Norman Sullivan walked into his apartment and took off his coat, brushing flower petals from its surface that had adhered as he walked by the bushes outside the building. As the jacket passed by his face on its way to the coat-stand, he couldn’t smell the roses.
Norman couldn’t smell the roses, and it was because of this that he did not stand there, stopped flat for a moment as memories arose of fourteen summers ago, of Betty Newmarket, and of how she’d never once gone outside without brushing herself with a whiff of that rose-scented perfume of hers. Just a hint, a touch, enough to rise gently above the smell of her skin – and how quickly that had overpowered the roses indoors, in her room. He hadn’t thought about those days for years and years, but they were lying right underneath the delicate membrane of his surface thoughts, just waiting for the right trigger, the small and soft scent that he was waiting for; the trigger to walk his feet right to the desk, to the phonebook, to the page, to the number he hadn’t looked at for so very long.
But Norman couldn’t smell the roses, and so his coat went onto the hook in a businesslike manner, efficiently, smoothly, no pause for recollection, no fuss, no muss. Norman couldn’t smell the roses, or much else, and he hadn’t been able to since eighteen weeks and three days ago, on the day that he hadn’t asked the street man the question. The street man had worn a ragged coat and broken gloves and a battered and beaten hat with holes in it, and he had asked Norman for change, and as Norman pressed a dollar into the street man’s hand Norman had not asked him the question, which was “why?”
Norman hadn’t asked the street man the question, and it was because of this that he had not watched the man’s eyes widen at the word, because of this that he had not stood and listened as out of the street man’s mouth came words to challenge his word, from under his bruised hat and about his gesturing and cracked gloves. The street man’s story washed over him, a story so very real and ordinary. He spoke of things that Norman was amazed at, of trips to places Norman had barely heard of in atlases, of people met and conversations held that Norman barely understood. He spoke of things that Norman recognized so very deeply, of the crunchiest toast with the finest jam of all, which, he said, was strawberry, of the grumpy tragedy of being thirteen and laid up alone on a Friday night with measles. He spoke of things that tied him to the street and the ground and the world and Norman in a manner that made him so very real, the realest thing Norman had ever seen and then some, to tell you the truth.
But Norman hadn’t asked the street man the question, and so he had continued on his way with a quick nod and a good-luck, and as he hurried away with the hunched shoulders of the aimlessly guilty he had risked back a single, furtive glance of hapless woe, and as his head turned back he had walked straight into a lamppost, seeing stars and cracking his nose in a manner that stuffed it up beyond all recognition. Norman hadn’t asked the question, said the word, or said any words at all that day, because he hadn’t heard the message.
Norman hadn’t heard the message that morning as he listened to the tape on his answering machine. His girlfriend had broken up with him on tape, by phone, separated by two machines and a city from him for the safety of sorrow’s sake, and he had listened to the message through of the litany of sins and mistakes and accusations and as the very final second of the tape ticked by he hadn’t heard the whispered message, which was “I’m sorry.”
Norman hadn’t heard the message, and it was because of this that he hadn’t sat there, alone in the bright morning sunlight pouring in through the windows that was so much lonelier than the darkest night, as he listened to that message five more times, one for each sense so he could drink in the whole story, the end of which was a crucial message of “I’m sorry.” And then he listened to it once more, to be sure that this very precious message in a bottle wasn’t his imagination, wasn’t a figment, a strange sight in a sea far greater than he could imagine, and he thought alone in his room for one hour, making him late to work by exactly that amount. But he was odd that day – strangely content if not cheerful – and so the words flowed freely from him, if sparingly, all day long.
But Norman hadn’t heard the message, and so he had sat up after he heard the tape through to its end – the end he missed, you see – and he went to work. And all day long at work, the longest day of his life, he did not say a single word. Nor did he after work. Norman hadn’t heard the message, hadn’t listened again, because he hadn’t tried the muffin.
Norman hadn’t tried the muffin two years before that as he unpacked the sparse lunch that his girlfriend (the very same, the very same) had sent with him to work at the construction site. He opened up the small lunchbox that held the bit of food they could afford for the small meal, and he saw a small sandwich, a small can of pop, and a small blueberry muffin. Norman hadn’t eaten a muffin since first grade, and he shuddered a bit at the memory, and it was at that moment that he hadn’t tried the muffin.
Norman hadn’t tried the muffin, and it was because of this that he didn’t find out that to his surprise he liked the muffin, he really did like it, and he found himself happy all day at the thought of this old monster becoming a new friend. He did his duty and then some, all with unrelenting care and focus, and his foreman made a note of him and smiled.
