April Showers Drown May Flowers

The old neighborhood was nearly unrecognizable. My sister Kendra and I gazed out at the busy highway rushing past what used to be a sophisticated part of town. As we walked past abandoned buildings, I tried to remember them in their youth, when I was a teenager. Of course, thinking that far back required me to think about her...

---

“April Showers bring May flowers,” at least, that’s what my aunt always used to tell me. It’s cliche, I know, but she was a cliche woman. My aunt was the sort of lady that would read all the sappy romance stories while trying out the latest diet pill and screaming over a broken nail. My aunt was the sort of person that tried to look endearing and philosophical on the outside, then got drunk when no one was looking. She had a plank in her eye a mile wide and yet insisted on pointing out the specks of dust in the eyes of others. She burned money faster than she burned cigarettes, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her.

In other words, she was the exact opposite of me.

People outside of my family looked on me in disapproval. I guess my ripped jeans, long hair, and dark leather jacket made me look like a kid off the streets, but I didn’t mind. I preferred being eighteen-year-old Trick, the tough guy, the black sheep of our pristine, gated community, over being Patrick O’Donnel. My aunt, on the other hand, couldn’t stand looking anything but perfect. While I was out throwing knives with my friends and earning scandalized glances from strangers, she was the heart of the party inside.

Our family, however, knew better. Everyone had witnessed at least one of her drunken rages that run on late into the night, followed by apologetic kisses that reeked of liquor and cigarette smoke. Kendra, who was only thirteen and small for her age, would always lock her bedroom door when my aunt came over so her dresses wouldn’t get stolen in the middle of the night.

Luckily, I only had to see her once a year. Easter was a big family reunion, and nothing, not even three generations of disapproval, could keep her from driving down in her hot pink Volkswagen Beetle. Each year was the same. She would announce her arrival with loud beeps from the driveway, expecting us to carry all of her bags inside in exchange for a sharp pinch on the cheek. Then, looking up at the sky, whether it was sunny or storming, she would exclaim:

“April showers bring May flowers, my dears! And here I am!”

Then, without another word, she swept into the house as if she owned it, and that was the end of the consistency. From the moment her sharp black heels touched the hardwood floors, we didn’t know what was going to happen, until she left at the end of the week in the same manner. Each year, a frame of ridiculous habit surrounded a week of chaotic uncertainty… until the year of the fire.

---

“Mom!” I yelled into the empty hallway, “I’m home!”

No one answered me, which I found rather strange. Most afternoons my mother was baking yet another batch of cookies for the orphanage while my father was in his office taking phone calls. They were a happy, social couple who tried to see the best in everybody, even me. That, combined with the normal ruckus surrounding the annual family reunion, made it a rare occasion when the house was completely silent. Curious, I put away my knives under the loose floorboard in my room and wandered down the hall.

It didn’t take long for me to find someone. Kendra was reading quietly in her room, but put away the book as I walked in.

“Did you have fun playing with your contraband?” Kendra asked slyly, but not unkindly.

I scowled. Everyone in my family knew I had more than one knife hidden in my possession, even though they technically weren’t allowed in our gated community. My parent’s viewed the illegal activity, along with my rough friends who lived outside our polished society, as a way for me to express myself and vent my ‘teenage frustration.’ Of course, this didn’t protect me from everyone’s disapproval, including theirs. Despite their leniency, their certainty that they could ‘fix me’ in some way was one of the many reasons why I often resented my parents. Kendra was the family favorite, and while I didn’t blame her for that, I didn’t like her poking fun at my hobby.

She smiled innocently at me, making me even more irritated.

“Where is everyone?” I asked roughly.

“Grandfather took the men out to golf, and grandmother took the women to a knitting class. I think they’re making clothes for Cousin Margie’s baby.”

“Even our aunt?” I couldn’t imagine our decadent, stereotypical relation knitting anything, especially baby clothes.

