Wildflowers

Excerpt

Wildflowers
Hayden Winston © 2021
All Rights Reserved

You breathe and the city seems to breathe with you. It feels like the ardent touch of a lover, cool and electric on your skin. Raindrops threaten to fall from dark grey clouds that hover in the sky like peak-less mountains. Sweaters, jackets, umbrellas get pulled out, tucked on—a choreographed dance. You sigh and the city sighs with you. Everyone is moving, flooding the streets like ants at a discarded picnic. It feels like the touch of something cosmic, for this all to come together the way it does. Even if you decided to stop, you could not change it. Someone, somewhere, would stop along with you. It is inescapable. Even when you die—someone, somewhere has died along with you.

As he stood over the open casket containing what was once his very alive grandfather, that concept was all that Ansel Wallis focused on. How many other people in the world are burying their granddads today? Since the casket had not yet been lowered into its freshly dug grave, Ansel took some time to pay his final respects. He had never been one to emote in front of a large crowd (much like his late granddad), so he had spent most of the funeral service thinking quietly to himself and consoling relatives. Now that he and his grandfather were finally alone, Ansel reached out to place a single orchid onto the elder Wallis’s lifeless body.

Peering at said body intently, Ansel noticed how his grandfather’s hands had changed. Whether bringing in a mountain of groceries, carrying one of Ansel’s sisters in each arm, or tossing Ansel up in the air, William Wallis’s hands were always rugged and full of exuberance. Now, they appeared different, alien almost. The skin on them lacked luster; the gold ruby signet ring William had usually worn on his right pinky was gone, as was the wedding band that adorned his left ring finger. Maybe it was the absence of these rings, or the absence of life in him altogether, but in that moment William’s hands were small, naked, feeble even as they lay clasped serenely above his waist. And it wasn’t just his hands: the invisible shadow of death dwarfed William’s entire body.

Mind you, that was no easy feat. At six foot-two and a hundred eighty-two pounds, the man had quite literally been larger than life. Add to his size, a strong jaw, charisma, and a deep, booming voice, and you had the perfect recipe to command anyone’s attention. He kept an entire room in line with a mere look and incited them to dance all the same. Now he lay motionless, all-seeing eyes closed tight, voice forever muted. Ansel also noticed his grandfather’s complexion was different. Though Ansel and his grandfather had shared the same rich dark, brown skin tone in life, the mortician had heavily powdered William’s visage. In death, his face was several shades lighter than the skin on his hands.

The mahogany casket gleamed in the sunlight, reminding Ansel of the way their dining table had gleamed growing up, after his mother had finished applying a vigorous waxing. It was May 25. Ansel only knew the date with certainty, as exactly three days earlier his sister Regina had called to inform him of their grandfather’s fatal stroke. He couldn’t believe the news at first. William was Ansel’s last living grandparent and the closest thing Ansel had known to a father since he was twelve years old. Ansel’s actual father, William’s lone son, had died in a horrific car crash shortly after Ansel completed junior high.

Losing his father had absolutely devastated Ansel, and losing his grandfather hit as hard. Following the death of Ansel’s dad, his grandfather had stepped in to help raise Ansel and his sisters. William had made so much of an impact that his loss compelled Ansel to return home for the first time in nearly two and a half years. He’d taken the redeye from Philadelphia and had barely slept since getting off the plane. He had landed in town in time to change into a black suit and navy tie for the funeral service. He felt trapped in a guilt-laden fog the entire way through.

He’d promised himself that he was going to visit when he first learned his grandfather had fallen ill, but he had never followed through. Ansel would make plans to fly home for the weekend, then reschedule. He told himself he’d go next weekend, or the next time he got a chance. His granddad had moved into the house with his mother, and she’d taken care of him with the help of a part-time nurse. Ansel had made excuse after excuse, putting the visit off the way we all do with daunting tasks, until inevitably time ran out. Ansel turned away from the casket and headed to the other end of the cemetery, where the exit lay. He crossed the street to where an old gothic-style Anglican Church stood.

