Old Fashioned

 Anastasia Jill

Part 1.

 Flowers, I decided, are for the lesbians; sapphic bulbs only bloom for shaken hearts. They unfurl to the world like giggling school girls. Full of hope, full of passion, longing for a pretty woman.

Oh, how I wish to be like them. 

-        from the journal of Ms. Edie Heilig

Ms. Edie Heilig was accustomed to being unloved after having been abandoned at birth. Not literally, of course; her mother fed and clothed her, but in the emotional sense, Edie had no mother at all. She raised herself, became her own mother – a bud that would blossom into a voluptuous woman with cornflower eyes and hair maintaining its natural cerise hue. At sixty-five, she had her choice of the men that frequented Whiskey Lou’s dive bar, but she didn’t want them.

She wanted Dorothea instead.

Dorothea Westmoreland - a gargantuan name for a delicate, elderly woman. She, like many others, frequented the bar that sat between a Vietnamese restaurant and an abandoned gas station. An outlier under jazzy lights, Dorothea sat portly and prudish beside the velvet pool table and wax figures of dancing men. She wore pants that were crisp, her greying hair in a soft bob curling around the ears, hiding her simple pearl studs. Her look was garnished with nude lipstick and clear nail polish. She looked exactly the same every weekend, unlike Ms. Edie, with dirt under her fingers and her dime-store blue eyeshadow, bulky sweaters, and loud plastic bracelets.

Ms. Edie was many things, but never forward with her feelings. Times had changed, but people remained the same – or so she thought – in these parts. She didn’t know how Dorothea would take to a romantic pass from an old, withered lesbian.

Still, she walked into the bar, hair illuminated by neon lights. She took her usual seat at the counter, with Dorothea in proximity. 

“Hey Edie, you old broad,” the bartender shouted over the television. His name was Ralph, Edie remembered as she approached the counter. His belly crawled over his pants, grabbing the wood of the bar. “How’s life treating you?”

“Like a garden slug treats a leaf.”

Ralph leaned in so he could whisper. “Is tonight going to be, you know, the night?” He nodded over to Dorothea before giving Edie a knowing wink.

“Give me my usual,” she said. “Shaken not stirred.”

“Come on,” he said, a little louder than necessary. “Just walk over and say hello like a normal human being would do.”

“As we’ve established, I am anything but normal.” 

He shook his head and mixed her drink. “You’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m barely a day over forty.”

He tossed his rag on the counter. “Try sixty.”

She reached into her handbag, tossed a wad of cash on the counter. “Do your job and make my cocktail. And don’t forget this cherry this time.”

While Ralph finished her drink, Edie stared at Dorothea. It was a Tuesday night, and they were the only two sitting at the bar. Tonight, she wore a periwinkle sweater, a delicate line of pearls like bubbles dancing along her ironed collar. She stirred them about her finger as she absently watched a football game on the television.

An opportunity; yet Edie let it pass her by.

The two sat apart, an invisible finger dictating a line in the proverbial soil. Edie reckoned a row or two of plants could comfortably fill the distance between them with room to spare for extra saplings and seedlings. Hopeless, that’s what it was. Edie knew this endeavor was hopeless, and it was foolish to think otherwise.

Her drink slid down the bar. It nearly spilled in her lap. With a sigh, Edie lit her first cigarette of the night. She held it for a moment before blowing smoke downward into the glass.

“Why do you do that?”

The question was hardly audible over the chatter of men, but the voice itself was discernible, harsh yet feminine. And it belonged to Dorothea. When Edie asked what she meant, she clarified, “You exhale into the glass. Why is that?”

It was an unconscious movement; one she’d adopted at the age of twelve when she began smoking. It diluted the smell, so mother wouldn’t catch her in the act. Edie lied, “It’s smoggy enough in here. I don’t want to contribute to the pollution.”

Dorothea nursed her can. “Wouldn’t that make your drink taste like smoke?”

