Perfect Reader Part 8

"Is that what this is?" A joke, and Flora smiled as she made it.

Her mother leaned in across the table. "Are you okay, Flo? You're awfully quiet."

"No, I'm fine," Flora said, answering the question both ways.

"You must be missing Dad."

"Really, Mom, I'm interested in what you're saying."

And her mother kept talking, telling her about the blog she had started-The Responsible Anarchist-from which she launched her secular leftist missives. It had attracted a healthy group of readers, some of them, admittedly, insane-who else was Googling the word anarchist? anarchist? But what Flora was interested in, really, was the next stop on her itinerary. What would she say to Cynthia Reynolds? Would they talk about her father? Would they have anything to say? But what Flora was interested in, really, was the next stop on her itinerary. What would she say to Cynthia Reynolds? Would they talk about her father? Would they have anything to say? Hungry, ambitious Hungry, ambitious. Madeleine's words ran in a loop in her brain, tailing that other line, We were very much in love We were very much in love. Had her father liked that about Cynthia? Her hunger? Had he, too, become hungry and ambitious? Did that explain the sudden arrival of poetry?

Sitting at the little table for two in the dark dining room, facing her mother over the simulacrum of Thanksgiving dinner, Flora felt her life shrinking. The smallness of the table provided a good metaphor. No room for other people. Soon her life would cease to be a table; it wouldn't even be a c.o.c.ktail table. It would be a solitary chair, hard-backed and wooden, much like the chair she was sitting on now. She comforted herself that the waiters, college-aged and no doubt far from home, were having a worse Thanksgiving than she was.

"Tell me something, Flo," her mother said. "Anything. But something, please."

"There's not much to tell. My life up here has been pretty quiet. You know how it is in Darwin."

Her mother put her silverware down and waited.

"I had drinks with someone," Flora said. "A lawyer in town. He was Dad's lawyer, actually, a Darwin alum. That's how we met. But it was nothing. I'm sure nothing will come of it."

"Why are you so sure? You had a good time?"

"I don't know. Sort of."

"Flora, it's okay to enjoy yourself. You should be nice to yourself."

"Should I?" That had been one of her father's lines. One of his stupider lines.

"I worry about you, sweetheart. You know that. Throwing yourself into Darwin, this precipitous move on the heels of your father's death. I'm not sure what to make of it all. You've given up your job. You won't speak to any of your friends."

"What was so great about my job anyway? Telling people that for a more fulfilling existence they ought to buy cork flooring and use organic household sprays? How could I have walked away from all that? And yes, I've spoken to people, or I will soon. But I don't want to get into this with you right now, Mom. It's Thanksgiving, remember?"

"I thought you liked your job."

"I was lucky they hadn't fired me yet. I was a terrible employee, totally unreliable. I was looking for a way out."

"Have you thought about volunteering somewhere, while you're up here?"

"Have I thought about volunteering somewhere?" Flora repeated.

"It might be good for you to have something to focus on. Something outside yourself," her mother added. "To provide some structure."

"How wonderfully helpful, Mom. How sage." Joan's own father had died when she was at the vulnerable age of forty-six, and it had undone her. She knew nothing of Flora's life. Never had known, never would know.

"Don't get cross. I'm not allowed to tell you what I think?"

"I'm a little tired," Flora said.

A wedge of gelatinous pumpkin pie arrived, quivering on a single plate. They watched it quiver.

"Have some dessert," her mother coaxed.

"No thank you."

"I suggest that you volunteer somewhere, and it derails the whole evening? Am I allowed to be a partic.i.p.ant in a conversation about your life? To offer my opinion? Or maybe it's safer for you to provide me with a script ahead of time, so that way, if and when you decide to tell me anything, you won't find my reactions so disappointing."

"Please, don't act like I'm being unreasonable. You may recall my father died a few weeks ago."

"Hey, slow down, okay? You've had a h.e.l.l of a month, Flo. A terrible, difficult few weeks. I just want you to make the best decisions for yourself, not the ones you feel like you have to make for whatever reason. And maybe you're getting mad at me now because you have your own hesitations about being back here."

"That is so cla.s.sic. I'm getting mad at you because of myself. Right. It has nothing to do with you and your behavior. Nothing at all. You're perfect. It's all me."

