Miss Emily's father was a pharmacist, a man of science, back when men of science were neither feared nor respected. His pay was small and he taught classes at the college for the younge men who had not had polio when they were children and had been healthy enough to go to war in far off places called Europe and Iwo Jima and had now returned heroes and victors and had come back to collect their just rewards, their new homes and cars and jobs and careers rung out of the education they were now being given by the men who did not leave, could not leave. Those self same men of science like Miss Emily 's father were the men of science and men of action and who had truly ended the war with two massive displays of science that were still sending shockwaves rippling through history's tides. They were the men of science who would eventually become the ones, the feared and respected. But Miss Emily's father was not one of them. He was small. Always had been a small man. And even when he stood tall he was still a small man on the inside.
Miss Emily's mother had come from a family of bakers. Growing up she never had the hardships her husband had. She had tasted sugar every day since she was two. How she kept her girlish frame through all the years was a secret her mother only shared with her and when the time came she also showed Miss Emily the way in which a woman could eat what she want and keep her form as long as she was subtle. No one was more subtle than her mother.
They must have met over a shared interest in mixing. She mixed hands full of flour and sugar and egg and butter. He mixed tubes of sulpheric oxide and ammonia phosphate. And so with their natural tendency, no, their love for mixing things it is no wonder that their lives mixed together and they were married soon after and had Miss Emily soon after that And so she grew and her mother baked apple pies with thick, rich buttery crumble on top and tried to pretend not to hear the rumors of how "miraculous" it was that a full grown child could be born four months prematurely and how didn't the little miss Emily have the greenest eyes they had ever seen, nothing like the eyes of her father but more the eyes of the good for nothing tramp Henry Phillips that had been her mothers sweetheart before he had abruptly left town, joined the navy, deserted, and soon after her mother and father had started their mixing. Just in time, they might add. She kept baking her buttery apple pies and pretended not to hear the looks.
But Miss Emily's mother was not the only one to hear the talk. Her father was a man of science and had to live under the mockery of the returned young men who neither knew nor cared that men of science were now beings to be feared, beings to be respected, beings who could level entire cityscapes and leave haunted skyscrapers with empty eye sockets. And he had to endure the taunting looks of their young wives as they looked at his wife and his daughter and talked more and more of the man named Henry Phillips with his green eyes. And he started to see his daughter, little Miss Emily in a new light. Her eyes were nothing like his own dark ones. They were indeed the most emerald green he had ever seen. And the devil slowly entered his heart though those dark eyes of his .
For he dared to think surely this is not flesh of my flesh or bone of my bone or eye of my eye. No, the abandoned refuse of another man, one of those who had come back from the war, bragging about how many babies they would bring upon the world now. Unaware of the apprehensive look their wives had when they said this. But he had seen the look. And it seemed that all at once his path was clear before him. Everyone of his problems aligned into the perfect solution. So he began to work late at night in his study. He studied new chemicals and made some of his own. He did research and found the old recipes from ancient times in old tomes. And he extracted the 13th volatile from the pomegranates in his backyard. And finally he had the first of the little brown vials. He was ready to begin his tests.
Years passed and it was the glorious summer of free love when vans of kids with guitars and hashish crawled across the countryside spreading the gospel of love and marajuana. But they were shocked to come to a town untouched by tiedye and the smell of weed. An untouched corner of America where the old men who had once been young men who came back from the war as victors now looked out on the empty swing sets they had built and the unused tricycles in their garages with old and empty eyes. Their wives eyes and bodies were still young and untouched by the marring of bearing child after child after child. And there was one man of science in the town who knew and kept the secret of their youth. One old man of science who had the most subtle of wives who slid the small dark vials into the corners of the basket that held her buttery apple pies. He was a man of science and finally respected.
The lack of children should have been a warning. Instead it was like a magnet. Bus after bus brought these new men who did not shave or have gleaming eyes for war in far off places. And the new women who wove their hair with flowers and knew the secret ways and had no need for the small brown vials that were snuck in with the buttery apple pies. And soon Miss Emily's father had no more need to extract the 13th volatile from the pomegranates in their backyard. And he put away his books.
And Miss Emily who was by now a sixteen year old felt herself drawn by curiosity to the strange new additions to the town who wore flowers in their hair and beards on their faces and who slept each night under the stars, wrapped in blankets of thick, hazy smoke rising from a hundred smoldering joints. She began to come to the bonfires. Then she began to spend the nights under the stars in her own hazy blanket. That was how she first met him.