But Norman hadn’t tried the muffin, and the thought of the wasted half-meal weighed on his mind even as that wasted half-meal grumbled in his gut. He was depressed, the muffin weighing leaden in his mind, and he went about his duties half-heartedly. He forgo putting on his helmet properly, and he aimed his nail gun poorly, and it was with a tremor of the weakened wrist and a thunk of compressed air and a ping of metal-on-metal that a nail slipped gently into his right ear after an aerodynamic ricochet, smoothly savaging his hearing in that ear beyond all recognition forevermore. Norman hadn’t tried the muffin, hadn’t felt that startlingly beautiful taste of blueberry hop onto his tongue, because he hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley.
Norman hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley four years beyond the muffin as they stood together in an airport lobby, Thomas about to leave on the flight that would take him to Japan and a new career. Thomas had stood there, arms full of luggage, tongue full of awkward goodbyes, for how do you say farewell to your friend of the playpen, of the elementary school, of life? Thomas didn’t know what to say, and neither did Norman, and it was at that moment that he hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley.
Norman hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley, and it was because of this that he didn’t feel Thomas start in surprise before hugging him back two-handed, luggage smacking Norman’s back like awkward clubs. Thomas boarded his plane as happy and reassured as a man could be, with a smile and a wave through his tears, and they had kept in touch over the years, with visits and drop-ins whenever Thomas’s path and holidays brought him back from overseas. He had introduced Norman to sushi, and his eagerness and enthusiasm and persistence had made Norman tuck in and had made Norman find to his shock and surprise that perhaps not all food was as bad as it seemed.
But Norman hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley, and the goodbye had left off with that awkward pair of fair-thee-wells. Letters were sent laboriously and replied to slowly, and eventually not at all, and Thomas Riley and Norman drifted apart inchingly, slow by slow. Life was smaller without Thomas’s encouragement, without Thomas’s dares and darts to prod Norman forwards into the new parts of life. Norman hadn’t hugged his friend Thomas Riley, hadn’t shown his affection for his oldest friend in a way without words, because he hadn’t seen the homework.
Norman hadn’t seen the homework eight years before the airport as he biked to Betty Newmarket’s house. The evening’s summer scent was strong, but already he thought he could feel the wind grow chiller by the day. School was back already and soon the air would smell sharp and cold and the leaves would die in blazes of glory, whole treetop furnaces and bonfires of cataclysmic awe. He dropped his bike alongside the house in the fading light, and he turned away from it just in time to glance into the living room window and it was at that moment that he hadn’t seen the homework.
Norman hadn’t seen the homework, and it was because of this that he didn’t stand open-mouthed for a moment, eyes darting between the still-standing, embracing forms of Thomas Riley and Betty Newmarket and the sheaf of papers on the couch that was plainly the script of Romeo and Juliet that was to be performed by the Drama Club – of which both Betty and Thomas were members. After five or six seconds of this he burst out laughing in astonished relief, and Betty and Thomas fell over each other in shock and profanity. Norman laughed harder still, as did they when they heard his explanation, and Thomas headed home a bit earlier than he’d planned, leaving he and Betty alone to laugh and more.
But Norman hadn’t seen the homework, and after a minute, two minute’s pause of absolute stillness he turned back to his bike. He picked it up very carefully, and rode it home with absolute focus, as if it were the only thing left on earth. He didn’t know what to say to Betty the next day, or the next, and by the time he heard of the casting roles in the play he had made up his mind – as had Betty, after a week of sudden neglect.
Norman hadn’t seen the homework, hadn’t turned shock into hilarity, because he’d cut his right hand on Mrs. Newmarket’s rosebush patch in the dark. It hurt badly, and the pain distracted him.
And now Norman, fourteen years older, walks into his bedroom, robbed of memories and more; robbed by scent, robbed by voice, robbed by ear, robbed by taste, robbed by touch, robbed by sight, robbed by chance. And as Norman pulls his shirt over his head, ready to put out the lights and crawl into the realm of sleep, he chances to see the last remnant of his earlier jacket-cleaning: a single rose petal, clinging lightly to the surface of his right sleeve.
And Norman Sullivan looked at that rose petal, stopped flat for a moment by memories of fourteen summers ago. And it was because of this that he walked out of his bedroom and over to his desk.
And Norman Sullivan rubbed that rose petal softly between his hands, feeling the texture roll over him as he stared at it. And it was because of this that his fingers fumbled for a phone book for a page for a number that he did not need because his other fingers were dialling by memory.
And Norman Sullivan heard the ringing of the phone once, twice, and thrice, and he heard the receiver pick up and a soft and familiar voice ask “hello.” And it was because of this that he put down that petal on the desk and cleared his throat.
And Norman Sullivan spoke to Mrs. Edith Newmarket with friendliness and politeness, inquiring after her, after Thomas – had she heard anything from him? – and most of all, of Betty. And it was because of this that he acquired two phone numbers from her: one in Tokyo, one closer to home.
And Norman Sullivan laid aside the first number for now, promising to dial it in the morning. And it was because of this that, as the phone rang again – once, twice, thrice – and the receiver was picked up, that he almost thought he smelt the roses again.
Sometimes, it works both ways.