He delivered the flowers a whole hour early. Patty N. hadn’t even finished pulling up the shades on the Juniper Street Market windows when his purple delivery truck pulled up to the curb, Mr. Flowers Florists emblazoned on the side. Even though Easter was days away, the air was crisp enough to need a coat, and the man wore his signature brown, leather jacket, but Mr. Flowers was slick with sweat. And he was red in the face, like the semi-frozen ham she sliced.
Even in his less perfect condition that day, Patty N. couldn’t help but stare. She knew it was wrong—looking at a man that young. He was old enough to be a grandfather, but she was old enough to be his mother. Those arms, though. Those hands. His muscular neck.
Today, though, his arm was wrapped in gauze. He caught her staring as he pushed the dolly through the door, a forest of flowers obscuring his face.
“Morning, Patty N.,” he said in a voice unbothered by physical labor.
She straightened her hair net and propped an elbow in the deli counter case. Its motor whirred with a whistle, badly in need of grease.
“Morning, Mr. Flowers,” she said.
Mr. Flowers said, “Looking as pretty as ever.”
In unison, they finished the morning ritual, “The flowers I mean.”
Together, they laughed at their little joke. That’s what she always wanted in a man. Someone who’d appreciate her kindness and humor. Not like her Vernon. And as she watched Mr. Flowers unload the delivery into the refrigerated display cabinet, he couldn’t be further from her Vernon. This was a man. A real man.
As he stepped from behind the dolly, she saw something different in his face. He had a cut above his right eye. She crooked a gray brow, inspecting the new look. Where she expected to see his Tom Selleck mustache and thick stubble, she saw a razor-clean face. That horrible decision didn’t do him any favors. His jaw was too weak to support his cheeks and his lips were thinner than she remembered. For some people, facial hair worked extra hard.
“Any specials today?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “And where’s Patty D.? She’s usually at the deli.”
“Chip-chopped ham at two dollars a pound,” she said, ignoring the Patty D. question. “Your momma’s favorite, right?”
Patty N. had never met his momma, but he was known to take her whatever they had on sale that week. As if on auto-pilot, she started to wrap the ham before she noticed his face souring at the mention of his momma. Sour might even be too light of a word. Broken, more like.
“You okay, honey?” she asked.
Mr. Flowers shook his head. “I lost my momma. Thursday night. A stroke while we watched Jeopardy.”
Patty N. tsked through her gapped teeth and shook her head. “Darn it, I’m so sorry.”
She was reminded of her own age, her own mortality. She felt like she was also only a tough Jeopardy question away from keeling over on the sofa. She would go before Vernon. He would live just long enough to see it. She pulled out a previously-packaged pound of chip-chopped ham and sat it on the counter.
“For you, baby. She’s in God’s grace now.” Her smile was a beam of too-white false teeth. “I’m here if you need anything.”
He took the ham, but in a way that implied he didn’t really want it. As he grabbed it, the deli case motor whined for help.
Just take it, to be nice, she thought. Throw it away for all I care. Let me be kind.
She kicked her foot off the edge of the deli case. The whine stopped.
“Thank you, Patty N. I don’t deserve the kindness you and Patty D. show me here. A lonely man like me shouldn’t rely on strangers for kindness.”
Stranger? She wasn’t a stranger. They had spent every Monday morning together for what, three years? And to lump her with Patty D.—that about boiled her up. She leaned over the case, her shoulders broad and thick.
“I’m not a stranger, honey. Maybe, Patty D. is,” she laughed. “What’s she ever done for you?”
She hoped the bile-taste of her co-worker’s name wasn’t obvious.
Mr. Flowers looked into her eyes for the first time.
“Excuse me?”
She chuckled. “Sorry. Just wanted to know what that low-grade, lying bitch ever did to make you think she was kind.”
He stepped back. “I don’t know what kind of beef there is between you two, but you’re both lovely. Where is she by the way? I brought that book for her to borrow, The Five People You Meet in Heaven. My mom loved it.”
He sniffed the air, and his brow wrinkled. Did he smell something bad? Patty N. knew that working in the deli gave her a scent foul unlike anything else. Sweet and sour and putrid.
Patty N. straightened her apron and composed herself.
“No. No. She is kind. We’re just having a little quarrel between coworkers. I’m happy she makes you happy.”
He checked the time on his phone.
“I need to get a move today so I can get to the service.”
She stepped around the back of the deli counter and moved so close to the man she could smell the flowers on him. It was lovely. Inching closer, she felt his heat and smelled his sweat. They were about the same height, and that was rare. She towered over her Vernon, that mouse.
“Oh, baby, the service is today?” She opened her arms in a hug.
He didn’t move into it. Instead, he looked at her wrinkled hand, and she knew he examined the ghost of a too-tight wedding ring on her ring finger. She wondered what secrets were shrouded behind those deep-set eyes. Was it something naughty? She hoped it was care—maybe love. But naughty was good too.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s today,” he said, stepping back.
She reached out to grab his wrist, but it was too far away. She took a step closer, and he moved back again. It was awkward, but she wanted to show him tenderness.
“No, no. You need something. I’ll put you together a tray. You all having a lunch after?”
He shook his head. “It’s not a public thing. Just small and private.”
Patty N. nodded like she understood, but she didn’t. The dead deserved to be sent off with goodbyes from every face they ever loved. These days, people just get burned and dumped in the trash. What a waste. When her Vernon died—
—wait. He wasn’t dead, yet. But whose wake was last year, then? Anyway, every person in Angler who mattered showed up, and Vernon wasn’t all that great. Mr. Flowers, though—his momma had to be something special to raise such a wonderful man.
“Let me put something together for you then,” she said. “Can’t have you hungry after such a tough day.”
