Rose stared at Principal Malden. She felt as if she would break down. She couldn't taken another thing and there she was, called to the school because Henry was having problems "Crying," Rose repeated. "Why is Henry crying?"

"We don't know," Mr. Malden said. He was the math teacher when Rose was at Sellwood Elementary. Now, he was the principal. All those years and still here.

"It is happening often."

"Is there a problem with the other children? Or is he not feeling well?"

"I don't know," Mr. Malden said.

"I think it's because—" he looked down. Rose noticed that he didn't look up for a long time. She remembered him teaching math when she was a girl, a student at Sellwood Elementary. Waiting for the right answer. The kids stirring in their seats. Not looking up until the right answer was produced. Was he waiting for Rose to say why Henry was crying all of the time?

"Because of his father? Because of Nick's--" Mr. Malden started, then stopped. He glanced down at his paper. Slowly he looked back at her. "Or. I mean. Are you.—its hard for you both, I'm sure?" Rose felt struck by guilt. It wasn't Henry. He wasn't difficult. It was her. She just wanted time. Time to sit and think. The hours when he was in school weren't enough. She wanted a long time alone. She wanted to go away for a month. To have a little room. And, she could picture the room. She had imagined it often: it had wood floors and a large window. There were panes, many panes of glass and she could examine the light as it changed in the rippled glass; the way it muted and blurred the colors outside. A single bed and a dresser. In the corner was a chair. And, if she were too look out of the window there would be a valley with trees. Autumn leaves changing colors. And , maybe a stream. And if she opened the window a crack, a cool breeze would waft into the room. Some days she might sleep the whole day away. Wake dreamy.

She looked back up at Mr. Malden. The mole of his cheek had several hairs growing out of it. His hairline had almost completely receded. He looked bloated, chubby. His shirt and tie seemed to be too tight around his neck.

"Are you all right?" he asked her.

"I'm getting along," She said. That is what she always said. Because she couldn't say she was fine. She wasn't. But, life was moving forward.

She glanced back up at him. She could feel a lump growing in her throat. Again she had the feeling that she was wearing her black veil. Her eyes started to water. "What do you think I should do, Mr. Malden?" When she said it, she heard the little girl's voice.

"Sometimes," he said. He leaned closer over his desk. She could see now that he had deep wrinkles around his eyes. They were magnified in his glasses." Sometimes, our children just hurt." He looked down. "You're a good mother, Rose. He's just a sad little boy. It just takes time. How can we understand what he feels?"

Rose was not comforted. She put her hand over her mouth and let some air out. "He's not always sad," she said.

"Since—"

"No," Rose said, "of course. Of course he was sad when Nick left—died." She clenched her teeth slightly, she could feel the muscle in her jaw tighten.

"He'll be all right," Mr. Malden said, "I just wanted you to know. So he wouldn't have to be so sad all alone."

***

Rose walked back through West Moreland, back to Sellwood. The air was cool and the trees almost bare. It was chilly, but the sun was the bright and baby blue was full of voluminous clouds. The clouds were high, high up in the sky. The wind blew in strong gusts and leaves danced in the streets. They fell off the trees in flurries. Rose walked past the pharmacy and caught her reflection in the window. Her wavy brown hair was pulled back in combs. Her long hair was held back in a twist with a long tortoise shell comb. Her wool coat hung to her calves. She looked neat, trim. It almost shocked her. How could she look so normal? How could she look like an ordinary housewife, when really she was thin as a paper doll? And just as lifeless? She felt see-through. Her heart ached so much that she felt like her body was hardly a part of her. Just a thin sail as the wind pushed against her back, keeping her going.

She walked further and once she got to Nehalem st. she walked more slowly. The trees on Nehalem were so beautiful. Just a week ago, they were bright orange and yellow. The streets looked now like they were paintedin the same vibrant colors. It was breathtaking. Now, only a few leaves remained on the largest trees. The branches looked bare, brittle. She stared up at the enormous Elm on the corner of 15th. She felt small compared to the ancient tree. The sidewalk buckled where the roots broke through. She noticed that Carmen was out in her garden. Large rose bushes always climbed over trellises along the side of her house. Now, the flowers were all but gone, orange-pink rose hips taking their place. Rose thought about the deep, red roses Carmen had brought over to the house when Nick died.

"Three of them," Carmen had said, "one for each of you."

Rose remembered the red flesh of the flower and how towards the stem the petals turned black-red. Rose had thought they were the color of blood, and the stem was its vein. All three of them together in the vase. Their blood-colored petals, open, searching for light, air, but dying all the same. Trying to be vibrant, but slowly losing the battle. Carmen's had held the roses, offered them after the wake. There was no note. Not even a smile, just a sad "I'm sorry." Rose thought of how she had sat on the couch and stared at the flowers every day. Frozen in her place. Finally, they were dried and dead. Every time she looked at them and their sharp thorns, she had wished to pick up the three of them and squeeze them in her fist and to keep squeezing until the thorns broke through her flesh.