“It’s bourbon, my dear, not champagne. It all tastes stale regardless.”

Over the course of their conversation, Dorothea shifted to face Edie. “Isn’t that a little queer?” Dorothea said.

Edie said, “No one uses that word anymore. Queer.”

A flush crossed Dorothea’s cheeks, dark lilac in a pallid sea. “What am I supposed to say?”

“You ask a lot of questions for someone so quiet.” Edie’s pulse slapped against the curve of her rib, imploring her to be nice, talk to her, right now!

“I was just making conversation,” Dorothea said after a while.

“You’re not very good at it,” Edie said. “But I’ll give you points for trying.”

“And where is my reward?”

Edie held out her cigarette.

“No, thank you. I haven’t smoked in years.”

“Suit yourself.”

The women returned to their silence like an old friend, or a drink, smudging their tongues with cheap booze and unspoken words.

“Actually,” Dorothea said after a while, gesturing to Edie’s hand.

Edie smirked, though she didn’t know why. She cleaned her cigarette with a flick of the wrist, veins extending like olive branches beneath her skin. Dorothea took the smoke in parlay, puffing the seeds of nicotine into her mouth, each exhale blossoming as it bounced against Edie’s cheeks.

Part 2.

Flowers are sentient in their own special way. It is not science, but fact. A real botanist knows. I may not be a doctor, but I am receptive to a plant’s emotions. They feel, just like us, and get drunk on moonlight and beautiful women. It is a fact, not of the mind, but of the heart.

-        from the Journal of Ms. Edie Heilig  

Ms. Edie’s mother always said she had no soul. Her saffron eyes were mere buffers to an impassive mind. This, however, was the projection of an aging necropath. Edie loved things like flowers, and especially beautiful women.

Dorothea was the female equivalent of a silver fox, but she was also attentive. She listened as Edie drunkenly recounted her history with botany.

“I always got poor marks in school, especially in science. I spent most of my adult life bouncing from job to job. I sold wicker furniture, took my hand at writing - my typing is dreadful, always has been. I worked in retail for several decades up until a year ago. I drained my savings to purchase a stand to sell flowers at the farmer’s market.”

Dorothea laughed, a short sound from a protective throat. “Why would you do that?”

Edie lit her fourth cigarette of the night. “Why the hell not?”

Dorothea pondered that. Why the hell not? She couldn't answer, having taken the practical route through life – housewife and mother, grammar teacher at the Kaley School. Edie had never married, unlike the thrice-divorced Dorothea.

“Three husbands?” Edie posed. “That doesn’t sound practical to me.”

“It wasn’t. None of the men seem to fit right.”

Edie wanted to ask what she meant by that, but Dorothea wouldn’t answer, already asking for a refill on her ale. Edie knew she should call it quits, but she lived within walking distance. So she slapped the counter and called for another round.

After a thick sip, Dorothea wiped her chin. “So, is Edie short for anything?”

It wasn’t, but still she teased, “You have to guess.”

Dorothea, she realized, wasn’t one for playing games, instead reading the print on one of the sopping-wet coasters. Poorly printed text blurred into perspiration, a puddle of probably, best, and beer.

“You said you never  married, Edie?”

“That’s right.”

“Can you tell me why not?”

Edie shook her head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to ruin such a beautiful night.”

Before menopause, when Edie still had hormones, she would have made several forward passes, might have taken Dorothea back to her flower stand, with a wink and a nudge to the euphemism of being deflowered. She would learn little beyond the woman’s name, and would have ended the night alone.

Talking with Dorothea made her feel she didn’t have to be alone. Dorothea - Edie realized - was like a single dandelion in an otherwise perfect garden. It wasn’t supposed to be there, but while it grew, she made a wish. Whether it would come true or not had yet to be determined. She ordered them more drinks, even though they hadn’t finished the last. When pressed, Edie shrugged and said, “We have a lot to talk about, don’t we, my dear?”

