Jordan lives and writes fiction in Idaho. She has an MA in literature from the University of Utah. Her work has appeared in the Vassar Review, Heavy Feather Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and /tɛmz/, as well as other publications. Her 2022 piece “Lani in the River” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Find her on X at @JordanDilley
ROOT ROT IN THE SPRING
The lilacs are blooming early this year. The violet petals, shivering in the hot breeze, will have a short life before being crisped by a sun too bright, too hot. Because the earth is heating. Because there is too much pollution in the atmosphere. Neither of which means much to the purple petals giving off one last burst of scent before falling to the ground to be swept into a gutter.
But there is still iced tea in my glass and more in the refrigerator. If I keep to this bubble of relative ease and conserve movement until the sun dips behind the trees, hiding under the lilac bush—well, a bubble is better than nothing. So, of course, one of the trees that grows along the fence has to come crashing down across a row of spinach near ready to pick. Dark green leaves smashed and bleeding into the damp garden dirt, suffocated by a spruce whose needles vibrate within their limited sphere.
I wait for the violence to subside before retrieving the insurance agent’s number. The agent clicks their tongue and every other sentence is interrupted by a loud cruuuuch. Pickle? Chips? Pickle chips?
I struggle to retrieve the salvageable spinach leaves, cursing the tree. Creamed spinach is easy, but it hardly goes with the gazpacho I’ve prepped. The best-laid (peeled) plans (tomatoes)…
The man they send to access the damage has a wobbling gait and a belly that hangs halfway to his knees, making him lopsided. He crushes the fallen lilac petals and manages to knock more down when his arm brushes the bush. I say nothing; I’m sure I can’t convince a man whose butt occupies the space between the hem of his t-shirt of the top of his jeans that flora matters. He spends approximately thirty seconds confirming that the tree has in fact fallen, probably due to root rot, but don’t quote him on that, before making his move. He asks what TV shows I like and when I answer with a noncommittal, I like lots of different shows, he launches into what sounds like a paid advertisement for Yellowstone.
“I think you’d really like it,” he says, looking at me, which must practically blind him because the sun is streaming from behind me.
You got the wrong pony, cowboy.
To his credit, he doesn’t press the matter. To my credit, I don’t laugh when he stumbles over a tree root and his pants slide down to his knees.
I’m stirring a pot full of spinach that has reduced to a sad, soggy pile when my neighbor’s jelly sandals click-clack through the backdoor. My shock over her liberal use of the emergency key sailed out the window the first time she poked her nose into the kitchen, toting half a bottle of Jack Daniels.
She peers into the pot, wrinkling her nose. “Never took you for a science experimenter.”
“I haven’t added the cream yet,” I say, a little defensively, holding up a carton.
“Don’t think that’s gonna help much,” she says, undeterred. “Was that some kind of handyman, or are you stepping out on Sam?”
I laugh, dropping the carton on the counter. A small pool of cream leaks onto the Formica. The overhead kitchen lights reflect off its surface, three sharp pinpoints. I don’t reach for the kitchen towel right away.
“I think I could do better than that,” I say, pouring cream into the pot.
“Honey, I know you can,” Cherise says, the brightness dropping out of her voice.
For a moment, I wonder if she’s still talking about the Yellowstone aficionado.
“Where’s your old man anyways? Shouldn’t he be home by now?” she asks, looking at the ceramic rooster clock above the pantry. It’s a castoff from a dead aunt with a little house that was stuffed with junk to the rafters when she died of a heart attack in the backyard. Relatives with stronger claims took the few good pieces of china, a Chippendale side table, and a picture of her standing with Elvis in front of a Cadillac. Sam’s never liked the clock’s bulbous wattle.
I realize Cherise is expecting an answer and not just making small talk. I shrug. “He has a work dinner. He asked if I wanted him to bring me anything home but—”
“What? Didn’t want cold chicken for dinner?” Cherise asks with a sardonic smile. “Still, it’s gotta be better than that green mess.”
Despite her disgust, Cherise stays for dinner. She even eats a small portion of the spinach alongside the gazpacho and admits it’s not as bad as it looks.
When we married, I became the defacto cook. Sam never volunteered and despite his insistence that I didn’t have to, I couldn’t contemplate a life made entirely of frozen meals and the one dish he knew how to make: grilled steak. I spent many of those first few years studying recipes and methods, scribbling grocery lists that could stretch our meager budget to the max. Sam accepted it as a matter of course.
One day, the grocery store had a sale on beef. It wasn’t a good cut, but beef was such a luxury for us, I bought two pounds worth and carefully cut away the toughest sinews before putting it in the oven to braise. After hours on low, the cheap cut had broken down, its flavor melding with the equally cheap red wine and vegetables. I was proud as I ladled it out onto my only heirloom serving dish, the printed star pattern around the edge faded.