“Even our aunt,” Kendra replied grimly, “although not by choice. Grandmother wanted to give Mom and Dad some time to breathe before we start cooking Easter dinner tomorrow.”

“Remind me,” I began, playing dummy, “is that the part where the kitchen smells like burned things, all of the men are sneaking food, and all of the women are either crying or yelling at the men?”

Kendra swatted at me with the book. “More or less, you uncivilized moron.”

I grinned and dodged the blow. Despite our differences, Kendra and I usually got along decently well.

“Where are they then?” I asked, “Our parents, I mean.”

“They’ve been in their room for hours,” she replied, already absorbed in her book again. “I don’t know why.”

I shrugged and left her to her novel. Quietly opening the door to their room, I heard my parent’s voices inside. They weren’t inside the bedroom, but the door to the master bathroom was closed as well. From inside, I heard my name mentioned, then Kendra’s. What were they doing in there?

Curiosity aroused, I creeped up to the door and placed my ear against the crack underneath. My face was pressed into the cold floor and my legs were falling asleep beneath me, but I could hear everything.

“It’s done then,” my father’s deep voice noted.

“Yes,” agreed my mother’s cool, airy voice. “It’s nice to have everything settled. You’ll never know when something might happen.”

I had no clue what they were talking about. Confused, I pressed my nose into the floor so one of my eyes could peek under the door. Piles of legal papers were scattered over the tile. My father (the one with the hairy feet) was holding an extremely official looking document in his lap. He shifted, and suddenly I realised what he was holding in his hands. It was a will. I wasn’t sure whether to be amused or worried. My parents are much older than they pretend to be, but not old enough to be thinking about a will!

“Indeed,” my father boomed, as if he were some great scholar. “I don’t always approve of your sister, but I trust that she will take good care of our money and estate once she has some true responsibilities to the world.”

I sat up in shock, then fell back down again as my numb legs tingled painfully. They were giving everything to her? What about Kendra and I? There must have been some mistake. I pressed my ear to the door again.

“Once they're old enough,” my father read off, “everything that isn’t donated to charity will be Patrick and Kendra’s.” He sounded quite satisfied with himself.

My mother sounded slightly nervous. “Are you sure we shouldn’t consult a lawyer first?” she inquired of her husband. “I wouldn’t want to forget anything...”

“Why waste the time of others when we can do things ourselves?” my father replied. “Don’t worry about a thing, nothing is going to happen anyway!”

“True,” my mother acquiesced. “I do hope this won’t be too much of a shock to my sister. She has been very-” she paused, looking for the nicest term- “gaudy lately, but I’m quite certain there’s still some good left in her.”

I wasn’t sure if my mother was intentionally quoting Star Wars or not, but either way, I had had enough. My parents were the sort of people who tried to see the best in people, but this was ridiculous. They knew full well what my aunt really was, yet instead of trusting us with the money, Kendra and I would someday get jipped out of our inheritance in favor of my cliche aunt. Yes, the money would be ours in a few years, but knowing my aunt, the cash would be gone in half the time.

I was about to storm into Kendra’s room and tell her what I had heard, when I stopped myself. My parent’s weren’t that old, after all. If they were lucky, they could live for another thirty to fifty years. Besides, I realised grimly, it would be best not to bring it up while my aunt was in the house. Once she got the idea of an inheritance into her head, there would be no convincing my parents to change the will. I would have loads of time to confront my parents, without starting a family war.

How wrong I was.

---

The cause of the fire was simple. A gas tank in the used car dealership they worked in exploded. The cost, however, was more complex than that. The building was completely flattened and fifteen people were killed. Two of those people were my mother and father, and everything changed for us.

It was less than a week after they had written the will.

Kendra was devastated. She sat in the living room, never speaking, never eating, just staring blankly into space. I was never very close to my parents, but I too felt that something in my life had gone missing. And then, of course, there was the money.