Tiny joys like this were what she lived for. He thanked the woman and went back to unloading the flowers. She hummed an old Broadway tune while she rolled cold cuts, cut cheeses into triangles, and sliced up a loaf of Italian bread. This was a ritual of sorts for her. The pimento olives were separate from the black olives. The roasted red peppers went next to the cherry tomatoes. She filled a container with ranch dressing and mustard packets.
He’d feel loved.
A muffled groan sounded from the deli case.
Mr. Flowers shot up. “What did you say, Patty N.?”
Patty N. kicked the deli case hard. She sweated. The case whirred.
“Oh, me? No, the deli case kicked on. I need to get a handyman in here to check the fan. It’s getting so loud.”
Mr. Flowers nodded and went back to his work.
“Got your deli tray ready for you whenever you are. I’ll put it in the cooler.”
He didn’t look up from the job when he said, “You really didn’t have to do that.”
Patty N. frowned at that. He meant that not in an awe-shucks-thanks kind of way, but in a I-said-I-didn’t-want-it kind of way. Was this man ungrateful? Was she being a put-upon?
She smacked herself in the head twice before slipping into her crystalline voice.
“It’s nothing but a sign of my appreciation for you. Never think you’re not loved.”
He nodded, and she noticed that he had changed. Not just his face, but his posture. He used to strut around here like hot shit in front of her and Patty D. But today, with Patty D. gone, he was distant—too professional. Angler was a small town, and he might be from up in Brimton, but this isn’t how they acted here. No way, Jose.
She coughed. “Excuse me, did I do something wrong?”
Her demeanor had changed too. That birdsong of a voice had some glass in it—cracked glass.
He shook his head and pursed his lips, sweat soaking through his gray uniform. “No, ma’am. Just busy. Thank you for the tray.”
She kicked the deli case again, harder. Where did she go wrong? This was just like Vernon. She’d spend all afternoon roasting a chicken, and he’d eat it in front of the TV while she cleaned. She’d take his shoes off, and he wouldn’t even give her a smile. He hadn’t bought her flowers once in the forty-four years of marriage.
“Sonofabitch,” she mumbled under her breath.
She absent-mindedly dug her chewed nails into her forearm with enough force to turn the skin around it white. Miniature crescent moons dotted her skin, and she rubbed them to try to erase them before he noticed.
When he reached up to stock the top row of the flower case, it was a sight to see. A peek of his toned abdomen and those shoulder muscles at work. But today, she looked and noticed those arms were flabbier than she remembered. And that neck? It rolled in the back. That ingrown hair behind his ear screamed to be lanced. He was made for Patty D. They were made for each other.
“Alright,” he stood up and wiped sweat from his brow. “Flowers are out. Easter is right around the corner, and you’re now the best place in Angler for a little taste of springtime.”
Patty N. smiled and wrinkled her eyes. It was forced, but why did she care? He didn’t matter.
He pushed his dolly to the door and picked up the party tray.
“Thank you, Patty N. This really is too nice.”
She saw a glimpse of something in his eyes that reminded her of someone. At first, she thought he was being tender, but no. That wasn’t tenderness. Like Patty D. at Christmas when Patty N. brought the jello cake. You work hard to give tiny joys to people, and they just placate you with thank-yous and you’re-too-kinds.
“You’re very welcome,” she gritted through her teeth.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She kicked the deli case, and the fan kicked on.
He peeked over the counter. “Do you want me to take a look at that for you? I’m handy enough, I might—”
“Good luck, Mr. Flowers,” she said, practically kicking him out. “You have my prayers.”
He sat the party tray down on the counter and sniffed again.
“What’s that smell?” he asked, his feet guiding him behind the counter. “I think your motor’s burning up.”
She blocked him with her broad body and crystalline sweetness. “This area is for employees only, honey. Health and safety.”
The deli case died out with a low drone. No lights. No fan.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He gently pushed her to the side and knelt before the case. She watched him sniff and fiddle with the sliding metal door.
She grabbed his shoulder and pulled, sweat coating her palms. “You can’t do that. It’s still under warranty.”
He said, “Don’t worry. I don’t want you to lose all of this meat.”
She scanned the counter for something to distract him. A roll of tape nearly fell to his feet.
“Oh, can you get that for me? I’m so clum—”
He pushed it toward her as he opened the steel door to the deli case motor. The mechanical parts were jammed. His eyes watered from the smell, and he winced. He fingered around inside the case, looking for something that could be jamming it up.
“Something’s stuck in here,” he said.
His hand grabbed at a chunk of meat wrapped in Saran Wrap.
“Chunk of ham, it looks like,” he said.
As he pulled on the ham, Patty N. knocked everything off the counter, spoons and foil bouncing off his back.
“What in the—?” He pulled at the plastic.
It wasn’t ham. It was a human thigh wrapped in Saran Wrap. A large chunk was cut from it. He shot up too quickly and hit his head on the case. The collision made him see stars, and he fell to the floor, howling. Patty N. watched him rub his head. She watched him see the arm. The foot.The nametag.
Patty D.
As he came to, he turned toward her just in time to see a meat tenderizer collide with his forehead.
The deli slicer buzz was too loud in the empty shop.
Patty N. knew he’d only be out for a minute or two. Enough time to get him onto the table and wrap the pieces she wanted to keep. This wouldn’t be a waste. His arms were fatty, but they’d make good stew meat. Those legs, though—they reminded her of Patty D.’s. Good meat. Good muscle.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Flowers,” she said. “Some people just won’t accept tiny joys anymore.”
She decided right then and there that she’d save some for the service. The mourners wouldn’t know her from Eve, but Mr. Flowers couldn’t miss his own mother’s service. And tiny joys should be shared.