Blooming at the Texas Sunrise Motel Read online

  She seems to be waiting for more.

  “It’s recess.” I hope I sound convincing. I clear my throat and ask, “How long have you been landscaping?”

  “Oh, all my life.” Her fingers tease the roots of the pansies, gently separating them, something I’d seen my parents do often. They did it as naturally as someone peels an orange. “My family owns Gavert’s Plant Center on the edge of town. We sell plants, but we also do weddings and landscaping.”

  “Weddings?”

  “We have a huge garden also. With a little white chapel. It’s pretty popular with couples.”

  “I’ve been in the plant business all my life too.”

  “Really? Hey, are you one of my competitors?” She’s grinning.

  “My parents owned a little flower-and-herb farm in New Mexico.”

  “Did they sell it?”

  “No. It’s my farm now. They died.” The words come out so easily, I surprise myself. They died.

  She glances down at the flower bed but then quickly meets my gaze. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll bet they were good folks. Plant people always are.”

  “You’re right. I never thought about it until now. I mean, about plant people.”

  She pulls off one glove and stretches her arm over the low fence. “My name is Nancy. Nothing fancy about me, though.”

  “I’m Stevie. My parents named me after Stevie Nicks. They were both Fleetwood Mac fans.” In less than two minutes, I’ve volunteered more about myself to this stranger than I have to anyone since the accident.

  Before I know it, I’m removing the pansies from their pots, teasing the roots, and handing them to Nancy as she plants them in the ground. She chatters away about all the houses that she landscapes in the neighborhood. “A lot of old folks around here can’t garden any longer. Big yards equal good business. Unfortunately, a lot of them can’t afford our service. Some of them can barely pay their utility bills. These big old houses are energy hogs.”

  The sun is high in the sky. I glance at my watch and notice it’s five until two. The church bell will chime soon. Brushing my hands off on my jeans, I tell her, “I’d better go. It was nice meeting you, Nancy.”

  “Same here, Stevie. Hope you’ll drop by Gavert’s. Be careful, though. We might put you to work.”

  I leave, passing all the homes I admired earlier. At the library, I begin to sprint until I reach Mrs. Crump’s house. I ease the front door open and take two steps at a time. Eek-kee, eek-kee, eek-kee. When I arrive on the second floor, Mrs. Crump’s head bobs like she’s fighting sleep.

  I settle into my chair just as the church bell chimes for the last time. Mrs. Crump dozes on. I drop a heavy encyclopedia on the floor. She opens her eyes and studies me a moment, then says, “Steinbeck gives us a close-up look at the Dust Bowl in The Grapes of Wrath. We’ll start with him.”

  Mrs. Crump may be a narcoleptic, but she never fails to come back to the exact place she left off before her afternoon nap.

  The phone rings a few minutes before Winston is due to pick me up.

  “Do you want me to get it?” I ask.

  “Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Crump says. She slowly pushes away from the table, takes hold of her cane, and tap, tap, taps toward the telephone on the other side of the room. It’s one of those old-fashioned phones that you see in movies, the kind attached to a curly cord. Trring, trring. Tap, tap. I have to sit on my hands to keep from hopping up and answering. Trring, trring. Tap, tap. Finally, she reaches the phone.

  “Hello?” She pauses. “Hellooo?” She returns the phone to the cradle. “Seems they hung up.”

  Big surprise.

  She starts back a few feet. Trring, trring. She turns around, picks up the phone. “Hello?”

  After she hangs up, she says, “Winston is running late, but he wants you to wait for him at the Rise and Shine Diner. He said he wouldn’t be too long but to go ahead and have a snack if you’d like.”

  * * *

  ON MY WAY TO THE SQUARE, I pass the house where I met Nancy earlier. She’s already gone, but the borders are dense with pansies and red geraniums. I look out for her in each landscaped yard I pass. I don’t see her, but I do see someone spray-painting the back porch of a house. It’s Frida. She’s shaking a can, and from the looks of it she’s gone through a few colors already. The cans litter the dead grass around her. I can’t tell what she’s doing, but I suspect the owner will hate it if it’s anything like her artwork in Crump’s class. She doesn’t notice me, so I pick up my pace and head toward the diner.

