Roses

Daisy

Going home was worse than leaving it. It was like Carson was a man in a play who had forgotten his place. I expected him to yell, "Line!" at me any moment.

"Dance. What about that? You tell them you had to see your granny?"

"Yes," I said during the car ride back. He was just talking to talk. He didn't really care if they kicked me out, considering he wouldn't have to pay for the lessons anymore. That's what was always quizzically curious about Carson. What he lacked in general decency, he made up to for with his bank account.

He didn't even bother with the radio this time. Instead, he took a strong liking for staring straight ahead, probably processing what it was that had happened at his mother's. Leaving wasn't anything exceptional. She shook his hand hard and grunted at me with a nod. Told us to get home safe. She stood at attention near the rose bush at the front of her house and saluted us as we slowly backed out of her driveway. And as he looked behind the truck, slowly inching it out onto the main road, I watched her unceremoniously pluck one of the roses and crumple it in her hand.

Ouch, Carson. I get it now.

We made our way back to Little Rock, numbly passing through the Bobby Hopper tunnel and missing deer at breakneck speed. Nothing exceptional happened that night either, except for when we parked in our own driveway, and my hand, my stupid hand left my body, my mind, for just an instant and softly touched my father's.

And then I got out of the car before I could hear him cry.

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