The Diary of Stella Peters

Flowers

                                                                                                                                              Thursday, October 1st, 1931

Henry brought me flowers today when he came home for his lunchbreak from the factory. Daisies, of all things. He is so naive. Sometimes I wonder how someone like him even survives a world like this. The country's collapsing around us, breadlines getting longer, people losing their homes. But not Henry. No, he believes that hard work and a smile will solve everything. His face lit up like a child's with that same foolish grin he always has when he handed them to me, his rough hands trembling a little as he passed them over. He's always nervous around me, like he's still trying to earn my love even though we've been married for a little over two years now. Sweet, in a way, if not entirely pathetic. Why plain old daisies instead of roses or something? I accepted his sad little bouquet of flowers with the same smile I've given him since the day we married- a smile he believes means love. I set the flowers in a little ceramic vase we have on the kitchen table that has chipped blue paint on it. The vase is actually one of the few colorful things in this dreary house. Our sad little tablecloth on which the vase sits on doesn't make me happy either. At this point it looks more like a beggars dress made out of whatever cloth they could find than it does a real tablecloth. Housewives should have elegant tablecloths and expensive china, not what I have. I remember the daisies Henry gave me immediately drooped when I put them in the vase, just like everything else in this house. It suits Henry, though. Simple things for a simple man. He asked me how my day was so far as he sat down on our little hand-me-down couch that we got from Henry's grandma shortly after we married. It annoyed me when he asked how my day was, as if anything of interest happens in this miserable town. I told him the usual lies, that I cleaned, that I went to the market, that I spent the afternoon with Mrs. Carson from next door. He doesn't ask for details, just nods like a fool, happy to hear the sound of my voice. I sometimes wonder if he knows I'm lying but just chooses not to acknowledge it. It wouldn't surprise me- he's the type to bury his head in the sand. When he left for work this morning, I didn't go to the market. I usually don't, at least not anymore. Instead, I spend most of my time either watching people, cross-stitching, or tending to my little flower garden in the backyard. Today I mostly observed people from the front window as I usually do while hiding behind the curtain so they don't notice. There's something fascinating about the way they move, the desperation in their steps, the way they clutch their meager belongings as if it will keep them safe from the collapse. I can see the wear on their faces-lines etched deep from worry, hunger. Henry doesn't have those lines yet. He still thinks hard work will save him, save us. I do go to Mrs. Carson's, though, but not to socialize. She's older, weaker now, and doesn't notice when I slip into her parlor while she's napping. I go through her things, sometimes taking a trinket or two. Nothing of real value- just something to remind me how easy it is to get away with things when no one's looking. Aside from bringing me sad little flowers, Henry also came home late tonight after he went back to work from his lunchbreak. He always does lately, working extra shifts to bring in whatever scraps of money the factory deems fit to pay him. He kissed me on the forehead like he always does when he gets home, smelling of grease and smoke, his shirt soaked with sweat. I can barely stand to look at him when he's like that. He disgusts me- this man who works himself to the bone for so little, who thinks that effort is all it takes. He sat down at the table, tired, talking about the extra hours they've been giving him. He was almost proud of it, as if he's doing something noble by working himself to death. I didn't listen to most of what he said, just nodded when I felt like I needed to, watching him from across the table. I hadn't noticed it before, but the strain is starting to get to Henry. His hands were shaking slightly as he spoke. I can tell he already breaking down and we're only 23 and 24. I imagine by the time we're old he won't be good for anything, assuming he makes it to that age. And what will I be left with when something happens to him? Absolutely nothing. The house? No, I won't want it that point in life. I'm not sure I really want the place now. Then again, where else am I gonna go besides this sad little home? I'm certainly not going to move back in with my mother after all I've went through to get my own place, shackling myself to a person by law when I married Henry. I have never been one to swallow my pride for anyone or anything and I'm not about to start today. I suppose I will have to think of something when the time gets here. After dinner, Henry took my hand in his when we sat on the couch. He talked about how lucky we are, how grateful we should be for what we have. Grateful. For what? For this decaying house, for the pennies he brings home, for the fact that we haven't yet starved like the rest of them? He doesn't see it, the futility of all this. But I do. I pulled my hand away after a few moments, telling him I was tired. He looked disappointed, but only for a second. He never pushes. He just accepts whatever scraps I offer him and moves on, like the good little husband he is. Later, as I lay in bed next to him, listening to the soft wheeze of his breath as he slept, I thought about how easily this could all end. How quickly I could leave this life behind if I wanted to. Henry would never see it coming. He trusts me too much, loves me too much. Perhaps that is his greatest weakness besides being a dope. It isn't all bad however. I've actually come to learn a few things in my time with Henry- people like him, people who care, who love, they're the easiest to manipulate. They don't ask questions, they don't fight back. They let you take whatever you need from them until there's nothing left. And when there's nothing left, you move on. I don't pity Henry at all. If he want's to live here and work himself to death that's his choice. As for me, I have no plans on working at all. Why should I work for people who don't appreciate me for mere scraps of money? Besides, why should a woman of my nature have to work anyway. I am far above that and won't settle for anything less than I already have. Anyway, I suppose I should get back to bed before Henry wakes up.