Part 3.

There are many species of flower, but the edelweiss is profound. The name means noble-white, and is a known remedy to disease. Perhaps the edelweiss knows of the disease from having lived with it in nature for so long. But it has not become toxic. In helping others, it is learning to heal itself.

-        from the journal of Ms. Edie Heilig

Ms. Edie’s mother had been dead for several years at this time, and the pair hadn’t spoken in over a decade prior.

Edie would not have had it any other way.

In Bertha Heilig’s eyes, she was a failure in every conceivable way. She didn’t finish high school, never had children, and chose to come out of the closet just as she got ‘over the hill.’ Edie reasoned life was only obstacles to be moved further and further. Her mother was another obstacle, like most people.

Dorothea, she was learning, was not like most people.

By the last call, Edie drank four cocktails, much more than her single one.

“What is that you’re having?” Dorothea asked.

“It’s called an Old Fashioned. My favorite drink since my twenties.” Edie flipped the glass over. “Old crow bourbon, demerara syrup, angostura bitters, a ripe cherry, all on the rocks. There are variations, but my request, it will never change.”

Dorothea buffed a ring of liquid off the counter. “You can remember all that, but you never learned anything about your flowers beyond the names?”

“I sell them, love. I don’t analyze them.”

“Shouldn’t it be both?”

Edie threw a peanut at her head.

“Really?” Dorothea scolded, but she was laughing all the same. She returned the favor, a coltish motion unfamiliar to her hand. The nut landed in the sole of Edie’s shoe, but she didn’t remove it, savoring the slipperiness of salt against her heel.

After a while, Dorothea laid her head on the counter, a vague bliss behind her voice. “Tell me more about that one flower you like. What was it? An edel-weiss?”

Edie rolled her eyes, “Spoken like an American.”

“You’re American!”

“I was born in Nuremberg.”

Dorothea laughed. How Edie loved that sound.

“Fine,” Dorothea said. “How do you pronounce it correctly?”

“Edel-veiss.”

Dorothea’s pronunciation fell flat despite her best efforts. Edie reached over, positioned Dorothea’s lips under her teeth, instructing the drunken woman through the flower’s name. Edie noticed her skin was soft under her own rugged fingertips.

The moment escaped Dorothea, who laughed and moved the woman’s hand away. “Alright, enough of that. Tell me about the damned flower.”

Edie flourished at the topic. She grew into her own as she discussed details. “The edelweiss,” she recounted, “is from the genus Leontopodium, found at the highest altitudes. Only a skilled herb-lover would dare go after the secluded bud. I merely sell the other flowers but this plant, I knew stem to stern. It was covered with wool; despite the harsh appearance, it was a remedy to all and” -- Edie stopped mid-sentence, waving her hand around. “I’m sorry. I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

Dorothea smiled. “No, you’re not. Not at all.”

The music died down as the men began packing it in for the night. The news was on repeat, as it was two a.m. It had rained recently for the first time in a week. In Florida, that constituted a drought, but the rain would bring flowers with its return. That much, Edie knew for sure.

But bars didn’t grow in the way flowers did. Last call meant last call, and it was time to go home. Edie didn’t want to go home to Fluffy and Orange, Mr. Kitty and the calico cat that still had no name. Dorothea read her mind, paying the tab for the both of them and dropping a tip for Ralph. “Do you live around here?” Dorothea asked.

Edie said, “Yes, down by the lake.”

“I don’t live far,” Dorothea said. “Let me walk you there myself.”

Part 4.  

Nobody worries about the edelweiss going extinct, except, perhaps, the edelweiss itself. A flower of noble whiteness, it is pallid where the world is dark. A plant may die, but the edelweiss flower has learned to be cherished forever.

-        from the Journal of Ms. Edie Heilig

Ms. Edie’s mother never loved her. Her homosexuality was a mere segue to enact the emotional violence that had permeated Edie’s childhood. Sure, there was physical violence, but the mental wounds dug deep as a trench. Flowers seldom grew in trenches, especially when they were warned of toxicity. That hurt Edie the most - that her mother decided she was toxic.

