by Petrea Burchard
Struggling with the steering wheel, she forces the car to the side of the road, wishing for power steering, wishing this were easier.
She parks and aims the tires toward the curb. She yanks on the parking brake. The hill she stops on is not steep, but in snob neighborhoods like this you get a ticket if you don’t turn your wheels inward.
She drags deeply on the cigarette that dangles from her lips where it’s stuck on, cigarette paper dried against puckered skin. Her baggy Capri pants pull on the stubble of her legs as she steps out of the car. She opens the back door of the old Cutlass. On the carpeted floor are garden gloves and clippers. Sharp.
Nice neighborhood. Only a couple of miles from her sun-baked, treeless street. Here are shaded sidewalks and old houses from a hundred years ago.
Broad daylight. Nobody’s coming. She crushes her cigarette on the pavement beneath the toe of her plastic sandal. (Hot pink toenail polish with sparkles in it.)
Still no one coming. No one looking out from dark windows, she hopes.
If she’s going to do it, it has to be now. She jams her left hand into a gardening glove, grabs the clippers and strides across the sidewalk to the grass. She bends to do her hurried work. Slash. Cut. Slash. The roses come away from their bushes, loath to let go, terrified even, like children being cut by angry mothers. Thorny little bastards. Their cries are unheard. No one stops her. She grabs a handful of stems in her gloved hand and, trailing petals, rushes to her car to throw them on the floor of the passenger side.
She slides behind the wheel, turns the key in the ignition, unlocks the brake and backs up to aim the wheels away from the curb. Then she drives, urgent to get away, forcing herself to drive the speed limit. After a couple of blocks she pulls over. She’s been holding her breath.
She lets out her air, lights another cigarette with shaking fingers. She drags deep, lets the butt stick to her lower lip and dangle.
She remembers to signal, then pulls into the heavy traffic. People are going to church, going to brunch, going everywhere. She blares the horn and swears.
The air conditioning doesn’t work. The roses may not survive the drive to the cemetery this Mother’s Day, but she’ll get there even if it kills her.
What a moving story. I really enjoyed it.
Thank you, Susanne!
I wondered where it was going. An act of protest? No, or maybe. Maybe a woman living in a world where some people can afford green grass and trees and rose bushes, while others can’t afford flowers for a mother’s grave. The sense of anticipation and dread is powerful. The woman’s fear of being caught is beautifully captured.
Thanks so much, Carol.
Ha! That’s a great moment in time. We are dropped into this little scene with great characterization, contrast, and emotion. Thank you!
You’re welcome, Kat! 🙂 Thanks for your comments!
Loved this, Petra. Will look for your writing.
Thank you, Libby, that’s so nice to hear.
I usually don’t cotton to a thief, but I empathize when love and beauty are involved. Also, she is consistent in her frugality, backing up to turn her wheels out. I really admire that about her. It drives me crazy to watch people turn their wheels while standing still. It just wears out tires faster and when you don’t have power steering it puts too much strain on the steering box. With the new tobacco taxes, that rose money drains away quickly.
Scott, you crack me up. I must be frugal, because I back up to turn my wheels out too, and I have power steering.
I just love the economy of this. It’s pretty daring, these days, to trust your reader to lean in to a story and “get it.”
I can tell from the other works on this site that the readers here are the type to “lean in.” So I saved the details for things like toenail polish. Thank you, John.
Well put, John. I agree completely.
Wonderfully written! I was very intrigued by the character, trying to guess her motivation. I was kept in suspense until the end. Loved it!
Hi Melanie! Thanks so much!
Wow! Didn’t see that coming. Such vivid prose; I saw her, down to the sparkly nail polish. Very nicely done!
Thanks, Bonnie!
Puckered lips with cigarette dangling out. Charming. Love it!!
Yeah, we’ve all seen (or been) someone like her! Glad you enjoyed it.
Your excellent ‘showing’ made me dislike her from the outset, then despite my animosity I didn’t want her to get caught until
she gets back in her car and drives away, relieved but hating her again. Would her mother have applauded or condemned her actions?
Great story Petrea which certainly got a reaction out of me.
Thanks, Anita, I’m so glad you got to read it!
Great story, Petrea! This moment in time feels so full and rich with the choice details you provided. The scene is so vivid and I can feel a combination of resentment and urgency from her. Amazing that you can build up a sense of tension in so few words. Love it!
Wow, great, thanks, Kim!
You painted a picture with words that were clear and vivid…I could see the woman and all her emotions and actions in my mind’s eye. That’s good writing Petrea.
Thanks, Penny, I really appreciate it.
Love this. So much mystery between this line “loath to let go, terrified even, like children being cut by angry mothers. Thorny little bastards.” and the final line.
Thanks, Susan.
An unexpected journey to a an unexpected place. I enjoyed this.
I’m glad you enjoyed it, Phyllis!
Thrilling! I love the intensity of this story.
Thank you, Anca!
Very nice, P! I loved the fact that until the end, you painted ‘sordid, do beautifully, when we saw ‘devotion.’ Thanks.
Thank you, Dan!