Let the Dark Flower Blossom Read Free Page B

beach—as a child—I saw a hermit crab take up residence in a tin can.
    The old man died and I moved into his shell.
    I live alone here.
    I fell into habit, in the early years: I woke late in the afternoon; idled over coffee through the pages of Bulfinch’s Mythology; through Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Eliot. I mourned Les Fleurs du Mal; or lingered on Adonais ’ last triumphant stanzas. Maximus of Gloucester longed for blood, jewels, and miracles. Prometheus bound upon the rocks cried out: I yet have no device / By which to free myself from this my woe . Oedipus followed the trail of his own footsteps. The mysteries of Eleusis remained so. Have you seen the eternal footman take your coat and snicker? In the margins of every page I found recrimination, accusation. In short: I was afraid. I read until the light waned. And then, as evening fell, I made my way on foot to my nearest neighbor’s house. Dr. Lemon is a retired psychiatrist, and we had a standing appointment for dinner and a game of chess. I say had —because he is in failing health. Our evenings are abbreviated of argument now. I talk, and he listens. He lives with his daughter, Beatrice. The doctor suffers from a disease that is—in inverse chronological order—destroying his memory. He remembers the far off, but recent events elude him.
    He recommended books. He lent me volumes from his library. I was studious. He was sage. And we moved—slowly—our rooks and knights across the black-and-white squares; our games carried on for days.
    Dr. Lemon would sigh and announce his move: Queen takes pawn, my friend. And this is as it should be; all is right in the universe . And he would offer me, poured out with his trembling hands, a glass of plum brandy.
    I would walk home late in the darkness.
    The first year passed into the second; the second into the third.
    Twelve years on an island.
    When first I began to visit the doctor, his daughter was no more than a girl.
    Beatrice was born on the island. She never went to school. She ran wild through the raspberry brambles. She read every book in her father’s library. Her mother died in childbirth. Her mother was a descendent of the original mad settlers.
    Beatrice knows the plants and trees. Knows her birds by genus and species; by habit and habitat; and has given names to her favorites. She can find her way by the stars. Her dogs follow her through the woods. Her father taught her French and Latin. Her father taught her all that he imagined she would need to know. Lately, Beatrice has been concerned with survival in case of nuclear attack, avian flu, or any otherwise doomsday scenario. She has been ordering gear from catalogs: hurricane lanterns, a camp stove, water purification tablets, and paraffin candles. She cares for her fatherthrough his illness. She visits me in the afternoon, after she has given her father a medicine that lets him sleep. She likes to sit at my kitchen table, watching Tomorrow’s Edge on the little black-and-white TV .
    I told Beatrice that I was expecting a guest.
    â€œWhat kind of cake would he like?” she asked.
    She was hoping to bake a Santa Fe sugar cake. She said that she had never tried to make one before. But she had read about it in a story. And then she was silent. And her gray eyes darkened—so like her father’s—and I knew just what she was thinking. She was wondering:—what would happen if she baked this Santa Fe sugar cake and the real, that is, the actual cake, did not please her quite so much as the idea of the cake?
    Beatrice has short dark hair. She is slight and slim. This description does not tell too much about her. It would be better to say: Beatrice Lemon likes it when late at night the radio picks up faraway stations. Or: she has always wanted to bake a Santa Fe sugar cake, but she has been awaiting the opportunity that has now presented itself in the imminent arrival of Benjamin Salt to do so.
    Yes, I am