Scarlett of Oleanders

This is supposed to be a fairy tale-type story

 

Lady of the oleanders.

This is what Ben called her

when he came over

and she was reading under the oleander arch

on her apartment building’s lot,

white petals scattered around her.

Scarlett loved it when he called her that,

the best boyfriend ever,

made the back of her neck sing

and the sun feel so much sharper.

“Oh kiss me!” She’d cry to him,

and he would,

gliding a hand around the curve of her bum,

pressing her close as secrets.

She kissed him with

lips sometimes so immense and consuming

that he told her to “calm down” with a gentle laugh.

But she’d kiss harder if she could have her way,

ready to burst like a spider’s sac of eggs.

 

There was an autumn,

a very peculiar and famous autumn in the city,

when the oleander blossoms were so plentiful

they created a lacey blanket along the river that ran through town

as they fell by the hundreds.

Scarlett saw this blossom-rich river everyday,

gazed longingly as she walked to work,

how I wish to be that river, covered in oleanders!

She had always been particularly drawn to oleanders.

She rather liked the thrill of them,

how their small, simple bodies

were hidden with poison.

And every night she drew herself,

belly up,

hair cascading like willows branches behind her

as she floated on the river.

The white oleander blossoms like fat snowflakes.

Scarlett was a pretty good drawer,

her high school art teacher told her she should study in Paris

or Toronto,

but Scarlett didn’t draw very frequently,

only when she tired of reality,

of wet boots, bloated stomachs and cranky boyfriends,

then she drew,

and went to bed with the drawings in her head,

being spun into lovely dreams,

oleanders and girls delicate as river water.

 

In this autumn Scarlett had a fight with Ben

one night in the gloomy, cold-apple-crisp air

over sex, alcohol and peanuts,

the specifics not really important for the reader

I can assure you.

“You’re being a complete a*****e!” she yelled,

the darkness cloaking the exaggerated contours of her mouth.

“And you’re boring to have sex with!”

She didn’t know how to handle her rage in the moment so

so she fled across the street

into the black arms of the forest.

She collasped in the brush

as Ben called out her name softly

because he was always so soft.

She didn’t want to move,

the frigid air so blessed and soothingly real,

nearly slicing the skin off her earlobe.

She cried a little,

angry with him,

but confused because she also wanted to come

to his soft voice.

She always did.

She got wet to the sound of his voice,

wanted to be wrapped in his arms

and touched all over,

burned by his kisses.

But she remembered him calling her “dramatic”,

and saying she wasn’t the center of the whole world.

Of course I’m not the center of the whole world!

Just my world she thought.

so she stayed very still,

not making a sound

until he found her.

“What the hell are you doing here Scarlett?” he said,

his voice almost-angry,

breaths heavy.

And his eyes-

his eyes were horrible and his mouth hung open.

She didn’t answer him,

but took his offered hand to get up off the cold ground.

They walked home,

side by side,

not saying a word,

just pale wisps of breath pressed

from the seams of their mouths.

She held her arms firm over her chest.

She was ashamed with herself for running away,

but she was angrier

that he had called her too dramatic.

She saw herself as passionate,

exceptionally bold.

To her

drama was for those who told lies about their lives

to make themselves feel more important and interesting.

I do not tell lies, Scarlett thought,

I am interesting.

 

But after the fight Scarlett became scared

that Ben did not love her

the way he used to when they were 21

and making out in blueberry forests.

He had not called her that special nickname in a while

and it tormented her.

Was she just Scarlett to him now?

He did not come to call on her quite so often,

nor did he ever bring up the fight,

he said he was busy with work,

but Scarlett thought she heard a new edge to his voice

over the phone.

 

There was a day

Scarlett woke to the thrill of oleander petals

pressed against her bedroom window

from the fierce autumnal wind.

They tapped the glass like fingers

and with a smile

Scarlett let them in.

They scattered on her unmade bed.

She thought they were so lovely,

so pretty

and they gave her a wonderful idea.

“I will become the Lady of the Oleanders,” she said,

a wild look to her eyes.

From the desk she picked up the drawing of herself

floating down the oleander river,

regarded it triumphantly.

Her whole body quivered with excitement.

If I am truly the lady of oleanders,

then he will love me again she thought.

 

Eagerly she collected a basketful of oleanders

from the bushes outside,

white as icing sugar that

made her quake a little between the hips.

She thought them to be beautiful,

seductively simple blossoms.

Then she braided them in her hair,

determined to fulfill her role as the oleander lady,

put on her raspberry red lipstick because

she remembered her mother’s words

about how men can never resist a woman with red lips.

Then she slipped on a white linen dress and only that.

“I won’t even feel the cold,” she murmured to her reflection,

satisfied with how fragile she looked

in her white dress and petal-peppered hair.

 

Scarlett started her descent on

the outskirts of town in a forest

where the river was a little shallower.

