The International Writers Magazine:
Fiction from LA
applied more than a handful of her famous resolve to stop herself
from sneaking into the crematorium furnace and joining her dead
husband Myrt. Molten lava had been roasting her insides ever since
he had dropped dead on the Blue Bus of Santa Monica. As if that
was not enough, that same week Aries had barged into the second
circle of Scorpio, which practically beamed "terrible misfortune."
Only the nut brownies she had left in the oven and the raised
eyebrows her disappearance would cause at the funeral reception
pulled her back toward the living.
at a funeral speaks bad for the relatives and worse for the deceased,"
she thought. "A black cat should cross my path if I smear Myrts
memory with half-baked histrionics!"
As the post-funeral celebration rolled along on the front lawn, she
could still feel the squeeze of Myrts hand as his forehead had
slid down the bus window, his lungs had emptied with the wheeze of a
thousand regrets, and Antoinettas world had returned to its old
state of barren seclusion.
"All that is left now is the smell of that syrupy aftershave on
the bed sheets and a few garden tools crusted with mud," she spoke
Apart from these doomsday thoughts, the post-funeral party was a resounding
success. Myrts legacy of loud talking and passion for plants was
celebrated and exaggerated. It seemed that everyone who had ever laid
eyes on him was in attendance. Guests spilled out of the front lawn
and onto the lethargic Santa Monica street, where they marveled at the
golden sky and filled their lungs with the salty ocean breeze. The neighbors
couldnt remember this many cars blocking the curbs north of Wilshire
Boulevard. Most of the vehicles received parking tickets because there
were not enough permits to spread around but overall the organization
of the event was impeccable. The jacaranda trees, as if in unison with
the dignified somberness of the occasion, shedded their purple blossoms
over the plates of the guests and gave them an appropriate taste of
nostalgia. The dishes came out delicious and the guests helped themselves
to seconds. They were particularly impressed with the brownies, which
were sprinkled with colorful stars like those at a childs birthday
party. It was the kind of girlish touch the sixty-year-old widow was
often guilty of, one of the few ways Antoinetta knew how to express
youthfulness. She spent the afternoon in the beach chair on the porch,
chewing her nails in a hazy stupor from the valium someone had mixed
in her Red Bull.
"Such a barrel of life," she skimmed through the memories
of her dead husband. "A true Leo. Nothing could stand in his way,
not even my rabbit heart."
Her stabbing pain eased as she remembered the desperate way Myrt had
pursued her seventeen years before. How she had ached for passion at
forty-three! But all the same she had driven him close to suicide with
her haughtiness. By the time Myrt materialized, she had learned to dismiss
love with suspicion, as if it would somehow raid and plunder her habit
for loneliness. Myrt was a film color-timer at Technicolor and had run
into her on occasion over the years. She had been a bizarre sight, a
provocative, lustful hermit barricaded for months at a time in the windowless
editing suites of various television shows and films, often without
talking to anyone but her assistant. Myrt had begged, loved and cried
his way through layer after layer of her maddening lack of resolve,
her flaring doubts, her paranoid insults, until she had finally broken
down on the day she had reached premature menapause. At their wedding,
he had presented her with a fantastic display of fireworks that had
illuminated the matrimonial night, and she had cried with joy because
she had felt like a liberated nun. For the next seventeen years, she
had idolized him, each bizarre character twist, each body imperfection,
down to his dandruff, his golden molar and his juvenile passion for
"I didnt deserve him," Antoinetta concluded and took
a sip of her drink.
In her filtered state, pragmatism took over her thoughts. The neighbors
yard was a major source of exasperation. It stood in plain view, brown
with dry leaves and overgrown grass. The neighbor, Melissa, a blonde
from Arkansas, Southern drawl and fried tomatoes, had invited herself
over with condolences and a sour key-lime pie that sent electricity
through the teeth of the mourners.
"Instead of poisoning the guests with that solidified vinegar,
shave your palm trees and clean those fronds that have been stuck on
your roof for a year," Antoinetta mumbled.
"Did you call me, Tony?" asked Tara, Antoinettas best
friend, who passed by with a wine bottle she was uncorking.