"No, c'mon, that's not fair. I know I'm deficient in all sorts of ways." Her mother's voice was cracking. It always came as a surprise how easily she cried-the impossible fragility within the toughness. "I really do want what's best for you, Flo, though it's hard to tell what that is these days. But of course I want to help you. Whatever you need, or want, just let me know."

Flora liked it better when her mother was being unreasonable. She was not going to feel sorry for her; that wasn't her job. "Fine, I'll let you know," she said.

There was a silence. "I'm sorry I didn't say the right thing," her mother said.

"You know what, Mom? You can save that kind of apology. Really, no thanks."

"Flora, I'm trying."

It was true: Her mother was trying. She'd risen to the dispiriting occasion with the yeast of animated conversation, filled the emptiness of the holiday with the sound of her opinions. She had canceled plans to spend the day with her sisters to be with Flora in Darwin instead. Maybe things would be better if her mother tried a little less. Flora wished for the millionth time her mother had someone else in her life to worry over and be wounded by. Or did she wish it? Her father had found that for himself, and it, too, presented problems. Here she was, waiting for the moment she could sneak away from her mother for a tryst with her father's girlfriend. She hadn't been so secretive since she was a teenager. I'm me, and you're you I'm me, and you're you. Secrets were one way to test the boundary, to a.s.sert your own impenetrable selfhood. She was regressing, moving backward, growing down, like tree roots, and not up, like normal people her age who had boyfriends they lived with, or husbands even, and a.s.sistants at work, or fieldwork in Mongolia, and read the paper daily, and never slept till noon, and no longer lied to their parents.

"You're right. I'm sorry," Flora said. "I'm rotten company right now."

"No, you're not. Difficult and infuriating, but not rotten." Her mother took her hand. "I know I told you I wouldn't sleep in that house, but I will if you'd like me to."

"No, no, that's okay," Flora said quickly, queasy with the guilt and irritation that come from lying. "I'm just going to fall into bed." She did not say "into Dad's bed."

Her mother signed the bill and they walked together out to the parking lot.

"Come back to the city with me," she said. "Tomorrow. For a few days. Take a break from all this, from your father, from Darwin."

"I can't," Flora said. "Not right now. I'm not sure why, but I can't."

Her mother put her hands on either side of Flora's face. It was a fond gesture, but the expression that accompanied it was critical, her eyes heavy-lidded and harsh. "You can't live his life for him, Flo. You know that. You can't rewrite the past, redo Darwin."

Flora heard the premonition of a yell. You never could f.u.c.king understand, could you? You never could f.u.c.king understand, could you? Tears pooled in her eyes, but she did not storm away, shouting over her shoulder as she might have done a month before. Both her parents were-or had been-yellers, and Flora, who came by it naturally, could yell, too. With a good yell, there came that sudden release, narcotic but short-lived. What followed was hangover-like, your body depleted, your mood stiff, achy, and repentant. No more yelling. Let it be the end of that. Be done with something. She wiped her cheeks dry with the back of her hand. Tears pooled in her eyes, but she did not storm away, shouting over her shoulder as she might have done a month before. Both her parents were-or had been-yellers, and Flora, who came by it naturally, could yell, too. With a good yell, there came that sudden release, narcotic but short-lived. What followed was hangover-like, your body depleted, your mood stiff, achy, and repentant. No more yelling. Let it be the end of that. Be done with something. She wiped her cheeks dry with the back of her hand.

"Mom," she said, returning the gesture of hands on face, "good night."

And she hugged her, and thanked her for coming, and she kissed her on the cheek, and climbed right into her father's station wagon and pulled away.

The dead left you alone, but it was the living who filled you up with loneliness.

10.

Poems.

CYNTHIA'S GUESTS HAD LEFT by the time Flora arrived, and Cynthia was in the kitchen, wearing a vintage ap.r.o.n-the kind that tied, impractically, around the waist, a half skirt-was.h.i.+ng up. by the time Flora arrived, and Cynthia was in the kitchen, wearing a vintage ap.r.o.n-the kind that tied, impractically, around the waist, a half skirt-was.h.i.+ng up.

"I'm sorry it's late," Flora said. "I couldn't get away any earlier." She wasn't that late, was she? Had there even been any guests to begin with?

"Not at all," Cynthia said. "It's nicer this way. We'll get a chance to talk."

