The Day the Flowers Came

J. D. Opened his eyes. A woman was talking to him. A man began talking to him. Through the pain in his head, in his eyes, he saw his own living-room ceiling. Who were these people? Why was he on the couch? On the coffee table sat an empty Jack Daniel's fifth and two glasses. Why two? The voices went on talking to him. "Yes?" he asked.

Chimes. As he raised himself up to answer the front door, a magazine slipped off his chest and flopped onto the pale-rose carpet. True. Light through the wide window clashed on his eyes. The chimes. He stumbled to the wall, pulled the drape cord, darkened the room. Light flickered from the television set in the corner. The man and the woman who had been talking to him were talking to each other in a family situation-comedy series. The husband was greeting a neighbor at the door. But J. D. still heard chimes.

Going to the door, he wondered why he wasn't at the office. Labor Day. Where (continued on page 142) The Day the Flowers Came (continued from page 137) were Carolyn? Ronnie? Ellen?

The sudden smell of flowers, thrust at him in red profusion as he opened the door, made J. D. step back. "Carolyn, flowers!" No, she was gone. With the kids.

"This the Hindle residence?"

"My wife's in Florida."

The young man hooked the basket handle over J. D.'s arm and started back down the walk.

A printed message: "My deepest sympathy."

"Hey, come back here, fella."

"Something wrong?"

"Yeah, wrong house."

"You just said you were Mr. Hindle."

"Nobody dead here, pal. Wrong Hindle, maybe. You better check."

J. D. handed the young man the basket. He took it and walked back to his truck.

Sunlight on endless roofs below glared up at J. D. as he paused a moment on his porch, which was at the crest of a roll in the Rolling Hills Homes community. Blinking, he went in and turned off the TV, picked up the bottle and the glasses and started to the kitchen to find coffee. As he passed the front door, the chimes sounded.

The young man again with the flowers.

"I checked and double-checked, Mr. Hindle. They're for you."

"Listen, nobody died here. The card's unsigned and the whole thing's a mistake. OK?" J. D. shut the door and went on to the kitchen. Through the window over the sink, he saw the delivery boy get into his truck without the flowers.

They stood on the porch, red, fresh, redolent. About to leave them there, J. D. saw a familiar car come down the street, so he took the roses and set them just inside the door.

Every morning since they had moved into this house three years ago, J. D. had found coffee in the pot as dependably as he had seen daylight in the yard. This morning, daylight hung full and bright in the young birch tree, but the pot was empty. When he found the coffee, he realized he didn't know how to operate the new-model percolator. When he finally found the instant coffee, he was exhausted. The drinking he had done last night had a double impact because it had been solitary, depressing.

Now, how did the damned stove work? The latest model, it left him far behind. The kitchen was a single, integrated marvel--or mystery--princess pink. The second outfit since they had built the house. For Carolyn, it had every convenience. On the rare occasions when J. D. entered the kitchen, he simply dangled in the middle of the room, feeling immersed in a glimmer of pink that was, this morning, a hostile blur.

He let the hot water in the bathroom washbowl run, filled the plastic, insulated coffee mug, spooned instant coffee from the jar into the cup and stirred, viciously. The first sip scalded his tongue; the second, as he sat on the edge of the tub, made him gag. Perhaps four teaspoonfuls was too much.

In the hall, he slipped on Ronnie's plastic puzzle set strewn over the already slickly polished floor, and the pain of hot coffee that spilled down the front of his shirt made him shudder.

His feeling of abandonment seemed more intense than his feeling of contentment yesterday as he watched Carolyn and the kids board the plane. Sitting on the couch, he tried to see their faces.

Chimes startled him.

A different deliveryman stood on the porch, holding a green urn of lilies, using both hands, though his burden looked light.

"What do you want?"

"You J. D. Hindle?"

"Yes."

"Flowers."

"In God's name, what for?"

"I think there's a card."

J. D. set the coffee cup on the hall table and took a card out of its tiny white envelope: "We extend our deepest sympathy to you in your recent bereavement. James L. Converse, Manager, Rolling Hills Homes."

"Wait a moment, will you?"

Leaving the man holding the lilies, J. D. went to the telephone in a confusion of anger and bewilderment and dialed Converse's number. His office didn't answer. Labor Day. His home didn't answer. Gone fishing, probably.

"Everything OK?"

"I can take a joke," said J. D., taking the flowers. He tipped the deliveryman. He set the lilies beside the roses.

But as he showered, the more he thought about it, the less he felt inclined to take a joke like this.

Out of razor blades. In this world's fair deluxe bathroom exhibit, he knew there was a blade dispenser concealed in the fixtures somewhere. When he found it, he would probably be delightfully amazed. Since Carolyn always saw to it that his razor was ready, he had had no occasion to use the dispenser. But he remembered it as one of the bathroom's awesome features. He pushed a button. Pink lotion burped out onto his bare toes. He ripped a Kleenex out of a dispenser under the towel cabinet. It seemed that the house, masterfully conceived to dispense with human beings, had not really existed for him until this morning, now that its more acclimatized human beings had temporarily vacated it.