Our various relations had just left, and many were unable to travel right back. We weren’t expecting anyone to come by for at least a week. It was a surprise, then, when the obnoxious honk of my aunt’s car horn greeted me in the driveway the next day.

It was considered improper in my family to open a will before the funeral, but my aunt was never much for propriety in family settings. I suspected she wanted to read it before anyone else arrived. What she discovered first was no shock to anyone; my parents had left her the majority of their money and the house. I had prepared myself for this, but even so, I balled my hands into fists as my aunt gloated over my parent’s money- my money. I glanced at Kendra, but she was still sitting there, too lost in her grief to be any help. Suddenly, a gasp by my aunt made me spin around.

“Darlings,” she said, “You know how I always say that April showers bring May flowers?”

I chose not to respond to the stupid question.

“Well,” she continued, “Your parents had decided to let me take care of you!”

Kendra turned her head sharply behind me, her first movement in hours. I stared at my aunt in shock. How could this opulent, disgusting woman, full of pink lace and cigarette smoke, be our guardian? I looked back at Kendra, but she was a statue again, exactly as before but for the narrow, angry gleam in her eyes. Once again, we were agreed. Without another word, I leaned over, picked up my frail sister, and walked out of the room.

---


I laid Kendra in her bed, then opted to sleep on the floor of her room. I wouldn’t put it past my aunt to do something unexpected in the middle of the night. I had almost dozed off in front of the door when I heard my name whispered behind me. I turned, and saw Kendra facing me, a question in her eyes.

“Patrick?” she asked again.

For once, I wasn’t upset over the use of my full name. “Yeah?” I whispered, crawling to the foot of her bed.

“What am I going to do?”

“Don’t worry, okay?” I quietly commanded her. “I’ll figure something out.” In truth, I had no idea what to do. Nothing short of Hades could keep my aunt away from what she considered hers.

“What am I going to do?” she repeated shakily. “What am I going to do?”

Realizing she was still in shock, I laid back down. Her softening gasps began to paint a soundtrack in my mind, and I started to think of a plan. Nothing short of Hades…

I woke up early the next morning on the hard cold floor with a cramp all the way up my leg. I looked back at Kendra, thanking whatever deity there was that she had finally fallen asleep. I knew my aunt wouldn’t be awake until late into the morning, so I began to carry out my plot.

By the time eight o’clock rolled around, all of my aunt’s cigarettes had been dumped into the toilet and her new wine bottles had been poured out and refilled with spoiled milk. The kitchen would reek for days, but I was pretty sure I could keep Kendra occupied upstairs. I quickly dashed back up the steps and slipped back into Kendra’s room. Nothing had been disturbed in my absence, but Kendra was awake again.

I was surprised by the alertness her eyes had already regained when she spoke. “I’m hungry.”

I was about to tell her to make her own breakfast when I remembered the mess downstairs. Smiling to myself, I ran downstairs to get some food from the pantry. It was going to be an interesting couple of weeks.

---

Despite my initial hopes, and the animalistic screech my aunt let out after discovering the soaked cigarettes, things went from bad to worse. My plot soon hit a small pothole, as my aunt made me pay for anything of hers I destroyed. After informing her that I had no money, she walked off in a self-righteous huff, calling over her shoulder:

“You’ll pay in other ways, young man!”

Undaunted, I continued in my attempt to force her to flee the premises. My initial concerns about the money seemed petty compared to the torture of living with this beast. However, nothing, not even throwing her new jeweled bag off a bridge, seemed to phase her for more than a day. I guess earning an inheritance can do that to people, because no matter what I did, she would just pay to have it fixed, except to a gaudier and more opulent scale.

Another unpleasant side-effect of my pranks was that the house was often a mess. My aunt, I quickly learned, despised cleaning anything. For the majority of my life, I had managed to avoid chores that involved cleaning the house, and Kendra was not going to be any help for a while. Of course, given the state of things, my aunt didn’t want the family to stay in the house. At first, she insisted that we come with her to the grand hotels she had booked for our various relations. Kendra, however, wasn’t going anywhere, and I refused to leave her.

