Perfect Reader (6 page)

One day during rehearsals, they got to the field first at recess and announced that the game would be Swedish, as usual. But the gym teacher, Peggy, who was short and mean and whom nobody liked anyway, intervened. “You’ve played Swedish every day this week,” she said. “I think your classmates would appreciate a change.”

When Flora protested, Peggy rolled her eyes. “It’s not up for discussion,” she said. “We’ll play Wiffle ball today.”

Sarah Feldman and the other prissy girls clapped. They didn’t like Swedish. But Flora hated Wiffle ball. Even the name was stupid, and made you sound like you had a lisp. She and Georgia walked off the field. They couldn’t tolerate such blatant flouting of the system. They walked in the direction of the cargo net. They could play in there instead. When they got there, though, it looked boring, hanging listlessly, a giant useless cobweb. Georgia was annoyed, but Flora was furious.

“The rule is whoever gets there first chooses,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

“I know,” Georgia said.

“This is worse than the Prometheus casting. What’s wrong with this place?”

“I’m not sure it’s worse,” Georgia said. “Just as bad, maybe.”

Flora was adamant. “We should get to choose.”

They came to the edge of the school’s driveway and could hear in the distance the sounds of their classmates cheering someone round the bases.

“We have to leave,” she said.

“Leave school?” Georgia asked.

“Yes.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere. We have to show them we won’t stand for this unfairness.”

“Really? By leaving?”

“Yes, really.”

“Okay,” Georgia said, but Flora could see she didn’t like the idea.

“Okay,” Flora said anyway.

The President’s House was a mile away and they walked in that direction. There was a chance that Betsy, the housekeeper, would be there. Flora could see Georgia was hoping she would be, that she wanted them to get caught. Flora had never walked so far without a grown-up and she wanted to run and tear leaves and sing all her favorite songs. But they walked in silence. At the house, there was a long row of tall, dense bushes along the side, protecting it from the street like a living fence, and Flora could climb up into the first one and then crawl to the next and the next, inside, unseen. She’d emerge from the other end, shin-scraped and triumphant. They could play in there. But when they got to the house, Georgia said she needed a glass of water, and when the two of them went inside, there in the kitchen was Betsy, who had already received a call from the school. She shuffled them into her El Camino, stuffing them into the front seat together, and they were back and in the headmaster’s office in minutes, their protest squashed, their powerlessness confirmed.

The headmaster and Lynn told Flora and Georgia how disappointed they were. The school functioned according to an honor system, and they had broken that trust. Flora didn’t point out that it was the school that had broken their trust first. She didn’t make eye contact with Georgia, who never said “It was Flora’s idea.” Lynn said if they were angry or upset, they should talk to someone about it, but not run away, never just run away. It was the first time girls at the school had been sent to talk to the headmaster, and Flora thought they should be proud; her mother talked about feminist milestones, and that’s what they had done—achieved a kind of feminist milestone.

But at the end of the day, Madeleine picked Georgia up from school and Georgia started to cry, as though she regretted everything, and her mother put her arm around her and bent down to kiss the top of her head, as though Georgia had done nothing wrong, and the two of them walked to their car, Georgia tucked safely into the crook of Madeleine’s arm, nestled against her huge maternal breasts.

Betsy was in the El Camino, idling in the school’s driveway. “Your parents are going to be pissed, Flo,” she said.

They were both out, but later that evening Flora went into the kitchen, where her mother was making dinner. She was heating oil and chopping onions and listening to talk radio and not looking at Flora. Where was her father? Work for him often meant dinner these days; dinner meant meetings. Her mother had already learned to hate the big industrial stove, with its eight burners and two ovens and a broiler above one of the ovens. She’d singed her eyebrows lighting the broiler while making dinner for the first time in the big house—the acrid smell of burned hair lingering for days—and now whenever she cooked, Flora felt nervous. Flora leaned against the counter and pressed her palms into the sharp edge of the red Formica and she made herself cry. She didn’t regret anything, but it had worked for Georgia.

