Rebecca Cuthbert | fiction | Grafting

Grafting
                                                                                                                               [cw: blood, horror]


Janet opened up her flower shop that Saturday like usual. 

She had to stick to her schedule – to feel normal, to remind herself that life wasn’t over just because Frank, her husband of 10 years, had told her the night before that he’d kissed Charlene, their across-the-street neighbor with the long legs and long neck and sparkling hazel eyes that were green or brown or golden, depending on the light. 

Charlene.

Charlene who watered her roses on Sunday mornings, who always waved or called hello when she noticed Janet watching her from her front porch or the driveway or the bay window that got all that slanting afternoon sunshine. 

#

Janet pictured Charlene’s shiny dark hair as she put on her green apron, printed with “Bloomerang: Come on back” in white letters. She pictured Charlene’s crooked lower tooth – two over, left side – as she unlocked the door and flipped the sign to OPEN. Charlene’s perfectly symmetrical ears as she checked the temperature on the walk-in cooler. As she looked over next week’s wholesale order, used the bathroom, made a pot of coffee, images of Charlene’s face and hands and easy smile played through her mind on a loop.

Then Frank’s voice joined the reel like a soundtrack.

Sorry, honey. I kissed Charlene.

Kissed Charlene.

Charlene. 

Janet checked the answering machine. No messages. And no deliveries, no pickup orders scheduled for the day. What the hell was she going to do with herself? 

Charlene. 

She’d clean up, then. Maybe dust. Change the window display over from summer to fall. She turned on the cash register and counted out $20 in small bills and change.

Charlene.

Bloomerang sold potted plants as well as cut flowers. Janet went into the mini greenhouse at the side of the shop to water them – African violets and pathos and goldfish plants and ficus trees. 

She saw that the Christmas cactuses, long since bloomed out, needed to be trimmed. Fading Easter lilies also had to be cut back – the bulbs had reabsorbed whatever energy they could for the next year, and it was time for them to go dormant.

Dormant.

Was Janet’s marriage dormant? Dormant meant asleep. Dormant meant waiting. Waiting for what? What was Frank waiting for? What was Janet waiting for? 

Charlene. 

She sighed and walked to her potting bench to get her clippers – long, pointed blades with comfortable hand grips. Top of the line. They’d been a gift from Frank for her last birthday, given to her in their bubble packaging a week after she’d emailed him an online coupon and a link to the order form.

She had sharpened the clippers recently, and added a few drops of mineral oil to keep them from rusting. They were too expensive not to take care of. 

Expensive. Expense. Cost. Care.

Was Janet not expensive? What was the cost of staying? What was the cost of leaving? Who paid more, the leaving or the left? 

Did Frank still care? Did she?

Holding them out in front of her, she snapped the clippers a few times, testing the joint. Snap, snap. Nice and smooth. 

Smooth like Charlene’s lips.

Charlene. 

Janet returned to the greenhouse and picked up a pot of spent Easter lilies. 

Snap. 

She picked up another.

Snap. 

She thought of Charlene’s graceful neck. Her long legs. Her arms like willow branches attached to knotty shoulders attached to…  

Snap.

Janet sighed. Yellowing stalks dropped to the floor, shedding dry leaves as they fell. They made a rasping sound when they hit the cement. The noise made Janet feel lonelier.

Snap.

Charlene.

She moved on to the Christmas cactuses. 

Snap snap snap. 

Charlene Charlene Charlene. 

Frank’s lips on Charlene’s.

Janet trimmed the plants down to about three inches, relishing the way her blades sliced through the scalloped green flesh and dripped juices onto her hand. 

Snap, snap.

Charlene Charlene.

Honey, I kissed Charlene. Sorry, honey. Sorry.

Was he, though? Was she? Why did hearing his admission feel like the pleasure-pain of pressing her tongue against a sore tooth?

Bits of the ficus trees were looking wilty, Janet reasoned. She cut those off, pruning away the problem areas and then some. Most were left with bare, skinny trunks and few branches. 

Twigs joined the leaves and stalks on the floor. 

And what about the spider plants? They didn’t need that many offshoots. And the peace lilies could use a fresh start.  

