Second
Place Short Story
Florence Dreams
by
Joan Boyd Short
Florence
Dupree hit the mute button on the remote control, took
one more sip of her watered down iced tea, leaned her
head against the sofa back, and allowed her heavy eyelids
to close completely. She simply had to talk to the doctor
about this constant drowsiness. She thought anti-depressants
were supposed to perk you up, but that certainly had
not been the case with her. The sun poured through the
window and created a puddle of warmth in the folds of
her favorite rose-colored housecoat. The gaudy white
and gold Home Interiors clock in the foyer chimed the
half-hour. Three-thirty. Mercy! She should have dressed
hours ago, she knew that, but she just hadn't been able
to convince herself to expend that much energy when she
had awakened
in her daughter's tiny guest bedroom well after sun-up that morning. Besides,
her daughter's plane wasn't due until at least four-thirty, so it would be six-fifteen
at the earliest by the time she collected her luggage, got the car out of long-term
parking, and made the forty mile drive from the airport. That would give Florence
an hour or so for a little nap and still leave her plenty of time to feed and
brush Elwood before his "mommy" got home. The homemade chicken curry soup was
already in the crock pot. She'd seen to that the night before. The only thing
she'd have to do before Scarlotte got there was put cornbread in the oven, and
that she could practically do with her eyes closed
anyway.
The
sudden bounce and subsequent flurry of energy on the
cushion next to her barely jarred her reverie. She
must be getting used to that silly little dog. She wasn't
mean to him. Sometimes she even found herself feeling
sorry for him when Scarlotte insisted on dressing him
for the weather in those ridiculous little rainboots
or making him wear a plaid bow clipped to the topknot
of fluff between his ears. Occasionally she found herself
relenting to his yippy pleas for her to throw his stuffed
giraffe so he could run get it and lay it down again
next to her leg. Elwood, God forbid the thought, actually
seemed to like her more than he liked Scarlotte. She
was sure Scarlotte had noticed, and Florence knew it
irked her. "Just one more thing to hold against me, I
guess." The thought held her, saddened her, and she
balanced in it for a half-conscious moment on her journey
into dreamland. Scarlotte loved that little terrier more
than life itself. That's why Florence was there, after
all. . No vets or kennels for Elwood. No indeed. Nothing
short of a live-in babysitter would do. Scarlotte had
been a dog lover from the day she turned six years old.
Her best friend Adelaide had gotten a baby beagle for
Christmas, and nothing would do, once Scarlotte saw that
puppy, but that she should have a doggie of her own-for
her sixth birthday that following February. Florence
had told Earl not to be dragging a dog into that house,
but Earl adored his baby girl, and there were few wishes
in the Dupree household that did not come true for her
if he had anything to do with it. Hence, that first little
wire haired terrier named Jake. Florence didn't think
Scarlotte had let him out of her arms for more than
five minutes at a time during the first few months
after her
birthday, until.
Oh
no, please, she didn't want to deal with "until." Not
today. Not on this warm, peaceful afternoon. It was thirty
two years ago. How many more times would she have to
relive it? But it was too late to stop the quick chill
that made the hair on her forearms stand up. The memory
idled loudly at the crossbars of her consciousness. There
was nothing she could do but let it ride on through.
She
and Scarlotte and Jake had been waiting for Earl near
the Ford Glass Plant door when the night shift walked
out into the muggy early morning air. It was their first
real vacation-a week in St. Pete in her aunt's spare
bedroom on Pasa Grille Beach-and Earl had insisted on
driving. He said he was "wide awake and wired". Scarlotte
snored softly from the back seat of the dark blue l952
Buick, her hair spread around her like a halo on that
worn out little pillow with the pink ruffled case her
great-grandma had made for her. She couldn't sleep without
that pillow. Jake snuggled happily in the crook of her
small, sweaty arm, matching her snore for snore. Florence
had been up half the night trying to finish the packing,
so it didn't take long for the cool air rushing in though
the open windows to make her sleepy as well.
"You
sure you don't want me to drive?" she remembered asking.
"I'm
sure. 'Couldn't go to sleep right now if my life depended
on it. You rest up for a little while and you can spell
me later when I get tired. I'll get us as far as Montgomery." She
hadn't needed much convincing.
