Perfect Reader Part 15

Ray changed the subject: "Has Madeleine told you what I've been working on, with your alma mater, Flo, Darwin Regional High. The school, that is?"

"No, what is it?"

"A meditation course. I'm helping to organize it." In recent years, Ray had become a dedicated student of meditation. The way some a.n.a.lysts could trace their lineage back to Freud, Ray's teacher at the Darwin Transcendental Meditation Center was only two steps removed from the Maharis.h.i.+-one of the many things, Ray said, connecting him to John Lennon. "It's going to be offered in the cafeteria after school, once a week. Meditation, yoga, pranayama. There's a lot of interest in the school system. In the wake of school shootings and rising dropout rates. There's a lot of activism in reducing stress, and violence."

"Interesting that sort of thing is allowed, and yet someone raises the notion of school prayer, which might accomplish similar goals, and everyone goes berserk," Paul said. He'd been quiet throughout the meal, busily chewing, and the three of them paused in their eating and stared at him.

"You think there should be mandatory school prayer?" Flora said. "But which prayer? Whose prayer?"

"But Paul does have a point," Madeleine said. "Where does one draw the line between traditional spirituality and spirituality in this nebulous 'healing' form, between 'mindfulness' and prayer?"

"Madeleine thinks it's all hooey," Ray said.

"I don't think it's hooey. Or what I think is hooey is not the act itself but the notion that one can solve the problem of school shootings with heavy breathing. That's a fantasy. An understandable one. But a fantasy nonetheless."

"At G.o.d, I think. One draws the line at G.o.d," Flora said. She waited for Paul to defend himself. He refused. "That's the difference between what Ray is doing and school prayer."

"Anyway, it's going well," Ray said.

"All this talk of reducing stress and violence. It's so American, isn't it?" Madeleine said. "Do other cultures talk about these things?"

"We have a different kind of violence here. It's a real problem," Paul said.

"Do people 'go postal' abroad? Or is that coinage and pathology ours alone?"

"Sometimes violence seems like an excellent way to reduce stress," Flora said.

"You don't mean that," Paul scolded.

"I'm afraid she does," Madeleine said lightly. "Don't let that sweet face fool you."

"Everything's delicious," Paul said.

"It's the grill," Ray said, happy to talk food. "Works like a charm. Thanks for your help out there."

The dining room light fixture was an upside-down colander Georgia had painted during her Bloomsbury phase. Paul, Apostle though he was, seemed not to notice. The tablecloth of layered ivories, Madeleine had woven in college. The transporting thinginess of things. Flora felt herself reach the moment of too much wine. She met the moment, and surpa.s.sed it. The plates were cleared, and they moved to the futons in the living room for dessert-homemade lemon bars and espresso. Flora stuck with wine.

Madeleine asked Paul about his practice, how he found the legal woes of Darwinians.

"It's mostly divorces, a depressing number of divorces," he said, as was his line. "Divorce and real estate."

"That pretty much sums up my life," Flora said. Everyone ignored her. Did he not believe in divorce, this Paul? Did he believe in the sanct.i.ty of marital misery and all that? School prayer? Good Christ. Was he a hypocrite for all the premarital s.e.x? Was every e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n not a release but an agony of guilt? What variety of believer was he? And Esther Moon, too, with her out-of-wedlock baby and her s.e.xy gold cross, like a hand gesturing toward her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Was Christianity in Darwin another twenty-first-century trend, a regressive rebellion like the kind enacted by stay-at-home moms?

Paul asked Ray and Madeleine where they liked to hike. They told him about their favorite spot, out by the reservoir, where sometimes in winter they went cross-country skiing at night. They talked headlamps. Talk of headlamps led to talk of camping. They talked tents.

"I bet this one has never so much as set foot inside a tent," Paul said, flirting, oblivious.

"Zipping myself into my room for the night?" Flora said. "No thank you."

After dessert, she followed Ray upstairs while Paul helped wash up. A transaction had been discussed ahead of time. He gave her a plastic bag with three finely rolled joints. "This stuff is smooth," he told her. "I got it from the number two dealer in the state. I met him at the center."