"Its a fire hazard, "Antoinetta pointed at her neighbors
roof. "One of these days well burn to dry dirt."
"Oh, Tony!" Tara gave her friend a hug. "You worry too
much! Let others worry for a day."
The guests had been gone for hours when Antoinetta poured Myrts
ashes over the soil by the border with the neighbors yard. It
was his wish to be buried in his beloved garden, by his flowers and
lemon trees. She would have rather kept him in an urn by her bed to
facilitate his reincarnation, just as her astrology teacher had instructed,
but a husband is a stubborn creature and Myrt had insisted on getting
sprinkled over dirt. As she took him out of the urn, Antoinetta thanked
him for the weekday walks along the ocean, the long days of fishing
from the Hermosa Beach pier, the fresh fruits and vegetables that grew
in the garden all year round, the seventeen years of peace.
Before going to bed, she stripped her clothes and stood in front of
the big mirror by the front door, assessing her body with the merciless
indifference of a house cat. Even though she felt ancient and the glances
of men had been nauseating her for years, her appearance was far from
repulsive. Her vanity had never suffered from the scorn she felt for
herself. Her posture was tall and erect, supported by the perpetual
assistance of high heels. Her skin, once pink, had acquired the color
of tea and was covered by a film of freckles. She enhanced the ash in
her blond hair with dyes and wore tops that hugged her body, pronouncing
her significant breasts, her leathery cleavage and her protruding tummy
of an aging Californian amazon.
"He wanted me the morning he died," she remembered. "I
should have let him."
As Antoinetta reviewed herself, Melissa, the neighbor, could be heard
through the open window, arguing passionately with her mother over the
"Its scary when young people get violent like this!"
Antoinetta said to Tara, who was spending the night for moral support.
"Once I knew a boy who killed his parents over a burned toast,
and it started with an argument just like this one."
"They are only talking," Tara laughed. "You and your
"You are just like Myrt." Antoinetta said. "Dont
think I dont know why he was such a knight in shining armor, defending
our precious neighbor!"
A year before, she had caught Myrt peeking through a toy-telescope at
Melissa and her boyfriend.
"Her friendliness is prepackaged like a TV dinner," Antoinetta
said. "Take one look at those chimes on her porch and youll
recognize the trailer trash that she is."
On the following morning, she woke up with the overwhelming urge to
replace every sheet in the house. She ate a lemon from a tree in the
garden and woke up Tara. Before they headed to Beverly Hills, Antoinetta
glanced back at her home.
"How brittle the house looks," she wandered. "As if it
is made of cookies."
While the sales woman in the linen department at Neiman Marcus was explaining
the merchandise, Antoinetta began to read an astrological chart. Constellations
were converging, forming shapes and alliances that for the first time
in many years meant nothing to her; the inability to understand was
unnerving, it made her feel empty and ignorant. Once, she had tried
to explain her reliance on astrology to Tara.
"You can listen to lies day and night, but the movement of the
stars never leaves a shade of doubt about the meaning of the future."
In her confused state she picked up an entire set of opulent Egyptian-thread
cotton, and on the way home they stopped by a French bakery to pick
up three slices of Myrts favorite chocolate mousse cake. After
Tara had left, Antoinetta left one at Myrts resting place and
met a puzzling sight: the stem of a rose bush protruded from the brown
dirt over the spot where Myrts ashes had been scattered. It was
thin, brown and knotty, with dull thorns like the moles on a mans
face; it was not more than a foot tall but already boasted a cluster
of miniature red blossoms. Antoinetta felt the taste of salt on her
tongue and an eerie awareness of Myrts presence. There had to
be an explanation for it all: Myrt was a Leo, and even children know
that nothing random ever happens to a Leo.
Antoinetta went to unpack the new sheets and forgot all about the bush
- until Wednesday of the following week. She had just returned from
the farmers market and the back of her Mustang was loaded with bags
of peaches, figs, dates, and an entire basket of heirloom tomatoes.
As soon as she pulled into the driveway she knew that something had
changed. A bee flew leisurely around her head and a sweet scent filled
her nostrils. A rustic buzzing floated over from Myrts resting
place and when she went to inspect she was confronted by a fascinating
discovery: the rose bush, a mere shrub only a few days before, had flourished
into a miniature jungle. It cascaded in a lush wave of green and red
over the fence that separated her yard from Melissas. Antoinettas
heart drummed with fear and excitement, and her head started to spin.
