Purple Irises

It all seemed so familiar as I stood in the corner of the cemetery, under a newly budding maple tree. No one had looked at me yet… no one had seen me silently walk up to watch the proceedings, which were just beyond the wooded paths on the back of the Amos Manor. Perhaps it was because I had not been invited to attend, or because I was barefoot, still in my white work clothes. It was early spring and, though the sun shone hotly on the mourners’ black clothing, the cold, rain-soaked grass wouldn’t dry. Nor would the eyes of the people gathered together.

Details of her death nudged my distant memory… She had been away at a finishing school when she had suddenly fallen seriously ill.  She would have had to have been about my age. Angela; it felt strange to even think her name… as if it’s very essence was sacred. She had been such a flowering, smart daughter with parents that both thought the world of her: their only daughter. But she had disappeared from their view, slipping beyond their mortal understanding.

Then why couldn’t I cry for her, for Angela? As a chill wind blew through me, its faint hint of flowers distracted me from the leftover winter cold. What a glorious time of year to be set free from one’s mortality, in the cool birth of spring! Perhaps this was why I felt no remorse; Death holds no sting for those who are truly alive.

I looked back over at the small gathering of people across the cemetery. Standing next to the grave were Angela’s parents, Cecil and Prudence Amos.

I looked at Mr. Amos who was staring shallowly into the deep, blue sky. I could see how weary his eyes were; how his sad, pale face seemed almost ghostly. I’d heard the maids gossiping about him, they whispered that he’d been seeing things. They said he was growing old, and his daughter’s death had finally undone him. He seemed to forget what the time was, who he was with, what he was doing; but people tend to forget things like that when their loved ones die, I suppose.

Finding nothing hidden in the blank depths above, his eyes slowly happened to fall on me. His brow furrowed as his bewilderment became a look of shocked disbelief. Something about his soft brown eyes brushed against my consciousness… a memory of a girl… a… garden, a garden like the one at the Amos manor. He continued to stare at me and I became acutely aware of my improper white clothing and my overall disrespectful presence. I turned to leave, hoping he wouldn’t be upset at my irreverence. I had not been at the Amos Manor very long, only a few days or so, and I didn’t want to cause tumult amidst the grieving family or loose my job there.

As I approached the back gate, left ajar, I turned one last time to view the proceedings. My heart pulled me back to the funeral. I wanted to say something… The preacher had ended his melancholy speech and the small assembly was preparing to leave. I noticed Mr. Amos gesturing wildly to Mrs. Amos, pointing towards the tree under which I had stood. Hurrying faster, I rushed past the gate, picking up my small bundle of purple irises that I had picked on the way to the cemetery. I would have to come back to the cemetery tonight, after I had finished my work, to pay my respects.

I ran down the wooded trail, past the small cabin where the cleaning maids lived. As I passed the back door, I nodded a small greeting to Janell, who ignored me, and continued on towards the Manor house. I walked in through the door to the East Wing. I let my feet carry me through the halls lined with candles, dusty tapestries, and regal paintings. After some time, I came to my room, marked by the familiar oak door. I entered softly.

 A window on the opposite wall looked out over the grounds and the gardens. Next to it was my wide four-poster bed. The room had a familiar lavender glow from the tinted wallpaper. I walked over to the writing desk, on top of which was a crystal vase with some shriveled purple irises. Taking them out, I placed the ones I had picked into the vase. They fit perfectly. I sighed. I would have to get them new water later. Picking up the old flowers, I walked back out of the room and continued on down the hall.

Taking a short-cut through a courtyard, I entered into the smaller kitchen near the West Wing. There I hoped to find the head maid, or whoever was in charge, and get my instructions on what I was to do for the day. But alas, there was only another maid and the cook.

The cook was busy cooking over the hearth and didn’t turn when I cleared my throat. The other maid stood near the table and was chopping vegetables. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember their names… The maid stood and walked to the doorway, stepping around me, and closed the door behind me, giving me a strange look. Without turning, the cook reproachfully started, “Becka! What have I told you about getting distracted from your work? If you want to go outside so desperately, you can just go help Mr. Gurbet with his weeding. He is having trouble keeping up these days you know… especially with Mr. Amos being the way he is. Did you know that he is refusing that anyone go into the gardens except Mr. Gurbet and himself? It’s just ridiculous!”

The maid rolled her eyes and walked back over to the table. “I would sooner suffer the rack than weed with that crazy, old mole. Not to mention working in those gardens…” Her whiney voice fell to a whisper, “That’s where Mr. Amos said he saw her this morning… I heard it directly from Janell. He said he saw her picking irises. I bet her ghost is haunting her gardens… gives you the bumps, it does. You couldn’t make me go near there.”

Not wanting to sit through a superstitious gossip session, I decided that I could try to find the head maid elsewhere. I opened the door, but then an idea came to me.

 “I can help Mr. Gurbet if you would like. I don’t mind the gardens at all…” I said turning around in the doorway.

“Really, girl you are crazy! You can go and weed if you want to! If not, please shut the door. The draft is going to ruin the bread! And hurry up with those vegetables, the water’s almost boiling.”

