Instead of giving Manderson the audience she’s looking for, however, I bend to my “work,” snipping, snipping and listening. Donnie the dope, he’s got nothing to say. The rest of the sunflowers droop and sway. Someone switches the television off and the thousand strings version of “Yesterday” wafts throughout the room. Little Miss Sunshine strolls the perimeter, pausing to open a jar of mucilage or admire a particularly deft use of composition. I adjust the pieces of my own composition and find LMS smiling over my shoulder. “What an unusual flower, Miss Dempsey.” I pat everything into place, waiting. She won’t get it. Sure enough, she holds it up by the thick red stem for everyone to see. A couple of the monkeys look up, scratch behind their ears or wipe gluey fingers on their clothes. “ Look what Miss Dempsey has created!” LMS burbles, obliviously holding the “flower” by the base of the cock so the frilly pink of the vulva bobbles, ready to orgasm. I’m thinking Manderson will be the first to get it, but am as shocked as everyone else when tiny Mrs. Fletcher shrieks. “ The children! The children!” She waves and bounces in her geri-chair, going alternately red and white in the face. She’s choking, LMS is doing the headless chicken dance and now Manderson gets it; so she’s roaring and pounding the table. The pandemonium is more than I’d hoped for, but I’d prefer old Fletchie not go and croak in front of the monkeys. With that first tea kettle screech, the kids get scared or curious on a case by case basis, but Manderson sets the rest off and each old lady around the table explodes as she gets a look at something she may have not seen in a good twenty years. There’s probably never been this much laughter and silliness ringing around the tired old day room and, once it’s clear that Fletchie’s just having the vapors, I’m rather pleased with myself. Then I see Dr. Miller arrive. Miller, the executive director of this little geriatric fiefdom who seldom, if ever, mingles with the Depends set. LMS has finally realized what she’s been waving around and drops it like it was dirty. The monkeys have seen, now they’re doing and at the top of their skinny, little lungs. Miller disposes of my “flower” and then raises his hands like Charleton Heston doing Moses. “Children, please!” His deep voice cuts through the hilarity and the kids all get that wary look as if he’s somehow intoned every single one of their middle names. The sunflowers are slower to comply, still tittering and snorting. “Ladies, I am surprised at you. Miss Klein, please take the children out to the garden. Mrs. Davis, kindly have the driver bring the bus around.” “Why?” Donnie, dopey or not, pipes up. “What’s everyone freakin’ out about? It’s just a big, ugly, weird flower.” He looks around for support and Manderson chimes in.
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