Her mother looked up and saw the tears. She paused, and for a moment Flora thought she would put down her knife and come to her and hold her. Her eyes seemed to be watering, too. But then she just shook her head. “Don’t give me that shit,” she said, and returned to her chopping.

The next day at school, while Georgia—bound to the cardboard rock with cardboard chains—rehearsed one of her scenes, Flora leaned over to Alex Tillman.

“You want to know what Georgia does in her spare time?” she whispered in his ear. “She reads the encyclopedia.”

4

Nighttimes

I
N
F
LORA’S LITTLE APARTMENT
in the city, there were two ways in: the thick front door bejeweled with chain and bolt, and the metal-gated window that led to the fire escape. People called the country safe, but in her father’s house, every thin pane of glass on each of the ground-floor windows asked to be broken with a casually thrown rock, and every door to the outside (three total) looked a formality, a token gesture to security. Even the exterior walls felt meager, insubstantial boundaries between inside and out. The house was built in the 1860s and spoke the language of creaks and moans that all old houses speak. When the heat came on, the hot water rushing through the pipes, the house made a great fuss, letting one know how taxing one’s selfish need for warmth was on its old bones.
“I
like a house that tells you how it feels,” her father told her when she’d complained on a visit. “It’s letting us know it’s still with us.” But the noises were ominous. Flora heard the whispers of voices in the pipes—a steady murmuring, like a cocktail party next door she tried to ignore. Where was the line exactly between loneliness and insanity? And how would she know if—when—she transgressed?

With the lights out, the house was impenetrable, so dark it almost ceased to exist. With the lights on, it was a giant aquarium-Flora a bottom-dwelling flounder, perfectly visible to the outside world, which was perfectly invisible to her. Anyone might be peering in, or no one, watching her as she made herself a dinner of fried eggs. That had been breakfast, and lunch, too. That was life for the time being: fried eggs.

Soon Mrs. J. would be stopping by with Larks. Flora had called her to say she’d be happy to take him now, after she’d awakened in the night several times badly needing to pee but too terrified to leave bed. Larks was no fearsome guard dog; he was a wet-nosed tail wagger. But he was alive, another creature, a witness.

In the country, in her father’s house newly hers, Flora felt aware of being alive to an uncomfortable degree. When people said something made them feel
so alive
, they seemed to mean it was a desirable state to find oneself in, a source of elation. But for Flora, feeling so conscious of her beingness was lonely, and a little gross. Being
so alive
was morbid; it was near death.

“I’m having a near-death experience,” she told her mother over the phone, and it was true; death was near all right—it was her housemate. She’d called from the kitchen phone to have a little company while she ate her eggs, but the short tether of the cord reached only as far as the counter, so she ate standing up.

As a child, she loved to play a simple word game with her mother. Her mother would say, “I’m me, and you’re you.” And then Flora would say, “No!
I’m
me, and
you’re
you.” Her mother: “Sorry, Flo. I’m me, and you’re you.” Flora: “Nooo! I’m me, and you’re you.” And so on, the game continuing indefinitely and hilariously, with no hope of resolution, Flora’s laughter increasingly hysterical. How could they both be right? Were they both me? Were they both you? Now it seemed more poignant than funny: a parent and child negotiating the murky territory between them—that border loosely patrolled, and regularly trespassed. In her father’s house, back in Darwin, who was who exactly?

“What are you going to do up there all by yourself?” her mother asked. “I still don’t understand this plan.”

“Plan,”
Flora said. “That’s a nice word for it.”

“I thought so.”

“I’m going to have Larks. I won’t be all by myself.”

“In that case. What are you and the dog going to do up there all by yourselves?”

Rude questions. Also bewildering.

“Your friends are calling here daily, Flo. They’re trying to track you down. They say your cell phone isn’t working.”

Flora had imagined her father’s life in Darwin as romantic and solitary; she’d been right only on the romance. But now, if she wanted, she could live out that fantasy of romantic solitude. She hadn’t told friends in the city where to find her, because she didn’t know what to tell them. And she liked that no one knew where she was; she liked that her cell phone was no longer accepting messages. The comfort lay in the easy explanation she had for her mood: death, a justification; a death-justified hooky from the world. It reminded her of the first time she lied to her parents about where she was going, of running away from school—the complete liberation in letting others down. Still, she feared for herself the way she might fear for another person. Her life might not work out. It seemed more than a possibility.

