Part 12

     At home that night, I sift through my notes and stacks of print-outs. I separate the flower meaning list out from newspaper articles – and I'd intended to re-read the articles, but instead get sidetracked by the list. I pull out the drawing I did of Calvin, the one where he's running toward the topiary elephant. I can't help but smile, and let my finger hover just over the image of him for a moment. Then I notice there's a patch of daisies where the light is coming from the wrong direction. Damn it! But I've left my little artist-nest intact on the living room floor for weeks now, so there's a tray of pastels near to hand. I grab them, and start in on fixing the flowers, changing which areas are in shadow and which highlighted by the sun. Daisies... what do they mean? I pull the list over closer to where I'm working, and flip through the pages. “Daisy, White: Innocence.” Oh I'm so glad! I hope I didn't inadvertently put something with an awful meaning near the poor kid. Let's see, what else is there...
     The topiaries are Arborvitae – at least, I think they are, I never looked that closely at them when I was in the garden, but that seems to be the most commonly used plant for doing crazy topiary sculptures. “Unchanging friendship.” A grin spreads over my face. I like that! And I'm glad that at least some of these meanings make sense, Arborvitae's an evergreen, so its leaves never change from season to season.
     Yarrow is “cure for heartache”, red daisies are “beauty unknown to possessor”, and of course Canterbury bells are “gratitude”. Damn. I had no idea my drawing was going to be so apt! I just drew what I pictured when I thought of him, and things I'd seen in the gardens... and I missed a flower, crap. I set about fixing that one, too, and then give the drawing a close inspection for any other ridiculous oversights. Pansies are the only other distinctive plant in the drawing, what do those mean?
     There's nothing on the list for “pansies”, that's odd. I know they were really popular at the time, I've seen them a million times on vintage postcards and collages and things. Were they called something different back then? There are a handful of things that I can tell are different common names than what we use now – at least, I assume so, because I've never heard them, even in passing. I mean I have no idea what Wood Sorrel looks like, but I've heard of it before. (I think horses or cows or something eat sorrel. I feel like it was made a point of in some book I read once. Brain, why do you cling to such useless information?!)
     Still on the floor, I scooch a few feet over so I can reach up to my desk. Fling the mouse back and forth, until the screensaver (which is a slideshow of photos I've taken of the Mason place, surprise) disappears, then I poke at the keyboard and search for “wiki pansy”. Violas? No luck, not on the list. Darn. I scroll down to the “historical background” section – oh, I know those! Those are Johnny Jump-Ups! ...or, rather, Viola tricolor. Aptly descriptive Latin name, anyway, if the one I grew up with rolls off the tongue easier.
     “In the early years of the 19th century, Lady Mary Elizabeth Bennet (1785–1861), daughter of the Lord of Tankerville, collected and cultivated every sort of Viola tricolor (commonly, heartsease) she could procure in her father's garden at Walton-upon-Thames, Surrey.”
     Heartsease – that's a sweet little name, I wonder if that's it? Yes! It's on the list, several different kinds actually. “Heart's Ease: Think of me. Heart's Ease, Purple: You occupy my thoughts.”
     ...well, then. No wonder I drew them near Cal.
     I skim through some more of the Wikipedia article – there's a ton of sweet little stories attached to such an unassuming little flower. It's called by a hundred different names, which I guess is no surprise since it seems to grow basically everywhere. England, Scandinavia, Germany, Italy, Israel, all over the U.S.
     “The specific colors of the flower – purple, yellow, and white – are meant to symbolize memories, loving thoughts and souvenirs, respectively.” That would make a really nice limited palette for a drawing. Like I need another idea for a drawing!
     And I laugh, looking around happily at the dozens of images all over my living room, at the sketchbook (easily three-quarters full) lying on the kitchen table. A few months ago, I felt so drained of inspiration. How did I go so long without drawing, without working to distill these images out of my head and onto paper, to share with the world around me? I was so, so close to more beauty than I could express in a lifetime, but stuck in my little daily routines, I had no idea the Mason place was there. Even without the visions, that abandoned garden enough would have given me a thousand things. And with the visions... well. Artist-block slain!

     Before going to bed, I re-read the articles on the fire. This is not the most intelligent thing I've ever done. I put my headphones on while brushing my teeth and getting ready to sleep, but the songs do little to help distract me. So I end up laying in bed, staring at the faint rectangles of light from the windows, thinking about what that night must have looked like. The family all in bed, probably all asleep, except maybe the adults. Mr. Mason, clearly, was still awake. Was Cora, too? She knew he was in the library – had she seen him heading there, late at night, or see his shadow in the window as they fled the burning house? The kids must have been--- well, not quite kids at that point. If Evelyn was about fifteen, Avery would have been... let's see, nineteen? I'm surprised he still lived at home, I would have thought he would have left the minute he was able to. But maybe he stayed for Evelyn's sake. That makes sense. I've never met him, but I know he had to be protective of his little sister. Probably even more so after the loss of Calvin...
     Wait. Calvin died before the fire. But the articles--- I turn on the light, and grab the top one on the pile, my eyes flying over it.
     “Mrs. Cora Mason and her three children escaped...”
     Three children! After Calvin died, there must have been another child born? I guess... well, I guess I haven't visited any time in between his death and the fire. And my only glimpse of Cora might well have been before any of the children were born, she could have been eight months pregnant when I saw Calvin. Or, maybe had already given birth, I didn't exactly have an interrogative conversation with anyone during that visit. Still... I didn't see any notices in the papers, when they were given for all three of the others. (There had been a brief, perfunctory notice of Calvin's death, as well. No personal detail at all, I couldn't bear to print out something so cold and heartless.) Strange. I'll have to see if Mary has any ideas – didn't she say one of the rumors about the fire was that Cora had been seeing another man, and Mr. Mason burned the place down in anger?
     I shake my head at this, smirking a little. I need to take Mary's stories with a grain of salt. None of the other members of the historical society thought any of the theories of the fire had any real credibility. Still, a family that prominent – or, well-known, anyway, if only Cora was visible in public. There should have been some kind of notice. Maybe I just missed it, or it was so brief that it didn't bear listing in the indexes. Guess I have another eyeball-numbing day ahead of me at some point...
     I set the papers back on my nightstand, turn off the light, and flop back against my pillows. Every time I think I'm getting somewhere with them...
     I went through a phase as a kid where I was terrified of the house catching on fire. Too many safety demonstrations in elementary school I guess – I can still remember some of them with way too much detail, clearly they made an impression on me. Having an orange-ish colored nightlight in my room around that time probably didn't help, I'm sure I woke up more than once in the middle of the night with my heart pounding, convinced I was about to see that color spread straight up the curtains and then come after me.
     But to have had that actually happen. To live in the middle of nowhere. No smoke detectors. No way to get in touch with the fire department, without someone physically going into town. (I feel like phones were just starting to come in around that time, but I'm sure there wouldn't have been lines run way out to the Mason place. While Mr. Mason could have afforded to have it done if he really wanted, I highly doubt instant communication with the outside world was something he would have wanted.) To wake up in the middle of the night, smelling smoke, feeling hot, maybe even seeing flames lapping at your bedroom door. I can't even imagine how terrifying that would have been. And to lose everything, the home you'd lived in all your life, all your childhood toys and old diaries, all the mementos from old friends...
     I grab my iPod off the nightstand, and look for a podcast or an audio book or something. I'm never going to sleep if I keep thinking about the fire. There – an old episode of This American Life. I listened to it a few weeks ago, so I won't pay too much attention, but the story-telling nature will keep my mind just enough engaged that it won't go wandering away again. I hope.