Where were his underclothes, his shirts, his trousers--which Carolyn had waiting for him on the mobile valet gizmo every morning? In the first three houses they had had--each representing a major step in the insurance company's hierarchy--he had known where most things were and how to operate the facilities. He remembered vividly where his shirts used to hang in the house in Greenacres Manor. As second vice-president, perhaps he spent more time away now, more time in the air. Coming home was more and more like an astronaut's re-entry problem.

His wrist watch informed him that two hours had been consumed in the simple act of getting up and dressing himself--in lounging clothes, at that. As he entered the living room again, he heard a racket in the foyer. When he stepped off the pale-rose carpet onto the pinkish marble, water lapped against the toe of his shoe. The roses lay fanned out on the marble. A folded newspaper, shoved through the brass delivery slot, lay on the floor. When J. D. picked it up, water dripped on his trousers.

He removed the want-ad section and the comics and spread them over the four-branched run of water, stanching its flow.

He wished the chill of autumn had not set in so firmly. How nice it would be to sit on the veranda and read the morning paper leisurely in the light that filtered through the large umbrella. He opened the drapes a little and sat in his black-leather easy chair. The cold leather chilled him thoroughly. He would have to turn the heat on.

On page two, as he clucked his tongue to alleviate the bitterness of the second cup of instant coffee on the back of his tongue, he read a news report twice about the death of Carolyn Hindle, 36, and her children, Ronald H. Hindle, 7, and Ellen Hindle, 9, in a hurricane near Daytona Beach, Florida. Survived by J. D. Hindle, 37, vice-president of--

"I'm sorry, all lines to Florida are in use."

"But, operator, this is an emergency."

"Whole sections of the Florida coast, sir, are in a state of emergency. Hurricane Gloria--"

"I know that! My wife--"

"And with Labor Day.... Do you wish me to call you when I've contacted the Breakers Hotel, or do you wish to place the call later?"

"Call me."

J. D. flicked on the television and gulped the cold instant coffee. It was a mistake. They had mistakenly listed survivors instead of victims. Or perhaps they were only--the phone rang--missing.

"Mr. Hindle, on your call to the Breakers Hotel in Florida, the manager says that no one by the name of Carolyn Hindle is registered there." (continued on page 254) The Day the Flowers Came (continued from page 142)

"Well, she was a little uncertain in her plans."

"She didn't say exactly where she would be staying?"

"No, she left rather impulsively, but-- Listen, could you ask if she has been there?"

"I did, sir. She hasn't."

That opened up the entire state of Florida. On television, games and old movies, but no word of the hurricane. He would have to take the day off and try, somehow, perhaps through the Red Cross, to track her and the children down. Chimes.

On the porch stood the first delivery boy, long-stemmed roses again in a basket.

"This time I'm certain, Mr. Hindle."

J. D. accepted them. On the card was written in lovely script: "They are just away. Our heartfelt sympathy. The Everlys."

J. D. picked up the roses that had spilled, put them in their basket and hooked both baskets of roses over his arms and carried the urn of lilies with them into the living room. Still, there was something wrong. Flowers so soon, so quickly? He looked up the newspaper's phone number and dialed it.

"I'm just the cleaning lady, mister. They put out the paper, then locked up tight."

Just as J. D. placed the receiver in its cradle, the ringing phone startled him.

"Mr. J. D. Hindle?"

"Yes."

"Western Union. Telegram."

"Read it, will you?"

"Dearest Jay: The kids and I are having wonderful, wonderful time. We all miss you. But we may return sooner than planned. Love and kisses, Carolyn, Ronnie and Ellen."

"I knew it, I knew it! God, God.... When was that telegram sent?"

"This morning."

"What time, exactly?"

"Hour ago. Eight o'clock. You want me to mail it?"

"What?"

"Some people like to keep a record."

"Yes. Please do. And thank you very much."

The flowers smelled like spring now and he bent over them and inhaled, his eyes softly closed. Then, glancing down at the newspaper on the floor, he became angry. He dialed the home of the editor of the suburban paper.

"Are you certain?"

"Listen, Mr. Garrett, it's your accuracy that's being questioned. That telegram was dated today and sent an hour ago. Now, I want to know where your information came from. What town? Why? This house is full of flowers."

"Well, if we're in error, Mr. Hindle, we'll certainly print a correction in tomorrow's paper. Meanwhile, I'll investigate the matter immediately and call you back when I've tracked something down."

"I'll be waiting."

