He walked back over to the envelope and tapped it with a thick finger. “I don’t know if this will do. I tried to figure what each year was worth to you. You don’t have to forgive me, but you have to take this. I can’t live with myself if you don’t. So even though you’re mad as a wet cat and have every right to hold on to what irks you, you have to take this.”
I didn’t have words because I hadn’t expected something so raw from Ed Earl, so I stood, still unable to give him what he wanted.
Ed Earl seemed to be waiting on me, maybe to open the envelope. Maybe to say something. To take his apology, to absolve his burden.
Finally, he said, “You’ll take it, right? Give me your word that you’ll keep it.”
“I don’t—”
“I know you don’t. You didn’t ask for it. It’s freely given. It’s the least I could do. Just give me this small way to make it up to you, Roo. Say you’ll keep it.”
“Fine.”
He lifted his ball cap and gave me a nod. Then I watched as he crossed the room and opened the door. His eyes met mine, and I saw the regret before he softly smiled and took his leave.
My feet wouldn’t move for a few seconds, and I could do nothing but stare at the door. Then the envelope. Then the yellow carnations. I felt violated, my soul hanging out on a line, flapping in the winds of the past that had just blown in. My first inclination was to lock the front door, so I did. Then I put a kettle of water on the burner, needing the comfort of chamomile tea even though I had yet to have dinner. For the first time in my life, I wished for the companionship of a pet, something warm to curl beside me. I don’t know why I was grasping for something to give me solace. Nothing bad had happened. But those flowers and that envelope just sat there, not necessarily wanted but messing with my mind.
I poured my tea and then went over to the envelope, lifting it, studying the smudge of something—maybe ketchup from his fries that day or a streak of mud from his day doing whatever he did now. I think Gran had said it was something in the oil field.
Flipping it over, I broke the seal, nicking my finger in the process. A thin line of blood appeared, but I charged on, pulling out what I knew would be inside.
A check.
For eighty thousand dollars.
Forty thousand bucks for each year I spent locked up.
A small smear of blood brushed against the side of the check. Blood money. Oh, the irony of my O negative blood on this particular check. I breathed out a bemused sigh that sounded quite lonely in a space that I was normally very content within.
I didn’t want Ed Earl’s money, but I had agreed to keep it. Maybe I would think about that tomorrow or next week. I slid the check back into the envelope, stuck it in my bill stack, and took my cup of tea to the couch, my sight line giving me the ability to contemplate the carnations. Which was dangerous.
I didn’t want to think about the implications of yellow flowers, either.
Beside me in a bag were a few castoffs Cricket had given me to play with. A 1959 Christian Dior was the first victim. The two-toned champagne satin dress had a fitted corset bodice with a scoop neck and three-quarter sleeves. The hourglass silhouette had a small, nipped waist with a thin tie. The skirt had pleating that made for a pleasing shape. The bottom layer of the dress was stained with rust and water marks, likely a mishap in a trunk packed away in an attic or basement. Keeping the pristine bodice was a no-brainer, and I liked the idea of cutting off the skirt, leaving a sort of peplum of the original skirting. If I could score some decent black velvet, I could sew it into a column and make this party dress into a ball gown.
I wasn’t sold on that yet.
My next pull was a riot of color—an orange-and-black silk dress with a corset and two black spaghetti straps. The waist was tiny with a large, fluffy bow that affixed to the side. The skirt was a column that went to the ankle. The back of the dress was ripped, the bow dangling, and the fabric pilled in a few areas. The skirt was essentially free of nubby snags, so I could salvage that and use it in some way. I grabbed a sketchbook I had bought at a craft store, feeling like a fraud because what did I really know about designing dresses? Well, other than that necessity was the mother of invention, which encompassed having to make one’s own clothes because you didn’t have a pot to piss in. In that, I was an expert. So I started sketching a few ideas using the black-and-orange floral silk. Could I add in another color to soften the Halloween vibe? Or maybe I wanted to embrace the bold colors? Occasionally, when I contemplated a particular element, my gaze landed on those carnations.