She'd
never known for sure if it had been the impact with the
bridge railing or the sudden rush of the ice cold, murky
water that had awakened her. The images careened through
her memory like a magic lantern show. Panic. More panic.
Overwhelming panic. Flailing. Struggling. Fighting the
iron grip that pulled, dragged, and shoved her toward
the surface. Soft clay between her toes. Spasms of wracking
coughs. Scarlotte's limp form across Earl's arm. Pounding,
desperate pounding. Then, crying. Thank God, crying.
Retching. More retching. Coughing. Sobbing. The three
of them, grasping for every breath-clinging, clinging
to each other on that Alabama river bank And then Scarlotte's
piercing scream.
"JAAAKE!!
Where's Jake?" Florence knew what Earl would do before
he moved. She grabbed for his leg and barely missed his
soaked work boot as he rolled just out of her reach and
started for the water's edge.
"NOOOOO!
Earl! Please, no. It's too late. There's nothing you
can do." The water closed over him.
She
had never known how long she and Scarlotte had sat there,
clinging to each other and staring at the smooth, silent
surface of the water. She had been only vaguely aware
of the approaching steps, the gentle voices, the blankets,
the rescue raft, the whirling lights. All she remembered
was the silence, the hollow silence.
Even
though she had never understood why, Scarlotte had always
blamed her. Perhaps it was because the possibility of
her own childish selfishness that had sent her father
back to the water had been more than she could bear.
Florence didn't know-never would-and she was weary from
the thirty-years weight. It didn't matter anymore. There
was nothing she could do. The sullenness of Scarlotte's
late childhood had turned into open teenage rebellion
and settled, finally, into an adulthood of barely civil
tolerance. Nothing Florence did or said seemed to please
her daughter or make a difference. She didn't even have
the energy to be sad about it anymore. Elwood stretched,
sighed, and curled himself contentedly against her left
thigh. This time she closed her eyes completely and drifted
away into the beckoning dream.
----------------------------
The
house was almost dark. A beam of light flashed through
the living room window. Headlights! Turning into the
drive. Scarlotte was home. Elwood hit the floor with
a yelp and raced for the kitchen door. Florence followed
as quickly as her aching legs would carry her, dreading
her daughter's disdainful expression when she found her
mother standing in the doorway in that worn out, rose-colored
housecoat. Dazed and confused, she reached without thinking
for the handle on the storm door and pushed it open a
few inches. That was all it took. Elwood was out and
gone in a flash. Before she could find a voice to call
him back, she heard the squeal of the tires and the unmistakable
yelp. Then, silence. Hollow silence. She couldn't bear
it. Her heart stopped.
------------------
Scarlotte
pulled her Sebring convertible into the carport next
to her mother's old dark blue Toyota, got out, stretched
her back, and popped the trunk lid with her remote control
on her key chain. Something felt wrong. It was not until
she reached for the overnight bag that it struck her.
Elwood wasn't barking. That was impossible. What had
her crazy mother done now? Wasn't there one simple thing
she could get right? Elwood! The spontaneous hard rock
of panic turned to soup in the pit of her stomach. She
dropped her purse and ran for the backdoor. The keys
fell from her trembling hand as she fumbled at the lock,
and she almost dropped them a second time before she
finally opened the door and stepped into the dusky kitchen.
The unmistakable fragrance of chicken curry soup-her
favorite-emanated from the crockpot on the counter next
to the stove. Okay, maybe there was one thing
her mother could do well. The thought interrupted the
panic for one split second.
"Elwood.
Here, baby. Mommy's home. Elwood! Where are you?" She
heard the pitch of her voice rising to a shriek of hysteria.
The ghostly blue glow from the television spilled across
the hallway from the living room door. She stopped in
her tracks and braced herself, her hand on the door frame.
Taking a deep breath, she willed herself into the room.
On the sofa, Elwood lay in her mother's lap, curled in
the soft folds of the rose-colored housedress. He whimpered
and blinked, but did not move. The gaze from her mother's
lifeless eyes met her own. She met the gaze for a brief
moment only, sighed deeply, then looked again at her
baby.
"Oh,
Elwood. You scared Mommy, precious. I thought I had
lost you. Mommy couldn't live without her Elwood. It's
okay. Mommy's here. Come on, baby. Come to Mommy." She
reached for the trembling dog, but stopped-frozen-when
she heard the low, unfamiliar growl.
