Trouble Begonia was seventeen when the trouble began, and it had lasted. Sometimes it seemed that the only thing that lasted was trouble. There‘s a song that says, ―Fightin‘ and trouble are my middle name,‖ but Trouble was Trouble Begonia‘s first name.
―Trouble, begone-ya,‖ Trouble Begonia would sometimes think half-heartedly, but it lasted. It would last all her life. At least, she thought, she could count on that.
Violet Mood-Swings and Trouble Begonia had been friends since before anyone could remember. Before anyone could remember either one of them, they remembered the other. Trouble Begonia loved Violet Mood-Swings. Violet Mood-Swings had a place in the country with a garden with a swinging gate, but Trouble Begonia thought that all the flowers seemed artificial compared to Violet. She was deeply, fiercely loyal to Violet Mood-Swings, though it cost her her strength. Violet Mood-Swings had unlimited strength. She swung out and swung in. Trouble Begonia sometimes wished that they could swing on the swinging garden gate like children.
Trouble hurt. She hurt, but she hung on. The trouble with Trouble was that she was so beautiful and she hurt. Sometimes she hurt other people. She didn‘t know her own strength. It was in her deep pink petals and in the troubled look in her eyes. Sometimes Trouble Begonia thought that ―troubled‖ was the most beautiful word in the world.
Trouble Begonia was not a Double Begonia; she was a Triple Begonia, and somewhere way back she was a Quadruple. Violet Mood-Swings thought that she was the loveliest thing she had ever seen.
―Trouble, Begonia,‖ Violet Mood-Swings would announce to Trouble Begonia seriously, and troubled eyes would look into troubled eyes. Then they would laugh. When Trouble Begonia laughed she was the most beautiful thing in the world.
17
Cerise Corduroy was a friend of both Violet Mood-Swings and Trouble Begonia. She was a little girlish, but over all she was a nice, healthy person. She kept things level between Trouble Begonia and Violet Mood-Swings. She had a practical disposition.
Trouble Begonia and Violet Mood-Swings fell out over a man. Then the trouble really began. Trouble Begonia was all alone, which is not good for someone who needs a lot of nurturing and a lot of admiration. She was deeply troubled. She was beside herself. She was a ghost of her old self. She paled and drooped.
Violet Mood-Swings also paled and drooped, but she kept on swinging. She swung from one man to another. Trouble Begonia felt that her roots were gone, but she stayed in one place.
They were in their thirties now, and it was time to be respectable. Cerise Corduroy, who long ago had married a man of the cloth, tried to iron things out between Trouble Begonia and Violet Mood-Swings. They sat on her lawn, Trouble Begonia dressed in a sheer India print, and Violet Mood-Swings in a leading suit. ―Suit yourself,‖ said Violet Mood-Swings. How can I? asked Trouble silently. She thought it was time to be going.
She skirted the issue over and over. Finally, chalk white, Violet Mood-Swings gets up to go. Swinging her jacket over her shoulder, she stalks out to Marigold, her latest flame.
Trouble Begonia never knows when to leave.
Then Trouble Begonia met a man from the White Mountains, and all her troubles came out in the fresh air and blossomed. Bud after bud opened and bloomed. She had never been so much herself. The man from the White Mountains knew all about the hazards of transplanting and forcing blossoms, and he let her bumble, bee, and fly straight into his arms. She clung to him as to the side of a mountain. She was rich, she was poor, she was proud, she was humble, she was joyful, she was sad. She was herself. She was Trouble Begonia.
Violet Mood-Swings disappeared. Trouble Begonia throve on the stimulus and support of the man from the White Mountains. Trouble lasts. She was who she would always bee.
She grew up. She was Trouble Begonia.