Blue Flowers Of Trouble And Desire

The Blue Flowers of Trouble and Desire

by Emjay Zielony

Part One

The following are extracts of my erotica novella "The Blue Flowers of Trouble and Desire. I've condensed them and left off a previous chapter of backstory but I welcome any feedback (good or bad) to improve my writing. I will endeavour to publish one part per week. Please enjoy.

It was late afternoon when I rolled into New Peterborough. I'd been on the road for just over a fortnight in search of work driving a beat-up old Ford Bronco my brother had given me or loaned me. I hadn't quite worked out which other than he warned me about a broken taillight that he'd taped up until he could get a new one from Des Moines.

"Just don't drive at night all liquored up." was his stern advice as I left home and headed south from Delmaine Iowa. Despite no offers of work it had been an adventure of sorts. I met plenty of the half baked crazies that live in the motels of my budget. I spent an afternoon letting off a six-shooter with a farmer who was a Jimmy Stewart fan and liked to dress as an old-time gunslinger and a few days back I found myself being chased by a tornado somewhere in Missouri. But today crossing the state line into Pennsylvania the warm spring air hung heavy and still as I cruised the quiet streets till I found The Drugstore. It wasn't a drugstore anymore and it didn't sell pharmaceuticals. That business had long since gone to the big chains out on the highway. It was a bar. Memories of its past hung in the old black and white photos on the walls. Rows of smiling customers sitting on stools by the soda fountain holding up their sundaes. It was where Billy had told me to meet him. He'd got in touch the night before while I was still in West Virginia and said he finished work at five. The chrome clock above the bar told me I had about twenty minutes to kill so, with beer in hand, I wandered about, checking out its history. A frame by the door to the bathroom explained that the place had originally been a clothes shop before becoming a drugstore in 1925. The grainy picture above confirmed it was once known as Schofield Family Tailors and Seamstress.

On the adjoining wall hung a black and white portrait of a proud and upright Mr Jed Jensen. He was the first pharmacist. He beamed out from behind the counter wearing a white coat, his hands behind his back and sporting a style of moustache that would quickly fall out of fashion once Hitler got to power.

Next to that a montage showed a visit from President Johnson in 1964 had caused a fuss. A big banner saying "Welcome LBJ" had been hung across the second story. There were shots of the motorcade easing through the eager crowd and a picture of LBJ on a raised platform exhorting the good citizens of New Peterborough to help keep him in office.

Further along hung a preserved newspaper clipping. The bold headline said MURDER! The photo below had two old Dodge police cars angle parked outside and between them two uniformed officers and a detective were sternly looking down at a spot where the deed must have occurred. The byline beneath that said the victim was 51 year old Timothy Jackson from Scranton and he'd been shot once in the head and once through the heart. It didn't say why he was shot or who the culprit was. It also failed to say which shot killed him but I guess it didn't matter.

By the door was a noticeboard. Pinned on it were flyers touting events coming up at the bar. They were planning an open mic event for budding comedians in a fortnight. There was an advert for a dubious looking estate agent, a circus was coming to town in the fall and a dog called Jack had gone missing from 4th street. Down the bottom corner one caught my eye. 'Position Vacant. New Peterborough Garden Village.' It didn't say what the job was but that the applicant had to be tidy and reliable and to contact Rowena on such and such a number. I borrowed a pen and paper from the bar and was writing it down when I was nearly bowled down by Billy as he burst through the door. A big grin stretched across his face and he greeted me warmly with a giddy handshake. I offered to buy him a beer and we propped ourselves on two stools at the bar.

He told me how he liked New Peterborough even though it was a bit quiet. There was only one other joint apart from this to get a beer. He still loved Sheree and they were renting a small house on 3rd street that had a yard and a spare bedroom that I was welcome to for as long as I liked. Sheree wouldn't mind. She was home right now cooking up her special extra-hot chilli nachos. Just for us. They didn't often have visitors.

