear, he’s not home. He said he’d be back soon though. I can put them in water and leave them for him in his room if you like.”

I’m too disappointed to answer. I just nod and hand them over to her. I bet he’s at Rachel’s feeding her family chocolate croissants. I have a dreadful thought – what if the roses actually are love-inducing and Joe comes back here with Rachel and both of them fall under their spell? This was another disastrous idea, but I can’t take the roses back now. Actually, I think it would take an automatic weapon to get them back from Mrs Fontaine, who is leaning farther into the bouquet with each passing second.

“Thank you,” I say. “For giving them to him.” Will she be able to separate herself from these flowers?

“It was very nice to meet you, Lennie. I’d been looking forward to it. I’m sure Joe will really appreciate these.”

“Lennie,” an exasperated voice says from behind me. That symposium in my belly just opened its doors to wasps and hornets too. This is it. I turn around and see Joe making his way up the path. There is no bounce in his walk. It’s as if gravity has a hand on his shoulder that it never did before.

“Oh, honey!” Mrs Fontaine exclaims. “Look what Lennie brought you. Have you ever seen such roses. I sure haven’t. My word.” Mrs Fontaine is speaking directly to the roses now, taking in deep aromatic breaths. “Well, I’ll just bring these in, find a nice place for them. You kids have fun…”

I watch her head disappear completely in the bouquet as the door closes behind her. I want to lunge at her, grab the flowers, shriek, I need those roses more than you do, lady, but I have a more pressing concern: Joe’s silent fuming beside me.

As soon as the door clicks closed, he says, “You still don’t get it, do you?” His voice is full of menace, not quite if a shark could talk, but close. He points at the door behind which dozens of aphrodisiacal roses are filling the air with promise. “You’ve got to be kidding. You think it’s that easy?” His face is getting flushed, his eyes bulgy and wild. “I don’t want tiny dresses or stupid fucking magic flowers!” He flails in place like a marionette. “I’m already in love with you, Lennie, don’t you get it? But I can’t be with you. Every time I close my eyes I see you with him.”

I stand there dumbstruck – sure, there were some discouraging things just said, but all of them seem to have fallen away. I’m left with six wonderful words: I’m already in love with you. Present tense, not past. Rachel Brazile be damned. A skyful of hope knocks into me.