Roses

After the war, Victor bought a cottage on a postage stamp lot in the dying coal town of Pine Ridge. Through the spring of that year, he tried to keep to himself.

But there was Verna Cringe and a homemade cream cake.

“What brings you to our neighborhood?” She sighed. 

“Oh, the fresh air.” He thanked her for the cake. 

“Your roses are beautiful.” She stopped to sniff one of the yellow roses from a bush he had planted by the walk.

“That’s an English rose.” He stopped short of offering her a bouquet; he suspected she would mistake a gesture of friendship for something more, or worse, that her husband the longtime City Councilman might take offense. “They’re ornamentals. A bit touchy, but I do alright.”

“Are you English then?”

“I’m from Lancaster,” he grinned, and after a beat added “Pennsylvania.”

She laughed and invited him to join the horticulture society. He politely declined, then planted more delicate yellow English roses along the border beds from sidewalk to front porch. 

The next week, Antonia Busco appeared at the door with a large flat of manicotti.

“We don’t see you around town much, Mr. Williams,” she said.

“I’m very private.” 

She handed him the container. “And you’re certainly not old enough for Verna’s circle. My husband hosts poker night every few weeks. Would you care to join? I’ll introduce you?”

Pink floribundas separated the yellow English, creating a soft yet vibrant contrast that would only grow more brilliant over time. Victor was pleased.

Carmine Busco appeared next. He did not bring food. Instead, he shuffled, fidgeting with his hands from pocket to hairy neck scratch to crossed arms and back. Victor just smiled.

“My wife sent me to invite you to poker night.”

“Did she now?”

“Do you play poker?”

Victor shook his head. Carmine sighed and his hands fell comfortably in his pockets.

“Oh-okay.” He turned to go.

“Mr. Busco,” Victor called. “Perhaps we can do each other a favor?”

Carmine resumed fidgeting.

“I have a bush of temperamental tea roses in the back. Yellow, tinged orange on the edges. Quite beautiful things. Why don’t I cut you some as a gift from you to your wife?”

His awkward guest perked up. “Yeah?”

“Yes. And in return, could you… suggest… to our neighbors that although I’m tremendously grateful for the kindness so far, I’ll engage the community when I’m ready to do so.”

Carmine considered the request. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I can do that.”

Victor’s new snowy shrub roses clustered beneath the windows like eavesdropping neighbors. Much to his pleasure, the real neighbors soon stopped using food to coax him out, though not until after they had entreated him to join the Elks Lodge (lasagna), the volunteer firefighters (ladies’ auxiliary homemade filling), the historical society (a terribly dry meatloaf), and the horticulture society again (seven layer dark chocolate cake with ganache and fudge, which tempted him much more sorely than the meatloaf did). 

Meanwhile, ground cover roses crowded around the shrub roses like children at their mothers’ skirts. Along the foundation of his clapboard dwelling, he had erected stiff white trellises, soon hidden by red, pink, and yellow climbers. They hung from the fences as well, obscuring his backyard from watchful eyes. 

“Ow!” Jennie Pringle pulled her hair free from a thorny rambling rose just as Victor opened his door.

“Be careful,” he said. “They like to grab.”

“I see. You haven’t given any thought to pruning them back? You can hardly see off the porch!”

Victor smiled thinly. His eyes narrowed. She held out a plastic grocery bag.

“This is home made deer jerky. We have a farm, so Mark can bag a deer anytime.”

Victor looped a finger through the handles.

“And what club or organization would you like me to join in return?”

Jennie’s mouth moved before she spoke. “No, no no. It’s not like that at all.”

“No?”

“No. Well, I do wonder if I could have a rose or two?”

Victor raised an eyebrow.

Jennie wrung her hands.

“It’s just that… well, I saw how happy Antonia and Carmine have been since he gave her those roses, and I found out from Genevieve who heard from Mathilda at the library who found out from Francie at the general store whose husband Billy manages the diner over near the bypass that Carmine got the roses from you. And it’s hard to be a farmer’s wife, you know? Mark comes in from the field, and he’s tired, and somedays I want to hit him with my rolling pin. But I thought…I thought a rose or two might bring us a little happiness?”

Victor sighed and gave her five of his tea roses. One for her, one for Mark, and one for each of their children.

Then he transformed the backyard into a fracas of bleeding red and buttery yellow, spiraling outward in scratchy greens: waxy or serrated leaves and prickly thorns.The central birdbath and a variety of feeders and houses attracted his favorite eastern bluebirds, orioles, and hummingbirds, though jays and squirrels quarreled over meals as well. 

By the fifth year, he no longer needed the mower. People waved when they saw him, but that was rare. By the tenth year, his roses had formed a wall of color and scent that delighted all who passed. But the food and the visits had ceased. Rose bushes burst through the cracks in his walk. The ramblers and ground covers laced the front of his house in white. The climbers had broken the trellises but now clung to the roof. In the backyard, seeds had sprouted. Only the hummingbirds ceased to visit; Victor could no longer fill their feeders.

“Well, perhaps it’s apropos that a little sweetness has gone,” he said, and trudged up the stairs.

They had promised each other, but Cal had failed. He didn’t survive the war. Victor had taken possession of the ashes, and now they had all been used up, the last to plant a pair of Damask roses, one at each entrance to the house, smack in the middle of the cracked walkways. They would bloom strong and red, with a glorious, powerful fragrance. The neighbors would love them.