"Who's the number one dealer?"

"I could tell you. But then I'd have to get you stoned so you'd forget about it."

She kissed him on the cheek. She loved his corniness. They were standing side by side in Georgia's old room, where he kept his stash, now an appliance hospital, a vestigial, ruptured room, with Madeleine's broken loom, a neglected treadmill, a dusty radio, unplugged, a vacuum cleaner, a few half-filled boxes. From the top of one, an old rodent aquarium jutted. Dim light came in from the hall. Flora could not see the color of the walls.

"Can you believe that school prayer business?" she asked him.

"Don't be so hard on the guy, Flo. People think differently. But it doesn't make them idiots. He's had such a different life experience from yours."

"What's next? Book banning?"

"Is he really saying anything so extreme? He seems like a nice guy to me, a smart guy. Why don't you talk to him first, then make up your mind. You've always been so quick, so definite."

Had she? Sluggish and vague seemed more accurate. It was surprising, foreign when people described you to yourself. One deceived constantly, with no intention of deceit.

A reasonable suggestion, Ray's-talk first, then get mad. But in the car, on the way not home, as there was no home, but back to Paul's rank apartment, Flora turned mean. Maybe it was the wine. But they had all been so unfailingly polite, so politic when Paul voiced his opinion, which now struck her as ludicrous. It had started drizzling, and she began to sing: "I don't care if it rains or freezes, long as I got my plastic Jesus sitting on the dashboard of my car." She put her feet up on Paul's dashboard. He looked at her and shook his head. "I don't care about bad behavior, long as I got my plastic Savior...."

"You're in a pleasant mood," he observed.

"Do you actually believe," she said, "and by 'you' I mean all of you, that if I don't accept Jesus Christ as my personal Savior, I will burn for all eternity in the fires of h.e.l.l? Is that it? The nuts and bolts, so to speak?"

"What are you talking about?"

"That my father currently burns there now?"

"We can't can't know what he believed right at the end, can we?" So like the lawyer to ignore the larger point and zero in on the technicality. The matter of what the dead believed was not one worth arguing. know what he believed right at the end, can we?" So like the lawyer to ignore the larger point and zero in on the technicality. The matter of what the dead believed was not one worth arguing.

"I mean, is that the kind of believer you are?" she asked. "What is the point of believing in such a punitive G.o.d?"

"Flora, are you listening to yourself? Why don't we talk about this tomorrow, when you're a little less hostile."

"I'm not hostile. I'm hoodwinked. I was sleeping with an evangelical without knowing it. I think I had a right to know." That was the thing. You didn't know anyone, other people constantly revealing themselves to be aliens.

"You make it sound like evangelical Protestantism might as well be syphilis."

"Yes, quite-a spiritually transmitted disease." She felt extremely articulate, anger rendering her smooth and sharp and silver-tongued.

"I'm not a fundamentalist, Flora. Not that I have to defend myself to you. I believe in G.o.d, but not only in G.o.d. My sister is gay and I love her and accept her."

"How large-souled of you! And who are you, exactly, to accept her?"

"I'm saying it's not an issue for me-I'd think you'd know that. I'm not as narrow-minded as you're suggesting. Really, I'm not as narrow-minded as you are. You realize you're who people have in mind when they complain of the liberal elite?" He turned from the rain-stippled winds.h.i.+eld to look at her accusingly. "You Darwinians who preach tolerance to families of any and all configurations. Transgender, fine, wonderful. But Christian, G.o.d forbid."

"It's just such bulls.h.i.+t. School prayer? What's next? Intelligent f.u.c.king design? You and nutty f.u.c.king Esther Moon, putting the evil back in evolution. I mean, what exactly are you doing for her, or with her? Anti-intellectual mumbo jumbo, insidious, culty bulls.h.i.+t. Did my father know about this secret pa.s.sion of yours, your mission to convert the schools of Darwin?"

