Copyright 1995(c)

                           THE ANGUISH OF SPRING
                             By F.S. Franklin

     "The flowers are lovely, aren't they, Robert?" she asked.
"They remind me."
     "My name's Jim, ma'am," said the caretaker.
     "Well, Jim, we shall have to get you a uniform, won't we?" she
mused. "We'll have Robert see to that," she spoke distractedly,
looking about, as if expecting him. "You can't wear that temporary
white thing and be a member of the household staff, now can you?"
     He busied himself giving her her breakfast and brushed her
hair. He left her sitting by the window, bidding her 'Good mornin'
luv,' and started out.
     "Lovely," she called. "The flowers," she nodded at them and
smiled. "Reminds me."
     "James, have you completed the third wind?" 
     Supervisor Stelson, in all her robust, resplendent, Greta-
physique Swedishness was checking up on him.
     "Dotty old Mrs. Begonia, you mean?" Jim asked. "Sure. Sweet
old thing but really round the bend. Likes the flowers, she does."
     "What do you think about Mrs. Begonia, Jim?" asked Mrs.
Stelson.
     "I just told you," he said.
     "No more?" she questioned closely.
     "Nah. Nice, but bats," he opined.

     *****

     "Back again, Robert? Check the flowers, dear," she called when
he came by her room that afternoon.
     "Ms. Begonia? I'm uh, Jim. Jim Fieldstone? I work her, now.
This is a place where people take care of you and I work for those
people so I try to take care of you.
     "But I'm a writer, and that's the truth. I'm hoping you'll
tell me something about your life and enough somethings so I can
write a book," he said.
     "Lovely, lovely," she murmured.
     "I hope you mean that, because this is my big break, ma'am. I
can't do anything dramatic, like bury a litter of puppies or drop
my kid down a well or blow folks up. I see our meeting as divine
intervention."
     "Flowers are so nice, aren't they Robert?" she asked.
     "I know better. I can see inside your eyes," he said. And
left.
     She hoped not. For his sake.
     She'd been hitting her stride, her humor column going right
along with readers and her elecmag doing as well as ever. She'd
been thinking of doing some additional publicity, when the Susan
Smith trial had come along. She'd gotten involved with humorous
pieces on the O.J. trial and she'd done a serious opinion piece on
the complicity we all have with Susan. Unfortunately, her piece on
Susan surfaced in the wake of the trial and it attracted a crazy.
     He opted for payback, and her grandaughter drowned. She wanted
to kill him, but slowly. It was only later, tortured with visions
both seen and unseen, when she realized that it had been her
opinions which had drawn his attention.
     If she had thought nothing more than to pick a couple of
marigolds to take to the nursery in the morning as she had done
with her grandaughter, the ritual might be ongoing.
     That was when she decided to have no opinions on anything
aside from flowers.
     Everyone agreed that flowers were lovely, after all.
     Mr. Fieldstone perhaps didn't appreciate that sentiment, yet,
but repetition would make it so.
     She would tell no story for his recordation.
     Let him bury his own puppies.

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