Here - Short Story

African American Review, Spring, 2001 by Audrey Petty

There are others who wait for my answer. "Like Whoopi Goldberg," some old man says. I feel myself smile and I don't know why. "Six, seven hours," I say. Someone else's hand is reaching. I remember his freckles from the bar and I back away before something gets broken. "Can you wash it?" he wants to know. "I'll get more napkins," I explain, moving swiftly to leave the bottles with Howard at the bar, regathering my hair on my way through the parlor.

Before I reach the kitchen, I find them glowing on the bureau in the corner of the sitting room, bound with a broad white sash. I gather them and head out back, past the trash cans, to the small barn that holds crates for china, boxes for linen, things I cannot see. I settle underneath the light hanging high from the beam, studying these strange, strange flowers. I do not know the name for them, but I am drawn in by their blush, their velvet purple centers, by the way they show their seeds. I imagine the island they should come from, lush and distant, my own twin there, waiting for that tug so that something might begin. I touch their warm waxy skin and close my eyes. Outside, another car starts and slows away, and there's that harp music, somewhere farther, finally beautiful. I take my time and pull each petal free.

Audrey Petty teaches at Knox College in Galesburg, Illinois, where she is completing her first novel. Her work has appeared in Callaloo, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Crab Orchard Review.