She untied her ap.r.o.n and led Flora into the living room. The furniture was scarlet-hued, dainty, skinny-ankled, and Victorian, made for a time when people were smaller. Two longhaired, owl-faced white cats sat plumply on twin burgundy chairs, their paws tucked under them, like steeping kettles.

"Andy and Pablo," Cynthia said. "Complete prima donnas, as you might expect."

The walls were covered with art, like a giant collage, painting and painting upon drawing and drawing. The effect was oppressive and beautiful. Landscapes and portraits, and Flora thought she recognized one of her father's watercolors among the mayhem-a blur of copper fox das.h.i.+ng through wintry birches. She tried to picture her father sitting amid all this. Was this a room he'd enjoyed spending time in? Where had they spent most of their time together? Here? Or at his house, where Paul said they'd "shacked up"? Flora's curiosity was uncomfortable-an almost perverted urge to riffle through all of Cynthia's belongings, to ransack the place.

"Do you mind if I use the bathroom?" she asked.

"Well, of course not." Cynthia pointed down the hall. "First door on your left."

Well, of course it would be the first door, the trip there offering no new insights. And the bathroom itself was a great disappointment-only toilet, sink, and mirror. No medicine cabinet. The full bath no doubt upstairs with all the other areas of interest. The wallpaper of the little room was bright and blooming, rife with obscene pink peonies. And on the marble sink, beside the delicate china soap dish, was a single bottle of perfume. Flora removed the cap and breathed in. Yes, that was what Cynthia smelled like. Slightly musky, powdery, and sweet. Flora's mother had never worn perfume-scents of all sorts gave her headaches. Flora had to stop herself from dotting some onto her wrist. She made herself flush the toilet and wash her hands and return to the living room and sit beside Cynthia on the love seat. On the round gla.s.s coffee table before them, in a dove gray ceramic pot, a blood-red orchid displayed its private parts.

"It's a lovely house," Flora said. Perhaps that would incite a tour.

"Oh, it's nice enough. A bit dark for my taste. The ceilings a little low. I know I should be grateful, living in subsidized housing, but at my age it makes one feel vulnerable to have one's roof contingent on one's employment."

That's right-it was a Darwin faculty house. Flora thought she remembered someone else living there, some friend of her mother, when she was younger. Home owners.h.i.+p in a town like Darwin, a college town, extravagant, like travel by private jet or elective surgeries. When her father had bought his house, it had come as a surprise, a sign that life had changed again. Professors didn't buy; they rented from the college at a discount. It was the Darwin way-the landlessness of the intelligentsia, the feudalism of academia, keeping the serfs dependent and bound to the manor, always within walking distance.

"Anyway, enough complaints. How are are you?" Cynthia asked, as though they were dear old friends in need of a catch-up. you?" Cynthia asked, as though they were dear old friends in need of a catch-up.

"I'm fine."

"Good. I've always loved Thanksgiving, since my girlhood. I was the eldest of five, so it was a huge affair."

The eldest of five. As an only child, Flora regarded the idea of siblings with fascination, in the way she found mythical creatures fascinating-as though they occurred only in art, or other cultures. Growing up, Flora often fantasized about having a sister-part rival, part ally. A sister would be nice right now, today. If she had a sister, one of them could keep Cynthia distracted while the other searched the house.

"What was that like?"

"Oh, the family? Noisy," Cynthia said. "Complete chaos."

But Flora could see she did not want to go back in memory, or not that far. "Were you and my father planning to celebrate the holiday together?" She was an investigative reporter, trying to uncover, to verify, to retrace.

"We hadn't talked about it, but I'd a.s.sumed we were, since he said that you would be with your mother." Flora watched as Cynthia's eyes filled with tears. "I miss him terribly," she said.

Was this openness, as Madeleine had suggested, an act, a cover? Was it a ploy to get at what she was after? Or were they all too guarded, too closed to recognize a certain kind of innocence when they encountered it? Flora wondered if she should reach out to Cynthia, put her hand on her arm or shoulder, say something kind.

"I know," she said. It was the best she could do, but it was quite enough for Cynthia.

"I'd never been married, never had children," she said. "I'd lived my whole adult life alone and I was used to it, good at it even. But when your father and I ... He broke me of the habit, and now, here I am in my sixties and suddenly, for the first time, I'm no good at it."

