"If I say no are you gonna take it anyway?"
The stranger stopped at the bottom of one of the driveways. At its top, on the left, a half wall of cement blocks separating properties. On top of the cement block wall was a long green box holding nine different-colored tulips.
A small boy alongside the wall lifted a watering can up over his head, tilting thin streams of water through the nozzle's perforations into the box.
The front yard didn't have a lawn, only a big oak with a tire hung from a lowering limb. On the square porch were milk cans.
The stranger stood at the foot of the driveway, pumping each leg up in turn, the extra-long zipper on his fly buckling.
The face swiveled to stare up the dirt driveway at the boy, watching him conscientiously water each tulip.
"Those sure are pretty flowers you got there."
The little boy turned, holding the watering can aloft with both hands. Round eyes, open mouth.
"Whaddaya call those flowers, anyway? Those aren't roses, are they?"
The kid shook his head.
"Didn't think they were." He started slowly up the dirt driveway. "So whaddaya call them?"
The boy looked around nervously. "Tulips."
"Tulips! I thought they might be tulips." He walked past the boy to look at the tulips.
"They sure are pretty." He turned away from the tulips to the boy, blue eyes glittering. "Did you grow them yourself?"
The boy nodded shyly, watering can sloshing.
The stranger lowered his jaw. "Not all by yourself! I've never seen tulips this pretty before."
"My dad put in the dirt, but I put in the bulbs. I water them." He lowered the can.
"How old are you?"
"I'm nine years old," the boy answered solemnly.
"And when would these beautiful tulips be ready to be picked?"
"Pretty soon."
The stranger leaned forward to smell one, dark nostrils dipping into the cup of color. He studied the boy for a moment, black eyebrows arching. "I would imagine that someone who grows tulips as well as you do–� his large hand swept out over the nine� "must have something very special planned for them. Am I right?"
The boy brightened. "They're for my mom."
"I would have thought so."
"They're for Mother's Day."
"Well, I think your mother's going to be very proud." He looked at the row of tulips, each bowl of shapely petals enclosing a space of fragrance. Then he looked at the tight slit in the lapel of his houndstooth jacket.
The little boy stepped backwards, showing an uneasy smile.
"You're shy, aren't you, son?"
The boy rubbed his small thumbs over the perforated cover of the watering can's spout. "I dunno."
The stranger took a casual step forward. "I'd consider it an honor to wear one of your tulips in my lapel."
The boy let out an embarrassed laugh. "They're my mom's." He looked up at the stranger, scrunching his eyebrows together.
"Of course, of course. But surely your mom wouldn't mind if I took just one. One small flower still leaves eight, doesn't it?"
The boy's laugh became even more embarrassed. He looked around. "They're for my mom." He set the watering can down.
"Tell you what–I'll pick the least prettiest one."
The boy didn't say anything.
"Is it all right with you if I pick the least prettiest one?"
"If I say no are you gonna take it anyway?"
The stranger laughed. "No. I don't want to do that. I want you to give me one. Voluntarily."
The boy dug his hands into the pockets of his small jeans, jerking his head a few times. "Okay, but just one."
--excerpt from my novel “Father Figure�. 175,000 words.
It is wet here.
A small boy alongside the wall lifted a watering can up over his head, tilting thin streams of water through the nozzle's perforations into the box.
The front yard didn't have a lawn, only a big oak with a tire hung from a lowering limb. On the square porch were milk cans.
The stranger stood at the foot of the driveway, pumping each leg up in turn, the extra-long zipper on his fly buckling.
The face swiveled to stare up the dirt driveway at the boy, watching him conscientiously water each tulip.
"Those sure are pretty flowers you got there."
The little boy turned, holding the watering can aloft with both hands. Round eyes, open mouth.
"Whaddaya call those flowers, anyway? Those aren't roses, are they?"
The kid shook his head.
"Didn't think they were." He started slowly up the dirt driveway. "So whaddaya call them?"
The boy looked around nervously. "Tulips."
"Tulips! I thought they might be tulips." He walked past the boy to look at the tulips.
"They sure are pretty." He turned away from the tulips to the boy, blue eyes glittering. "Did you grow them yourself?"
The boy nodded shyly, watering can sloshing.
The stranger lowered his jaw. "Not all by yourself! I've never seen tulips this pretty before."
"My dad put in the dirt, but I put in the bulbs. I water them." He lowered the can.
"How old are you?"
"I'm nine years old," the boy answered solemnly.
"And when would these beautiful tulips be ready to be picked?"
"Pretty soon."
The stranger leaned forward to smell one, dark nostrils dipping into the cup of color. He studied the boy for a moment, black eyebrows arching. "I would imagine that someone who grows tulips as well as you do–� his large hand swept out over the nine� "must have something very special planned for them. Am I right?"
The boy brightened. "They're for my mom."
"I would have thought so."
"They're for Mother's Day."
"Well, I think your mother's going to be very proud." He looked at the row of tulips, each bowl of shapely petals enclosing a space of fragrance. Then he looked at the tight slit in the lapel of his houndstooth jacket.
The little boy stepped backwards, showing an uneasy smile.
"You're shy, aren't you, son?"
The boy rubbed his small thumbs over the perforated cover of the watering can's spout. "I dunno."
The stranger took a casual step forward. "I'd consider it an honor to wear one of your tulips in my lapel."
The boy let out an embarrassed laugh. "They're my mom's." He looked up at the stranger, scrunching his eyebrows together.
"Of course, of course. But surely your mom wouldn't mind if I took just one. One small flower still leaves eight, doesn't it?"
The boy's laugh became even more embarrassed. He looked around. "They're for my mom." He set the watering can down.
"Tell you what–I'll pick the least prettiest one."
The boy didn't say anything.
"Is it all right with you if I pick the least prettiest one?"
"If I say no are you gonna take it anyway?"
The stranger laughed. "No. I don't want to do that. I want you to give me one. Voluntarily."
The boy dug his hands into the pockets of his small jeans, jerking his head a few times. "Okay, but just one."
--excerpt from my novel “Father Figure�. 175,000 words.
It is wet here.
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