A Fist Full of Daisies

 

Hillary Lyon

 

 

       Liza leaned over to examine the tarnished bronze plaque wedged into the earth. Encrusted with dirt, it was hard to read. She attempted to wipe away the grunge but it was too caked on after years of exposure to the vagaries of Texas weather. She ran her fingers over the raised letters of the plaque, but even then, the words were obscured by hard-baked clods of dirt.

       How had this final resting place become so forlorn, so forgotten? The one sign of recent remembrance was the small bouquet of flowers—daisies—someone had placed in the bronze vase next to the plaque. Liza reached down to the vase and gathered the flowers.

       The weren't fresh flowers at all; they were plastic. No longer bright, and color faded, their uniform petals were badly weathered. Whoever placed them there likely wanted to give the appearance of caring enough to bring fresh flowers without going to the effort of putting real ones in the vase.

      Which means, without going to the effort of visiting on a regular basis. Someone had moved on. Obviously.

      Clutching the plastic bouquet, she stood upright and scanned the area surrounding the grave. This section of the cemetery was neglected; where there should have been a lush lawn, huge patches of dirt blossomed. What grass remained was dried and dead.

      Liza had seen enough. She began the long walk back to her house.

* * *

      Even on a moonless night such as this, Liza would recognize the home she shared with Gabe. The daisy-yellow faux-Victorian wooden trim on the townhouse's front porch, the hanging baskets of Boston ferns, the cheeky little garden gnome statue flashing his pink ass next to the azalea bush.

     The closer she came to the porch, the more changes she saw. The trim wasn’t yellow, as she remembered, it was a dull olive green. The hanging baskets held moss roses, and the gnome had vanished, replaced with a birdbath. The azaleas were gone, too; rose bushes now lined the front of the house.

Liza wrinkled her nose in disgust. Since when did Gabe prefer such boring middle-class trappings? Since when did he decorate without her input? She’d have a talk with him about all this when she went inside, even if she had to wake him up.

      But she wouldn’t have to wake him, as Liza noted the light was still on in the den. And the curtain was open on the large picture window, so all the world could see inside their home. She pushed her way through the rose bushes, ignoring the thorns tearing her hose, scratching her legs.

      And there he was, setting two wine glasses on the coffee table. Liza smiled. He was waiting for her! She watched as he poured a generous amount of red wine into the glasses. Red wine! He knew she preferred white wines, like Sauvignon blanc or Chardonnay. Reds gave her headaches; surely he remembered that.

      Gabe turned to the music player on the bookshelf behind the sofa, and diddled with the system. Liza could faintly hear music through the window. Al Green. Music he always put on when he was feeling romantic.

      He walked into their little kitchen and returned holding a bouquet of flowers. How sweet, Liza thought. I’ll forgive him the red wine since he bought flowers. She leaned closer to the window to better see the bouquet. Tiger lilies! Ugh. Daisies were her favorite flowers; he knew that. What was he up to? Liza’s grip tightened on the plastic bouquet in her hand.

      Through the large window she watched, but couldn’t hear, as he spoke—or was he singing?—to someone out of sight. Or was he practicing what he’d say to her when she walked through the front door? Probably that, Liza decided. Maybe tonight is the night he’ll ask me to—

      A much younger woman, whom Liza did not recognize, bounced into the den from the direction of their bedroom. She wore a tight purple corset, embroidered with tiny white flowers, and matching, sheer bikini panties. Her black hair was styled in a sleek pixie cut.

      She couldn’t have been more different from Liza, who was much shorter than this woman, and wore her long light brown hair parted on the side, so it fell like a sultry curtain over her right eye. Or so Gabe once told her. This woman had delicate cheek bones, while Liza looked like a chipmunk, as Gabe affectionately teased. Gabe, Gabe, Gabe...

       Looks like Gabe didn’t waste any time finding a playmate, Liza raged internally, while I was away, while I was...

      Liza blinked hard to make herself refocus, to return to the present moment. “Who the fuck are you?” Liza hissed through her clenched, wired jaw. She watched as Gabe presented the ribbon-tied bouquet of fresh flowers to this woman, who squealed with delight. Liza was never one to cry over heartbreak, and tonight was no exception. As the couple kissed, Liza banged the window with her clenched fist.