“Everyone’s worried. They want to know how you are.”

“They want credit for calling,” Flora said. “They want their concern noted.”

“That’s a little low, isn’t it? You really don’t think your friends love you and want to know how you are?”

“I suppose both impulses could be in play.” Was that low, or was it true? Was she right, or just depressed? Her thoughts appeared clear, and lucid—she could see through everyone. But perhaps what she was seeing was her own foul mood reflected back like lights in a mirror. “What do you tell them?”

“I say you’re not quite up for talking, but that it means a lot to you that they’re checking in and that you’ll be in touch soon. You will be in touch soon, won’t you? Otherwise, maybe you could cut a small portion from your large inheritance for your poor old social secretary here in the city?”

“You’re shameless.”

“On the vulgar matter of coin, and the matter of your father, I suppose I am.”

“Have I lost my mind, is that what’s going on here?”

“You’re doing fine,” her mother said.

“You don’t sound quite convinced.”

“One day at a time, Flo—like the alcoholics.”

“I’m glad you brought that up—I’m seriously considering it, alcoholism. Seems a logical next step, doesn’t it? The New England way—stoical self-destruction.”

“Don’t go Protestant on me, Flora. That I can’t take. And don’t make me come up to Darwin and rescue you.”

“No, no. No interventions needed yet.” Mrs. J.’’ sedan glided into the pool of light that was the driveway. “I’ve got to go, Mom. The dog’s here.”

“Tell Mrs. J. hello from me. Tell her I still use that ironing-board cover she made me all those years ago.”

“But you don’t. As far as I know, you don’t even own an iron.”

“I most certainly do. You really are a revolting child. Who brought you up?”

“Good-bye, Mom.”

She watched through the kitchen window as Larks, released, bounded toward the door, his black-and-white body frantic, his excitement uncomfortable. He could not keep all four paws on the ground. He knew better than to bark—her father never stood for that—but he let out an almost squeal. It seemed cruel to open the door, to meet such anticipation with the disappointment that was herself. But Larks was happy to see her. She squatted down, the screen door against her back, and he burrowed his cool nose into her hair, her hand, her lap.

“Larks,” she said, holding his two plush ears in her hands like ponytails. “Hello, Larks.”

When she’d first met the new puppy, she’d asked her father, “Isn’t it pretentious to name your dog after a poet—and such a depressive one at that?” She’d told him, “He looks more like a Fred to me.”

“Are you kidding?” her father had said. “This dog has the soul of a poet. This dog understands the vicissitudes of the human condition.”

“Boy, is he happy to be home,” said Mrs. J. She sagged with shopping bags. Flora stood quickly to help and the dog ran into the house, tail wagging, in search.

“So good to see you,” Flora said, taking two bags and kissing Mrs. J. on the cheek. She smelled of breath mints. The plumpness of her skin was peach-soft. She was in her sixties, around the same age as Flora’s father, but had always seemed both younger and older than he—less worn, but of another generation. Only the hair around her temples had truly grayed, and her small roundness gave her an air of permanence, of invulnerability. “You haven’t aged in however many years since I saw you last,” Flora told her. “Really, Mrs. J., your DNA ought to be studied.”

“Almost two years now,” Mrs. J. said. “You look just the same, too, Flora. Just as you did as a little girl. Your dad always said that.”

“I’m not sure it’s a compliment at this point.”

“Oh, it’s a compliment. You’re still too young to know it, but it’s a compliment.”

Mrs. J., short for Jankowitz, had cleaned house for Flora’s family, or for her father, for two decades, since they first moved to Darwin. She’d been there, through it all, straightening up. They held the doors open for each other and dumped their bags by the fridge. Flora cleared her dinner dishes to the sink. It was suddenly embarrassing to be eating breakfast at night.

