Flower Girl

She awoke early, slipping out from under her thin blanket to pick up her robe, shivering. Groping in the dark, she pulled the light cord over the sink, throwing the tiny bathroom with its peeling paint into bold relief. Turning the faucet with a squeak, waiting for the hot water to come up from the shuddering pipes, she gazed for a few seconds at her face under the swinging bulb, the shadows behind her shifting.

At only 24, Laura’s forehead was already etched with worry, her dark eyes tired and sad. She was thin, painfully so, but money was tight and there was no kitchen in her tiny lodgings anyway. She was lucky to get her own bathroom, she thought wryly, and not for the first time. Clutching the robe around her, she ran her hand gently over her cheek, closing her eyes and flinching at the roughness of her palm.

The water was still icy, and as she did most days, Laura gave up waiting for warmth. Gritting her teeth, she washed and dressed quickly, pulled on her warmest sweater and her coat, and headed downstairs into the city.

Two hours later, the early sunshine was beginning to light her corner, but she could still see her breath as she moved slowly among the flowers on her street cart. She breathed deeply of the fragrance that hung in the air, holding its own in the stink of traffic that surrounded her. She tended the blooms gently, arranging the splashes of color to make the small bouquets and nosegays her customers liked. The pink carnations were especially pretty today, she thought, making a note to thank Mr. Lowe at the flower market for giving her a few extras. She saw the kindly old man as she wheeled her little cart slowly through the market before dawn, gathering the prettiest blooms she could afford, always walking alone.

The lawyers and secretaries were bustling past now, some stopping to buy the small posies Laura had tied with colorful bits of ribbon. She knew what they liked best, swiftly matching the roses, carnations, daisies, or peonies to the color of their expensive blouses and dresses, wishing them a good day, watching wistfully as they walked, chatting with their friends, and disappeared into the tall buildings, leaving her and her flower cart in the street.

She felt him before she saw him that first cold morning, a tall, older man in a dark coat standing by her cart, looking intently at her before turning his gaze to the small bouquet she was struggling to tie with the last of her ribbons. Gently, his hands moved to hers, taking the flowers, pulling the ribbon around the stems and deftly tying it into a neat bow. He handed her more money than they cost, closing his warm hand briefly over hers before pulling it away.

“I’ll take these, little one,” he murmured, his voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place. He held her gaze, lifted the flowers to inhale their scent, and smiled somehow knowingly at Laura as he moved away.

Still clutching her little pair of scissors, Laura watched breathlessly, then raised herself on her tiptoes to keep him in sight as he walked rapidly down the street. The traffic and noise faded away around her as he vanished into the crowd teeming through downtown.

The next day she waited, hoping, and he did not disappoint. He stopped at her cart that day, and the next day, and the next, always buying the best flowers she had to offer.

“And what have we today?” he would ask, his eyes twinkling as he searched the cart and then turned to her.

At first, Laura shyly listed the names of the flowers Mr. Lowe had given her that day, her voice barely above a whisper, her eyes fixed on the small pots of blooms on the cart. But eventually, encouraged, she would run her fingers lightly over the petals of the flowers as she named them and described why she liked them, their sweetness, and their scents. More than once, she looked up from her recitation to see him looking not at the flowers but at her.

And before she could grow self-conscious of her worn clothing and tired face, he would reach for the largest bouquet, press too much money into her hand, and say, “I’ll take these, little one.”

The weeks went by, and early one morning, when Mr. Lowe gave her a dozen of her favorite yellow tulips, she used the pretty gold ribbon she had been saving and made a bouquet for him.

“And what have we today?” he asked when he arrived, his hand resting on the edge of her cart, searching among the flowers.

“I have these,” she replied softly, holding the bunch of tulips out to him, her hand suddenly shaking just a bit. “I saved these for you. As a gift.”

“A gift for me?” he murmured. His surprise was evident and endearing as he gently took the bunch of flowers and held them to his face, breathing deeply. When he tried to pay, Laura waved his hand away.

“They’re my gift to you,” she insisted. “My favorite flowers, and I want you to have them.”

“Then I will take these, little one,” he relented. “With thanks.”

And with a little bow, he moved away.

Laura turned back to her cart, smiling to herself as she poured a bit of water on the pot of daisies, reached over to rearrange the daffodils, looked for her scissors.

And heard the screech of brakes. A woman’s scream.

She dashed from the front of her cart into the road, looking down the way where brake lights on the taxis had already created a red glow that lit up the yellow flowers lying strewn across the asphalt. Breathless, she pushed through the crowd on the sidewalk and ran, finding him crumpled in the road, still clutching a few of the flowers. She fell to her knees and reached for his hand, searching his face.