The air was thick, and the heat devoured Hunter, California, stronger than any other summer prior. Ansel stood at the wrought-iron gate that enclosed the courtyard behind the church. He placed a hand on the smooth metal bars feeling along the decorative inlay. Like all good West Indian families, the Wallises had regularly attended church for most of Ansel’s childhood. And for most of his childhood, Ansel had thought nothing of the ritual, until, of course, his dad died. All he could do after his father’s funeral was lie flat and stare at the ceiling. His body and mind had felt completely shrouded in an unshakeable haze, a deep, dense, darkness.

Although he had been more than old enough to, Ansel realized he could scarcely recall any of the details of his father’s funeral. Reflecting on it, all he could see were solemn faces everywhere, and hands extending out to rub shoulders lovingly, catch tears with handkerchiefs. The mounds of bodies all decked out in their mourning garb, wailing, and swaying to and fro in the church pews, were reminiscent of an oil spill at sea—black tides, thick like molasses, crashing into the shore. Ansel could remember leading the procession of pallbearers at the cemetery, though no one actually expected him to help carry his father’s casket. He could see the casket being set down on freshly cut spring grass, and his memory went blank.

They had buried his father on a Friday. Ansel recalled this as two days later they’d sat stiffly, quietly in church as usual. Only nothing about it had been as usual; his dad was dead. The spot to the left of his mother was eerily empty. The church folks huddled in two and threes, sympathizing with and judging the family in whispers. Ansel never formed a connection with the whole church-going experience the way his family did, but that day in particular, he felt out of it. He sat glossy-eyed and spacey, detached from his surroundings. But no one paid any attention to him, given the circumstances the family had endured. That evening once the Wallises had made it home and settled in, Ansel had traversed the stairs and through the hall to his mother’s room, stole a handful of her diazepam, and swallowed them dry.

The chalky taste of the pills ruminated in his mouth. As he waited for their effects to set in, he grabbed a sheet of loose-leaf paper and scribbled ‘what’s it all for anyway?’ in blue ink across the center. After a while, Ansel felt a daze setting over him, the drugs kicking in. He promptly took the note into the guest bathroom across the hall from Regina’s room. He calmly retrieved a straight razor from the medicine cabinet. He reflected on how no one in his family seemed to understand him, except for his dad, and now his dad was gone. He slashed both of his wrists horizontally.

Warm, sticky blood oozed out and trickled down his forearms. He grew woozy, and as the room grew dark, a shrill, frantic scream emanated from behind him. The next thing he knew, there were bright lights in his eyes, and he was moving somehow, while still lying flat. There was pitch darkness again, until he reached the hospital. He would later find out he had been coming in and out of consciousness while strapped to a gurney, and that the scream belonged to his sister Elise.

She dialed 911 after discovering him in the bathroom, drenched in his own blood. Ansel was kept on a standard seventy-two-hour hold, during which time only his mother and his best friend Sebastian visited him. Ansel had asked his sisters not to come. He already felt anxious and embarrassed and did not want to exacerbate the situation. He would only be in the hospital for three days and felt somehow that not having the rest of his immediate family present would make it less of a big deal. So, Elise sent flowers and a heartfelt note, and Regina sent smuggled in rum cordials with a card that read: I know life sucks, but I hope you get out of here soon.

Ansel appreciated them both, but preferred Regina’s approach for no other reason than the fact that she acknowledged that life could be difficult sometimes. She didn’t mask grit with flowery phrases or emphasize the beauty of the world over its ugliness. In the days that followed, Ansel spent much of his time alone at home. He was expected to keep his bedroom door open, unless he was in a state of undress, and could not spend more than a few minutes in the bathroom by himself without someone checking in on him. He understood why. He knew it was for his own safety. His family cared, but it still felt a lot like imprisonment. By the time Sunday rolled again, Ansel was asked whether or not he wanted to go to church.

