Blood and Petals

...Maybe I was wrong to help My Grandfather write this story in the last few weeks of his life— it seemed to cause him as much anguish to explore it as to take a break from it. Maybe it was selfish, cruel even— 
     Well, it has to be madness.
     But I could type almost as fast as he could speak. He grew weaker and softer even as he drove himself harder and harder. He chased my grandmother on the page... as if he could bring her back if we just got the words down in the right order. 
    So… here are those words. I hope you like their order.     

     And so, the letter-writing campaign began.
Each new missive from Paulie Schaeffer thrilled Annie. Even though I was often sitting at her side when she tore open the letters and read them. The other girls— well, they didn’t matter to me— so I have no idea if they were aware of Annie’s strange madness.
     In our letter, we talked about poetry— I was reading a lot lately— and fairy stories —she was becoming obsessed with tales of heroes outwitting the fair folk. We traded dreams and nightmares. We talked about her plans— she was still debating running away when the seasons changed, and her birthday passed, and keeping her baby. We talked about Dotty Price, and milkshakes, and the Wizard of Oz, and anything else that struck our fancy.
     Many of the letters the other girls got were love letters from their boys. And they always pressed Annie to share the “good bits”. Especially, Rachael who was brand new and lonely, and never got any letters from anyone. Annie would always blush and refuse, but hint that her Paulie was deeply romantic, and what she would not read aloud was for her eyes only.
     I re-evaluated the parts she did not read to them. Which was mostly me talking about how much I missed her and how wonderful she was. I hadn’t thought of it as romantic. It was just the truth.
     Then one day Margaret asked, jealously. “Well, if he’s so charming and romantic, why didn’t he marry you?”
     Annie, without pause, and with a darker, stonier look than I’d ever seen in her eyes, defended me. “Paul would marry me. I could change my mind at any time, and he would be here in a day or two, and we would be wed. But I refuse to ruin his future.”
     Then she folded my letter and put it away in her pocket. “He’s too good for me.”
     What madness had taken her? Imagining a world where I was not only a boy, but the father of her child? Egads, Annie said the most outrageous things.
     Still, I couldn’t let her defend this imagined version of me with such lies. “No one is too good for you, Annie. And certainly not any boy.”
     She looked at me dimly, without a flicker of recognition, as if I were a stranger invading her private conversation with Margaret. Then her eyes narrowed and she studied my face.
     Yes. See me. Know me. It’s Paulie. You’re Paulie. I didn’t know it until just now, but… I’d marry you if I could. Say the word and I’ll take you away. Who cares if we’re both girls! We’ll figure that out. 
     “What’s this future you won’t want to ruin?” Margaret asked.
     Annie turned from me. “He has a full scholarship to Penn State. He shall be a chemist. He’s wonderful and has a bright future. He’ll marry someone pretty and outgoing and…”
     I snorted. “What would he want with someone outgoing when he could have someone as lovely and mysterious as you?”
Margaret gave me a queer look. At least I wasn’t disappearing for the whole of the house.
     “Pure.” Annie finished her thought. She didn’t hear me.
     Until I added. “If he’s still writing, he must love you. Maybe you’re ruining his future because he thinks you love him and he’s waiting for you.”
     Annie looked at me strangely. “I… he won’t.  He’s much too…”
     She looked affectionately at the letter. “Paul is so smart, I’m sure he knows.”
     “You should write to him, anyway. Tell him how you feel,” I suggested. “Even if he knows, it’s nice to have the proof.”
     “Well!” Margaret went to the window. “Listen to those bees droning on and on!”

     The next day in the library, Annie was still finishing it. Re-writing for neatness and burning the draft as she went. I waited by the mail tray, as usual. Annie sealed the envelope and placed it in the mail tray, as usual. I picked up the mail tray to bring to Mrs. B to apply stamps and mail, as usual. But I pocketed Annie’s letter first, as usual.
     It was not usual for Mrs. B to snatch Annie’s letter from my pocket.
     At first, when I touched the little pocket, I worried it had fallen— such a shallow little pocket in these uniform dresses. But when I turned, looking on the ground for it, I saw Mrs. B had it in her hand. She was reading the first few lines.
     When she lifted her eyes to me, the tiny woman’s expression was dark as a winter storm. She tucked the letter into her pocket, much deeper than mine.
     “I suppose the time has come for you and me to talk in private, Miss Schaeffer.”
     “I suppose so, Ma’am.”

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