To be honest, I could’ve cared less. I was glad to have the house to ourselves.

She didn’t care about me or my sister one whit. I wouldn’t have that either, except Kendra hadn’t spoken aloud again since that morning. She no longer sat and stared all day, but seeing her wander around like a ghost was somehow even creepier. Only at night would I hear her whisper:

“What am I going to do? What am I going to do?”

Kendra needed medical attention, stuff that I couldn’t provide to her on my own, especially without money. My aunt, however, wouldn’t hear it.

“It’s just a phase, dear, you know how teenagers are!”

“But-” I tried to argue.

“No buts! You’re going through a bit of a naughty phase too, young man, so don’t be surprised if your sister is moody every once in a while.”

“Also,” she said, pouring a glass of wine, “Due to both of your actions, I feel like it is necessary that you two stay at home for a while- which means-” she glared at me, “you won’t be going to your parents funeral.”

I stared at her in shock, too stunned for words. She took a swig of her imported Italian wine, slammed down her sixth empty glass, and that was the end of the conversation.

Nothing was working. Things had gone from bad to worse, and I knew I was getting desperate. No one in our community would believe me if I told them what was going on. Why should they, when they think my aunt’s influence was a greater blessing than my hoodlum self deserves? I needed a new plan. It didn’t take long for one to fall into my lap.

---

Kendra was the one who found the body early the next morning. She didn’t yell, but when her thin hands, covered in gloves to help her dry skin, tapped me on the shoulder, I knew something was wrong. Following her upstairs, I only paused a moment to look at the slashed and bloody corpse. I pulled Kendra away as fast as I could and ran for the telephone. Before I could dial 911, however, she grabbed my face and forced me to look at her.

The look she gave me was not the same look in her eyes after our parent’s died. It was a look of fear as she shakily pointed a finger at me. I tried to look as innocent as I could, but inwardly I was thrilled. To think that the witch was finally gone for good! I looked Kendra in the eye.

“I can take care of us. We don’t need her.”

The fear in her eyes faded slightly, but her finger was still pointed at my chest. Firmly taking the phone out of my hand, she tossed it away. I looked down at the finger and realised what she was asking.

“If you want to blame me,” I began, “that’s fine. I’ve been torturing her as much as I could these past couple weeks.” I tried to articulate my feelings “Think of it as merciful. For all of us.”

She lowered her finger and nodded. Then, kicking the phone under the sofa, she made one thing painfully clear. We couldn’t call the police. I would be convicted in an instant. Turning back to me, Kendra made a waving motion with her gloved hands. It took me a second to realise what she meant.

“You want to take a shower?” I asked quizzically. She hadn’t bathed since our parent’s deaths, weeks ago.

She nodded and walked upstairs, leaving me to consider how to hide a dead body and two parentless teenagers.

---

A few days passed, and Kendra and I spent the majority of our time cleaning up the corpse. She didn’t look surprised when she found one of my long-handled knives next to the body covered in blood. I had to hand it to her, she was tougher than she looked. Washing it in the sink, she replaced it with all of the other knives I had hidden from my once-perfect family.

We filled the bathtub with ice and left the body in there to deal with later. Cleaning up the bedroom was a challenge, and not just because of the bloodstains. Every corner we looked in had something of ours stashed away. My grandfather’s watch that I never wore. Letters from our friends and family, covered in cigar ashes and wine stains. True to her past predictions, we even found one of Kendra’s dresses hidden under a pillow and covered in bloodstains from the body. I saw her eyes widen when I pulled out the ruined garment. Grabbing it from my hand, she ran to the bathroom and frantically tried to wash out the day-old brown spots. Another price we paid for my aunt’s negligence and self-indulgence.

