22A/N: Not a typical one shot for me ... no blood, gore, no angst. Also not a typical MM. This will stand alone, at least for now. Real life prevented the muse from working or flowing. I promise to get back to Freddy before he languishes on the shelf forever.
Disclaimer: JE has been generous to provide multiple MM who are naught but a name on a page, so I absconded with a MM who will be little remembered in any way. She makes the big money and I play in her world from time to time.
How did you know?
by Aflonsina
"Aunt Phyllis, how did you know?" Roy Beck asked the elderly woman seated across the scarred kitchen table from him. They were a opposites at every level. He was tall, muscular, full of life. She was older, a little hunched, flabby, and exuded a quiet energy. They both had a love of coffee with extra cream and only the real stuff would do.
"Know what?" She stirred her coffee slowly and gently replaced the spoon in the saucer. "I'm not a mind reader. Never have been."
"That Uncle Matt was the one."
"I remember it like yesterday. I noticed him at church sitting with his family. I didn't hear a word the minister had to say that day." The look on her face transformed and he could see the beauty she was in her youth. She was the eldest of five sisters, the responsible one, the one who never had suitors because she was always looking after the others. She was an old maid when she finally married at age thirty; not old by today's standards, old by those of the times.
"And?"
"He looked nice." She glanced at her hands, put the spoon back in the coffee cup and stirred it again. It was like she was remembering something special and private.
He looked back at her and motioned with his hand to continue. "Nice? That's it? Nice?" He couldn't believe that was the only criterion she'd had. His own list was significantly longer, always had been.
She let out a tiny breath and said, "Now Roy, we both know not a lot of young men continue to go to church after they see themselves as grown. I made a point of figuring out which pew they sat in and I tried to sit near them so he could see me. Girls are a lot more forward now than they were fifty years ago. I was older than he was and didn't think he'd ever notice me, but I still wanted to peek at him during services. And I was vain enough to not want to wear my glasses when I did it." He'd never known her to be vain; she'd just always been. In his childhood, she hadn't been overly tall, overly thin or fat, overly exceptional. She wasn't exciting, she was solid. When he looked at the old scrapbooks, her face always had a radiance, a special glow. The photos that included his uncle Matt, she simply beamed.
"So, do you think I'll be able to find a woman in church?" Roy asked. He hoped that wasn't the answer because he didn't like going to church, he went for Christmas, Easter and funerals. He didn't go to weddings, ever. He figured he'd be forced to eat rubber chicken and make nice with people he'd never see again. He preferred to go to the local bar and play a few rounds of darts. He believed in attending funerals, no one ever wanted to go to those, and someone needed to support the survivors. He'd learned that lesson the hard way. Ten people went to his father's funeral and none of them stuck around after the wake was over to comfort his mother or sister. He picked up the pieces of his mother's life and acted as her glue until she too passed. The only one of the generation who was left was his aunt Phyllis. Phyllis was his mother's only surviving sister; Phyllis was much older than his mother had been when she had passed.
"Maybe. You meet people everywhere, see them everywhere. You just need to take the time and actually notice them. You never do smell the roses. I don't even think you knew I grew roses in the front yard," she said with a wink. "I had about ten varieties in all of the colors. I love roses, even though I can't grow them anymore." It hurt her when she tried to stoop to weed the garden, she decided to sell the house when she could no longer tend it herself. It had been a matter of pride, she sold the place to a young family who loved her rose bushes. They had to promise to keep her roses when they bought the house and send pictures every spring.
"Yes, I did; they were beautiful. But I never got to spend much time with you, so I didn't want to talk about them."
"Good point. It was much more important to talk about your Boy Scout meetings or your soccer games and share silly stories or secrets," she chided him as gently as possible. She'd been a teacher until a couple of years ago and she specialized in ten year old boys and taming their wild ways, at least from the hours of eight to three, Monday through Friday.
He looked more than a little abashed at the statement. He didn't see himself as being selfish or self absorbed; maybe he was then. Maybe he still was. Time to start on a self improvement project; home improvement could wait.
Before he could say a word of apology, she put her hand to his face and said, "It's all okay, you were just a boy. I only got to see you one or two days every year. You had a lot to tell me. You thought I'd always be there, and I always will be. Nothing has changed."
"Were you always this patient?"
"No. You learn patience as you learn to accept grey hair."
He shook his head and realized he'd been allowing his hairdresser to highlight his locks for a couple of years to hide the grey. It was definitely some time for some self honesty. He wasn't twenty anymore, not even close. In fact, he was closer to forty if he was truthful about it, not that he actually admitted it out loud.
He held her hand and they continued to talk about the little things, family history, the things that were important to her. He hadn't held hands with a woman for the pleasure of it for years, he held hers for hours. He realized he'd never paid attention to the details in his life or the people who populated it. He lived with his eyes closed, missing nuisances and little delicacies along the way.
Her skin was so much more fragile than his; the liver spots spoke of her age, the arthritic fingers spoke of her current pain, the scars on her palms were reminders of rose thorns from decades of love and tending. Her eyes were the same color as his, though slightly clouded with cataracts. His were set the same way and it occurred to him that his would look like hers in a few decades. He hoped his had peace, joy, and love in them as he aged.
He stood to leave and kissed her gently on the cheek. He noticed the soft, dry, crepe-like skin beneath his lips and wondered if it had always been so smooth.
"Aunt Phyllis, I'll come back and see you soon," he said.
"I'm so glad you came by," she said standing to walk him to the door.
He went down the hall and headed for the parking lot. He knew it was time to reappraise his life, to start it and not let it happen to him at random.
Two days later he went to the garden center not far from his house.
"Excuse me," he said to a woman who appeared to work for the store. Nothing about her appearance was remarkable, to say that she was plain was pushing his definition of beauty. But she had a kind face, definitely not the flash bang of his usual type. Not that he was looking for his type at the nursery. "Can you help me?"
"Sure. I don't work here, but I'll try," she said a little leery of him. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm sorry, I thought you… I'm sorry," he said. He tried to step back and walk away. "I'll go find someone else."
She touched his hand and smiled. "I don't know much about plants, the only ones I know anything about are roses. You wouldn't be looking for roses, would you?"
A/N: As always, thanks for reading ... Alf.