Lavender

Lavender By Xavier Axelson Immediately following my father’s funeral, I f****d a stranger at a rest stop a mile from our lavender farm. The week leading up to the funeral proved horrendous. Dad’s death sent my mother and I into a fugue. We wandered around the farmhouse like untethered specters, unable to cope with his sizeable absence. She wrung her hands and I chewed my nails. She’d found him in the lavender, the sun dipping below the horizon, the fields on fire with sunset reds and blazing oranges. She’d hoped to share the moment with him. The heart attack had other ideas. Tears, endless pacing, muttering in French, and vacant staring into the violet-streaked fields consumed her time. No amount of hugging, holding, and comfort eased the sorrow. Impotent and grieving, we recoiled into solitary shells. The funeral consisted of local well-wishers offering condolences, sweets, and casseroles. Around us, the black mass moved among the lavender. “They just don’t know,” she whispered. “No, they don’t,” I agreed. “Go inside, let me handle the rest.” She shook her head. “I won’t leave you to the Crows or the monks.” “Kind of them to come.” “Monks sense death.” She didn’t share my father’s religious pursuits, preferring more reserved, private expressions of faith. Brother Lucius caught my eye. I looked away. My body ached and my head throbbed. I needed a man. “That old sewing machine,” my Uncle Dart said, wrapping his hands around mine. “It really belonged to our mother. Your cousin Shell would love—” Startled, I jerked from his grasp. “What?” “Take the sewing machine,” Mom said, “and leave.” Dart backed away. “We’re family, Lu. You’re as much a Crow as anyone.” No one called Mom “Lu,” except Uncle Dart. She hated him and most of Dad’s simple, uncultured family. “‘Vulture’ is more like it,” Mom spat. “Circling, always circling! Take the sewing machine and get off our land.” Uncle Dart looked as though he wanted to protest, but thankfully, remained silent. “Come, Law,” Mom said. “I was hoping Law would bring out the sewing machine—” “Absolutely not.” “Mom, I don’t mind helping—” She smiled at me, then turned on Dart. “I want you to have to take it from your brother’s house—be the vulture you really are.” I shrugged at my uncle’s shocked face. “She’s grieving.” “We’re all grieving,” he retorted. “I lost my brother.” Dart left with the sewing machine, and my cousins in tow. I waved but didn’t care if I ever saw them again. Inside, Mom stared out the windows at guests as they got into their cars and drove off. “Your father didn’t care about anything but us,” she whispered. “All this, we built for you. The farm is yours.” The memory of my father prostrate beneath the waving lavender stems rose up like a wave. “I have to go…” She didn’t move, or speak. I left her staring at the empty gravel parking lot and the lavender fields. I stumbled along the long dusty driveway onto the street. Black limousines snaked by, kicking up dust as they passed. My suit smelled of lavender and dirt. I couldn’t wait to shed the clothes and get off. Piano music played in my head, the song Dad insisted I learn, mastered days before he died. He loved hearing me play. “Play that song again, Law,” he’d said, whisking Mom across the creaking floorboards. Dad called me Law; the dreaded “Lawrence” came out only when I was in trouble. The blaring of a car’s horn killed the music. The driver leaned on the horn, and gestured. I moved closer to the side, not realizing how far into the road I’d strayed, uncertain how much I cared. Twisted and dangerous, the road wound through the mountain towns like a dusty serpent. Tourists stopped at scenic rest spots to take pictures and stretch their legs. Sweat streamed from my armpits and back. I shed my blazer and slid off my suspenders, leaving wet stripes down my chest. The suspenders hit my legs as I walked. I pulled the sweat-damp shirt from my pants and tore the tie from my neck. The first rest area proved unlucky as a noisy family had stopped and was eating lunch and taking pictures. I threw my coat over my shoulder and kept walking. The second vista pointest area was more secluded and only those who were looking for action, or seriously lost tourists, wound up there. I rounded the sharp curve in time to see a car swing into the parking lot. I walked to the rotting wooden tables designated for picnics. Beyond this, a slatted fence of dubious repair urged people to watch their step. The other side dropped off into a pine forest. This didn’t stop me from climbing and sitting atop the rickety fence. I flung my coat and watched the jacket plummet, catch wind, and sail to its grave amid the trees. The week before my father died, we’d made plans to travel to France. Dad had been so excited, planning our route, talking endlessly about the first time he saw Paris and when he met my super glamorous, beautiful mother. “You should have seen her, Law,” he’d said. His voice full of awe and his eyes dreamy, he’d gazed at my mother, mixing up a batch of lavender water. “How or why she agreed to marry a farmer, I have no idea.” He’d gotten up and went to her, kissed her neck, and she’d laughed. “Play the keys, Law…” Loss opens you up, and I couldn’t fill the holes fast enough. A voice interrupted my thoughts. “Hey.” The dude from the car leaned on the fence. He smelled of too much cologne and his face had an irritating earnest quality. “Hey.” I slid off the fence, my back to the killer pine tree drop. My heels poised, straining against gravity. “Careful,” the man said. “Nope, never careful.” I appreciated his surprised look and hopped back onto the fence. He looked as though he wanted to talk. I had no intention of wasting words with a stranger. Undoing my belt and unzipping my pants eliminated the unnecessary need for conversation. I f****d him like my father’s funeral hadn’t broken my heart. Not one for chatter during f*****g, I gave him little to go off besides grunts and snorts. The bottom’s face looked agonized and thrilled. “f**k, yes,” he said over and over like a mantra. My father’s dead, fucker, I thought as my balls slapped against his ass. The rhythm of his body melted into mine. The memory of the priest standing in the lavender fields sprung into my head. “Ashes to ashes…” I f****d harder. “So f*****g deep,” he grunted. “Harder, f**k my ass!” My ankles ached and sweat pooled at the band of my black nylon socks. “f**k you,” I spat, drool dribbling onto his face as I drove into him. “Yeah, f**k me,” he returned as he stroked his c**k. I didn’t give a s**t about his enjoyment. “You gonna come?” He looked up and raked his fingers along my thighs. The question pierced the veil. “When I’m ready,” I said. “When…I’m ready…Uggh!” I forgot death and let pleasure win. Gravel ground beneath my shoes, and my feet slipped. I lost my balance and collapsed onto him. c*m pumped from my balls and ballooned the condom. I withdrew my still-hard c**k and rubbed it back and forth along his gaping, pink asshole. I slid back in and relished the relaxed warmth until my c**k shrank. “I’m coming,” the man growled as c*m spewed from his c**k. The desolation of death crept back into my thoughts, and I wanted another distraction. For a second, I thought of punching him. The man must have sensed a change in my demeanor because he struggled beneath me. The sound of a car passing made us jump. I sprung up, discarded the spent condom, and scrambled into my funeral pants and shirt. “Come on,” I said, offering my hand. He snatched his discarded shorts in one hand and my hand with the other. “Thanks,” he said, sliding into his shorts. The car blew past, passengers none the wiser. “Great f**k,” the man said. He drew close, sniffing. “What’s that smell?” He sniffed again. “Cologne?” “I don’t wear cologne,” I replied before yanking the hair on the back of his head. He winced. “Flowers, or—” “Lavender,” I answered, then let him go. I tossed the crushed remains of lavender flowers from my pockets. “Can I kiss you?” he asked. “No.” “You sure?” I nodded and backed away. Overhead, hawks wheeled and the hot wind whispered in the pine boughs. “Ashes to ashes,” I said, leaving him standing in his shorts.