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Red Flowers

by Marian Allen

“That’s m’name. Don’t wear it out.”

Red’s real name was Rufus, but his mother had told him “rufous” meant “red”, so he’d gone by Red his whole life. A boy names Rufus got into a lot of fights. So did a boy named Red, but Reds generally won, and Rufuses generally didn’t, not unless they were also fierce, which Red wasn’t.

Apparently, Red had been born with red hair – hence, the name – but it had turned brown as he got older and then silver as he kept on getting older and now it was white with a yellow tinge, so it looked like he’d always been a redhead. Funny.

We were both in Hall C at Sycamore Rest. That was the independent living hall, where we each had a private apartment. You would have thought he lived on the other side of town, though: He kept himself to himself, which we liked in our hall, but he took it maybe too far. He’d rather eat his own cooking than come to the dining hall and get the good grub his place at the Rest paid for. He’d rather drink alone than come to the dining hall for Happy Hour on Fridays. He’d rather play his old scratchy, skippity vinyl records than come to the dining hall for the live concerts on Thursdays.

I don’t know if he skipped the various church services on Sundays, because God knows I sure did.

It got to be a cross between a challenge and a joke for us to try to get him to socialize. Any time we were in physical therapy with him or saw him in the hall when he was going to or coming from the barber shop or a doctor’s appointment, we’d invite him to something. Any time we saw his daughter coming or going, we’d send an invite through her. Many’s the time one of us heard her say, an arm around his waist, “Everybody here seems so friendly, Daddy. Why don’t you do something with them?”

Then his voice would rumble out like a lion’s, but the words got lost in the rumble and only she could make them out.

But we finally got him when Sammy moved in and started Tuesday Night Poker. As per usual, a couple of us stood just outside Red’s door and talked about the upcoming first game like we were both hard of hearing and weren’t wearing our hearing aids.

His door opened and his grumpy face poked out.

“Poker?”

I said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Were we talking too loud? We’ll go to my room and hash out these details.”

Red said, “Poker? A poker game?”

“That’s right,” Pete said.

“Can anybody play, or is it a private thing?”

We were almost too stunned to say anything. Usually, if Red opened his door you got the feeling he was about to tell you to get off his lawn.

“Sure,” Pete said. “Anybody can play. Tuesday at seven. In the C Hall rec room.”

Red made a face.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Nobody else is scheduled that night, and Bridget reserved the whole room for us from seven to ten.”

Generally, there were two or three things going on in there at once – it was a big room – like jigsaw puzzles and knitting or fly tying and macrame or bridge and quilting or – we had a lot of interests at Sycamore Rest.

“Okay, then,” Red said.

“You coming?” I asked.

“Might,” said Red, and closed the door.

#

The big night came, and I’d forgotten all about Red saying he might come, since he never came to anything, and here he walked in, like Bigfoot bringing a guitar to a campfire.

Everybody said, “Red!” You’d have thought he was Norm on Cheers.

“That’s m’name,” he said. “Don’t wear it out.”

He was a little taken aback that some of our players were women, but those of us who were regulars in the rec room had seen them cut each other’s throats at bridge, so we were fine with it. None of them were twitterers or flirts. Anybody who tried to “little lady” them had his nuts handed to him without benefit of clergy.

“Got a problem playing with women?” Georgia said, and I’m fairly certain I heard Mimi mutter, “That’s what she said.”

Red shrugged and took a seat, so that was that.

With a couple of breaks for beer, snacks, bathroom runs, and, as Red said, “to let the cards cool down,” we played for three solid hours.

At the end of that time, five of us had a little extra spending money and Red had nothing. I tried to throw the final hand to him, just to keep him sweet – if “sweet” is the word I want – but George took the pot.

We figured we’d had all of Red we’d ever have. Then his daughter came to visit, and I heard her say, as they were walking out to sit on the porch, “Oh, Daddy! Poker! Momma would forbid it, you know she would! When did you ever play poker?”

Rumble rumble

“Well, I don’t remember you ever playing! Momma would have a fit!”

When she left that day, she gave me a dirty look instead of her usual sweet smile.

A few days later, Red came to the dining hall for breakfast.

“Decide to be sociable, did you?” George asked when Red joined us at our table.

“Lost my goddamn grocery money,” Red said. And, for the first time we’d seen, he cracked a smile. Not a big one, but a smile. “Worth every penny,” he said. “Hope this grub is as good as you reprobates claim.”

MY WRITING PROMPT TODAY: This week’s mani.

MA