Now, Rose could see Carmen up on a step ladder pruning back the bushes. Even from the distance, Rose could make out Carmen gently untangling each cane and pruning back gingerly. Then, tossing the wood to the ground. Rose didn't want to stop and talk to Carmen. She wanted to get home. To get back to her own neglected garden. She knew Carmen hadn't seen her and so she casually turned on to 15th and walked home to Spokane st.

As she approached her house, Rose saw a figure on the porch. She picked up her pace and hurried to get there. She was afraid that there was more bad news. Something else. She felt sick and an electric fear pulsed through her. When she got closer to the house, she let out a breath, her heart still racing. It was Mr. Lambert. She must have forgotten some detail about the flowers. Or, she reached into her pocket to see if he gloves were still there. They were. She put her hand over her eyes to shield the sun which was now bright from that direction. "Mr. Lambert," she said. "Hello." The wind blew a strong gust causing him to stand up and walk towards her, a protective gesture as if she might be blown away. As if he could see her fragility.

"I hope I'm not bothering you," he said. He rubbed his hand on the wooden rail and lingered a moment on the bottom step. "Your address was on the back of the sketches."

"Don't be silly, not at all," she said. "I'm sorry. Did we forget something?"

"No." He took another step down and was now standing on the walkway. Rose stood and looked at him. "No. We didn't--" He started to say something else but looked up at the sky then he looked back at her. "I wanted to change the arrangement, if its not too late."

Rose looked at him more intently. "Change--?"

"You had asked me about my mother. I realized after you left that I...To answer your question, no she wouldn't want white lilies..."

"My question?"

"If my mother would like white, peaceful, natural?"

"Oh. I didn't mean..." Another gust of wind blew and Rose reached for her hair. "Why don't you come inside. Its getting cold. You can tell me. " She started up the stairs.

He let out a heavy sigh of relief. "Yes, thank you. Rose." He followed her up.

"Please, come in." she said.

He walked into the house and stood in the entryway. There was a long wooden bench and a stone fireplace. "Can I take your coat?" she asked. Her manner was formal. She felt how stiff she was. It settled in her neck. When she moved it was tight and awkward. It was because she wanted to be alone. To go into the garden. To walk through the debris, assess the casualties of her neglect. She didn't want to talk to anyone at that moment. She couldn't take another casual conversation. It stole the little energy she had left. He took off his jacket and handed it to her. She opened the coat closet and hung it inside. She removed her coat and hung it in the closet next to his.

"Please come in, Mr. O'Neil."

"Really, you can call me Edward," he paused "or Ed."

The light from the stained glass above the door cast a warm hue on his face. He smiled and nodded. She looked at him for a long moment. She didn't know which name to call him. "Ed." She finally said. He widened his eyes and smiled. Rose couldn't decide if he was handsome. She couldn't determine how old he was. Older than her, she could tell. He had light brown, soft hair and his eyes were pale blue, almost gray.

They walked through the front room. It was quiet and the sun shone in through the large window behind the writing desk. A bright yellow filled the room and made the wood floors look warm where the sunlight formed in the shapes of the windows. Three of the larger ones had amber and red leaded glass; they too cast beautiful colored streams of light over the wooden and leather furniture. There were two couches arranged facing each other. An oak table sat in the middle. On it was a large pottery vase filled with fresh mums. The vase had coral pink flower petals on it and turquoise leaves. The background was a dark brown. A pomegranate pattern rug was on the floor between the two couches.

"Pretty house,"

"It was my parents' home. I grew up here." Rose said.

"Really? This seems like a nice house to grow up in."

Rose just smiled at him.

He raised his eyebrows and looked around. "It's a really lovely, tasteful place. Is this your doing—the furniture, the touches?"

"I'm sorry Ed, did you say tea? Or coffee?"

"What are you having?" he asked finally looking away from the sitting room. "I don't want to be any trouble. Whatever you are making."

Rose hadn't planned on having either. She had planned to come home and put on her work clothes. She planned to tend to the neglected garden, even in the chilly autumn wind. "How's coffee?" She said. "Please sit down, Ed. I'll fix you a cup of coffee."

He sat down at the wooden kitchen table and watched her fill the basket in the percolator with coffee grounds. She opened a canister that sat on the counter by the stove. She pulled a little scoop out and dumped it in. She walked over to the sink and filled the pot with water. She could feel him watching her; her mind returned to his smile. From the funeral home. From a moment before: outside when the wind had rushed violently towards her. Now the wind blew a strong gust, and dried leaves fell before the windows. They resembled snow falling. She lit a match and ignited the burner. She put the coffee pot on the stove and sat down across from him.