"Myrt, if you have something to do with this, you better give me
a sign!" she said.
But the world remained quiet except for the joyful drone of the bees.
The rose blossoms glistened with the red of old blood. They were all
identical, except for one that was washed in pure gold and sat on top
of the bush as if bestriding a throne. The entire bush bore out of a
single stem, as fat as a table leg. The size and the speed at which
it had grown, the extravagance of its blossoms it all laughed
at the possibility of a coincidence. No, it was obvious: Myrt had re-emerged
in the world he had just departed, in the shape of a fragrant bush.
Even the golden blossom, nothing less than Myrts golden molar,
denied any argument. Still, the concept was too grandiose and bizarre
even for a woman whose mind was used to roaming through the stars.
"Myrt Albrecht," Antoinetta said to the bush, "Ive
known you as a responsible husband and a conservative man. You remember
how startled I was when you bought that monstrous car in the driveway.
So now you expect me to smell your blossoms and accept this shenanigan
without a twitch of surprise? Well, thats fine with me! Just dont
ask me to be blowing all these bees off! You know I am terrified of
Myrts sudden reappearance could not have happened at a more opportune
moment. His reincarnation returned the legitimacy to Antoinettas
life at the very moment when old doubts had started to sneak back into
her thoughts. Living and feeling earned importance once again. Seventeen
years of marriage had not been a mere diversion in an otherwise barren
existence; they were only the first stage, the justification of something
bigger, transcendent, a posthumous sign so beautiful that even the marital
union it followed faded in comparison.
Antoinetta took care of the bush with the devotion and the desire to
please of a young bride. She watered its petals when dawns were dry,
picked the ants crawling on its stem and trimmed the branches growing
away from its cascading crown. She talked to the bush daily and didnt
mind when it did not respond. She waited for the moments when it was
in a good mood and listened carefully to every rustle of its leaves.
In the process, she fell in love with Myrt all over again. Her adoration
penetrated deeper and stronger than during the time when Myrt had still
existed as a human being. Fate had stripped her of her husband, her
one true possession; he had slipped through her fingers, gone forever,
puff! And then, just like that, she had gotten him back.
"Our old friend Fate was trying to make me appreciate what I had,"
Antoinetta told the bush, "so that I learn how to love you properly.
Thats right, Myrt, you can say it. I was selfish, only wanted
what was good for me. But things have changed. Ill die before
I let you leave my life again!"
The power of her feelings made her blush. At no point did she entertain
a single doubt about the true nature of the plant. The six weeks since
Myrts death became the happiest in her life, and there was nothing
to prevent them from multiplying. She never noticed the face of Melissa,
peeking from behind the wooden blinds of her house. The neighbor followed
the constant pampering, stroking and cajoling that Antoinetta gave the
rose bush, disturbed and amused as if she was witnessing something indecent.
One morning, when the pears had replaced the cherries at the Farmers
Market, Antoinetta came back from her weekly bike ride and discovered
a whiskey-colored goat urinating against Myrts branches. The animal
had short legs and a stocky body, and its face was decorated by a long,
thin beard that gave it the expression of a communist revolutionary.
Antoinetta threw her bike helmet at the beast, missed it, and instead
knocked over one of the roses.
"Get out of there, you dim-witted monster!" she screamed.
"Well, hello there, Annie!" Melissa spoke from nearby.
"Do you know where this sheep came from?" Antoinetta asked.
"Its not a sheep, its a goat! Why, its mine!
I open the front door the other day and its just sitting there.
I mean, a goat in Santa Monica?! Scared the Bejesus out of me
but Ive decided to keep it. Isnt it adorable? I named him
Willie. Hes so smart!"
"He was pissing on my rose bush!"
The goat ran over to Melissa and she scratched its ears.
"You wont believe this, but I think I caught him spying on
me when I was
" she rolled her eyes conspiratorially and lowered
her voice. "You know
taking a shower."
Antoinetta scrunched her face as if the mental picture gave her gas.