* * *

      Sonya pulled away from Gabe’s embrace. “What was that?” She bit her lower lip, a habit Gabe found to be not only sexy, but endearing.

      “Probably a bird flew into the glass,” he reassured as he moved to the window. “It happens sometimes.” He pulled the curtains closed. “No worries.”

      He returned to his girlfriend, handing her a glass of wine, picking up the other for himself. “Here’s to the most wonderful woman in the world!” Sonya blushed as they clinked their glasses together. “I am so lucky to have met you after—”

      Again, something pounded on the glass. Three successive thumps.

      “Gabe, honey,” Sonya said, not trying to hide the fear in her voice, “I don’t think that’s a bird.” He relished being her protector; they both knew this on a primal level.

      “I’m sure it’s just neighborhood kids being jackasses,” Gabe said, pulling Sonya close to him. The warmth of her body next to his, her full bosom emphasized by the corset, it all combined to give Gabe an elemental thrill.

      “Let’s forget about those stupid kids,” He murmured into Sonya’s ear. He was more concerned with getting Sonya in bed than chasing after bored juvenile delinquents.

      The pounding began again, this time hard enough to shake the window. Sonya broke their embrace. “Please go investigate. This is creeping me out.” She blinked her large doe eyes, and Gabe’s heart melted.

He walked to the front door, grabbing the baseball bat he kept in the umbrella stand next to it. He wasn’t a gun owner, but he still believed in home security. Besides, neighbors would hear a gunshot, police would be called—things would get messy.

      Over his shoulder, Gabe called out to Sonya. “Hey babe, why don’t you go pick out another bottle of wine. I’ll be done here in a minute.”

      He opened the door, and stepped out onto the front porch.

* * *

      Liza stumbled out from the rose bushes. Even in the dark of this moonless night, he recognized her. She was still wearing the navy blue dress with the gold piping; the one outfit she’d owned for solemn occasions. The dress he’d chosen for her...

      “This isn't real,” Gabe said, tightening his grip on the baseball bat. “What are you doing here?”

Liza held out the small bouquet of dirty plastic daisies.

      “This is what you think I deserve? Cheap plastic flowers? I’m gone—how long? And you’ve already moved some slut into our house? And you give her real flowers? What are you doing here?” Liza answered his question with her own questions, but all Gabe heard was a string of groans, moans, and a guttural growl.

      Seeing Liza again, even in her current condition, dredged up all Gabe’s old resentments. Anger bubbled up from the core of his being.

      “You’re the one who got shit-faced at Rusty’s 4th of July party,” Gabe began. His blood pounded in his ears.“You’re the one who couldn’t keep her hands off of him—even in front of me.” He spit on the ground.    “You’re the one I caught going down on him in the guest bathroom.”

      Liza unbuttoned the front of her dress and slid her withered hand inside to tweak her desiccated nipple. Boys used to go crazy when she did that, especially Gabe.

      Gabe now clenched the bat with both hands. “You’re the one who grabbed my keys and stormed off three sheets to the wind. You’re the one who smashed my car into that old oak tree next to the road.”

      Liza stretched her jaw as wide as she could, popping the wires that held her mouth closed. It fell open, revealing a moldering black hole. She pushed her formaldehyde-pickled tongue out, attempting to lick her cracked bottom lip. This action made a sound like sandpaper rubbed across rough concrete. No matter; she remembered what Gabe liked, and how he liked it.

       He ignored her lewd invitation. “We’re all lucky you didn’t kill anyone else.”

       Disregarding his rant, she rolled her hips in a grotesque imitation of a belly dancer. Once she got him between her legs, he’d forget all about her transgressions. He always did, though this time...

       Gabe raised the bat.

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Hillary Lyon founded and for 20 years acted as senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous Press. Her horror, speculative fiction, and crime short stories, drabbles, and poems have appeared in more than 150 publications. She's an SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet. Hillary is also the art director for Black Petals.