To Admire Not the Rose, But Me - (Maggie)

Born of a dream, by way of a poem...that turned itself into a story. Go figure.

Surveying the clouds as best she could, Maggie cycled through her rolodex of things to do. Checking in with the course of the afternoon’s weather patterns was one of those “things.”

Maggie trudged the twenty-five feet back to her front porch to take cover as the first rain drop hit the dry earth. It had been a drought; the longest this town had ever seen. Of course, though, the rain would start today. Today of all days. Maggie shrugged.

The sky’s blanket of cool, dripping dampness now matched her mood. Maggie had never expected the weather to hold up. She grabbed the wooden sign she had posted just off of her porch and shook it free from some of the heaviest droplets. She brushed it with her small porcelain hand and leaned it against the dangling porch swing. 

She brought in the homemade food, the sweet tea, the vases of fresh cut flowers. Carefully, she wrapped each item until it was airtight and organized them safely inside her modest refrigerator. When she was finished, she sat with her book and looked out at the rain. It was picking up now. The streaks of angry water muddled the warped, already watery glass. Maggie’s stomach rumbled audibly but she ignored the pangs of hunger. It wasn’t time. 

Just then, the telephone rang. 

“Hello?”

“Maggie, do you know what today is?”

“Yes. But what do you mean?”

“Today’s the day! They’re coming!”

“You know I don’t care about things like that, Audrey.”

“Right. Well, I heard they’ll be delayed because of the storm.”

“I figured.”

“So you’ve thought about them? Thought about checking it out?”

“No.”

“Whatever. It’s probably just a hopeless dream, anyway.”

“Hmm.”

“What are you doing?”

“Reading. And I’ve made myself dinner.” She lied.

“Oh, sounds nice. Something good?”

“Of course. Very good. I’m really enjoying it.” 

“Lucky. Okay, well I’m going to Cynthia’s. She’s having friends over. You coming?” 

“No, I thought I’d have a quiet night.”

“Hmm. As always.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“That it’s what you always do.”

Silence.

“Anyway, call if you change your mind. If it’s after 6, I’ll already be there.”

“Noted.”

“Okay. Talk to you then?”

“Have a good night.”

Maggie gingerly replaced the receiver. She stared out the window and through the rain to the direction of the old tracks about 200 yards away. She pressed her ear to the cold glass to survey the sounds outside of her small country house. Nothing but low thunder and the pitter-patter of heavy droplets. 

Maggie sighed heavily and tossed her book onto the window seat. She stood and smoothed her A-line dress until the soft pink flowers were free of wrinkles and paced the room, cursing herself for being so suggestible and for allowing herself to feel any sort of hope at all. 

She crossed to the only bedroom in the low-ceilinged, dimly-lit house and surveyed its simple furnishings. A single rose perched inside a clear glass vase beside the bed. She gazed through the oval mirror past the plain, auburn-haired face staring back at her. Her eyes were wide and bright but with a touch of sadness. Her tiny freckles formed a constellation of missed connections and failed opportunities. Seeing herself, she wanted to cry but there were no tears left. Instead, she caught the mirror image of the crying window as the tears of the sky littered the ground with collective sorrow. 

She heard the phone begin to ring but ignored it. Instead, she stretched one delicate finger to stroke the even more delicate red petal that fell from the rose at her bedside. A longing filled the hole in her body until, at once, she decided to act. Maggie turned on a heel and ran, barefoot, through the house and out the the screen door into the pouring rain. It grew harder as she galavanted through the overgrown field beside her house and into the field of vibrant red roses that she had worked tirelessly to cultivate over the years. The red petals swayed with the wind until they were dancing all about her dampened form. She saw streaks of gray, green and brown branches nodding in time to the sound of the howls that escaped the wind, ripping angrily through the air. But the roses danced, untouched, unabashed, as if they loved and appreciated the surge of the storm around them. Maggie took a page from their book and danced happily through them, not knowing from where her energy came, but tipping her upturned face toward the refreshing, invigorating drops.

Just then, a sound reverberated through the sopping ground and traveled to Maggie’s bare feet in a wave of tangible phosphorescence. She knew that sound. She knew it well. It was the sound of a connection to the outside world. It was the sound of opportunity and promise. 