"Listen, Melissa, I have a big favor to ask you. This rose bush
is very important to me! It is a rare species that Myrt obtained, from
the Straight of the Dardanelles. He dreamed of making it grow in Santa
Monica. I dont want anything to hurt it."
"Are you sure its a rose bush? It looks more like a carnation
weed to me."
Antoinetta bit her lips and squeezed her fists until her nails drew
blood. That night, she spent twenty minutes brushing her teeth. Thoughts
raced before her eyes and the pickled artichokes she had eaten for dinner
gave her heartburn.
"I am ashamed of the truth." she said to herself, spitting
white foam all over the bathroom mirror. "And why? What do I have
to be ashamed of? Loving my own husband? Protecting his grave? Thats
your issue, Antoinetta! Always wondering what other people think, forever
bowing to the whims of strangers!"
She slept on needles and woke up in a foul mood. The Egyptian cotton
had been an indulgence; besides, in clear daylight it appeared more
mother-of-pearl than white snow and was yet to make her feel like Cleopatra.
Those sales whores would pitch their own virginity for the right commission.
She returned the sheets, looking for a fight, but the transaction went
smooth and that was even more grating. On the way home she fussed over
the lack of traffic: the city looked abandoned as if in the face of
some mortal threat.
As she pulled up in the driveway, the bush appeared in her front windshield,
resplendent in red blossoms and green leaves. Easily noticeable through
the greenery, Willie the Goat had inserted himself into the thick of
Myrts branches, chewing on the leaves and making the entire bush
shake and bounce like a womans breast. Beside herself, Antoinetta
pelted the freaked-out creature with gravel. The goat threw her a disgusting
look, whimpered and dashed to safety through her skirts. Practically
unconscious with fear, Antoinetta fell on her knees and broke into tears.
"If your beast touches my bush again, Ill make him wail till
Jesus comes back!" she threatened Melissa after collecting her
"Gee, Annie, its a slow-witted grass-muncher! It doesnt
separate a rose bush from lunch."
"So give him pizza!"
"Ill give him whatever he likes!" Melissa snapped. "He
is my best friend and the only creature that understands me at the current
time in my life! Instead of taking your pain on a defenseless animal,
you should cut that jungle thats growing over into my property!
I can help you."
"Now, Melissa, calm down!" Antoinetta retreated. "All
Im saying is, keep Willie away from my bush. Please!"
She spent hours cleaning the chewed up leaves. Her thoughts bounced
against the walls of her head and gave her a migraine. "I am a
coward, Myrt! I dont deserve you!" she repeated again and
again. She wanted to hear that she was imagining things, that she was
doing everything just right, but Myrt only rustled his leaves. Something
was wayward, some momentous mission that fate had prepared for her was
about to expire, and she would never figure out what was asked of her.
It was infuriating and, as impulse often demands, she attacked her closest
and most trusted person.
"And why do I have to run around and start fights, defending you
every waking hour of the day?" she snapped at Myrt. "Why does
it have to be my obligation? You know I detest confrontation! Cant
you release some smelly juice or grow bigger pricks and defend yourself
like a man? Its just like when we were married, always waiting
for me to do everything. Did you ever clean the bathroom, even once?
Just tell me!"
Even as she felt a sudden rush of disdain for Myrt and the stress he
was putting her through, she did not stop worrying about him. She turned
to her best friends, the stars, who revealed that the future would arrive
in a straight line, like a desert highway.
"Just what kind of pointless prediction is that?" Antoinetta
In the middle of night, she dug with a flashlight through the tool shack
for a ball of barbed wire. Pricking herself twice in the dark, she managed
to wrap the wire around the rose bush. She scanned the sloppy job and
tried to close some of the gaping holes that offered easy access to
"Say, Annie!" a voice came from the dark and nearly gave her
a heart attack. Melissa materialized from the shadows. "Have you
seen Willie? He disappeared. I am terribly worried!"
"Where can a goat go in the middle of Santa Monica?"
"You never know. Theres an Indian restaurant a few blocks
down. They serve goat meat, dont they? With the yoghurts and the
"Are you saying The Electric Lotus stole your goat so they can
"It is all very strange, thats all. You havent seen
"Lets strike a deal, Melissa. You take care of your goat,
I take care of my bush."