The light in town was red and Paul came to a stop. "One thing I loved about your dad was he was not a sn.o.b," he said. "He had no need for sn.o.bbery. I think it came from his sureness in himself. My friends at Darwin and other professors regarded religiosity, when not practiced in a purely academic way-the Bible as literature and all that-as low-cla.s.s, a little embarra.s.sing. A bar mitzvah on the Upper West Side, that was one thing, that was cultural. Going to church every Sunday, that was comical. But your dad had an openness to ideas-liberal in the true sense of the word. You like to talk about all you inherited. Well, some things you didn't get from him." and all that-as low-cla.s.s, a little embarra.s.sing. A bar mitzvah on the Upper West Side, that was one thing, that was cultural. Going to church every Sunday, that was comical. But your dad had an openness to ideas-liberal in the true sense of the word. You like to talk about all you inherited. Well, some things you didn't get from him."

The comparison cut. "The light is green," she said. "So I'm a sn.o.b for disavowing school prayer?"

"My mother told this story-the three-martini fight. A couple goes to a party and the man has too much to drink and acts like a jerk. When they get home, the wife says, 'You know, you acted like a jerk tonight. You shouldn't have had that third martini.' And the husband says, 'I didn't have a third martini, I only had two.' And then they begin to fight about that."

"And I'm the drunk jerk husband here?" Flora asked.

"You do seem to have a tendency to overindulge," he said.

His pomposity was insufferable. "Jesus Christ, Paul, don't twelve-step me."

"You're not mad about this, Flora. I don't know what it is that upset you, and I don't really care. I'm tired and I want to get home and go to sleep. But for the record, I don't want to convert anyone, I was just thinking aloud. I rarely discuss my religion with anyone, for this reason."

"Why? Because we'll see you for the idiot you are?"

She'd gone too far. He'd given her a way out and she'd stayed in. The word idiot idiot had lodged in her mind when Ray said it in Paul's defense-"it doesn't make them idiots"-and now there it was, on the dashboard. They arrived at the little parking lot behind Paul's apartment and he got out of the car and slammed the door. It would be satisfying to leave, to storm off, too, but logistically unworkable. Flora followed him up the stairs. He undressed and got in the bed and was asleep in minutes, or pretending to be. She watched him. He had delicate skin and his closed eyelids were tinged a near purple, as though they'd been painted or dyed. He looked vulnerable. Watching him, she felt a sudden bolt of intimacy, had lodged in her mind when Ray said it in Paul's defense-"it doesn't make them idiots"-and now there it was, on the dashboard. They arrived at the little parking lot behind Paul's apartment and he got out of the car and slammed the door. It would be satisfying to leave, to storm off, too, but logistically unworkable. Flora followed him up the stairs. He undressed and got in the bed and was asleep in minutes, or pretending to be. She watched him. He had delicate skin and his closed eyelids were tinged a near purple, as though they'd been painted or dyed. He looked vulnerable. Watching him, she felt a sudden bolt of intimacy, an attack of the fondines an attack of the fondines. Was it the threat of loss that made him so appealing?

She went into the other room and sat by the window, looking down to the Darwin street. She cracked the window and lit one of the joints Ray had given her, the smell of pot tampering with the tired food smells slinking from the restaurant below and the damp of the night. Her heart soon raced. Marijuana relaxed other people, but it made her feel she might die-a feeling she liked. Was this what it had felt like for her father at the end? "You can't live his life for him," her mother had said. But whose life was she living? It was unrecognizable, not her life. Studying poetry, f.u.c.king a Christian? But Paul was wrong in this: She was not one of them, one of the sanctimonious liberal elites of Darwin. He was sanctimonious. It was he who was like them-the moral superiority of Christians not unlike the moral superiority of academics. The ostentatious decency, the constant scolding. The absence of doubt. Flora had yet to experience anything she did not meet with some degree of doubt. To be able to look at the world and a.s.sess with utter confidence-yes or no. Or was Paul that way? She knew so little of him; he had not tried to make himself known, but she had not tried to know him, either.