Snap snap snap snap.

Janet’s sharp blades snicked together and the shorn flora added to the carnage on the floor. Breathing hard, fingers buzzing with static, Janet looked around for more things to cut. 


#


She’d gotten through the umbrella plants, the English ivy, the strings-of-hearts, the prayer plants. All cut back to nubs and nibs, ready to grow anew. She was moving toward the small banana trees when the shop’s bell tinkled above the door.  

“Honey?” a voice called. 

Frank. 

She stepped out of the steamy glass room warily, clippers clutched to her chest like they could protect her from any more shocks, any further disappointments. 

But wasn’t her marriage to Frank full of disappointments? Wasn’t Frank a disappointment? If only she could cut away the let-downs from their years together. Hack off the missed anniversaries, passive-aggressive silences, vacations taken to rekindle a lost spark that only left them broke and tired. 

And graft on something new.

Janet walked into the main area of the shop and faced her husband.

“What?” she said. She kept her face blank while iron bands tightened around her lungs. She fought to inhale.

“I came to finish our talk,” he said. “Last night – when I told you what happened – well, you got so upset that you didn’t really hear me out.”

Janet’s mouth dropped open. She closed it. Opened it again. “Excuse me?” she said. 

Frank stroked the tiny beard Janet was always begging him to shave off and then crossed his arms – his “I’m-putting-on-a-display-of-thinking” pose. 

The bands around Janet’s chest squeezed tighter. Anger surged up her spine like a rain-swelled current.

“Are you saying,” she said, “because I want to check – that when you told me you kissed Charlene – when you told me you kissed our neighbor, that you stayed late at the bar where she works on purpose, that you waited around to kiss Charlene – when you told me that, my reaction was unreasonable?” 

The bands squeezed her chest and her chest squeezed her lungs and her lungs squeezed her breath and her fingers squeezed the clippers and it was all so very tight. She felt dizzy and the room tilted, blurred.

“Well –” he started.

“No,” she rasped.

“Honey –”

“Don’t call me that.” 

He took a step toward her. She took a shaky step back. The bell above the door chimed.

Janet looked that way.

Charlene. 

“Charlene?”

“Janet!” Charlene said, hurrying in on her long long legs. “Please, can we talk?” 

Janet’s head turned from her neighbor to her husband and back to her neighbor, eyes focusing on and then locking with Charlene’s. The bands around her chest loosened a little. She took a breath. “Yeah?” she said. 

“Did Frank tell you he kissed me?” Charlene looked from Janet to Frank, Frank to Janet. Janet swallowed, tried to breathe, looked at Frank.

Frank took off his Dodgers cap and held it in front of him, shoulders slumped, in a pose that, even through her haze, Janet recognized as his “But-I’m-so-contrite” pose. 

“Fuck you,” Janet said to Frank. She blinked, fought her dizziness, turned back to Charlene and said “Yes. He did.” 

“He did,” said Charlene.

“That’s what I said,” said Frank. 

Janet nodded and the motion made the room sway sideways.

“No,” said Charlene. “Listen. He kissed me. I did not kiss him. I didn’t kiss him back. I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to. I told him to leave. Janet. Did he tell you that?”

“No,” said Janet. She sucked in more air. The room straightened, put itself back where it should be.

Frank took another step toward his wife, drawing Janet’s eyes back to him. He raised his hands in what Janet knew was his “I’m-being-reasonable-but-you’re-not” pose. 

“No, but –” he started. 

“Shut up,” said Charlene and Janet together.

Janet tried to step farther away from her husband and his stupid placating hands, but her back hit the counter. She felt trapped, and shuffled to her right, so that she stood across from Charlene instead of Frank. 

But then Frank stepped to the side, too, putting himself between the women. He twisted his torso to glance from one to the other. “Now, if you ladies could just calm down—”

“No,” said Janet.

Frank took another step toward her. Another. The breath she’d just reclaimed left Janet’s lungs and the room fuzzed again. Frank’s hazy outline loomed large, too close and getting closer.

Closer.

Janet turned the shears outward. 

Closer.

She blinked.

Someone screamed – was it her?