“You don’t deserve love,” she had said. “You hardly deserve food or water, let alone love.” The words cut deep, a shovel into her sod and she believed her mother for many years, never once doubting the gospel until tonight.

She questioned it the moment she saw herself in the reflection of Dorothea’s eyes.

Dorothea’s eyes were green with little golden flecks, the black pupil a looking glass. Edie saw herself, big and boisterous and red, nerves withering the longer she gazed upon this beautiful woman. It was too soon to know if she loved Dorothea, but she could love her, and that would suffice.

They only had four streetlights, each flanking a corner of the lake along with the moonlight, an ivory patio on the water’s surface. They walked in circles around the quasi-park, neither of them flocking towards home.

“There could be gators in that pond,” Dorothea said. “Or coral snakes.”

Edie lit a cigarette. “Coral snakes.”

“They slither in the grass.”

“As opposed to what? Tap dancing?”

Dorothea snorted - a sharp, unflattering sound, unbecoming for such a refined lady. Unable to keep their drunken feet steady, they stopped and sat at a bench parallel to a marble statue of a lion. Palm trees encased them in dew drops and shade. The whole affair was old fashioned; too love-drunk and sweet like a cherry pit.

“My mother would wring my neck, if she weren’t pushing up daisies herself,” Edie said. “Shit faced on a Tuesday, still smoking cigarettes.”

Dorothea pressed her palms onto her knee caps. “I suppose women always disappoint their mothers.”

“How I wish I were a flower,” Edie said. “Flowers don’t have mothers.”

“I don’t think that’s true.”

“I’m drunk. I don’t care about what’s true.” She’d meant to be a tease, but her words were harsh and rude. Dorothea put a person’s worth of space between them.

“I’m sorry,” Edie slurred, the booze catching up with her, or maybe the emotions that came with such a sweltering night. Dorothea didn’t verbally concede, nor did she come close. Edie’s wrists curled into the stigma of her thigh, her bright and white flesh sullied by the soil of her smoke.

“Tell me about the Edie flower,” Dorothea whispered.

“It’s not Edie, it’s edelweiss.”

“Forget the name for a moment. Just what makes this flower so special to you?”

There were many reasons, Edie wanted to say. The flowers were plucked from their homes and put in places they didn’t belong, much like Edie herself as a young girl, from the mountains of Europe to the ugly, humid swamplands of Florida. She never fit in here – neither did the edelweiss. They were the same, in that way, alien buds trying to adapt to false surroundings.  

This would have been easy to explain, but she surprised herself when speaking even more honestly. She said, “In the olden days, men would die to get these flowers for the women they loved. It’s pure and patriotic. Everyone loves an edelweiss, and deeply. I want to be like that.”

“Be like what?” Dorothea said.

“I want to be loved.”

Edie’s hands rose like a sepal through the limestone as she reached for Dorothea’s ample cheeks. She leaned into Edie’s fingers, kissing the smell swell of the same wrist that smoked and drank, that once believed itself too noxious.

“You smell lovely,” Dorothea said, her cheek cherished against Edie’s palm, the two growing like flowers on flowers on flowers.

The yellow disks of her bracelets fell into the silver chains of Dorothea’s arms and together, they formed a garden of floral wooly-white in the inebriated Florida night. They collected each other in a kiss, like the rainfall giving new life to the beautiful flora.

It was unusual to feel tenderness, warmth and love, but Edie wanted to change, she wanted to grow.

With Dorothea, she was willing to try. 

Bio

Anastasia Jill (she/they) is a queer writer living in the Southeast United States. She has been nominated for Best American Short Stories, Best of the Net, and several other honors. Her work has been featured with Poets.org, Pithead Chapel, apt, Minola Review, Broken Pencil, and more.