He pondered it for a moment and told his mother that he was not up to it and wasn’t sure he ever would be again. Surprisingly, this response spurred no rebuttal. She simply said she understood how he felt and left. It was the first time he had been left alone in the house since he had been discharged from the hospital, and he relished every second of this newfound freedom. In fact, he enjoyed that brief window of independence so much that he declined to go to church the next Sunday and the Sunday after that. Eventually, having spent several weeks away from church with no consequences, Ansel questioned whether God truly existed.

He weighed everything he had learned about religion. He researched countless spiritual movements and faith groups, and even tried out a few practices. He applied this same methodology to handling all other matters in his life. Whether emotional, sexual, political, moral, all choices were met with deep inward exploration and experimentation. By age fifteen, Ansel had come to the conclusion that he was an atheist. Needless to say, his father’s funeral had been the last time he had even seen the inside of a church.

Yet, as he stood before the church gates, the years of unwavering disbelief skipped a beat. He hesitated for a moment, about trying to strike up some sort of deal, with God or the Devil, and corrected himself, God and the Devil only exist in the imaginations of men. He broke from this line of thinking and noticed a tear rolling down his cheek. He reached to wipe it away and another fell free. He waited at the gate for a moment to settle himself. He retrieved a pack of cigarettes from the left pocket of his denim jeans and stripped two smokes from the pack. Suddenly, a hand grabbed him around the waist from behind. Startled, he almost dropped the cigarettes, only to turn around and discover the culprit was his good friend Holly.

Holly was like the hand that saved him from drowning. She was funny, creative, and seductive. Her amber hair fell in wild curls at her cheeks. Her eyes were sapphire blue, and she had a pinup girl figure. She wore a tight black-and-white dress, with a big black belt around her waist, and matching black pumps. A mid-sized, heart-shaped leather purse hung off her shoulder by a long strap. Ansel handed her one of the cigarettes. She hugged him tightly and offered her condolences.

“Thank you, now can we please change the subject.”

She smiled, kindness and sympathy radiating from her, and Ansel managed a smile in return. The two sat down together on the steps in the courtyard behind the church. They were half in the sun and half covered by the shade cast from the overhang of the church roof. Holly placed the butt of her cigarette to her supple, rose-colored lips. Ansel pulled a lighter out and lit her up. She took a deep, long drag as he repeated the ritual for himself. She exhaled and caught him up the last guy she dated. He was a film major named Trey, who had turned out to be less of a gentleman than Holly was initially led to believe. She summarized his personality using one word, asshole.

Ansel tapped the tip of his cigarette against the hot concrete steps below him to free any lingering ash. He took a drag and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt, as miniscule beads of sweat flowed down his neck. Without much forethought Ansel assessed that Holly appeared to have a thing for assholes. Sharp as a tack, she asked whether present company was included. Ansel chuckled and took another drag of his cigarette. All he could say in return was “Touché.” Once the ribbing was out of the way, Holly opened up a bit more. She told Ansel how she expected Trey to be different. He seemed genuinely kind. She pulled a handkerchief out from her purse and dabbed at her own neckline.

“You get what you attract,” Ansel said flatly. He took another drag.

“What the actual fuck, Ansel?” Holly shouted. Her voice had gone from smooth with a hint of underlying angst to shaky and filled with white-hot anger in seconds. She ashed her cigarette as she glared at her friend intently.

While Holly was well aware he had a cold streak, Ansel could see that the tone of his comments still managed to take her by surprise. He rephrased, hoping to come across less harsh. “What I meant was you have so much to offer the world,” he started, pausing. He wanted to be careful, not so much about what he said, but his delivery. “You were on the honor roll, for chrissakes, and you’re drop-dead gorgeous. But if you continue to put out a needy vibe, you’ll only attract the users and losers out there.”

“Oh, wise sage.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm now as she threw her arms into the air in mock praise of him.

“I only want what’s best for you.”