Frank slumped against her, groaning. Her fingers were wet, like they had been earlier – wet with plant juices in the greenhouse. She tried to pull her hands back, to take them from Frank – they were hers, her hands, she wanted them – but they wouldn’t come. She realized she was still gripping the shears and the shears were embedded in Frank’s chest, all the way to the comfort-grip handles. That blood and air and whatever else Frank needed to live were leaking out of him. His body sagged lower, dragging Janet’s arms with it. She let go. He fell. 

He whispered her name. 

Janet didn’t reply. 

He whispered Charlene’s. 

Charlene put a hand over her mouth. 

The two women watched, silently, as Frank bled out on the floor, a tide of red flowing from beneath him, spreading until it kissed the toes of their shoes—Charlene’s ballet flats, Janet’s comfy sneakers. Then Frank was gone. 

It had taken less than a minute. 

“Oh God,” said Janet. She felt horror and shock and grief and revulsion, but then something close to relief came along and lay on top of those other feelings, like sweet frosting on a sugarless cake. 

“Holy shit,” said Charlene. 

Their eyes met again. Janet reached out, over her husband’s corpse, on instinct. And on instinct, Charlene reached back, until they held hands, and they looked down together at Frank.

At the husk that used to be Frank. 

Charlene squeezed Janet’s hand. Janet looked up. “Wait,” she said. “Charlene. What you said, before. Did Frank… Did he force himself on you last night? Is that what happened?”

“Well,” said Charlene. She looked at Janet, then back at Frank. She sighed.

“Tell me.” Janet felt something hot on her cheek. Frank’s blood or her own tears. 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“Tell me.”

“Kind of.”

“Yes or no?”

“What I said to him?”

“What did you say.”

Charlene looked back at Janet. “I said no.” 

“Then it’s a yes.” It was Janet’s turn to squeeze Charlene’s hand. Janet looked down and noticed a bruise circling Charlene’s wrist. She stretched her thumb to trace it. “I’m sorry. That bastard.” 

“Yeah, he was,” said Charlene, nodding. “You know, we should probably —”

“— call the police,” finished Janet.

“And tell them it was an accident.” 

“Yes.”

“Because it was an accident.”

“Of course it was.” 

“Wait,” said Charlene. 

“Yes?” said Janet. They were still holding hands. 

“Before we do – I should say something.” 

“Me too.”

“Then, you first.” Charlene bit her lip. Her smooth smooth lip that Frank had kissed without permission. 

“Okay,” said Janet. She took a deep breath, which reached all the way down into her lungs and circled around them. With her free hand, she pushed her blonde bangs off her forehead, then remembered her hand was all bloody so now her face and hair were bloody, too. That said, the hand holding Charlene’s was also bloody, so Charlene’s hand was bloody, and there was a swipe of blood on her wrist, but she didn’t seem to mind so Janet didn’t mention it. “It, um. It maybe wasn’t quite an accident? Not … fully.”

“What do you mean?” asked Charlene. 

Janet stepped over Frank’s body, slipping in his blood. Charlene caught her and kept her from falling. She didn’t let go of Janet’s arm, so Janet took Charlene’s arm and they were half-hugging, still holding hands, and standing much closer to one another, with Frank, well expired, lying on the floor near them but no longer between them. Janet took another breath because breathing felt so good. 

“Okay,” she said again. “I’m just wondering, if it’s still an accident, because, well, when Frank fell against me, and against the clippers, I may have, I think, but it’s hard to remember exactly, that I … kind of pushed? Like, I kind of … stabbed him. Like not totally on accident.”

She peered into Charlene’s eyes and waited for the fear and disgust she expected to see there. For Charlene to pull away. 

Instead, after a long pause, Charlene breathed out, and laughed. “Oh my gosh,” she said. “Oh wow. I feel so much better.” 

“Why?” said Janet. She wondered if Charlene had heard her correctly. If she understood. 

“I wasn’t sure if I should tell you, but I wanted to,” Charlene started, talking quickly. “I felt like I had to, but you’re right, it is so hard to remember, it happened so fast – like did that really happen, or am I imagining that? But what I mean is, well, it’s possible Frank didn’t exactly fall. At least, not on his own. I think – I may have … tripped him.” 

