by Lynn Benoit
This short story is an excerpt from Benoit’s novel, “Poppy Write.”
Chapter 1
My parents, Charles and Irma Longstocking named their only child Poppy. Surely, they meant well. Assuming that nobody wanted to be one of three Lindas or Susans in their class at school, they gave me what they thought was a beautiful and unique name. How could they possibly have anticipated the fame of the similarly named fictional character Pippy Longstocking would result in ceaseless torment from my peers?
As I grew older and thought about my future, about marriage, I hoped that my husband would have a nice bland name like Smith or Brown. Even Butts or Hogg would be an improvement. I graduated high school in 1975. In 1979 I left college with BA in psychology. In 1980, I married Bertram Farmer. Thus, I became Poppy Farmer. Ours was a love match. We married just three months after our first date.
The wedding ceremony took place in one of those little Wedding Chapels in Las Vegas (not an Elvis Chapel. I’m not even sure they had any Elvis Chapels there). Our chapel looked like a miniature movie set meant for a couple of rubes whom the audience was rooting for. The chapel was done up in white: the floor, the walls, the pews, the platform, the drapery. There were no religious symbols in this chapel. The sterility of the decor conveyed respect for the purpose of the place. The presiding Justice of the Peace was unexpectedly eloquent in describing love, marriage and commitment. The nice woman who took our money for the service served as witness.
After the ceremony, Bertram and I celebrated our new status as Man and Wife with a swim in the hotel swimming pool. For the next few days, Bertram and I hung around the hotel, venturing out of our room only to swim and eat. We never saw a show or did any gambling. We flew home, still giddy, ready to officially start our lives together.
Our lives together proved to be very short.
Bertram worked as a salesman at an appliance store. It was one of those warehouse showroom that sold everything from stereos to washing machines. His bizarre death happened at work.
A bulb in a light fixture hanging way up from the high ceiling had burned out. The janitor was in the hospital for a tonsillectomy. The remaining workers were annoyed and inconvenienced by the lack of light but none of them wanted to climb a thirty-foot ladder to change the bulb. Bertram volunteered.
He stood on the highest step of the ladder, holding the long replacement florescent light tube with his right hand and disconnecting the cover of the light to access the bulb with his left hand. Somehow Bertram got his left middle finger lodged in between the light housing and the cover.
It is at this point that witness accounts of the incident differ. Some say the ladder was accidently jostled by another employee who wasn’t paying attention. Some say an employee intentionally jostled the ladder as a joke. Some say Bertram’s flailing in an attempt to get his finger unstuck from the light fixture was the reason the ladder moved out from under him. Regardless of how it happened, what happened was that Bertram hung by his finger from the light fixture with no ladder for retreat. He dangled there for some time. Eventually the light fixture, undoubtedly not designed to hold 170 pounds, gave way. It is unclear whether Bertram’s finger gave way simultaneously or became fully severed as he and the light fixture were in free fall.
On the way down, Bertram did some acrobatics (described as a Lay Out Flip by one of the witnesses, a former gymnast). Thus, he did not fall straight down but soared some feet horizontally before landing on a display of televisions. The force of his landing broke one of the TV screens, severing the middle finger of his heretofore uninjured right hand. As a gymnast might say, he did not nail the landing.
No one seems to know what became of the replacement light bulb Bertram had been holding prior to his descent.
So it was that I went from a newlywed to a widow in less than three weeks.
A few days later, I received a phone call from a Workers Compensation adjuster. He asked to speak to Bertram.
“Bertram is deceased,” I said, aware that I’d be saying those words again and again.
“Mrs. Farmer, I’m calling to explain the benefits you’ll be receiving due to Mr. Farmer’s work-related injury,” Mr. Adjuster said.
“Injury,” I said.
“Yes, the loss of his fingers.”
“The loss of his fingers,” I said.
In a desperate attempt to understand what this guy was saying, I’d taken to repeating selected snippets from his remarks.
“Yes, a severed finger is subject to a scheduled benefit,” he said.
“Scheduled benefit,” I said.
The repeating snippets gambit was not helping.
“Yes,” he said. “There is a set number of weeks payable for the loss of a finger.”
“Oh?”
“Mr. Farmer lost a Second Finger,” he said. “That is worth 33 weeks.”
“Interesting”, I heard myself say. “Does each finger have a different value?”
“Yes,” the guy said, his voice becoming strangely excited. “A First Finger is worth 38 weeks! And a thumb! Um.”
He was quiet for a few moments then continued.
“Since Mr. Farmer lost a second Second Finger he is entitled to 33 weeks for each. The benefits continue whether he returns to work or not.”
“How could Bertram return to work?” I said, choking back a sob. “He’s dead.”
Mr. Adjuster was silent.
After a while, I said, “I’m a little confused. Workers Comp pays for a death depending on what happened to the person when he died?”