“Well, no one asked you what you wanted in the first place,” Holly quipped. “Anyway, Trey had been begging to make me the star of his next project. You know I’ve never been one to fall for outright flattery, but I’ve always had an admiration for the arts, so I couldn’t resist.”

Ansel took a few more puffs from his cigarette and waited for her story to come to an end. Once Holly was finished giving him the basics, he glanced up at her. “So where exactly did things go wrong?”

Holly didn’t say anything right away. She glimpsed up at the sky and down at her shoes, as if searching for the answer. She took a deep, long inhale of her cigarette. By the time she had looked up again, Ansel saw that her eyes had begun to well up. Fighting tears, she eventually answered that it was because she was an idiot. Ansel paused and looked over at her. Her eyes were closed tight, in an attempt to stifle any additional sobbing. The tender flesh of her cheeks glowed red hot with embarrassment. She blinked her eyes open, and a few more dewy drops escaped. Her lips quivered a bit. He waited while she composed herself. “You’re not an idiot. We all make stupid choices once in a while; it’s nothing to be horribly ashamed of.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Holly sniffled. She wiped her eyes and exhaled. Once her emotions settled, she joked about how whiskey had always been better at cheering her up than Ansel. Next, she pulled a fifth of Jack Daniel’s out from her purse. She handed it to Ansel and gestured for him to open it, pointing to her freshly manicured nails. Ansel cracked open the bottle and handed it to Holly so that she could take the first sip. She took a giant gulp of whiskey and motioned the bottle toward him. Ansel took his turn. The familiar warmth of the tart, brown liquid crept its way down to the back of his throat. He tried to rid himself of the dull aftertaste by taking a puff of his still lit cigarette, but that didn’t help much.

Holly took two more swigs, knocking the whiskey down like water. She told Ansel that the worst part about the whole Trey thing was that she had slept with him. She tapped her fingers to ash her cigarette, nervously waiting for Ansel to react. After a few moments and another swig of whiskey, Ansel broke the momentary silence. “How many times did you sleep together?”

She shifted nervously and raised four fingers to signal the number.

“Shit,” he sighed. He gazed up at her with sympathy in his eyes. He had now regretted being so harsh to her a few moments earlier about knowing her worth. They had grown to be brutally honest with each other over the years. Sometimes he forgot to rein it in. Holly explained herself in the frantic way one does when they feared being judged by an outside party. She reiterated that things were going so well with Trey at first. They had talked for a couple of months and had a handful of dates. Even though he spouted all of that nonsense about putting her in one of his films, she found him endearing. But things took a drastic turnabout, when she agreed to make the forty-minute drive from Philly to Trey’s place in Trenton, New Jersey, to visit him. Trey kept text messaging Holly, telling her he missed her and was yearning to see her.

According to Holly, after multiple messages, she acquiesced and drove all the way to Jersey. Unfortunately, by the time Holly got to his place, Trey was wasted and kept raving about how badly he needed to screw. Ansel took two big swallows of whiskey and passed the bottle to Holly. Holly took a long, hard swig herself. She placed the bottle down next to her. Her sparkling blue eyes illuminated by the setting sun, she stood with her free hand on her hip and demanded, “I mean, what is it, do I look like a whore?”

Ansel wasn’t quite sure how to respond. While he viewed promiscuity as one’s own personal business, he knew exactly what she meant. She was referring to the whore archetype—the soulless seductress in tight, revealing dress and painted face, who beckons men to their doom with a single glance. “I know, right,” he ultimately muttered. He estimated passive agreement to be the safest response. He was wrong.

“That was a rhetorical question. Men refer to women who enjoy sex as whores when it suits them. It’s unbelievably sexist, not to mention antiquated and illogical.”

Ansel agreed. In an effort to lighten the mood, he added, “But you know most men are idiots; it’s kind of our thing.”

“That’s hardly a valid excuse,” Holly answered, rolling her eyes. She narrowed them and furrowed her brow as she stared him down. “I mean you’re not like that.”