Sam treated it as any other meal, oblivious to the time, effort and expense that had gone into it. No “thank you,” unless you counted his loud burp at the end.
Sam’s still not home when we flip on the nightly news. A chemical spill is blocking northbound traffic and dissolving the yellow lane markers on the blacktop.
“But we expect to have it cleaned up before rush hour tomorrow,” Cherise says, imitating the highway clean-up crew lead.
Yet the lines will still be gone, no demarcation to keep everyone in their lane. It’s too much faith to have in a bunch of commuters glancing at their phones, applying mascara or worrying about that upcoming meeting.
Cherise passes me the flask of gin that seemed to magically appear after dinner. Her jeans have no pockets, but she’s resourceful, so I don’t think about it further before taking a large pull.
“You, okay? Things with Sam—” Cherise doesn’t finish. I’m glad. Lately, people have been asking me that question, or an iteration of it, a lot.
I roll my eyes. “Things are perfectly fine,” I say condescendingly. Rudeness usually shuts people up, but Cherise has a good bullshitometer.
“Let’s see,” she says, holding up her hand. “Late work dinners, weight loss, the new clothes, and he’s been drinking more.” She puts one finger down with each item. One finger is still raised, and she points it at me. “Sweetie—”
It’s the lack of condescension in her voice that sets my heart racing. She says it with sincerity. She says it like all the air going out of a balloon. She says it like she’s deflated for me.
I roll my eyes but don’t say anything to contradict her. Because I know, as I pretend to focus on the shining highway blacktop, that I don’t have evidence to convince her otherwise. A series of images passes through my mind: Sam with his pants down in front of his webcam. His hand on my sister’s back al though she doesn’t need help climbing into our SUV. And the pile of aids he bought that came in their guaranteed discreet packaging.
Cherise leaves after an official from the city admits that the northbound portion of the interstate might take longer to clean up. The camera pans down to the blacktop, where a last vestige of yellow dissolves into a puddle of sludge, and I close my eyes. The blood pulses behind them. I feel a flush across my neck, spreading to my ears. Everything is too close. The ottoman, side tables—even the mantelpiece—seem to be converging, closing the gap to where I sit on the edge of the sagging sofa. I click the TV off, fling the remote across the floor, and retreat upstairs.
My office is dark, lit only by the glow of the streetlamps that filter through cheap, beige curtains. No matter the season, time of day, or happenings, there’s a stillness in this room that maintains itself. Is it because my presence is the only one that has saturated the wobbly garage sale desk, the scratched bookcase, the cracked desk lamp? Or am I giving myself too much credit? Sam rarely comes here and when he does, he acts like a fidgety child at church.
I spread the curtains. The office brightens a little. I lean against the desk, looking down at the street into the wooded area separating us from the rest of town. Everyone is home now, compacts and SUVs parked in the driveways, small squares of yellow light emanating from living room and kitchen windows. A hose lies uncurled across a thick lawn, the blades nearly black. A plastic slide, the kind with steps attached, waits for tomorrow’s sticky fingers and bare feet. Aside from a Siamese cat slinking across the blacktop, everything has settled into stillness.
I want to feel still too. To blend into the grass, the pavement, and the little patches of light spread across flowerbeds of hydrangeas and lilies. To exist without this constant thundering in my chest, to be conscious of existing but not bothered by it. Most of all, I want the courage to tell the truth without fear of the consequences. I want to admit to Cherise that I am worried about my marriage, that the stress of Sam’s late nights and general disregard for me have created this stone of pain in my stomach that’s been there so long it feels normal. I want to tell that insurance guy that he needs to wax his ass. I want to escape the bubble of safety I’ve created for myself by pretending. I want to look at the root rot of it all with the same objectivity Cherise regarded my spinach with, and—
Headlights turn onto the street. Sam’s car. I can hear music blasting as he pulls into the garage. My brain is telling my legs to move, move toward the door, down the stairs, and then… What then? The only options seem to be to confront or pretend. The cramp in my belly tells me I’m not ready for confrontation, but the thought of more pretending is repulsive.
I retreat to the bathroom and fill the bathtub with hot water. I don’t bother putting up my hair but climb in, hair swirling around my face like a mermaid when I lie back. I trace the lip of the tub with my toes. Goosebumps erupt around my collarbones at the contrast of hot water and cold porcelain. Images of the day flash through my mind—spruce, butt crack, melting highway—clear and sharp as though taken with a telephoto lens.
Footsteps come up the stairs, heavy and deliberate. I rise from the water, making a sound like a drain being unstopped. My hair is plastered to my neck and spine, pulling my head back. I bunch it all up in my fist and give it a good squeeze. As the water cascades down my skin, I open my hand to find a lilac petal flush against the center of my palm.