Meanwhile, Kendra seemed to be slowly recovering. I could tell that she was trying to communicate, but what she couldn’t articulate in words she made up for with her hands. Deftly moving them to respond to my speech, we were able to create basic conversation.

Finally, after three days, we had to deal with the body. Kendra waved her hand over her nose when we unlocked the bathroom. She was right, the place stunk like rotting meat. I looked down at the limp body, covered in frills save for the place where her neck had been slashed open. Kendra made a movement I couldn’t quite catch.

“What?”

She made it again; pointing at the gaping wound and shrugging at no one in particular. It looked like a question, but the look in her eyes was something I couldn’t identify. Sometimes this happened, and I simply couldn’t understand what she was trying to say to me.

“C’mon,” I shrugged, “we’ve got to get rid of this thing.”

She sighed, and grabbed my aunt’s dangling feet as I lifted her upper body. Even in death, that woman felt like she had just eaten all the birthday cakes in the world, without sharing anything with the children. Snickering at the apt description of my aunt, I turned out of the bathroom and backed down the stairs.

It was a risk, taking the body into the basement, but we really didn’t have much of a choice. The basement floor was simply packed dirt, perfect for emergency grave digging. We originally used it as a play area when we moved in a few years after Kendra was born, but it soon was changed into a storage area because Kendra would always say there were scary noises downstairs. Mom and Dad blamed the heater, but walking down the steps for the first time in months, I reaffirmed my suspicion that we weren’t the first people to bury a body down there.

It took over three hours to dig a hole deep enough to hide the body. Kendra tried to help, but her frail hands soon started to develop blisters. She would sit on the side, watching me shovel dirt. Occasionally she would glance behind her, remembering ghosts of her childhood, I assumed. As we pushed the body into the hole and replaced the dirt, I felt a sense of exhilaration. We had nothing more to fear from this woman. Kendra grabbed an old rug and threw it over the patch of loose soil. I pulled a trunk on top of that, and it was over. No one would ever know.

As we walked out of the basement, Kendra paused again, making the same motion she had made in the bathroom, pointing to the rug. I still couldn’t understand, so I smiled at her and shrugged back. Kendra stomped her foot, and I could tell this was serious.

“Kendra, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

She did it again: a pale hand pointing towards an invisible body and a shrug. Still I didn’t understand.

“Do you want to know if she was confused?”

She shook her head.

“Well that’s great, because I am,” I joked. The look on her face told me that this was not funny.

“Fine,” I replied, sobering up. “What are you trying to say?”

In a huff, she pulled me up the stairs and into the living room. Pushing me down on the couch with an angry look on her face, she grabbed a piece of paper from the printer and a red pen. She tried to write something down, but her blisters wouldn’t let her hold the pen. Taking the offending device from her hand, I gripped the pen and placed her hand on mine. Slowly, she began to guide my writing.

W
H
O

She paused, and I looked at her in confusion. Shifting the paper, she then continued:

D
O

Another space.

Y
O
U

“Like?” I asked jokingly. “You know I don’t have a girlfriend! Not anymore, at least...”

She gave me a stern look and continued writing.

T
H
I
N
K

At this point, I realized what a spectacle we would be, if anyone were around to see us. A wan, silent girl with bleeding fingers, guiding the hand of a rough teenage boy with blood stains and dirt painting pictures of gore up his arms. Suddenly, Kendra looked up, and I saw what she had finished writing:

Who do you think killed her?

“Duh,” I laughed at the seemingly obvious question. “She killed herself! All the hell I gave her finally paid off, huh?”

Kendra shook her head. She took my hand again, gently, and began drawing pictures:

A dollar bill,

A phone lying under a lopsided sofa,

And single, bloody knife.

“No.” I looked Kendra in the eyes. “I swear, much as I would have loved to-”

Kendra shook her head again, but I continued.

“I never killed her.”