“What’s all this?” she asked of the bags.

“Some food for Larks. A few little things for you. I made beef stew. I remembered how much you loved my beef stew back when I used to babysit. Remember that? I put it in a few containers—you can freeze them. Have them as you like.”

Flora’s eyes stung; her throat stabbed. Kindness took its toll on the body. She nodded, and they silently loaded the containers into the freezer.

“And noodles. I got a few packages—it’s good with these egg noodles.”

Mrs. J. had bought three big bags of dog food, which she carried one by one over to the pantry closet. Larks had returned, expectant, and stood watching his food as it moved across the room.

“You’ve done too much,” Flora said.

Mrs. J. stopped and stared at her. “Please, Flora,” she said.

“He gets one scoop in the morning, and a scoop and half a can of wet food at night,” she went on. “Do you want me to write it down for you?”

“No, no,” Flora said, but she did anyway.

“I guess I should be getting back,” Mrs. J. said. “Told Mr. J. I’d be back in a flash. But I’ll be stopping by. To see you, Flora, and Larks.”

In all the years, Flora had never met Mr. J., though she’d seen pictures and knew he existed. The family theory had been that he’d struck upon some undeserved good luck when Mrs. J. agreed to have him, though Flora couldn’t now remember why.

Flora walked her outside. The sky was quilted with star cover. “You’re the best,” she said, and she bent to embrace this almost grandmother, this woman she’d once known so well.

“Flora—your father. He was so good to me. So good. They don’t make men like him anymore. I hate to say it, but they don’t.”

Flora tucked her hands into the sleeves of her sweatshirt and hugged her arms around herself.

“That girlfriend of his,” Mrs. J. continued. “That Cynthia. I have to tell you, I don’t care for her. From the beginning, I didn’t trust her. I didn’t like it when she was alone in the house. I felt she was after something, from him, from your dad. Can’t say what it was—his money, maybe, the house?”

“My dad seems an unlikely target for a gold digger,” Flora said. “A bronze digger, maybe.”

“I’m telling you, Flora, I don’t care for her at all.”

It was one thing for Flora to dislike her father’s girlfriend. But Mrs. J.? Was Cynthia actually unlikable? “I just met her, so it’s hard for me to say.”

“I know, I know. And I don’t like to trouble you with any more than what you’ve got on your plate already. But I thought you should know. Just keep your eyes open.”

“Okay,” Flora said. “Thanks.” She was suddenly exhausted.
Leave me alone
, she wanted to say, she almost said.
Leave me
.

“Like I said, I’ll be stopping by, checking in, seeing if you all need anything.”

“Thanks again, Mrs. J.,” Flora said. She felt she needed to say more. “It’s a comfort to know you’re nearby,” she added.

“I know it is, sweetie. I know.”

Back inside, Flora headed for the guest room. Her father’s television was nearly as old as she was, and if there had ever been a remote, it had long since vanished, so flipping the channels required standing by the box and stooping to press the tiny up or down button. Flora stooped; she pressed. America was obsessed with rejection. On one channel, there was a show where, one by one, girls were rejected from a career in modeling. In another show, each week a new family got the ax for not having quite a miserable-enough life—almost, but not quite. In a third show, young women were gradually and systematically rejected by a man they had just met who did not, it turned out, want to marry them.

Did Flora share in the national fervor? She had rejected her father, not visiting him in Darwin, and then not reading his manuscript of poems when first he gave it to her over breakfast at the diner—wandering the papers, instead, around the desert of her apartment, from bedside table to desk to drawer, simultaneously fussing and neglecting, handling them like a fetish she must be cured of. Even now, she rejected him by not wanting to read them, exiling them to the body bag, rejecting her role as his chosen reader, the one he trusted, his executioner. She’d rejected her mother, and her friends, and her work—everything she left behind in the city so hastily, as if she’d been waiting for the chance to leave them all along. And now she’d rejected Cynthia, whom she had just met, regardless of whether she could be trusted or not, by saying no, there was no room for her in the memorial service, or her father’s house, no room for her in life or death.