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                                        Chapter Two

                                House of Flowers

Washington, D.C.
August 6, 1945
8:21 AM

“…. If they do not now accept our terms…” President Truman warned “... they may expect a rain of ruin from the air, the like of which has never been seen on this earth. Behind this air attack will follow sea and land forces in such numbers and power as they have not yet seen and with the fighting skill of which they are already well aware.” The president’s implication of mass destruction as never before witnessed by mankind apparent.”

Pink’s Hardware And Assoc.
Loveland, Ohio
8:24 AM

“My, God!” Speaking to no one in particular. “All those people; the women, the children! What about all the women and children?”

“The war will end, Sarah, our boys…” Murray said “...will come home.”

One of the outside bystanders that had stepped inside to listen to Truman’s speech; a fat, bearded old man said. “If those yellow bastards give in!”

“After what we did to, uh…”

“ ‘ Hiroshima’.”

“Thank’s, Les.” Oliva said to her husband. “After what we did to that city, uh, Hiroshima; sounds like we blew the whole it all to bits…”

Talking sadly, softly, as though Sarah were speaking to herself. “Along with hundreds, maybe even thousands of women and children.”

Quietly standing alongside her mother, tired of all this adult conversation, pulling from her mothers hand and running the length of the store, four year old Jimmie, plopping herself onto the floor closely along side Clyde. “Wann’a help!”

At the front counter: “With ‘one’ bomb.” The other bystander— a dowdy, middle aged woman, said., repeating: “With only ‘one’ bomb!”

On the floor. “Here…” shoving a small mound of nuts and bolts between Jymmi’s crossed legs “...so, okay! So help, already.”

Looking at the mismatched mound of steel, then at Sharon. “How?”

By now able to spot matching sizes. “Take one of these…” lifting a bolt, then a nut and screwing them together. “Easy-peasey!”

“Okay.” Taking three tries before matching and screwing the nut to the bolt. “Did it!”

The three children; none physically related. All three, however, related by none other than lifelong, loving friendship.

Ten year old Clyde Murphy strongly resembling his father, with his beautiful mother’s red hair; Eight year old Sharon Kaminsky having qualities of both her mother and father, but more so her lovely — not apparent for a number of years, when, of course Clyde would be first to notice— Sharon’s lovely, large busted mother; Four year old Jymmi Harris, neither of who's parents were particularly beautiful or even passingly lovely, but both containing an inner beauty that would draw people to them… people wanting, and cherishing their friendship. This quality not, as of yet even noticeably apparent as both Sharon and Clyde considered Jymmi a little pest.

Up front. “Wonder if Barry had anything to do with that thing?”

“Don’t think Quartermasters hand out those kinds of equipment, Mildy.”

The baker, Viktor Johansson, “Here…” carrying an overloaded tray of  assorted doughnuts waited until Sarah made room on the counter. “You hear what Truman said?”

Taking a vanilla iced doughnut, nodding ‘thanks’. “Yeah…” Malcolm said between bites “...we did.”

“So…” the baker asked “...what do you think?”

“I think…” Sarah said “… that unless we’ve got another, uh? What Truman called an ‘atomic’ bomb up our sleeve; knowing what we’ve been told about the Japs, they’ll ‘never’ surrender and we’re going to lose thousands of our kids before they do.”

Sarah’s intuition right on, as...

Despite the horror of Hiroshima, the Japanese government did not believe the United States had the technical ability to develop, yet alone transport and drop, another atomic bomb.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin
August 6, 1945
9:32 AM

The suitcase feeling as though it weighed a ton, the four small wheels on the bottom— turning witch -ever, as though urging to go off in a different direction— at least allowing Margery to drag it to the first telephone booth she knew of.

Taking the crumpled napkin from her pocket, dropping a nickle into the  slot and giving the operator the phone number.

Three rings, then the thick, hairy voice of one that had chain smoked all of his life, sounding as though it should be coming from anyplace but a “ ‘Florist’!”

“Uh, Gladiola there, please.”

In a noticeably negroid inflection: “Who’s calling?”

“Lady— said her name was ‘Blu Bell’ gave me your number.”

“And you’re who?”

“Uh, my name’s Margery Binkowski.”

“Hold on.”

A full minute passing. “Thank’s Rosie.”

Demurely asked... “You want to speak to me?”...giving Margery the impression that she was speaking to an elderly woman.

Finding it strange that a whore in one of the hundreds of gin mills that had sprung up in Milwaukee since the beginning of the war by the name of ‘Blu Bell’ had given her the number of a florist and told to ask for an old lady by the name of ‘ Gladiola’ who’s phone was answered by what sounded like a Negro ‘bouncer’ named ‘Rosie’.

“Yes…” Margery said “...thank you. A lady, said her name was ‘Blu Bell’ gave me your name and number.”

“Yes, I know Blu Bell. How old are you sweetheart?”

Having said it so often, the word coming naturally. “Eighteen.”

Answered too quickly and the voice sounding too …

A near fifteen year old girl, coming from hearty, old line Polish stock might, if given the proper exterior appearance, pass for a young eighteen, but the voice...