It was the Billy I remembered when we worked on a harvesting crew the previous year. We celebrated his 21st birthday midway through the season and with me being just a couple of years older he became something of a kid brother. He slipped off his cap and placed it on the bar. We had teased him that summer about having a receding hairline which he said was just a high forehead he inherited off his grandfather. Looking at him I was quite sure it had crept back an inch or so since I'd last seen him. Billy liked talking. He said he was working at a grain silo complex on the other side of town and of course he was getting ripped off by the boss. He was going to the union next week. When I asked him what union covered grain silo workers he said he didn't know but there had to be one. But he was gonna quit if he didn't get a raise. Sheree had a job at the medical centre on Jefferson. Just a receptionist but it'd cover the rent while he looked for something better. Mind you there weren't that many jobs around so maybe he ought to hold off on quitting. Just for a bit.

I told him about the job on the noticeboard. Garden Village? He knew it. Some kind of retirement place. Reckoned he and Sheree would end up there if they weren't careful. Anyway we had to get going. Sheree got a bit pissed if she cooked and then it got cold. We oughta call into the liquor store and get Sheree a wine so we could get some beers. We had time.

I followed his old pickup which was the same era as mine but in better condition. He pulled into the concrete driveway of his tidy yet unassuming bungalow. The lawns had been mowed recently and daffodils had sprouted in the flowerbed that ran beside the path.

"Sheree does the gardening shit," Billy said carrying the bag of booze "She loves it. I told her I'd do the lawns but she loves that too" He opened the front door with his elbow and nudged it ajar with his foot. "Honey!" he hollered down the passage "Got guests!"

"Jesus" I whispered "You told her I was coming?"

"Yeah yeah, She's cool."

We walked into the kitchen. The smell of chilli, cumin and sizzling mince had filled the room. Sheree was at the stove and as Billy leaned in for a kiss she offered up her cheek and carried on stirring. She hustled him way from trying to sneak a taste from the pan and as he stowed the beers in the ice box she turned to me and smiled. "You must be...?"

"Emjay." Billy said as he flicked the tops off two beers

"Emjay, thats a strange name, anyway, welcome to our humble home"

"Hey Baby," Billy piped in, "I got you this" He pulled the red wine out of the bag and handed it to her. She reached into the pantry for a glass.

"So Emjay" she said "How long you staying?"

"Christ Sheree, he's only just arrived"

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant are you in town for good or just passing through"

"Not sure. I've been looking for work and wasn't having much luck so I decided to come east. I dunno, the last few days it just kinda turned into a road trip. Hey Billy. You'll never guess what but I nearly got caught in a twister."

"Jesus really?" Billy said "You hate those things," He looked at Sheree. "When we were working together Emjay would look up at some idly biddy cloud way off miles away and say I don't like the look of that."

"Well it damn near happened." Sheree joined us at the table. "So like I say, I'm not sure. If nothing comes up I might have to go back home. I was telling Billy I saw a job advertised in that bar we were at. What was it called?"

"The Drugstore." Billy said.

"No. The place where the job was. Garden something?"

"Oh, Garden Village," he corrected.

Sheree chimed in, "The old folks home. Some of them come into work. I'm a receptionist at Jefferson medical. They're always looking for staff up there. You wanna watch the woman who runs it. Bit of a mean cow. She was in once and had a go at me about something. It wasn't even my fault. It was something Lucy did."

"I'll go and check it out, no harm in looking"

"Well Emjay" she smiled, "You are welcome to stay as long as you need... Just as long as it's not forever." She reached over and tenderly squeezed Billy's hand. "You tell him sweetheart?"

Billy kind of rolled his eyes and she looked back at me. "We're having a baby." I looked over at Billy and he'd settled into the proud broad grin of an expectant father.

"Well congratulations to you both"

"Thank you" Sheree said as she took a sip of wine. She sat the glass back on the table and looked at it for a moment. Maybe we all did. I can't be sure because she suddenly got up from the table and put it on the bench.

"Lets eat." she announced, "I hope you like it hot."