“Died,” Mr. Adjuster said.
I was fed up with this conversation. Didn’t this imbecile know that Bertram was dead?
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I got um ahead of myself. Um.”
He cleared his throat.
I waited.
“You will be receiving 500 weeks of death benefits in the amount of 66 and 2/3% of your husband’s average weekly wage. The benefits stop if you remarry.” He paused. “I’ll send a letter explaining.”
“Fine,” I said and hung up.
I had no idea what 66 and 2/3% meant in actual dollars but 500 weeks was something like nine and a half years. This was an unexpected windfall on the heels of Bertram’s fall.
The phone rang again.
“I warned you!”
It was Bertram’s mother.
“I begged you not to marry him!” She wailed for about ten seconds, then shrieked, “it’s the Curse of the Flower!”
What can you possibly say to your deranged Mother-in-law who is convinced that her son died because you were named after a posy? I managed to get off the phone after a few mumbled sorrys. There was a ringing in my left ear for several minutes.
Chapter 2
Yes, the Curse of the Flower.
Bertram and I knew by our second date that we loved each other and wanted to be together all our lives -starting as soon as possible. We prepared to announce our engagement to our families. This was expected to be a small gathering as both Bertram and I were Only Children.
The gathering was even smaller than we anticipated because my parents were unavailable. They had sold their house and were driving around the country in a Winnebago. These were the days before cell phones so there was no way to get ahold of them. They had embraced the nomad lifestyle. In the three years they had been on the road, they called me on the phone only once. Indeed, my parents didn’t learn that I’d married until I’d been a widow for over a year.
Bertram’s mother was a widow. Bertram hadn’t told me much about his father’s death- only that it happened when Bertram was quite young.
We met Rose Farmer at a restaurant. Bertram told me he’d wanted to go to her house because his mother sometimes got “excited” and “rowdy” when certain topics came up. He was unable to convince her to agree to a home visit. My future Mother-in-Law wanted to eat out. She picked the restaurant. She picked the hour. I was intrigued, expecting an eccentric old gal who tended to get a little bawdy when she drank or something like that.
She was nothing like that.
Mrs. Farmer was already seated at a table when Bertram and I entered the restaurant. We stood before her. She barely glanced at me.
Bertram said, “Mom I’d like you to meet Poppy.”
Before he could finish the introductions, Mrs. Farmer gasped loudly as though she had just seen something horrific. I found myself frantically checking to be sure my blouse hadn’t somehow popped open exposing bare skin.
“Pop Pop Poppy?” she sputtered, holding her hands against her cheeks. “No!” Her voice was a loud squeal.
People seated at the other tables looked at us.
“Mom, please,” Bertram said.
At this point, Mrs. Famer seemed to have gone into a trance. At least she was quiet. Bertram and I sat down. A waitress appeared and asked us if we wanted drinks.
After a while, Mrs. Farmer spoke. Her voice was soft and monotone.
“My husband died because of my name. It’s a curse, you see. Flower names mean death to Farmer men.”
Bertram’s jaw was tight. We sat there silently for a time.
Finally, I said, “Mrs. Farmer, what are you talking about?”
She did not acknowledge my question, being too busy glaring at Bertram.
“I can’t believe you would be so reckless,” she said to him.
“Mom, there is no curse.”
“It is The Curse of the Flower,” she said.
To say the get-together was not a success was not entirely true. The spaghetti and meatball plate was very good.
Driving me home from the restaurant in his car, Bertram told me the story behind The Curse of the Flower. It seems one day Bertram’s dad came home from work with a surprise for his wife: a single rose. As he presented the rose to Rose, he pricked his finger. What would seem to be a minor incident became a tragedy. Mr. Farmer’s finger got infected. He thought little of it until it swelled to the size of an apricot and turned a frightful shade of purple. Though given intravenous antibiotics, he died two days later in the hospital.
It didn’t occur to me to ask which finger it was.
Now I knew The Curse of the Flower. I gazed at the Remembrance Poppy hanging from the rearview mirror. Yesterday, coming out of a movie theater, we gave an old man, evidently a former soldier, a couple dollars for a handmade paper poppy. It had been my idea to buy the poppy. Looking again at the poppy hanging from the rearview mirror, I felt an involuntary shudder.
“Needless to say,” Bertram said. “The whole curse thing is ridiculous.”
Yes, of course The Curse of the Flower was ridiculous. Bertram was still dead though. Bertram’s body was sent to a medical school so students could practice. After, he would be cremated. His ashes were to be sent directly to Mrs. Farmer. She would presumably inter him next to her husband. I had no reason to believe I would be welcome at the ceremony, if there was to be one. That did not matter. I had already said good-bye to Bertram’s body.
On the bright side, I would never have to speak with Rose Farmer again. It turned out there was a genuine Bertram death benefit, after all. I switched the phone ringer button to off anyway.
Category: Featured, Short Story