The aspens around her were shocked into a wasp-yellow

and the last of red, rose hips were formed.

Autumn was in full heat.

She thought it was perfect day

to make her river journey.

Carefully, she got into the water,

cold as a million fish skins,

lay herself long

and looked up at the gray sky

with wide, hopeful eyes.

She clutched a browning bouquet of oleanders

to her chest.

“Now he will love me,” she whispered,

as if conversing with all of nature itself.

For how could someone not love a girl so passionately beautiful?

 

She floated slowly down the river,

the carpet of oleanders becoming thicker

as she reached the center of town.

The petals seemed to almost swallow her whole.

The severity of the cold water awakened

Scarlett to remember the fight,

the hurt look on Ben’s face when he found her in the bushes,

disgust just beginning to shape his mouth.

How the thought made her want to cry!

She felt so guilty for having done it,

yet an apology seemed impossible to utter,

didn’t want to be so vulnerable in front of him.

Please love me.

Perhaps this was an apology enough Scarlett thought.

 

In the center of the city the river was nearly white with petals.

The chill began to smolder Scarlett’s skin,

legs and collarbone pale as cod meat,

and she was crying thin tears from the pain.

She wished she could just concentrate on how pretty she was,

how many oleanders there were around her,

this was exactly what she wanted,

wasn’t it?

Just wanted to hear him call her baby.

 

The people of the city did eventually notice a lady floating in the river,

dressed like a fairy,

lips plucked red from the wind,

oleanders brushing against her body hungrily,

their numbers so vast that it was hard to tell where she began

and where the flowers left off.

Several folk called out to her,

“are you alright miss?”

“go on, get outta there!”

 Finally one woman recognized her,

she had been Scarlett’s English teacher in high school,

“why! It’s Scarlett! It’s Scarlett! Scarlett!

Good lord she’s shivering! Somebody get help!”

 

Ben was on his lunch break when

he heard a woman yelling Scarlett’s name.

He hastened to the river railing

where the people were gathered,

and looked down 20 feet.

There was his Scarlett,

a ghostly swan,

looking as if she had been lying there all day,

sweet oleanders veiling her body.

He did not think,

he reacted,

“Scarlett! Scarlett!” He yelled,

running down the mossy, narrow stone steps,

jumped into the water,

grasped at her body as if she were a life board,

careful not to swallow the water,

the oleander’s venom spreading out like ink blotches.

She was cold and stiff as refridgerated bones,

eyes glassy and skin so unbelievably white

that she appeared to match the petals that surrounded her,

“my beautiful Scarlett,” he shuddered,

pulling her to the stone steps.

 

When he had heaved her body unto land,

her head lolled onto his lap.

He searched her mouth for any petals,

but there were none,

though he did not see the one that lay at the back of her throat

like a sweet apple.

She was shivering out of her skin,

looked into Ben’s panicked, wet eyes.

She had never seen him so emotional before,

wished she could touch his cheek

to soothe him

but her arm was too cold.

Wished she could speak

but her lips were too numb,

sealed shut by the river.

Up above she could hear other people’s voices,

the cry of the crow,

a baby wailing,

wind brushing against the slick steps,

the rustling of a plastic bag.

But she was happy,

wasn’t she?

Though she was cold,

she must be happy.

The Lady of the Oleanders would always be the fairest,

beauty is happiness she thought

before her eyes closed.

 

For the next three weeks Scarlett had a terrible flu.

She sat on the couch all day,

covered in slimy tissues,

coughing and moaning,

sleep thick with dreams of

rivers, flowers and Ben.

Oh Ben!

He fed her carrot ginger soup,

spread warm woolen blankets across her lap,

kissed her nose, forehead,

that damp spot on her neck near the hairline.

She loved how doting he was,

her own spaniel.

“I’m sorry,” he kept saying.

“Why? It’s not your fault, I wanted to go in the river,” Scarlett said.

He always mumbled something about him ignoring her too much,

but she didn’t care,

there was nothing he was to blame for,

she had been beautiful and because of that

Ben loved her again,

caressed her belly,

poured hot kisses into her mouth

and she gobbled them up,

chocolate cherry kisses.

 

People around town looked at Scarlett

as if she were a rose about to catch fire,

a certain respect and fear convaluted in their eyes.

Since the incident,

her boss asked her if she needed to take a leave of absence

to “address her current emotional state.”

Her friends called her more frequently,

“just wanted to know what was up” they’d say.

And Scarlett thought everyone was being silly,

there was nothing wrong with her,

she was happy.

Collected oleander blossoms and stuffed them into her bra,

wanting them to be close to the place

where Ben would gingerly kiss her every night

before turning the lights off,

and Scarlett forgot about their fight,

the disgust and sad whimper on his face

in the brisk chill of the night,

how the moon accented the hurt in his eyes,

forgot about their pain

and remembered only the beauty of the now,

the river and the oleanders;

those wildly poisonous ladies.