  The Rise and Shine is slow, that lull between lunch and dinner. I buy two coconut cupcakes and settle at a table in front of a window. It’s Friday, and I can tell that many of the passersby are tourists. The license plates confirm this—Arkansas, Washington, Oklahoma. The people get in and out of their cars with bags from the local shops. One man ties down an antique rocker in the back of his truck. These are the kind of people Winston is missing. If only he’d paint the motel, inside and out, and landscape. I close my eyes, imagining the motel painted sky blue, a Red Blaze climbing rose growing up a trellis. I pull out my geography notebook and, on the inside of its cover, sketch morning glories and trumpet vine covering a chain-link fence. I draw roses, phlox, herbs, and marigolds in the foreground. My heart beats faster, thinking of all the possibilities. I’m so caught up drawing rows of oregano and fennel, I don’t see Winston come in.

  “Ready?” he asks. He stands in front of me, looking down at the drawing. My head is so filled with garden plans, his beard has become a tangle of climbing roses. They twist all the way up one ear and out the other.

  “Ready?” he asks again.

  I slap my notebook closed and hand him a cupcake.

  He holds it with a curled palm, as if it’s a baby bird. “What’s this?”

  “A cupcake. For you.”

  Winston stares at it. “Thank you.”

  He keeps examining the cupcake like he has no idea how to go about eating it. Then he quickly yanks off the paper liner and pops the entire thing in his mouth.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ON THE DRIVE HOME, I ask, “Can I cook dinner tonight?” I figure I have nothing to lose. Mom let me help with the cooking all the time.

  Winston doesn’t glance my way, but his fingers tap the steering wheel like he’s playing piano keys. “Sure, if you want to go to all the trouble.”

  “Can we stop for groceries?”

  “Of course.” He turns my way, and his lips slide into a quick smile. Then, just like that, it’s gone. But it feels like something is happening.

  Winston makes a loop around the courthouse, which is in the center of the square, and heads toward the H-E-B store.

  I pick out some cube steak. Most people have flour in their pantry, but if Winston does, it’s probably ages old. So I put a small package of flour into the cart. Eggs. I think of the chickens and wonder how they’re doing at Angelina Cruz’s. Milk, butter, canola oil. Potatoes to make on the side. I almost forget fixings for a salad. I haven’t eaten anything green in a while. In the produce section, I dream of the row of greens growing in our old garden. Not iceberg, but arugula, romaine, and buttercrunch lettuce. Maybe when it gets cooler next fall, I can plant some among the flowers. I grab a lime for some dressing.

  The cashier is wearing a purple headband, and it makes me think of coneflowers. When the lady in front of us opens her purse, a butterfly bush covered in hot-pink blooms shoots up and reaches the height of a beach umbrella. I swear eating all this soup has made me delusional.

  * * *

  BACK AT THE APARTMENT, Winston is studying his albums. They look really old, older than Mom’s and Dad’s. “Haven’t listened to these in a long time.”

  “Why don’t you play them?”

  “I don’t have a record player anymore.”

  “I have one.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Would you like to use it?”

  “Thanks. If you don’t mind?”
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  I head to my room, wondering why he has all those albums and no record player. Winston meets me outside my room and takes the player from me. He looks down at it and says, “Still in pretty good shape.”

  We’d had the record player forever. I thought my parents bought it after they got married, but the way Winston is gently wiping off the turntable with a soft cloth, it makes me wonder if it was his.

  “You sure you want to cook?”

  “Getting tempted to use the can opener, huh?” I couldn’t resist, but I instantly regret it.

  To my surprise, though, Winston laughs. “You don’t care much for my menus?”

  I stay quiet, because even though I want us to get along, I want to hear him say something about Mom. And until he does, I don’t think we can be anything but two people sharing the same address. Number 1 at the Texas Sunrise Motel.

  Winston puts on an album while I quarter the potatoes before dropping them into a pot. My fingers know the recipe by heart.

  The song’s pop-bebop matches the sound of the boiling water. Winston is stretched out on the couch with his shoes off. There’s a hole in the heel of one of his socks.