Ansel replayed some of the events that had taken place earlier that summer in his mind. He ashed his cigarette and took one last puff, before putting it out completely. Holly handed him the whiskey, and Ansel took a hearty sip from it before he responded. “I’m no saint. I’ve said and done my share of shitty things.”

Though he stated this in his usual matter-of-fact manner, Holly took a moment to absorb it. She locked eyes with him. “You’ve never been that way with me.”

But Ansel waved this off. “That’s because unlike almost everyone else in my life, you never let me get away with anything.” He took another sip of whiskey, half emptying the bottle in the process, and handed it off to Holly. She clenched the neck with her right hand and held the label close to her chest for a moment before she spoke again.

“The worst part is Trey’s friends were still there when I arrived.”

Ansel let out a groan. The sweltering heat bore down on them. He took off his blazer and wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve, leaving it drenched in sweat.

Holly nudged him to move a few paces over, so their bodies could rest completely covered by shade. Ansel hastily obliged as she continued with her story, “So I walked in to find Trey and these idiots snorting lines of coke off his glass coffee table. He kept saying he would make them leave and we could bang after.”

“What a romantic,” Ansel remarked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. to which Ansel Holly nodded. “That’s why I torched the bastard.”

A mischievous smile crossed her face and she took another drink, finishing off the whiskey. She set the bottle down casually beside her, but it rolled and clanked loudly against the asphalt ground beneath.

“You did what?” Ansel had known Holly to be tough, but the last thing he had expected to hear was that she set someone ablaze. She laughed and admitted Trey’s right pant leg alone had briefly caught fire. Ansel merely shot her a look. “Has anyone ever had told you you’re completely insane?”

“Yeah, but 98 percent of the time men are the ones saying it, so I ignore them… That reminds me, I stole a ton of his weed! He was too busy desperately trying to extinguish his leg to notice.”

“Two questions: how in the world did that remind you of stolen weed, and why have you been holding back on me?”

“Trey kept screaming ‘you crazy fucking bitch’ as I left his apartment.” She chuckled. “Now, prepare to wait no longer.” Holly pulled out a small glass jar, along with her pocket-sized dragon pipe, and smiled. She packed the mouth of the pipe with the contents of the jar, lit it, and inhaled deeply. She exhaled, and smoke billowed above their heads. She passed the pipe to Ansel, and he took his turn. They shared the little dragon this way for about five or six rounds before the effects settled in.

First, his nerves eased; his muscles gradually started to unwind, relax, like a cat stretching out its limbs upon rising. His thoughts, too, had become increasingly tranquil, and his eyelids had grown a bit heavier. Before long, Ansel and Holly were laughing at everything and nothing. They laughed until their ribs ached, the pressure swelling in their stomachs, as they tried to catch their breaths.

“How’d you sneak this on and off the plane?” Ansel settled himself in.

“A lady has her methods.” Holly giggled a bit. “Have you spoken to Sebastian?” she added as she patted tiny globules of newly gathered sweat from her forehead and neck with her handkerchief.

“Not since he left Philly a couple of weeks ago.” Ansel patted his own neck again.

“Well, he is supposed to be in Cyprus until the end of summer.”

“Sad news.” Ansel tried to change the subject. “See any good films lately?”

When Holly didn’t respond, he wondered if she sensed something was up. They had grown incredibly close, and she knew Sebastian was inarguably his best friend. He watched as she appeared to mull things over for a moment. He figured she would want to know why he was being so blasé about not seeing Sebastian for the rest of the summer. He could feel her trying to extract the truth from him without words. She scanned his eyes for answers, but he reckoned she couldn’t see past his grief. After all, grief was all he saw when he looked at himself in the mirror. She passed him the little dragon and he surmised she must have decided not to press the issue. He inhaled, exhaled a frothy, white fog of smoke, and laughed once more.

Morning came, and Ansel awoke to a stream of pale sunlight venturing in through the window to his room and an incessant beeping. He had regrettably chosen the high-pitched tone as the new alarm on his phone, hoping it would jar him awake. It worked.