---

We stared at each other for a long time. I could tell Kendra was debating something in her head, but my mind was constantly running through all of the evidence against me. The knives, the inheritance I would have gained if my aunt died, our conversation by the phone, and my general reception in our community… for the first time, I wondered if our neighbors had noticed that my aunt, Kendra, and I hadn’t left the house in days. Our prim and proper community was an inquisitive, gossiping bunch, and we would be lucky if someone didn’t come knocking tomorrow. When they found out that my aunt was missing… I grabbed Kendra’s hand and raced upstairs. A kind of raw panic had found its way into my body.

I ducked into the bathroom and closed all of the window blinds. I turned on the cold water to try to wash out all of the blood before the ice melted. My body was operating on instinct, an animalistic defense mechanism as I scrubbed at the dark stains against the porcelain walls of the tub- until I heard a soft whisper behind me.

“Patrick, stop.”

I spun around. Behind me, Kendra was staring into the sink and holding a familiar garment in her hand- the dress my aunt had pilfered and ruined in her death throes. Despite my sister’s best efforts, a shadow of the bloodstains still covered patches of the pale fabric. She could have been a statue in a national park, a monument to things lost and gone. I almost thought I had imagined her quiet voice, until she spoke again.

“Do you know who killed her?”

“Herself,” I repeated weakly, sliding down to sit on the cold bathroom tiles. “She killed herself. There’s no other explanation.”

“No Patrick,” she whispered, never taking her eyes off the dress. “I know it’s not you. But,” she looked me in the eye, “how many people commit suicide by slitting their own throats?”

Her words rang with truth, but I tried not to listen. “I admit, it’s weird, but not impossible. She could have done it, if she really wanted to.”

Kendra looked at me in sympathy. “Don’t you think it would be easier for her to just stab herself?”

“Maybe she was drunk. Maybe she didn’t want to ruin her clothes. Maybe she was trying to frame me!” I spat bitterly. “She sure did a good job of that!”

Tears sprung into Kendra’s eyes. “Patrick…”

“Stop calling me that!” I snapped. “Stop telling me it was murder, stop being so silent all the time, STOP EVERYTHING!”

I glared at her, breathing heavily. To her credit, she didn’t break eye contact. Once again, I couldn’t read her expression. The only clue I had was the single tear rolling down her cheek.

“Patrick-”

“What!”

“Patrick don’t tell me to stop being silent if you won’t let me explain.”

That stung. I fell silent.

“Patrick,” she began again, her voice barely audible over the running water, “It wasn’t suicide.”

“THEN WHAT WAS IT?!” I exploded again. “IF SHE DIDN’T KILL HERSELF, THEN WHO DID? I SURE AS HELL DIDN’T!”

“Patrick,” she repeated, “You’re forgetting someone. Someone who had just as much of a motive as you.”

It took a while for that to sink in. Recollections began to race through my mind again:

The one thing we used to always agree upon.

Angry, narrowed green eyes.

The gloved hands that tapped me on the shoulder that morning.

The fearful yet calm determination as she pulled the phone out of my hand.

The shower she insisted on taking afterwards.

The meticulous way she put away a knife in a hiding spot that that no one had known about.

Wide eyes as I pulled out a bloodstained dress.

Fearful looks backwards as I became a part-time gravedigger…

“What am I going to do?”

I stared at her in shock. “You- you killed her?”

“Yes,” she whispered, never taking her eyes off of mine. “I don’t regret it… she would have destroyed us.”

“But-but,” I stammered, unable to take it in, “How did you- the knife- were you wearing that dress?” I wracked my brain to see if I could remember what she had worn that day, but clothing is not a man’s strong suit.

Kendra giggled slightly, the first time I had heard her laugh in weeks. “Yes, I wore the dress. I had been wearing it all week until that point, remember? When you pulled it out, I was so scared you would realise…”

“Not something you needed to worry about.” I muttered to myself.

“As for the knife,” she continued, her voice getting stronger, “it wasn’t hard to find. I hide things in my underwear drawer too, you know.”