And Cynthia-how had she let things sour so with this most important person in her father's life? Her life had gone wrong when first she moved to Darwin, and it was going wrong again. Where had the Flora of leaps and boldnesses gone? "Quick and definite," Ray said. Maybe she'd been more herself at the age of eight than she was now. But what did it mean to be oneself? People said, "She doesn't seem quite herself," as if selfhood were a state one drifted in and out of, the self a semipermeable membrane. She'd been sleeping through her twenties, often literally. And now she was back in Darwin, where there was no future, only past. This is no country for young women. Why had she returned? To bring it all back, or to bury it?

She fell asleep on the chair in the living room and woke in ashy daylight to a pulsing in her head, steady as a metronome, as though her heart and brain had swapped places. She made her way to water, then to the bed. Paul and his hiking boots were gone. The plan had been today she would meet his family. But the invitation was, it seemed, implicitly rescinded. Paul would remain for Flora-in a way that Flora for the rest of her long life would never manage to see herself as being-fatherless.

Spring

19.

The End of School.

SPRING WAS D DARWIN'S PLEASANTEST and briefest season, a breezy layover between the cold damp of winter and the hot damp of summer, though spring this year had come in winter and seemed unlikely now to fully flourish. March 21, the equinox, in a parallel universe Flora's parents' wedding anniversary. Anniversaries, birthdays, all the little holidays-how relentlessly and routinely we mark time; revenge, perhaps, for all the ways time marks us. But in this universe, the date marked only the end of spring break, and the fast approach of an academic deadline, the first Flora had suffered in years. The a.s.signment was to write an imitation of one of the poets they'd read in the first half of the semester, and even though she was auditing the cla.s.s, Carpenter had urged her, in his patronizing, jolly way, to give it a stab. Couldn't she give him a stab instead? But no, she'd said she would try. So she sat at her father's typewriter, trying. But the phone was harder than usual to ignore. It hara.s.sed and hara.s.sed. Finally, she answered. and briefest season, a breezy layover between the cold damp of winter and the hot damp of summer, though spring this year had come in winter and seemed unlikely now to fully flourish. March 21, the equinox, in a parallel universe Flora's parents' wedding anniversary. Anniversaries, birthdays, all the little holidays-how relentlessly and routinely we mark time; revenge, perhaps, for all the ways time marks us. But in this universe, the date marked only the end of spring break, and the fast approach of an academic deadline, the first Flora had suffered in years. The a.s.signment was to write an imitation of one of the poets they'd read in the first half of the semester, and even though she was auditing the cla.s.s, Carpenter had urged her, in his patronizing, jolly way, to give it a stab. Couldn't she give him a stab instead? But no, she'd said she would try. So she sat at her father's typewriter, trying. But the phone was harder than usual to ignore. It hara.s.sed and hara.s.sed. Finally, she answered.

"Have you seen the Witness?" Witness?" It was Madeleine. They'd been away in Mongolia, visiting Georgia. Flora hadn't known they were back. It was Madeleine. They'd been away in Mongolia, visiting Georgia. Flora hadn't known they were back.

"Hey! How are you? What witness?"

"The Darwin Witness, the student paper."

"No, why, should I have?"

"I'll be right over."

"Christ. Breaking news? Have they admitted a Republican?"

"Just hold on. I'll be there in ten minutes."

She was there in less-the first time, Flora guessed, Madeleine had ever been inside her father's house. She entered without knocking, placed the paper down on the butcher block, and smacked her hand against the offending article, which lay in the bottom right corner of the front page, below a story on disputes with the town over the proposed building of a new auditorium.

DEMPSEY'S P POSTHUMOUS C CONTRIBUTION TO W WORLD OF P POETRY.