“You tripped him?”

Charlene nodded. “I might have … stuck my foot out a little, and he, well. He went down.”

“But, you couldn’t have known that I—”

“And you couldn’t have known that I— ” 

“No.”

“Of course not!”

“So, really—” 

“It was an accident.”

“More or less.”

“Sure.” 

Janet laughed then, a sharp burst of surprised joy. Like a seal barking. Charlene laughed because Janet did. They couldn’t stop; they laughed until they were crying, until they were gasping, holding each other up, shoulders shaking, and Charlene’s willowy arms were around Janet and Janet’s arms were around Charlene, and they pulled apart only to wipe their eyes, the dried blood on their hands moistening with tears, smearing across their cheeks until they both looked like sunburn victims. 

Janet wondered if they were in shock, but decided it didn’t matter. She felt better than she had all day. Than she had in a long time. Clearer, more present in the here and now.

“Okay. Okay. We’ve gotta call,” said Charlene. “It’ll be suspicious if we wait too long.” 

“Yes, we should. Shit. We are full of blood and we’ve tracked it.”

“We’ll say we tried to stop the bleeding.” 

“We’ll say we didn’t know what to do. That we couldn’t stand to look – we covered our eyes.” Janet put her hands over her face and then opened them like window shutters. “Peek-a-boo!”

Charlene laughed. “We’ll say we held each other and wept.”

“Let’s practice. ‘Oh, Frank!’”

“Poor Frank!” echoed Charlene. 

Their mock keening dissolved into laughter again. When they could pull themselves together, Charlene took her cell phone out of her back pocket and dialed 911. She told the dispatcher there had been a terrible accident, sounding frantic and teary, stuttering the words. Janet listened to her and realized, with a lurch and flop in her stomach, that she hadn’t been jealous over Frank, when he said he’d kissed Charlene. She’d been jealous of him. 


That when she watched Charlene water her roses and collect her mail and go for jogs around the neighborhood, she wasn’t spying on her. She was admiring her. Appreciating her.

She looked down at Frank, thought of how his body was already cooling, that soon, his internal temperature would be the same as the shop’s, which she always set to 65 degrees. She felt guilty that she wasn’t upset. She wondered if that would hit later, an emotional delay, catching her when she wasn’t ready. She’d loved him, once. 

It felt like a long time ago. 

Now, she could have a fresh start. And by dying more or less accidentally, he’d saved her the trouble of a messy divorce.

In fact, there was a life insurance policy, and if she and Charlene could keep straight faces, act upset enough…

Charlene said “Hurry!” in a broken voice and then ended her call. She turned back to Janet. “Okay. Do you want to go for sobbing or stunned?”

“Which is easier?”

“Well, if you go with sobbing, and you accidentally laugh, it will just sound like more sobbing, whereas if you laugh while you’re pretending to be in shock, you might look deranged.”

“Sobbing it is, then.” 

“Janet?”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll need to go down to the station. There may be hours of questions to sit through, probably in separate rooms. Let’s keep it simple, stick with almost all the truth. The three of us were arguing, he lunged for you, you were holding the clippers, I tried to stop him and then he was dead on the ground. Yeah?”

“Yep,” said Janet. “And I am just so sad.” 

“So sad!”

Janet smiled and Charlene smiled back. 

“Janet?” Charlene said again. Janet liked the way her name sounded in Charlene’s mouth. “If this doesn’t wrap up too late tonight, if you’re not too tired, do you maybe want to get breakfast in the morning?”

Janet looked down at herself. “After we clean up.”

“After we clean up.”

They laughed, but stopped when they heard sirens cut through the morning air. 

“Okay. Serious now,” said Janet.

“Serious,” agreed Charlene.

They moved to stand by the front door, and, on instinct, each reached for the other’s hand as the police car and ambulance pulled up to the curb. 

Janet took a deep breath, glanced once more behind her, at Frank, and turned to the first responders, crumpling her face and trying out a dry sob.

Charlene squeezed her hand. 

Charlene.

Janet squeezed back.






**2023 Best of the Net nominee