The Lilies. Priscila Uppal

nothing about his life, really; a few details: a wife, two children, one still at home (no idea what will become of him), the other a banker in Toronto. They were proud, decent. But who would know otherwise? Mack knew she liked poppyseed bagels in the mornings, a pack of cigarettes now and then for the evening that she asked for guiltily, like today, and that she had a sweet tooth for strawberry ice cream. He also knew her own daughter was somewhere amongst his family in Toronto.

      “It’s about time, isn’t it?” Mack said, dropping the bagels into a brown paper bag in a swift natural motion.

      Violet nearly choked on her words of greeting. Although Mack had been smiling when he asked his question, Violet was wary. Maybe someone had seen what happened yesterday in the garden. Maybe they were talking about her behind her back. She didn’t know what time it was and was happy that she asked for cigarettes, had been shoving them into her robe pocket when Mack spoke. But he couldn’t know about the lilies. No way.

      “Time?” she asked. For breakfast? For the time of year she smoked more and, well, drank more? For Claire to return for a visit? She waited for his answer, searching past his inviting smile, reading off the brand names of cigarettes in her head.

      “Time to freeze up the vegetables for the winter, eh, Violet?”

      She handed Mack a ten-dollar bill, slightly embarrassed at not having caught on to his interest in her garden. He was a few years older than she was, but wore it well, his face relaxed into a soft circular jaw, his hair’s lustre retained though it had lost its colour. Violet, however, thought she’d aged badly, liver spots stubbornly spreading across her arms and a good forty pounds over her hips and waist. She supposed Mack led a fairly ordinary life, same as she, but at the same time the money transaction today felt like an admission of secretiveness. In fact, Violet wanted to take the money back after it left her fingers. She wanted it back inside her fist and wanted to run down the street in her terrycloth robe to her kitchen, fake being sick, and lie down on her sofa. I’m going crazy, she thought. I always freeze my vegetables at this time of year. Everybody knows that on our street. What small talk could be more innocent?