  I cover the steak with waxed paper and pound on it with a soup can. It feels good to hit something. Winston seems to notice. He peers from around an album cover, smiling.

  “Guess you’re kind of tired of my old standby?”

  “What?” Then I get it. “Well, let’s just say if Campbell’s needs someone for a new commercial, you’re their man.”

  Winston hides his face behind the album. The saxophone moans a lonesome piece, and I expect to hear it again, but the sax never returns to that string of notes. Sometimes the music sounds like plates breaking. I’ll stick to rock and roll.

  After the steaks have cooked, I sprinkle flour into the drippings and slowly add the milk to make the gravy. Every once in a while, I feel Winston’s eyes on me. I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he wishing there wasn’t a girl in his kitchen cooking, a girl he’s now responsible for? Is he wishing he could get on with his quiet life of Campbell’s soup and two newspapers?

  When we settle down at the table to eat, Winston studies his meal. I’m proud of it. Earlier I sliced a piece of my steak to make sure it tasted right. And the good cream gravy will make anyone forget the lumps in the mashed potatoes.

  “Chicken-fried steak?”

  “You’ve had it before?”

  He lets out a snort. “Honey, Texas invented chicken-fried steak.”

  My body goes numb. He called me honey. But he says it the way a waitress might say it to a customer. To someone she doesn’t know well or even care about.

  “Where did you learn…” He stops, because of course he already knows.

  I answer anyway. “My mom taught me. Maybe she learned it from her mom?”

  Now I’m asking, but Winston isn’t answering. He’s busy eating. And I think he likes it.

  After we eat, Winston tells me he’ll do the dishes since I cooked, and I let him. In my room, I stretch out on the bed. Today was my best day in Little Esther, but all at once I feel homesick. I’ve got to get back to the farm.

  Chapter Fifteen

  FRIDA SOMEHOW MANAGES to attend class all week. Maybe someone caught her doing graffiti. Maybe she’s grounded and her punishment is going to school. She seems different, though. Happier. Like she learned she won the lottery. When Mrs. Crump tells us to write, Frida actually does. But she won’t share when Mrs. Crump asks if she wants to read what she wrote. And when Mrs. Crump asks me, I don’t either. Frida and I are two private vessels on an ocean.

  Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be her friend. She’s not that much different from Carmen. Neither one of them likes school, and both of them love skipping. Except Frida never asks me to skip with her. She finishes her work, then takes out a pad and starts drawing.

  I’m getting itchy to skip during Mrs. Crump’s nap. I want to explore her neighbors’ gardens, find out what grows easily here. Maybe I’d run into Nancy. But Frida doesn’t make a move to leave when Mrs. Crump starts to snore, so I decide to stay too. Chicken. Cluck, cluck, cluck.

  * * *

  SATURDAY, Winston is busy making a list—a list of things that must be done while he’s away at the New Orleans Jazz Festival. He said he goes every year. It’s kind of been a jazz fest around here lately. Music hasn’t stopped playing at the apartment since Winston put on that album last weekend. That’s the way it was at home, except I’m not familiar with this kind of music. Last week, I learned about Art Tatum and Dizzy Gillespie. I doubt Winston even knows who Led Zep, Barry Manilow, or the Beatles are. I’m thankful Winston’s jazz sounds nothing like my parents’ music. It would kill me to hear those old songs.

  I’ve been making my own list, a list of plants to buy at Gavert’s Plant Center. I want the garden to be a surprise for Winston.

  Winston will be gone for six days. While he’s away, Violet will come in early and work more hours, and Arlo will cover the night shift. A lot can happen in six days. When he returns, he’ll see what a big difference a garden makes. Maybe he’ll even be inspired to paint the motel.

  A couple of days before he leaves, Winston says, “You’ll be staying with Violet while I’m away.”

  “Can’t I stay here? If I have a problem, Arlo will be here,” I tell him.

  “Violet lives in town, so you’ll only have to walk a block to Mrs. Crump’s house.”

  When I leave the office to scout a place for the garden, I hear banging and cursing coming from the laundry room. It’s Horace. He’s pounding on the washing machine.