President emeritus and Sterling Professor of the Humanities Lewis Dempsey was renowned for his scholarly contributions to the study of poetry. But according to a source close to the family, the author of the popular works of criticism Reader as Understander Reader as Understander and and Beyond Tess Beyond Tess, who died suddenly this October of a heart attack, had in the last year of his life completed a collection of poems.The fate of the ma.n.u.script is uncertain. Professor Dempsey's only daughter, Flora Dempsey, was named his literary executor and apparently has no plans for publication."There was interest from a publisher, but Ms. Dempsey declined," the source, who asked not to be named, told the Witness Witness. Her reasons for declining are unclear."It's sad, really," the source said. "Those poems are the only hold she has on her father."Professor of art history and theory Cynthia Reynolds also has a stake in the posthumous collection. She is allegedly in possession of the original ma.n.u.script, a handwritten doc.u.ment, and was the one to seek out the prospective publisher. Dr. Reynolds did not return a phone call requesting comment. Ms. Dempsey could not be reached.

Flora read it twice. Was this, really, her life? Who knew of the poems? Cynthia, of course, who did not return a call, and Paul, bound by legal codes of confidentiality, if nothing else. Madeleine, but here she was, practically dewy with intrigue and surprise and with the impenetrable alibi of Mongolia. And then there was Carpenter, with all his Internet innuendo, who clearly knew something-back now to his Deep Throating?

"That p.r.i.c.k," Flora said.

"Which p.r.i.c.k?"

"Sidney Carpenter. I know he's done this sort of anonymous-sourcing bulls.h.i.+t for the Witness Witness before. My father used to complain about it." before. My father used to complain about it."

"But he's hardly 'a source close to the family,'" Madeleine said.

"f.u.c.k. I was actually starting to like him a little." Flora ripped the page out of the paper and stuck it to the fridge with the Darwin Dodo magnet. Ms. Dempsey declined; Ms. Dempsey could not be reached Ms. Dempsey declined; Ms. Dempsey could not be reached. She did not like the headline: dempsey's posthumous contribution. As though he'd made his contributions after death. Like reading his obituary in the real paper: lewis dempsey, president emeritus of darwin college, is dead at 68. Is Is dead. The shock of the present tense-that eternal present. The immediacy of it. And grammatically awkward to the ear. dead. The shock of the present tense-that eternal present. The immediacy of it. And grammatically awkward to the ear.

"It's sad, really," Flora mocked. "Please. He doesn't think it's sad. He's pleased as punch at the thought of some Dempsey familial feud. And he always insisted on calling me, rather officiously, Flora mocked. "Please. He doesn't think it's sad. He's pleased as punch at the thought of some Dempsey familial feud. And he always insisted on calling me, rather officiously, Ms. Dempsey Ms. Dempsey, as he does here."

"Couldn't it have been someone else?" Madeleine asked. "Someone other than Sid Carpenter?"

"Who, Madeleine? I can see you're thinking of someone in particular."

"What about Dr. Reynolds?"

"Cynthia?"

"You said she kept pressing you. And how would Carpenter know she had the original ma.n.u.script, or that it was a 'handwritten doc.u.ment'?"

As much as she wanted not to like Cynthia, Flora didn't believe she'd deliberately wound her, not with the memory of her father hanging over them so nearly. "And writing that she didn't return a call, what's that-ruse, cover-up? A whole lot of subterfuge for a little college paper, isn't it?"

"That's just it-the trouble they go to over trifles. You know the famous line on academia: 'The battles are so bitterly fought because the stakes are so small.'" Madeleine's green eyes vibrated with excitement. She was alive with the thought of Cynthia's betrayal. She'd been critical from the start. "Hungry and ambitious," she'd said. Maybe Madeleine was projecting, or transferring, sublimating her own antipathy. Or was Cynthia that sneaky, that hungry?

The phone rang again. "Are you going to get that?" Madeleine asked.

"I hate the telephone," Flora said, peevish, childish. "Go to h.e.l.l," she yelled toward the receiver. "I wish I'd been born in Victorian times." It rang itself out.

"You sure? No Tampax, no birth control?"

"Why do people always go to those examples? As though the tampon were the sine qua non of the twentieth-century woman."

"You want other examples? Do you enjoy the right to vote, or inherit property?"

They both moved their eyes around the room.

"Fine," Flora said. "I wish I'd been born a man in Victorian times."