12 June 2004 White Roses at Big Pink I arose for the first time to hear the news in the background about the end of the week of mourning for Mr. Reagan. He was interred as the sunset gathered the rolling hills in blue, and the Reagan kids, as George the First called them, told tales of a smaller scale than he musings of Prime Ministers and Presidents.
Earlier in the day I had heard the grander words on the radio in the coverage of the formal ceremony at the Cathedral. They said that Prince Philip, Margaret Thatcher, Lech Valessa and Mikhail Gorbachev were among the honored mourners. That was enough to stir the blood and roil my thoughts. Could it be only 17 years since Mr. Regan stood behind the bulletproof glass and faced a crowd of Germans to tell that same Mikhail Gorbachev to “Tear Down that Wall.”
An astonishing week, one in which the little mementos of a smaller life stood out only as footnotes. The white roses sweep elegantly from a vase that could be crystal. There is a pale ribbon around the throat of the vase, and the roses are pure and opening fully now. There was a note on my phone from Ruth at the front Desk of Big Pink when I came home early on my birthday. Ruth has the day watch in the lobby of the building. She is a pretty romantic with dark hair and a mischievous smile, old enough to know better about what to do with your heart, and reckless, I think, about her own when she was younger. I suspect she might still be willing to give it a try, even though she knows what can happen.
She has in infectious laugh and I flirt with her relentlessly, kissing her hand sometimes when I have business at the desk in the morning. Normally she is gone by the time I slog my way back from downtown, but it was just after lunch and she was still on duty, talking on the walky-talky to a plumber somewhere in the upper reaches of Big Pink.
Mr. Mack, our building manager was there. He is a burly retired Marine who takes a jovial but no-nonsense approach to Big Pink, and considered this child's play compared to managing the V-22 tilt-rotor helicopter program for the Corps. He was talking to a workman and two of the blue-haired ladies from the eighth floor.
Ruth is the center of the day in Big Pink, and I waited my turn as she vectored the plumber to the right unit and Mr. Mack told the foreman of the asphalt paving crew what needed to be corrected from the resurfacing earlier that week. “Hey, Ruth!” I said when she was done clicking on the handset. “You have something for me?”
“Oh yes I do!” she beamed at me. “Flowers! Happy birthday!” I was neither looking nor feeling my best after the early hours on the Mall, watching the crowd lined up to view Mr. Reagan's casket. My eyes grew wide as she presented my with the vase and the delicate pale roses, white at the tip and growing a pastel yellow in their hearts. The green leaves were leavened with white baby's breath. It was a stunning arrangement.
“There is a card,” she said. “No envelope,” to ensure that I knew that she knew that the greeting had been fair game.
She was quite right and I knew that she had read it. It was a folded piece of printer paper with the logo of the florist and the greeting “Happy Birthday, I still love you.” No name. I felt a vague panic rising and Ruth laughed. She thought she knew who it was, though I had been told the most likely candidate had not. There was a finite list of alternate candidates, and my brow contracted as I thought of them. I tried to act unflustered, as though gorgeous floral pieces arrived for me all the time. I thanked her, blushing perhaps, and left the crowd at the front desk to their daily affairs. When I got back to the unit I called the number of the florist on the card to ask who sent them. The woman who answered said she did not know. The order came by wire and that was all the information she had. I told her it was quite a lovely arrangement and appreciated her craftsmanship. I hung up the phone and took the little envelope of powder that the directions said would prolong the beauty of the roses, and placed on the carved bedside table.
I was exhausted and laid down to take a nap and try to get back on track. I looked at the roses and thought about the nature of the human heart until the shouts of children at the pool outside faded and my own heart slowed and darkness overcame me. When I awoke it was nearly the cocktail hour and the unit was silent, the children outside having departed. The mail should have arrived, I thought, and rather than the likely alternative, rose from the Murphy Bed and slipped on my flip-flops and padded down the hall to check my mailbox. Ruth was preparing to leave and slow sweet Carol had arrived to take the swing shift. Ruth asked if I had figured out who sent the flowers. I told her I had it pretty well narrowed down. She smiled as she handed the Red Book of the watch over to Carol. “We thought it was really sweet. Normally when guys get flowers here at Big Pink it is from other guys.” I blinked. “Some of the ladies wanted to know if you were that way.” I thought about that as I walked to my mailbox. I leaned hard on the key to make it turn and inside was a postcard with a greeting from Mr. Wash of the local automatic car laundry. It congratulated me on my birthday and offered me half-off on an Ultimate Wash for my car, with Armor-all for the tires and dash. As I walked back across the simulated marble of the lobby I blew Ruth a kiss. “Well,” I said. “Even if I were, it wouldn't mean I'm not a nice person.” Another birthday, this one with roses. Fifty-three down, goodness knows how many to go. Copyright 2004 Vic Socotra
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