Answered too quickly and the voice sounding too young. “ ‘Eighteen’ you say?”

“Yeah, uh, yes.”

Thinking, Could use a young mare in the herd. “Where are you sweetheart.”

Stepping outside the phone booth. “Outside the Sinclair station on…” looking towards the corner “… Garfield and Surnor.”

“ ‘Garfield and Surnor’, Rosie.?”

“Easy one, Gladdy. Have her catch the southbound streetcar to Lisbon...”

“You hear Rosie; what he said?”

“Yes.” Margery said. “Southbound streetcar to Lisbon. But then what?”

“We’re right there; the three story yellow brick building on the corner with the Florist store window. Can’t miss us!”

Thinking, Okay, everything good so far. Should be there then in what?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes.” Before breaking the connection, having one of her inclinations. She’s a money maker! “By the way, Margery…”

About to break the connection, “Yes?”

“From now on, your name’s ‘Pansy’.”

Washington, D.C.

The morning of the announcement of the dropping of the Hiroshima bomb Truman received a telegram from the Democrat senator from Georgia, encouraging the president to use as many ‘atomic bombs’ as possible on Japan, claiming the American people believed ‘that we should continue to strike the Japanese until they are brought groveling to their knees’.

Obviously, on this day and time ‘no one’ — possibly even those that had developed and created this weapon of mass destruction — knew how vast and long lasting the destruction would be.

A nuclear weapon of the ‘Little Boy’ type detonated over Hiroshima was 28 inches in diameter and 120 inches long and weighed about 9,000 pounds, approximating 15,000 tons of high explosives.

A nuclear weapon of the ‘Fat Man’ type; not as of yet detonated over Nagasaki, was 60 inches in diameter and 128 inches long and weighed about 10,000 pounds, approximating 21,000 tons of high explosives.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin
10:05 AM

The kindly conductor that had helped lift Margery’s suitcase onto the streetcar also helped her take it off.

Sure enough, stepping from the streetcar onto the street, directly across the street was a three story, yellow brick building with a storefront business semi-circular sign reading, ‘House of Flowers’ and centered below ‘Florist’.

A bell above the door tinkling as she entered.

A brute of a black man dressed in black slacks, a white shirt with a red bow tie— looking as though he should be wearing a shoulder holster— behind the counter daintily setting a beautiful mixed floral display into a tall cream colored vase. Looking up as she entered. “Good morning!”

Obviously, by the lifetime smoker voice, the same man she had spoken to earlier. “Good morning. I’m… uh, ‘Pansy.’”

Washington D.C: 10:05 AM

President Harry S. Truman once again called for Japan's surrender, warning them to ‘expect a storm of ruin from the sky like of which has never been seen on this earth’.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin 10:08 AM

“Hold on a second.” Lifting the telephone on the counter and punching one of a number of buttons on what looked like a home made, multi-wired wooden console.

Margery heard the hollow ringing of a telephone coming from an adjacent hallway. Once, twice...

“Yeah, Gladdy; Miss Pansy’ here…. Sure.” Jerking his thumb to the right. “Fifth door on left.”

Motioning. “My case?”

“Leave it!” Dismissing the girl as though she were no longer there. A broad smile showing two golden front teeth,— obviously enjoying his task at hand — Rosy returned to placing a long-stemmed yellow rose inside the bouquet of assorted flowers within the tall, cream colored vase.

Hearing sounds of movement from inside the first three doors, approaching the fifth door on the left, she knocked.

“It’s open!”

On a sofa angled to face the door, wearing a neatly pressed floral colored house dress, “Come!” The light complected black lady is old. “sit!” Patting the area closely alongside.

Doing as told, Margery lowered herself inches from the thin— through the age induced wrinkles lining all visible flesh, Margery saw facial features that twenty or thirty years earlier would have been considered as beautiful, but now only saw a — very wrinkled, once beautiful old lady.

In a softly spoken, kindly tone. “I’m ‘ Gladiola’, but…” sounding less a suggestion, more a command “… if you ‘wish’….” gently taking hold of Margery’s hand “... you can call me ‘Miss Gladdy’.”

Apprehensive over this old woman’s near theatrical show of kindness. “Thank you, ‘Miss Gladdy’.”

In the same soft spoken, kindly tone of voice. “How old are you, dear?”

“Eighteen.”

Gladdys tone now as that of a hoarse truck driver. “Don’t you ‘fucking’ lie to me!” As the crack of a whip, as the strike of a rattlesnake — Margery’s head snapping to the right— slapping her, “I said, ‘how fucking old are you’!?”

Frightened. “Fifteen…” stammering “... be fifteen next month.”

“You brought a suitcase! Plan on staying, do you?”

Fearfully truthful. “Don’t have anyplace to go.”

“Not what I asked! Do you want to stay? Be one of our flowers?”

One of their flowers? Thinking she understood. “Yes.”

Reaching to the telephone on a side table, pushing the one button on the homemade wooden console. As though commanding a dog. “Rosie, come!”In the same harsh tone of voice. To Margery. “Get naked!”

________________________________________________________

                                                 23
            
                                    Chapter Three

                                     Three Flowers