Florence by Tulah Dixie

It was the summer of 1985, a sweltering June afternoon, and Mallory was hot and tired. She and her best friend Janna had ridden their bikes all over the neighborhood, somehow managing to ride by BJ Roddmer’s house four times. This had become a routine for the two girls, meeting at 10:00 and pedaling their bikes down Latmer Street, turning onto Grear, then Monclair, and slowing down to a snail’s pace when passing number 8774. They followed this route at least four times, usually more, in the hopes that BJ would be outside watering the rosebushes or something. They had been out of luck that day. The only person they’d seen was BJ’s grandpa, walking his decrepit grey poodle down the sidewalk. The old man was getting a bit senile, which was fine with Mallory. Otherwise he might have told BJ about the two girls he’d passed several times on his walk.

After saying goodbye to Janna, Mallory parked her bike under the carport and ran inside to the kitchen. She filled a cup with water and gulped it down, then refilled it and sipped it as she walked through the house towards her bedroom. She said hello to her mom who sat sewing in the spare room, and tiptoed past her little sister’s bedroom so she wouldn’t get hassled into playing dolls. As she passed her brother Bruce’s room she listened for the friendly chirping of his canary, Florence. She reached her room before she realized she hadn’t heard her sweet song. Putting her water down on her desk, she walked back across the hall, into Bruce’s room, and up to Florence’s cage. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight that greeted her. Poor Florence was lying on her back on the bottom of the cage, her little feet curled up, eyes closed, very still.

“Mom,” Mallory called, “Mom, Mom, Florence is dead!” She ran to the sewing room where her mom was already standing up and rushing to the door. Together they ran back to Bruce’s room, and Mallory’s mom opened the cage and gently picked up the lifeless bird.

“What happened to her?” Mallory whispered.

“I don’t know,” her mom answered. “She wasn’t that old, was she?”

“Where’s Bruce? We need to have a funeral.”

Mallory’s mom found a small empty box and placed Florence in it. “He’s down at the Junior High playing baseball. Do you want to ride down there and get him?”

“Yeah, I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Mallory went outside, hopped on her bike and raced down Latmer Street. She turned onto Grear, then Montclair, but she didn’t even slow down while passing 8774. If she had, she would have seen BJ on the porch fixing his bike. When she reached the school she went straight to the baseball field where her brother was playing around with a group of boys. Dropping her bike she ran to the fence and called to him.

“Bruce, Bruce, come quick!” He didn’t seem to hear her, so she called again, louder.

Finally Bruce jogged over to her. “What do you want?” he whispered harshly. “I’m busy playing baseball with the guys.”

“Oh Bruce, I was riding my bike with Janna, and when I got home I went to my room, and I noticed that Florence wasn’t singing, so I went into your room-“

“Hurry up, Mallory. I’m busy.”

“Bruce, Florence is dead! You need to come home right now so we can have a funeral for him!”

“Hey Bruce,” one of the baseball players called, “You’re up next to bat. Come on!”

“Gotta go, Mal,” Bruce said, turning away.

“Bruce, Florence is dead! You need to come home!” Mallory watched hr brother walk back to home plate, tears filling her eyes. She couldn’t believe her brother was so insensitive. Picking up her bike, she climbed on and slowly pedaled home. This time she did notice BJ on his porch, but she was too embarrassed to do anything but hurry by. He was too involved in decorating the spokes of his bike to notice her anyway.

When she reached home her little sister Kim was waiting on the porch, holding the little box on her lap, tears rolling down her freckled cheeks. She looked up when Mallory stepped onto the porch.

“Where’s Bruce?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Mom showed me a good spot in the backyard where we can bury Florence.”

“Bruce was too busy playing baseball,” Mallory answered, pulling her sister up. “We’ll just have to have our own burial.”

The two sisters went to the backyard, and Kim pointed out a spot by the fence that had been cleared. A shovel leaned against the fence, and Mallory went to work digging a hole. She wanted it deep so the neighbor’s dog wouldn’t dig Florence up the next time he jumped the fence. It was hard work, and it took a long time, but finally the hole was ready. Kim placed the box gently onto the bottom, and Mallory pushed the dirt back into the hole.

“We need a marker,” Mallory said, looking around. She went to the shed and dug around until she found a small piece of wood. She took a rusty nail and scratched “Florence. Died 1985. Rip” into it, then stuck it into the dirt.

“I think we should sing a song,” Kim suggested.

“How about “God Be With You ‘til We Meet Again?” They sang it quietly, and then Mallory picked two of her mom’s purple tulips and laid them on the grave.

“Too bad Bruce couldn’t be here. He missed a lovely service.”

When Bruce came home a few hours later, he was mad at his sisters for burying Florence without him. “How could you do it? Florence was my pet?”

Mallory was about to give a snotty remark, but then noticed tears in Bruce’s eyes. She realized he was just trying to look cool in front of his friends, but inside he was hurting badly. She walked to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Bruce. I should have waited.”

“We’ll do it again, Bruce,” Kim said, putting her arms around his waist. “It will be better with you there, too.” The trio walked reverently back outside, and had the sweetest second farewell to the beautiful canary, Florence.