She walked slowly through the field as the rain began to lift ever so slightly. She did not bother to smooth her dress and did not waste her energy on brushing the vibrant red petals from her shining hair as it hung wet and curling beside her face. She simply walked. When she reached the rusted tracks, she stood with her arms at her sides, her palms facing the direction of the low screaming whistle. A smile crept through her face as she considered how unprepared she was for this splendiferous of occasions. 

When the train approached, a series of brown military tunics and smooth gray slacks quickly descended. Evidently, the ride had been long and arduous and had only been made worse by the storm. Maggie stood by the side of the tracks, smiling and enduring the rain with pleasure. The officers had arrived. 

Twelve men descended along with twelve heavy bags and twelve hungry stomachs. Maggie was glad to be there. Only then did she realize that she had left the food in the refrigerator and none of it prepared or warmed. She suddenly felt stupid just standing there. 

The long grass blew in the wind and the soldiers took a deep breath of the cool, clean country air. They were happy to be on steady land, but looking around for any sight of food or the nearest possible shelter. They were scheduled to stay at the inn about a mile up the road, but several men searched the horizon for someplace closer to take cover, at least for the time being. 

Maggie spoke, suddenly, “Officers, I have food and drinks at the house just over there.”

At once, every soldier picked up his heavy bag and nodded in appreciation. They headed in the direction that Maggie’s outstretched porcelain finger indicated and talked and joked along the way. 

Once there, Maggie unpacked all of the food that she had worked so hard to make and poured every drop of the wine. She listened to their stories and nodded in all of the right places. She felt herself blushing with every glance each soldier sent in her direction. She had never had a man in her house, let alone twelve. 

After roughly two hours, the storm began to abate and the men stated, half-heartedly, that they should be on their way as the inn keeper would be expecting them. Maggie nodded and accepted their thanks as she bustled around the kitchen, clearing plates and soaping dishes. When the men left the house, she escorted them as far as the front path. The sun began to peek through the clouds and several of the men exclaimed, quite enthusiastically, that she had the most beautiful field of roses that they’d ever seen. She thanked them and warned them not to get pricked by the thorns. They listened but walked through the fields, asking if they could pluck a few for their own keeping. She told them that yes, of course, they could. The men continued to rave about the beauty of them until she offered to get a set of cutting shears for them to take a bouquet with them. 

When the group was on their way and no longer in sight, Maggie ascended the porch steps into the house and set out to finish cleaning up after her guests. She was eternally grateful that she had done what she had set out to do, which was to provide for the troops after their long journey abroad. The old, familiar longing, however, was still there. She was fooling herself if she claimed that her behavior was purely altruistic. Maggie had never had a relationship and had never even had the attention of a decent man. Was it so much to hope for a bit of good luck, or at least a bit of appreciation? If only they had exclaimed with such fervor about her own beauty, rather than that of the roses she had cultivated from tiny seeds in dry, once unmanageable earth. Maggie sighed audibly as she scrubbed the last dish.

Just then, the wind rustled with a fierceness that knocked at the screen door. Maggie replaced the dish and towel and went out onto the porch to look at the sun creeping out through the clouds. Out in the distance, making his way through the vibrant red roses and overgrown, mossy-green grass was an officer. Dark haired and smiling, though bracing himself from the wind, he made it past the last thorn to step out onto her front path. 

“Miss Maggie.” He stated. 

“Yes. Have you forgotten something?”

“I think I have.”

“Do you need a vase for the roses? Or maybe a bit more wine?” She pressed, hoping that the eternally handsome officer would take her up on her offer. 

“No, it’s not the wine.” He answered.

“The roses then? Do you want me to get the shears? Your platoon seemed to love them. A lot of you must have girls at home, I’m guessing?” She asked. She twirled the folds of her dress between her fingers, nervously, and bit her lip as she awaited his answer. 

He smiled. “Some of them do.”

She considered this and added, “So you’ve just come to admire the roses, then.”

His smile grew as his dark brown eyes met hers, “No, ma’am. I came back to talk to you....to admire not the roses, but you.”