It wasn't what I expected. New Peterborough Garden Village was more resort than rest home. The Grand Drive curved its way up through lawns and well established trees. It passed two apartment buildings overlooking a swimming pool surrounded by sun loungers. The thatched bar at the end was waiting for the afternoon barman. It snuck by independent cottages hidden amongst the shrubbery and eventually arrived at the main complex which was built to resemble a small colonial village. The general store on one corner was named The Deli and it boasted of baking it's own bread daily. Moreton's Cafe and Bar occupied the other corner and in between was the main office which, with listings in the windows, looked much like a real estate office. It was here I signed on to the impressive title of Deputy Maintenance Officer. The manager Rowena conducted a quick interview in her spartan office where the only item adorning the wall was a Diploma in Residential Management from a university I hadn't heard of. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back in a bun with not a single strand out place and large spectacles perched on her sharp nose. It gave her an air of frightening efficiency. I tried to guess her age as I thought she was probably younger than she looked. If she was fifty in appearance, she was probably early forties without the sternness of her dress and the abruptness of her demeanour.

After the interview she marched me out the back at a military pace pointing out the facilities and where I would find all I needed for my various jobs. "This is the laundry and store room,'' she said pointing to a row of cupboards above a bench, "All the cleaning products are up there, the dirty bed linen goes in that bin at the end of the bench, the personal stuff you leave in the bags at the end. It all gets collected at ten-thirty, theres a locker for yourself down the end and a staff shower if you need it."

She led me out the large roller door into a faux cobbled courtyard fronting the replica of an old barn "In there's a couple of ride on mowers. Do you know how to drive one?'' She gave me no chance to reply, "Well Archie can show you, they're so simple I've used one myself, but you must wear the proper footwear, we're extremely big on Safety and Health at Garden Village, which is why you've signed away the right to sue us if you lose a toe out of your own stupidity. Anyway the big one is for the golf course and the smaller one is for the lawns."

She moved like a tiny tight dynamo and charged along in a way that made me skip a occasionally to keep up. I did admire the way her small arse moved under her skirt. "The tennis courts need to be cleared of leaves each day but you don't have to worry about the pool. A firm in town sorts it." I followed her round a corner and past a slightly overgrown pagoda. "I must remind Archie about that," she said, "Now one thing we encourage is respecting the resident's privacy. This their home. This their sanctuary. So we like the staff to be out of sight, out of mind." I thought the correct maxim was 'seen and not heard' but I got what she meant. I wasn't about to quibble. When we set out on the tour I was slightly scared of her, halfway through I started to take a shine to her efficient manner and by the end found there was something attractive, even sexy about her.

"So thats it." she said as we arrived back at reception " Now you can start tomorrow or Monday whatever you like but I need you to know I operate a one-strike rule here at Garden Village, mess with me once and you're gone, is that clear."

I was back to being a little scared of her.

One of my jobs was taking care of the self contained cottages off to the side of the main complex. Each was the same, surrounded by shrubbery which afforded some privacy. There was a little patio with enough room for a couple of wrought iron chairs and a table, while inside there was a lounge with a kitchenette at the rear by the back door. A door off the lounge led to a reasonable size bedroom with an en-suite bathroom.

The first cottage was the home of Edna Quinn. Mrs Quinn was a large plump woman with a huge bosom and an equally large laugh. It would get even louder after her second gin which was normally after lunch and occasionally just before. Sometimes she'd ask me in for a 'quick snifter' late in the afternoon. It would only be the one, she said, because there was no need to start tongues wagging. I suspect the real reason was because she only drank expensive gin and wasn't that keen on sharing. What she really enjoyed was company.

Mary Rutherford lived in the second. A tiny wizened prune of a woman, she'd somehow survived smoking a packet and a half of Chesterfield Kings for over 70 years. The cigarettes seemed to be slowly sucking her smaller and smaller and you felt she wouldn't die but one day just disappear altogether. Her place differed only in the yellow stained walls. It didn't matter as the residents owned them outright and could pretty much do as they pleased.

Number 3 belonged to Mrs Alice Prendergast. In her early sixties, Alice had an air about her that suggested she came from money but wasn't too fussy. Her hair was a length she could wear it up if she chose but rarely did and was dyed just enough to avoid the suggestion she was something she wasn't. She was appropriate in her attire and her slim figure gave her an elegance in whatever she chose. A simple dress from a reputable fashion label was suitable daywear while the twinset, complete with pearls, was essential for town. She was also a woman of routine. Each morning started with a coffee in The Deli on the dot of 9.30. Tuesdays and Thursdays she'd lunch in town and on Sunday afternoons she could be found at Moreton's enjoying a glass of wine with her favourite ladies of Garden Village.

