It wasn’t a surprise finding little Holiday in her red and brown chair, the burgundy curtains of the window parted to the side. It’s where she usually stayed, watching. It could’ve been raining or snowing or sunny, and no one would’ve been surprised to glance up at the old red and brown house and find little Holiday looking back at them. The most that older folks could get out of her was a half smile, a courteous recognition. The younger children would be greeted with a single hand on the glass, her way of saying hello. She’d smile back, a full one, and pretend she’s right there with them, on the other side of the window.
The home had been built in 1932. Mr. Eric Dent and Mrs. Susan “Black Eye” Dent had it built so that they could start their new family in an old town. It was said Mr. Dent dumped most of his life savings into the home, while Mrs. Dent made sure the rest was spent on the garden in front of it. Mrs. Dent could be seen in the local flower shop most days; she’d buy a bag of seeds on Monday, a trowel and watering can on Tuesday, a flower pot on Wednesday, and from Thursday to Saturday, Mrs. Dent could be found kneeling in her garden, waiting for something to grow.
Sunday’s in the Dent home were spent on prayer. During autumn and winter, the Dent’s could be found in the back of the church, silent but attentive. They’d be wrapped in heavy layers, no skin showing save for their extremities. They wouldn’t touch the Bible during mass or take a seat in the pews, but they’d always step forward for Communion and recite the only word most people knew them to say: Amen. In the spring and summer, the Dents were never seen much in town, let alone Church. They stayed home and were said to pray day and night, Sunday through Saturday, light to dark, dawn to dusk, just as the Lord would have wanted.
It wasn’t until 1936 that something grew in Mrs. Dent’s garden. She had garnered a reputation from the rest of the town that left them speechless when those days in the flower shop actually paid off. Mr. Dent didn’t make it a point to talk about it, but everyone knew something was off when Mrs. Dent hummed Sunday’s psalms as she purchased her bag of seeds. She made her way to the counter and dropped the dime and nickel into the shop owner’s hands. They shook their head and gave her the seeds for free, saying the Lord is good. Mrs. Dent smiled and agreed, Amen.
In 1941, Mr. Dent was drafted and left to serve his year. The town put on a modest farewell ceremony, and in 1943 they would put on another for him. Mrs. Dent didn’t attend the events, instead staying home to care for little Holiday. But every day Mr. Dent was gone, Mrs. Dent, accompanied by little Holiday who had learned her first word, would say her prayer and, together, end on an Amen.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Susan received a lot of advice and even more books on being a good wife. She was told how to clean, how to cook, how to shave, how to speak, how to walk, how to sleep, how to eat, how to kiss, and even how to make love, but she never seemed to learn. She’d walk down the street, her hands laced around Eric’s arms, and everyone would gawk at the bruise on her right eye. Susan would promise her friends that she was only praying too hard, hitting herself in the face with her folded hands, but “Black Eye Susan” stuck after the fourth week of the marriage and no sign of the bruises going away any time soon.
Mrs. Dent stopped going to the flower shop during the war. She was still in her garden, tending to it, but no one had the heart to tell her that what she had believed were her beautiful flowers were only weeds. She watered them and prayed for them and did her best to protect them, but the flowers she had been expecting to bloom had been choked out a long time ago. Nevertheless, Mrs. Dent would say her Amen’s at the end of the day, brush the dirt off, and make her way in to care for little Holiday.
Susan had two favorite colors: red and brown. She was a simple girl, wearing modest clothing, won over by the promise from a gentleman that he’d build her a red and brown house for them to live in. Her love story was merely the promise of a home she loved; red and brown furniture, red and brown walls, red and brown bed sheets, and red and brown pillows. Eric even promised to build her a red picket fence around the house—that was how he proposed. He brought her to a patch of dirt and ground, opened the red fence surrounding it, dropped to one knee and asked if she’d like that fence to be the entrance to their home one day. Susan smiled and held out her hand, Amen.
The red curtains on the study window were taken down and replaced with teal ones. Mrs. Dent did this as a present for Holiday’s 18th birthday, praising her daughter for becoming a beautiful and bright woman. Mrs. Dent even bought her daughter a blue and white chair to sit in. Holiday was ecstatic and spent the next week saying her prayers in thanks. She hadn’t gone to church, or outside really, since she was a young girl so she only knew a few psalms to say. As Mrs. Dent walked room to room in her thick, modest gown, watering dried dirt and dead seeds, Holiday sat in her blue and white chair, and smiled as she looked out from the window, saying her own Amen.
It wasn’t a surprise finding Holiday in her blue and white chair, the teal curtains of the window parted to the side. It’s where she usually stayed, watching. It could’ve been raining or snowing or sunny, and no one would’ve been surprised to look up at the old red and brown house and find Holiday looking back at them. No one would have been surprised if there was something wrong with that old woman who watched the town quietly and safely behind the glass. Nothing about Holiday could have surprised the town—not even finding her quiet and still in her chair, resting in a flower pot.