"How are you getting along?" he asked.

"With the flowers? They'll be ready by Friday. I'm not sure we can change. I had to order--this time of year, my garden doesn't—" She sat down across from him and smiled. She had the sensation that her hair was unclipped, falling down around her shoulders. It made her feel undressed, vulnerable. It was the way his eyes examined her as she spoke. She reached up and tucked in a loose tendril.

His hands were clasped in front of him, not tightly. It was a casual gesture, something a professor might be in the habit of doing. His gray eyes looked wet, and he had tiny hairline wrinkles around the sides of his eyes as if from squinting. "After you left, I was thinking about my mother and what you said. I realized she wouldn't want white lilies. I think she would like dark red roses."

"Oh."  Rose raised her eye brows and started, "I, I can try—"

"There's a poem by E.E. Cummings. Do you know his poetry?"

Rose shook her head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't know much about art and poetry –"

"It is about his mother. I went back to the book after you left. I don't know, whatever you said about the lilies. No. I know that she would want black red roses just like in the poem. It was one of her favorites. She was a gardener too." It gave Rose a chill when he said that about the red roses. It was as if he had read her secret thoughts. Thoughts she hadn't been aware of until he spoke the words.

"Well, I think I can find a way. I know these things are important. Of course, we can do it. My only problem--I have already ordered the other flowers. I don't know what they would do at the florist..."

"No. I'll pay for those too. You can keep them or-- But, for her..." he paused and looked out of the window. His eyes grew wet. "It would mean something to her, I think."

She looked down and fiddled with her engagement ring. She held the stone between her fingers. She held on to it. "I'm sorry," she finally said. She wanted to reach for his hand. Put hers on top of his. Let her warmth move through him. She knew his hands must be freezing cold.

"He says 'if there are any heavens, my mother will..all by herself have one...' He says 'a heaven of black red roses.'" Mr. Lambert paused and traced the floral design on the white tablecloth. In an instant, she remembered the first days after Nick's death. How all of the rituals seemed like pageantry when what she had really wanted was someone to understand. To sit with her and understand....without words.

She leaned across the table, towards him. She lowered her voice a little and said softly, "I know this must be hard for you. I know there is never anything to say...the right thing. I just wanted to be alone after—" She stopped for a moment. He was listening closely. "this is rather personal," she said, "but after my husband died. I had the worst feeling that if I called his name it would be absorbed into an empty blackness."

The coffee pot started to gurgle.

He looked at her for a long moment. His face looked deeply sad. His eyes appeared to be looking at something far away. "She was sick for a long time. That's why we moved here. We don't really know anyone." He looked out of the window into the yard, "She had an enormous garden. I mean, it was something. Acres."

"In Boston?" Rose asked. She had heard that he had grown up in Boston. It came out almost rude. Obvious that the information was gained through rumor.

"Boston? No I grew up in Napa California, out in the country."

The coffee pot gurgled louder and started to steam; Rose stood up and turned off the stove. She picked up two cups ivory colored coffee cups. They had a deep red apple pattern on them. "Do you take sugar or cream?" she asked. She filled the cups with coffee and walked back over to Ed.

"Sugar, please. Why did you think Boston?

She placed the sugar bowl on the table and placed the cups of coffee down. "That is what I heard...I don't know where."

She handed him the spoon. She could feel herself turning flush and she didn't know why. He took a sip of the coffee and adjusted his collar. He struck her as odd, not at all like any man she knew.

Rose sat down on the other side of the table.

"This is very good. Thank you." He said. "Well, the reason. Another reason I came by. I've heard so much about your gardens. I was wondering if I could have a tour?"

"Oh" Rose said. She was caught off guard. "Well things are a mess right now." She said. "The spring would be better."

"I don't mean to press you," he said, "I like wild beauty. I'd like to just observe." Rose knew he wanted to see her garden to be closer to his mother. "I'd like to sketch some drawings as well," he said then swallowed down another sip.

"Its just a small city garden—nothing like your mother's I'm sure."

"But your garden is, I imagine a work of art—you arrange flowers. You're a gardener."

She put down her coffee cup and waited for him to say something, but he didn't.

"Of course. Sometime would be fine." She said. "I'd like to work on it a little before hand though. Maybe you could bring Mrs. Lamber along?"

He smiled. "Margaret would love to come too. She is not an artist like us or me rather, but I think she would like to see it."

"That would be fine then." Rose held on to her cup and then lifted it, slowly taking another sip.