The last cottage in the row was home to Moira Jackson. A tall woman with with broad shoulders, she maintained a shapely figure and you would have thought she was only in her mid-fifties. Mrs Jackson, as she liked to be called, was very particular. She insisted I use a special feather duster on her Lladro figurines, picked at the slightest oversight and demanded her own bed linen be kept separate from the others. It was made from an expensive brand of Egyptian cotton and she imported it directly from a factory in Italy. She also fluctuated between treating me like her servant to being an annoyance that wanted to spy on her. "You're late!" she'd bark and stomp into the bathroom for her morning shower leaving me to run the vacuum cleaner round her lounge. When she was done she would march back into the kitchenette and say "I hope you weren't trying to look through the keyhole!!"

"No Mrs Jackson"

"Well one thing I can't abide is peeping toms!"

"Absolutely not Mrs Jackson"

I would have pointed out that her bathroom didn't have a keyhole but I knew she had a reputation for reporting staff for the slightest indiscretion and insubordination was high on her list.

It was on a Monday morning when it all started.

I wiped the bench of Mrs Quinn's kitchenette, emptied the trash, changed her sheets and vacuumed the floor.

"Fancy a snifter this afternoon?" she asked.

"Can't today Mrs Quinn, Ive got stuff on. Later in the week maybe?."

Next door at Mrs Rutherford's I repeated my routine while she was transfixed by a local breakfast show on television. She had both hands on a cup of coffee with a cigarette between her fingers. She barely noticed I was there till I finished up.

"All done Mrs Rutherford" I said as I went to leave.

"Oh" she said, almost surprised, " Oh Thank you young man"

There was no reply when I knocked on Mrs Prendergast's door. I turned the handle with caution and courtesy. "Hello?" Mrs Prendergast stepped round from her bedroom. The twinset and pearls indicated she was headed for town.

"Oh, hello there." she said, adjusting an earring, "I've got an early appointment at the doctor's. So many pills when you get to my age."

"So no coffee this morning? Thats not like you."

"I know, such a nuisance, I asked for one tomorrow morning just before lunch but they said it was the only one I could get."

"Well, I can close up when I'm done"

"Would you, that'd be marvellous. I do believe my cab's here." and with that she walked out her back door with a brisk step and headed up the path.

I went in and cleaned her kitchenette, made up her bed and went into the bathroom. I made sure I gave the basin and mirror a good wipe and did the toilet. When I was done I reached under the basin to empty her laundry basket. It was made of wooden wicker with a foot pedal to raise the lid. As I pulled out the cloth bag from inside it caught the lid and out onto the floor fell a pair of dark blue underpants. They were a fuller pair as you might expect but with a touch of lace around the waistband they offered a certain sexiness. What really struck me was the way they landed. They fell open in an almost perfect circle. I peered down admiration at this geometric accident. The blue satin glistened as it reflected the light in the bathroom. The centre pad was white with a small yellow stain in the middle. The whole thing looked like a flower. Some beautiful alluring blue flower. I stepped to the other side and looked down from a different angle. It was mesmerising. It was inviting. I didn't want to disturb its perfect form but I couldn't stand there forever. As I picked them up I caught a whiff of something different. There was a musky womanly smell mixed with another. Sweet somehow. My nose drew in closer. That smell. A perfume I knew from somewhere. I had to find out. On her bedroom dresser a jewellery box sat next to a couple of jars of hand creams beside a tall body lotion and parked at the end was an orange bottle the shape of a small hip-flask. It was the perfume Opium by Yves Saint Laurent. A lush rich scent in it's own right that had once been a very big seller. I had a girlfriend who took to wearing it when it was less fashionable. So for me it was unique and given that my girlfriend had a somewhat voracious appetite it just said one thing. Sex.

But this was different again. Mixed with Mrs Prendergast's smell it was heady, it was intoxicating. I sat on the edge of her bed and eased my face toward a taste that went up my nostrils into my throat and settled in the top of my mouth.

My balls tingled and to my cock an eagerness flowed.

I checked myself.

What was I doing??