Nodding, I hurried back out of the room and shut the door behind me. As I crossed the courtyard, I tried to recall who Mr. Gurbet was. An image of a small stooped man… balding, with a wheezy voice. Oh! He was the one who used to tell me stories… of his far off home in the North. I quickened my pace a bit and soon I reached the paths to the gardens. I seemed to remember a tool shed somewhere near here…

I walked up on the man as he stood outside the small greenhouse. “I’ve come to help you with your weeding,” I mumbled. He continued to fumble with the lock and ignored me.   “Mr. Gurbet, I thought you could use some help with your weeding. The cook sent me, you see,” I said, a little louder this time. I couldn’t remember if he was hard of hearing.

The stubborn lock clicked and he grumbled, “That’s great. Now if only you could work for me everyday...” He gave the lock another dirty look and tossed it onto the shelf just inside the door. “ Rake, and hoe… Who’s got the rake and hoe… I’d like to know-ho-ho! Whose got the rake and hoe?” Laughing at his little song, he hefted up a wheelbarrow full of various tools and almost bowled me over on his way out the door. A small shovel bounced out, and he laughed again. “Better’d watch out there or you’ll loose your… toe-ho-ho!” I followed him as he continued towards the gardens. “Toe… row… foe… bow… “

I spent the afternoon listening to Mr. Gurbet’s incoherent rambling, and pulling up clovers and thistles. It was actually rather enjoyable. When the sun began to set Mr. Gurbet stood, brushed off his pants, and after picking up all his tools, wheeled them back towards the shed. “It’s sort of funny,” he said as he locked the shed again. “My work seemed to go three times faster than usual today… maybe I am going senial.” He smiled in my direction and then began to walk off towards the manor house. “Things just haven’t been the same for us since she died. She used to come and help us weed all of the time. Telling stories. She used to sing us that lullaby… her favorite…” he sighed and I slipped in door behind him.

I walked back to my room. By now it was dark outside and I knew that I would be able to visit Angela’s grave and pay my respects. I could see the moon from the window as I strode across the room. Picking up my small bundle of irises, I slipped back out the door.

The manor had fallen deathly quiet and sleep hung like a spell. I crept down the halls. As I let my feet carry me… little thoughts kept falling all about me, like rain drops on a tin roof.

A library with a beloved red book…

A sculpture that had been chipped…

The smell of mint tea, of old candles, of… a familiar house. It seemed that this place reminded me of another place I had stayed… a long time ago. I stepped back into the cool, spring night.

I walked under the trees; the light of the moon shone through them, making it appear as if I were walking on the floor of a shallow sea: the light bouncing and glittering in the damp, cool air. As I approached the cemetery, I recognized another path branching off of the main trail. Most of the flowers blooming there were purple irises like the ones I held. Before I reached the end of the path I could hear a deep, gentle voice humming. The tune was so familiar I could sing it as the song went along. As I walked around a bend, a memory jabbed my consciousness. A garden with the stone bench… and the purple irises; a man had been there too, only he seemed much larger than me… or maybe I was much smaller. He held me and sang me a delicate little lullaby, his voice forever resonating in my ears. All around us, the sweet smell of spring… of purple irises.

I stopped short as I came around the final bend; there sat Mr. Amos.

His head was bowed and a small splatter of wet tears darkened his familiar brown night clothes. He looked up and a wave of sympathy washed over my heart. His wrinkled face showed grey stubble, and his sparse hair was disheveled. As I recalled a moment, long ago, when the girl had approached him, holding out her handful of dandelions. I cautiously stepped towards him, holding out my small bouquet.

“I was going to put these on … the grave… but I think you might would like them.” My voice was quiet and soft. I placed the flowers in his hands, and, as my hands brushed his, he shivered. I stepped back to leave him to his quiet contemplation and continue on my way, believing my job was done.

His eyes were desperate and they pleaded with me, as though I might run away. “Angela… Angela! Wait…Please don’t go. ” I stopped and turned around… surly the poor man was very confused…

“Angela… my daughter… my angel…” Maybe he really was crazy. I looked down at my white work clothes; I must look just like a ghost.

“You must have heard your lullaby… and that’s why you came back…” What was he talking about, my lullaby? He began to hum it softly again and tears seeped from his eyes. There was something so familiar about it though…

“Look at your beautiful irises, Angela. Aren’t they lovely this year?” I finally found my voice.

“Yes. They are, I have always liked irises, especially the violet ones.”

“I know. Why are you here? Why are you…” he swallowed, shaking his head, “… not asleep?”

“Well, I wanted to pay my respects.” I bowed my head. “I’m so sorry about your loss. I know you love her. She wants you to know that she loves you too.” I looked him in his wide, red eyes, and finally, I began to understand. “I would take any chance to come back and say good-bye to you.” Everything was making sense! My purpose… “Please know that I am at peace with this world… with the life that I had. Please… be happy… for me. That’s why I came back… that’s why I am here.”

His eyes filled with fresh tears and he threw his arms around me. “Oh, Angela. My dearest Angela, thank you.”  My name… that was my name: Angela.

He looked down at the purple irises with their stiff green stems and their regal velveteen petals. “I saw you in the garden earlier today, and I told Prudence. And they thought I was crazy: that I was seeing things.” He managed a half-hearted smile that quickly faded. “Thank you,” He whispered again. “Thank you for staying with me.”

I looked into my father’s eyes. “I can stay longer if you need…”

“No... No. I think I will be okay now.” He gave me one last smile and closed his eyes as if to hold me there forever. “I love you,” he whispered. He began to hum my lullaby again. I watched him slowly stand and walk back down the path amongst the trees, the dappled moonlight, the shadows, and the purple irises.