I thought of all that could be hiding between my sister’s underpants, then blushed slightly at the thought. I thought no one else in my family would even consider something as scandalous as looking through someone’s boxers for contraband… I had, obviously, seriously underestimated my sister.

“But-” I continued to stammer, “the whole time, you weren’t speaking...”

Kendra paused, and for a moment the closed, fearful look returned to her emerald eyes. “I-I was losing touch- a little bit- I think. I didn’t want to think about anything that reminded me of Mom and Dad… including you. So I focused on something else.”

“Her?” I asked.

“Her.”

I sat back, letting everything sink in. “You realise,” I began, “that this is a bit hard to take in.”

“Of course,” she smiled slightly.

“You killed our aunt.”

“Yes.”

“You slit her throat with one of my knives.”

“Yes.”

“You then changed out of your stained dress, stuffed it under a pillow, put on new clothes, and then put on your skin-care gloves to hide the literal blood on your hands.”

“Yes.”

“Wow…”

---

She looked at me with a proud expression on her face. Her demeanor had changed so radically from the silent child of before. I couldn’t pretend to understand it, but I knew one thing for sure.

“We have to get out of here,” I ordered, pulling myself up and turning off the running water behind me. The tub was sparkling clean, free of any stains or chunks of ice. No one would ever know what happened.

“Hang on,” Kendra replied quickly. “Follow me.”

We went back downstairs and sat back down on the sofa, where this had all started. Putting the red pen back in my hand and getting a new sheet of paper, Kendra quickly helped me to write a note from my aunt to the world, explaining that she wanted to leave the country for somewhere more romantic, though not specifying where. She had been gone for a couple days, and we, according to the letter, would follow her to our new home after she has a week to herself. In the meantime, the house would be left alone until we come back to pack up for good. The closing was simple and cliche, just like her:

“April showers bring May flowers, as I always say. I was a May flower when I arrived, as I shall always be to this community. However, the April showers must move from nation to nation, gracing the world with the flowers that follow!”

Not exactly accurate, but very true if you were a person like my aunt. I had to admit, it sounded an awful like how my she would write; full of grand claims and generous sentiments that masked the selfishness underneath. I had always been good at mimicking handwritings, and my aunt’s flowering, almost overly curly handwriting was not unlike an exaggerated version of my late mother’s. At the bottom of the note, I added a bit in my own handwriting saying that we had left, dating it with today’s date.

As I placed the note on the kitchen table, Kendra handed me a small suitcase of clothes, toiletries, and a few small valuables. To anyone else, it would look like we were going on a quick vacation. I pulled out my grandfather’s watch, wondering how much we could sell it for at the next pawn shop. That was really all it was good for, after all.

Together, we walked out of the house. The memory of my aunt’s black heels crossing the threshold would haunt us for the rest of our lives, but we never looked back.

“It’s too bad we couldn’t get our hands on the money too,” Kendra noted as I hailed a taxi.

“Oh, you never know,” I joked, “Our aunt isn’t really very good at driving…”

“Ah…” Kendra smiled, “I suppose there could be an accident; a tragic skid off of a bridge perhaps…”

“And since she is our legal guardian,” I continued, “all of that poor woman’s money will go to us, of course!”

“And that, officer,” quipped Kendra as the taxi pulled up, “is how I killed my aunt!”

Laughing, we stepped into the taxi. It was only about a month after Easter, but already I felt a change in the winds. Destination: October. All of the May flowers would be dead by then.

-

Kendra turned and smiled at me, and I smiled back. She was still a small woman at forty, but there were wrinkles on her face from constant worry. She never fully recovered from those harrowing weeks, and there are still days when she won’t speak to anybody.

I don’t think I will ever fully understand why she wanted to go back. After almost thirty years on the run, I was could almost hear the sound of a car horn, the slam of a gaudy, pink door, and a haunting saying:

“April showers bring May Flowers, my dears!”

And there we were.