Chimes. J. D. picked up the flowers again and carried them to the door. The odor was good, but they breathed all the oxygen, and the overtone of funerals still emanated from them. He would unload them all on whichever deliveryman it was this time.

Bill Henderson stood on the porch holding a tray covered with a white cloth. "Nancy sent you something hot, Jay."

"That was sweet of her, Bill. Excuse me." J. D. set the flowers outside on the porch. "Come in." J. D. was smiling. He was aware that Bill noticed he was smiling.

"We were about to risk our lives on the freeway today, to visit Nancy's people, when we saw the newspaper. Jay, I--"

"Thanks, Bill, but save it. It's a mistake. A stupid mistake. I just heard from Carolyn."

"What? You mean she's OK? She called?"

"Yes. Well, she sent a telegram from Florida an hour ago. Didn't even mention the hurricane."

"That's odd. Must be on everybody's mind down there."

"Yeah, a little inconsiderate, in a way. She might know I'd be worried about that."

"Maybe the telegram was delayed. The hurricane and all."

"What're you trying to say?"

"Nothing."

"Why can't it be the newspaper that's wrong?"

"Well, it just doesn't seem likely."

"I gave that editor hell. He's going to call back. Look, let's shut up about it, OK? I've got a hangover from drinking alone last night."

"Why didn't you call me? We could have had a few hands of poker."

"Yeah. Why didn't I? It was a strange night. And now all this flood of flowers this morning. My stomach's in knots. Have a cup of coffee with me before you hit the highway."

"OK, then I guess we may's well go ahead with our trip."

Lifting the white cloth from the tray, J. D. felt an eerie sensation in his stomach that the sight of the smoking food dispelled. "I'm going to eat this anyway, OK? Not enough coffee for both of us. You have this and I'll make some more instant for myself."

Running the water in the bathroom basin again, waiting for it to get steaming hot, J. D. heard the telephone ring.

"Hey, Bill, you mind getting that for me?"

J. D. spooned coffee into the plastic mug and watched it stain the water. Steam rising made his eyes misty. Bill was a blur in the bathroom door. J. D. blinked the tears from his eyes. Bill's face was grimly set.

"What's the matter with you?"

"That was the editor. He thought I was you, so he started right in with his report. The story... checks out ... through Associated Press. He made other inquiries and found out that the... the bodies are being shipped back tonight by plane."

J. D. slung the cup and coffee into the tub and with the same hand, clenched, slugged Bill in the mouth.

"What's the matter with you, Jay? Didn't you want me to tell--"

"You son of a bitch! You made the whole thing up. I see the whole thing now. It was you, back of it all. Your masterpiece. Not just one more stupid practical joke. You put everything into this one."

"You think I'd do a terrible thing like that just for laughs?"

"Not until now, I didn't. Why else would you come around? You had to see how it was getting to me. OK, I fell for it. All the way. So far, I'm still sick, and I'll be sick all day."

"Jay, you better get out of this house. You're not used to being alone here. Nancy and I will stay home. You come on over with me and--"

"You're the one that better get out of here, before I kill you!"

Staring up at J. D., Bill got to his feet. Without looking back, he walked out, leaving the front door open.

Still so angry he could hardly see or walk straight, J. D. went into the living room and flopped onto the couch, satisfied that all the pieces of the puzzle were now in place. The mixture of emotions that had convulsed him was now a vivid anger that struck at a single object. Seeing the tray of food, no longer steaming, on the footrest of his leather chair, he leaped to his feet and took the tray into the bathroom and with precise flips of his wrist, tossed the eggs, toast, coffee, jelly, butter and bacon into the toilet and flushed it. Over the sound of water, he heard the chimes.

With the tray still in his hands, he went into the foyer, where the door still stood open. Among the flowers he had set out on the porch stood a woman, smartly dressed. She held a soup tureen in both gloved hands. The sight of the tray surprised her and she smiled awkwardly, thinking, perhaps, that she had come at the end of a line and that J. D. was ready for her. She started to set the tureen on the tray, saying, "I'm Mrs. Merrill, president of your P. T. A., and I just want you to know--" But J. D. stepped back and lowered the tray in one hand to his side.

"A stupid, criminal joke has been played here, Mrs. Merrill. I won't need the soup, thank you. Come again when my wife is home. They're having a wonderful time in Florida."

"With that horrible hurricane and all?"

"Yes, hurricane and all."

J. D. shut the door and turned back and locked it.

He closed the drapes and lay down on the couch again. His head throbbed as though too large for his body. Just as his head touched the cushion, the telephone rang. He let it. Then, realizing that it might be Carolyn, calling in person, he jumped up. It stopped before he could reach it. As he returned to the couch, it started again. Maybe she was finally worried about the hurricane, about his worrying about it.

"Mr. Hindle, this is Mr. Crigger at Greenlawn. It is my understanding that you have not yet made arrangements for your dear wife and chil--"

Seeing three red-clay holes in the ground, J. D. slammed the receiver in its cradle.