After she was left alone, she glared at the bush with a look that spelled
trouble. She cocked her chin and marched inside the house. For the next
few days, she refused to speak to it. If that plant thought she would
turn into his slave, tending to his every whim and rustle, he had it
figured out wrong. And since she could not talk to Myrt, she did not
feel like talking to anyone. Taras phone calls went unanswered
until Tara herself showed up and Antoinetta had to invent lies to avoid
sounding preposterous. A terrible despair to communicate with Myrt overtook
her but she found herself pinned into a corner by her own antagonism,
which she blamed on him as well. She composed and rehearsed a thousand
versions of a monologue she would recite to him. How could she trust
him when he not only didnt console her in her widowhood but actually
forced her into conflict with the neighbors!
The words went unspoken, the thoughts never recorded. Before long, a
week flew by, and then a month. Tara came to visit often and Antoinetta
felt tempted to share her troubles but always thought better of it.
The marital standoff became the norm, the woman and the bush learned
how to live together by ignoring each other in the example of an everyday
couple. The three-month mark since Myrts cremation was a Friday
that felt like a Monday. A parching wave of dry heat invited swarms
of fireflies and made noses bleed. It felt as if the entire Pacific
Ocean had suddenly dried out. Breathing became impossible inside the
house, so Antoinetta allowed herself to go out on the town, to a rowdy
Brittish pub near the Promenade. She raced through shot after shot of
bourbon and finished the night locking tongues with a Romanian film
producer. She drove home drunk and horny, ready to embrace life and
yearning to bury the hatchet with Myrt.
As she arrived, horror overtook her when she sniffed the stale air that
had replaced the fragrance of the roses. Myrts blossoms lay strewn
about, brown and gray in the moonlight. The munching could be heard
before its source became visible. Willie The Goat gazed over with its
shining, watery eyes, rose petals dripping from its open mouth and down
its pointy beard. It had snuck without much effort through the folds
in the barbed wire. When it saw Antoinetta, the goat gagged and vomited
a ball of regurgitated flowers. Antoinettas throat dried out and
became sore, her head throbbed, her neck stiffened with a dull pain.
The alcohol evaporated from her body, it was the last ally to flee.
The bush faced her, destroyed and gnarled, the cruel evidence of the
treasure she had lost.
Swaying about and ready to faint Antoinetta stumbled inside the house,
found the way to the kitchen, grabbed the sashimi knife she had received
as a useless wedding gift, marched back outside and, with a sure hand
and clear eyes, stabbed the goat in the heart. The animal shook on its
legs, gave out a wheeze that sounded like a sneeze, and fell dead in
a puddle of blood. Antoinetta observed with inert curiosity. Thick blood
dripped from the tip of her knife; as she wiped it against her skirt
her hand shook. Far away, her neighbor Melissa was bolting out of her
house, raising hell to high heavens.
"What have you done!" she was screaming. "Murderer!"
But Antoinetta heard none of it. The world had faded away and all she
could look at was the dead goat in her feet, spread on its side, its
head cocked over its shoulder like a folded sleeve, its mouth wide open,
its gums obscenely exposed. A few feet away, the bush stood small and
insignificant. What once had appeared to her as a cascading wave of
greenery and blossoms now surprised her with its shaggy, wild tentacles.
The flowers that still held to its branches had long ago dried up. They
looked nothing like roses. In fact she found them to be quite unappealing.
Even the spot where its stem emerged was not the site where she had
scattered Myrts ashes but a patch of dirt several feet to the
"There! Ive done it again with my theatrics!" she thought
and a tear escaped her eye. As neighbors converged from all directions,
Antoinetta turned up to the sky. The Milky Way crossed the entire cosmos
and shooting stars flashed through the thick black sky. She marveled
on with dreamy eyes, oblivious to the commotion around her.
"How still the universe is when you stop to look," she smiled.
And she suddenly became aware that it was the first time since she had
been a little girl when she could see the stars not for their magical
powers of revealing complicated crossings of human paths and futures
but for what they really were: a billion of bright dots decorating the
night until the inevitable arrival of dawn.
Todorov Jan 2007
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