  I try to lighten his mood. “May she rest in peace. Now Winston will have to buy a new one.”

  “Winston’s not going to sacrifice one dime to improve this place.” Horace spits the words. He doesn’t even glance at me. He reverses his wheelchair so fast, I have to jump out of his way. He moves quickly toward the office. I follow him. I don’t want to miss the action. When Horace reaches the door, I open it for him but decide to wait outside. Horace’s voice is loud, and I can see through the window in the door.

  “For Pete’s sake, Winston, get a new washing machine!”

  Winston rolls his eyes and grabs the walkie-talkie. “Arlo, Bertha’s on the blink again.”

  The walkie-talkie crackles, and Arlo’s voice comes through. “I’m on it.”

  “Arlo is great, but he’s no miracle worker,” Horace says. “Sears is having a sale on Maytags.”

  “It’s getting fixed,” Winston says.

  Horace grips the arms of his wheelchair, causing his biceps to bulge. “How are me and Ida going to make it to Florida without clean clothes?”

  He sharply turns his chair around and leaves. For the second time, I hop out of his way so the wheelchair doesn’t run over my toes.

  “Pensacola?” I’m excited for him and Ida. They’re finally going on a honeymoon.

  “Soon,” he snaps. He keeps on moving, muttering under his breath, using what Violet calls Horace’s sailor talk.

  They aren’t really going to Florida anytime soon. He’s just angry.

  Horace returns to the laundry room and pulls the wet clothes out of the washing machine. He wrings out a shirt, letting the water splatter on the floor.

  I race over to help him, but he snaps, “I’ve got it!”

  He stops what he’s doing. “I’m sorry, Stevie. Your grandfather will squeeze blood out of a turnip or die trying.”

  I’m mad at Winston too, not because he won’t replace Bertha but because of my being sent to Violet’s house like I’m a little kid. And he’s not saying anything about what happened to Mom. Doesn’t he know how cruel that is?

  “Winston is being rotten,” I say. It feels good to have someone who’s mad at him too. “He’s selfish.”

  Horace’s face softens, and he stares at me like somebody slapped him. “Stevie, Winston is cheap. I’ll say that. But he’s not selfish. This was the fourth place I looked at that would give Ida and
me a place at a decent price. Not only did Winston offer us something we could afford, he had Arlo enlarge our doorways and renovate the bathroom. He gave up two hotel rooms so we could even have a kitchen.” He points at something. “He added that ramp right outside our door.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah,” Horace says. “There’s a heart in that man’s chest. Hard to find sometimes, but it’s there, believe me.”

  He spins his wheelchair around and takes off in the direction of his apartment, adding, “He’s still cheap, though.”

  While I search around the motel for my future garden, I think about what Horace just said. What happened between Winston and Mom? Was it Dad?

  I’m thinking about this so much, I don’t even know how I end up at the motel sign. At the sign’s base, the phlox is taller now—still not ready to bloom, but it’s as if it’s saying, Here.

  Chapter Sixteen

  VIOLET’S PINK VICTORIAN HOME needs a little tender loving care too. Patches of flaking paint and crooked gingerbread trim remind me of a three-tiered wedding cake made during someone’s first day at a bakery. Although the grass is cut, volunteer crepe myrtles have invaded the yard, popping up in random places. If they aren’t pulled up soon, they will grow into trees in no time. The grass is polka-dotted with yellow dandelions. Someone needs to take care of her lawn. Even so, the huge house looks like the kind of place where rich people live. Seeing it makes me wonder why Violet works at the motel.

  Winston must read my mind. “Violet’s parents left her the house, and I hope a lot of money. Those old things cost a small fortune in utilities.”

  I remember what Nancy said about that. Now I realize just because someone lives in a big house doesn’t mean they’re rich.

  Violet meets us wearing her Island Paradise dress—a cream background with plate-size pink hibiscus. She’s also wearing a gold chain necklace that’s just like the one a guest left behind. Inside, an explosion of floral chintz covers the furniture and hangs around the windows. Pink and purple dominate, but there’s yellow, orange, and plenty of green too.