Chimes. J. D. just stood there, letting the sound rock him like waves at sea. Among the flowers that crowded the porch stood the first delivery boy.

"If you touch those chimes one more time...."

"Listen, mister, have a heart, I'm only doing what I was told."

"I'm telling you--" Unable to finish, J. D. jerked the basket of flowers from the young man's hands and threw it back at him. He turned and ran down the walk, and J. D. kicked at the other baskets, urns and pots, until all the flowers were strewn over the lawn around the small porch.

He slammed the door and locked it again. Standing on a chair, he rammed his fist against the electric-chimes mechanism that was fastened to the wall above the front door. The blow started the chimes going. He struck again and again, until the pain in his hand made him stop.

Reeling about the house searching for an object with which to smash the chimes, J. D. saw in his mind images from a Charlie Chaplin movie he had seen on the late show one night in the early years of television: Charlie entangled in modern machinery on an assembly line. The film moved twice as fast in his head. He found no deadly weapon in the house nor in the garage that adjoined the house. Seeing the switch box, he cut off the current.

Lying on the couch again, he tried to relax. He thought of people passing, of more people coming to offer their condolences, of the flowers strewn like gestures of insanity in the yard. Carolyn would be shocked at the stories she would hear of the flowers in the yard; for until they all knew the truth, it would appear to the neighbors that J. D. had no respect, no love, felt no remorse for his dead family.

He went out and gathered the flowers into one overflowing armful and took them into the house and put them in his leather easy chair. Then he brought in the baskets, urns and pots.

He had heard that lying on the floor relaxed tense muscles and nerves. He tried it. He lay on the carpet, arms and legs sticking straight out. After a few shuddering sighs, he began to drift, to doze. He recalled the funerals of some of his friends. Somewhat as these people today had approached him, he had approached the wives and families of his departed friends. For the important families, he had attended to insurance details himself. How artificial, meaningless, ridiculous, even cruelly stupid it all seemed now.

Coldness woke him. The room was black dark. The cold odor of roses and lilies was so strong he had to suck in air to breathe. He rolled over on his belly and rose on his hands and knees, then, holding onto the couch, pulled himself up.

Weak and shivering, he moved across the floor as though on a deck that heaved and sank. When he pulled the cord, the drapes, like stage curtains, opened on icy stars, a luminous sky.

None of the light switches worked. Then he remembered throwing the main switch in the garage. Using matches, he inched along until he found the switch.

Perhaps if he ate something, to get strength.

In the refrigerator, stacks of TV dinners. The pink stove gleamed in the fluorescent light of the kitchen. The buttons and dials, like the control panel of an airplane, were a hopeless confusion.

He was astonished that the first week in September could be so cold. Perhaps it had something to do with the hurricanes. Arctic air masses or something. What did he know of the behavior of weather? Nothing. Where was the switch to turn on the electric heat? He looked until he was exhausted. Perhaps he had better get out of the house for a while.

Sitting behind the wheel, his hand on the ignition, he wondered where he could go. A feeling of absolute indecision overwhelmed him. The realm of space and time in which all possibilities lay was a white blank.

As he sat there, hand on key, staring through the windshield as if hypnotized by the monotony of a freeway at night, he experienced a sudden intuition of the essence of his last moments with Carolyn. Ronnie and Ellen in the back seat, Carolyn sat beside J. D., saying again what she had said in similar words for weeks and in silence for months, perhaps years, before that: "I must get away for a while. Something is happening to me. I'm dying, very, very slowly; do you understand that, Jay? Our life. It's the way we live, somehow the way we live." No, he had not understood. Not then. He had only thought, How wonderful to be rid of all of you for a while, to know that in our house you aren't grinding the wheels of routine down the same old grooves, to feel that the pattern is disrupted, the current that keeps the wheels turning is off.

The telephone ringing shattered his daze. He went into the house.

Seeing the receiver on the floor, he realized that he had only imagined the ringing of the phone. But the chimes were going. He opened the door. There was only moonlight on the porch. Then he remembered striking at the chimes with his fist. Something had somehow sparked them off again.

As he stood on the threshold of his house, the chimes ringing, he looked out over the rooftops of the houses below, where the rolling hills gave the development its name. From horizon to horizon, he saw only roofs, gleaming in moonlight, their television aerials bristling against the glittering stars. All lights were out, as though there had been a massive power failure, and he realized how long he must have slept. He looked for the man in the moon, but the moon appeared faceless. Then, with the chimes filling the brilliantly lighted house at his back, he gazed up at the stars; and as he began to see Carolyn's face and Ronnie's face and Ellen's face more and more clearly, snow began to fall, as though the stars had disintegrated into flakes, and he knew that he would never see his wife and children again.