Cynthia, in profile, looked a little like Flora's mother. The Lewis Dempsey type, maybe. Joan would not be caught dead in Cynthia's wardrobe, or in her perfume, and she would say that Cynthia's living room made her feel the walls were closing in on her, but they shared a look-narrow, smooth-skinned faces, boldly featured, light-eyed. Both of them beautiful, but their beauty unexpected, something you didn't notice right away.

"Did you and my dad talk of getting married?"

"Oh, Flora, we hadn't gotten there yet." Cynthia placed her cool hand for just an instant over Flora's hand. "At our age, romantic notions of marriage seem slightly preposterous. Perhaps we would have done it eventually, but then only for practical reasons."

Flora said nothing. She knew enough to know that practical reasons meant money. Was that what Cynthia wanted from her-her father's money? Did she feel she had earned it, that she was owed an inheritance of her own?

"I guess marriage is not in the cards for me. Not now," Cynthia said. "But what about you? Is there someone in your life?"

Is there someone in your life? A terrifying question. "No," Flora said. There was no one in her life, no someone at all. A terrifying question. "No," Flora said. There was no one in her life, no someone at all.

An awkward silence seeped into the busy room.

"How do you fill your time-since?" Flora asked. This seemed to her the quintessential question, the part of life she hadn't been able to sort out. Filling time. Spending it. How was it done?

"Oh, I'm working on a book, nearing the end. On Turner. And I'm teaching, and students have a way of filling up one's time. I have friends I see. This and that. Most of all, I wish it were spring. I love to garden. In spring and summer, I'm always in the yard, kneeling in the soil. Last summer, I spent a lot of time in your father's garden. I keep feeling all of this would be made a bit easier if I could just spend Sundays in the garden."

Flora's father, Cynthia explained, would read out on the lawn chair or the hammock, and keep her company while she worked, calling out pa.s.sages when something seized him. To Flora, such scenes had a whiff of servant and master: Cynthia kneeling, digging; her father reclining, edifying. "Didn't he ever help you?" she asked.

"Oh, of course he helped, gathering my weeds and prunings, tidying up after me, and he was always offering to do more, and I would show him how to do certain things. Most of all, he loved learning the names of plants. You know how he felt about proper nouns. But it wasn't work for me, discovering a new garden like that. I didn't mind at all. I loved every minute."

"I was wondering who'd been tending those flower beds," Flora said. "They look like they were lovely."

"But what about you, Flora? What are your plans?"

"I don't know. I don't have any plans."

"That's probably wise. For what it's worth, people keep telling me you shouldn't make any big decisions or life changes in the first year after you lose someone."

Flora hated that phrase. Lost, pa.s.sed, pa.s.sed away- Lost, pa.s.sed, pa.s.sed away-the pa.s.sive euphemisms of grief. She hadn't lost anything. Something had been taken, not lost. "It's a little late for me for that advice," she said. "I mean, I'm here. I seem to have left my whole life behind and moved back to Darwin."

"You did what you had to do," Cynthia said quickly. "Your father would call such bromides 'psychobabble' anyway."

"Yes, he would."

Cynthia shook her head. "At moments, certain expressions-you're so like him, it's scary."

Flora blushed with pleasure. Funny how the thought of being like one's parents could be simultaneously a source of dread and delight. "Really?" she asked.

"Yes, really," Cynthia said. "I used to get a little jealous, you know. The way your father spoke of you. The long phone conversations you two would have sometimes after dinner." She seemed to read Flora's expression and paused. "I know how strange it must be for you, that I was there, in the background, through all that."

"He was the only person I liked talking to on the phone," Flora said. "His phone calls were like great letters. You know, notable anecdotes described in careful detail. No How's the weather How's the weather-unless it was relevant to a story-no Have you taken care of such and such? Have you taken care of such and such? Just good stories. Just good stories. You'll never believe whom I ran into ... You'll never believe whom I ran into ... and he was off." To be able to remember him with someone else who had loved him was rare and new. She smiled at Cynthia for the first time since she'd arrived. and he was off." To be able to remember him with someone else who had loved him was rare and new. She smiled at Cynthia for the first time since she'd arrived.

Cynthia stood up abruptly and disappeared down the hall, as though the smile were the signal she'd been waiting for. Her footsteps hurried past the little bathroom. A light went on. Flora could hear a drawer opening, then closing again. When Cynthia returned, she held a stack of papers in her hand. She pushed aside the orchid and placed them on the coffee table in front of Flora.