The Language of Flowers

I bought a black dress in Union Square and four dozen purple irises from a bucket on Market Street. The black dress concealed my bulge and would lessen the brazen hands; the irises would become my business cards. I cut lavender paper into rectangles and punched a hole in each. On one side I wrote Message in a scripty, Elizabeth-inspired hand. On the other I wrote Victoria Jones, Florist, in my own plain print. I included Natalya’s phone number.

There was only one stumbling block, and it turned out to be more complicated than I had thought. I still had Renata’s wholesale card, but I couldn’t buy my flowers at the flower market. Grant was there every day except Sunday. It wouldn’t be possible to buy flowers on Sunday for a wedding the following Saturday. I had planned to drive to San Jose or Santa Rosa for the nearest wholesale market, but when I began to look, I learned there weren’t any others in all of Northern California. Florists drove for hundreds of miles in the middle of the night to buy flowers in San Francisco.

I considered buying the flowers at a retail shop, but after calculating the cost, I realized I wouldn’t make a profit this way; it might even end up costing me money. So, on the Friday before the wedding, I drove to The Gathering House, walked up the cement stairs, and knocked on the heavy door.

A thin girl with white-blond hair let me in.

“Anyone here need a job?” I asked. The blond girl walked down the hall and didn’t come back. A cluster of girls on the couch looked at me with suspicion.

“I used to live here,” I said. “I’m a florist now. I have a wedding tomorrow, and need help buying flowers.” A few of the girls stood up and crossed the room to join me at the dining room table.

By way of an interview, I asked the girls three questions, listening to their responses one at a time. The first question—Do you have an alarm clock?—elicited a solemn series of nods. The second—Do you know how to get to 6th and Brannan by bus?—eliminated a short, overweight red-head at the end of the table. She did not, under any circumstance, she told me, ride the bus. I flicked her away with my thumb and forefinger.

I asked the remaining two girls why they needed the money. The first to respond, a Latina girl named Lilia, rattled off a long list of desires, some essential, but many self-indulgent. Her highlights were growing out, she said, she was almost out of lotion, and she didn’t have any shoes that matched the outfit her boyfriend had given her. She mentioned rent as an afterthought. I liked her name but not her answers.

I couldn’t see the last girl’s eyes under her long bangs. When she occasionally wiped them off her face, she would leave her hand in their place over her forehead. But her answer to my question was simple and exactly what I was waiting for. If she didn’t make rent, she said, she would be evicted. Her voice choked as she said it, and she slid her face down into her turtleneck sweater until only her nose peeked above the knit. I was looking for someone desperate enough to hear an alarm clock at three-thirty a.m. and actually get out of bed; this girl would not disappoint me. I told her to meet me at the bus stop on Brannan, a block from the flower market, at five a.m. the following day.

The girl was late. Not late enough to hinder my ability to complete the arrangements on time but enough to make me worry. I didn’t have a backup plan, and I would rather leave Bethany at the altar without a bouquet than risk seeing Grant. Every time I thought of him, my body ached and the baby squirmed. But the girl arrived, sprinting and out of breath, fifteen minutes after we had agreed. She had fallen asleep on the bus and missed her stop, she said, but would work fast and make up the time. I handed her my wholesale card, a stack of cash, and a list of flowers.

While the girl was inside, I patrolled the outside of the building, fearful that she would try to make a run for it with the money. The many emergency exits worried me; I hoped they were alarmed. But half an hour later, the girl emerged, her arms full of flowers. She handed them to me with the change, and then went back inside for the second half. When she returned, we loaded the flowers into my car, driving back to Potrero Hill in silence.

I had covered the downstairs floor with thick painter’s plastic. Natalya said I could do whatever I wanted with the downstairs during the day, as long as it didn’t interfere with her band’s ability to practice at night. The vases I had purchased on sale at a dollar store were lined up in the center of the room, already filled with water, and a roll of ribbon and pins sat beside them.