He was shaking ever so slightly, his eyes scanning the sky before locking on hers.

“Little one,” he whispered. “Little one…”

She struggled to find the words to comfort him as he lay broken in the street, holding his hand, willing him to draw another breath, then another. Her tears fell unchecked on his black coat as she stroked his forehead and whispered that he would be all right, that she would bring him her best bouquets, that she needed him to stay with her. That she needed him.

He loosened his grip on the flowers, moved his hand slowly to his breast pocket, and withdrew a small black notebook. The effort cost him dearly, and he rested the little tome on his chest before pushing it weakly toward her.

“Take this,” he whispered urgently. “For you. For you.”

The book was still warm from his chest, the cover soft and worn. As Laura slipped it into her pocket, his hand relaxed and his head fell back, his eyes still fixed on hers. He was gone.

The paramedics had arrived with a wail of sirens, and Laura was pushed back to the sidewalk, staggering slightly as she left the road. One by one, she gathered the fallen tulips from the street, made her way back to her corner, and unable to face the rest of her day, pushed her cart home.

Hours later, still in her clothes and shivering under the blankets, she felt the small book in her pocket. Sitting up in bed, she turned on her little lamp and opened it.

She gasped as an explosion of color leapt from the page, a tiny watercolor painting of a bouquet of flowers.

Her flowers.

She turned the crisp pages slowly, marveling at the carnations and roses, the peonies and sunflowers and daffodils, and the vibrant strings she had tied around them. In his paintings, the ribbons always seemed to be caught by a passing breeze, the flowers as fresh and fragrant as when she handed them to him on her street corner every morning.

And there were small paintings of a young woman, dark-eyed, smiling wistfully, holding out a bouquet of flowers. She barely recognized herself, but it was undoubtedly her face, painted by someone who saw her as she used to be.

The last page featured the roses she had given him—was it only yesterday? It somehow seemed longer. The book grew warm in her hands and she sat up in bed, no longer cold. As she closed the book, a small slip of paper slid down a fraction of an inch from inside the back cover. Laura, her mind still on the precious drawings, drew it out, angled her lamp so she could read it properly, and saw emblazoned across the top: “Lottery.” The ticket was dated two months earlier, and Laura, who had never had enough money to buy a ticket before, stared at it for a moment, slipped the paper back into the book, and turned off her light.

She stayed in her room for two days, subsisting on the small amounts of food she kept there, unable to face the flower market and her corner and her cart. But eventually, driven by hunger, she gathered the few dollars she had left and went to the market.

“Good morning, Mr. Cooper,” she murmured, as the bell over the door rang gaily.

“Laura!” He was always jovial and friendly, greeting her with a joke and a smile. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”

She made a vague gesture, chose an apple from the basket, and felt in her pocket for the money. Her hand fell on the book, and she remembered the ticket. Sliding her dollar across the counter, she brought the ticket out and handed it to him.

“Mr. Cooper, could you check this, please?”

He nodded, still smiling, and the ticket disappeared into the machine. The response on the flickering screen was immediate.

WINNER.

Mr. Cooper looked up, his eyes wide, and put the ticket in again.

WINNER.

He waited for another customer to leave, then came around the counter.

“Take this to the Lottery Office downtown,” he said in a low voice. “I’ll give you the bus fare. Go straight there and come straight home. I’ll write the address for you. Go now.”

He handed the ticket back to her, scribbled the address on a scrap of paper, and pressed some coins into her shaking hand. She slid the ticket back into the book, nodded at the man who for once seemed at a loss for words, and left.

On the bus, she kept her hand on the book, warm in her pocket, until she alighted at a tall grey building. Finding the office, she approached the desk of an unsmiling clerk who repeated the process with the ticket and machine.

“Twenty thousand dollars,” she said crisply, sliding some papers across the counter. “Sign here, fill this out, and I’ll cut you a check.”

Laura didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Twenty thousand dollars. Twenty thousand dollars. She swayed, clutching the edge of the counter, searching the woman’s face for evidence of some cosmic joke. Seeing none, she reached over and picked up the pen.

An hour later, the check now folded carefully in her book and buried in her pocket, she got off the bus three stops from home. She paused on the corner – her corner -- for a moment, then walked slowly down the block to where she had lost her only friend. Laura stood for a long time there, hands in her pockets, gazing at the street. Turning to go, she caught a flash of gold in the gutter.

Reaching down, she picked up her ribbon, slipped it into her pocket, and walked slowly home.