The Shadow of the Bear: A Fairy Tale Retold Read Free Page B

bedrooms. One of our favorite things to do is go to used bookstores and library sales. We’re book addicts!”
    “That’s great,” Bear said. “What authors do you like? Thanks!” He accepted the sandwich and glass of milk that Mother brought to him.
    “Oh, Carroll and C. S. Lewis and George MacDonald. Blanche has read more of the classics than I have. She likes the Brontës best.”
    “Second best to Jane Austen,” Blanche murmured.
    “Do you like to read?” Rose asked Bear, who was already halfway through the sandwich.
    Bear scratched his neck, shaking his dreadlocks. “There’s this guy G.K. Chesterton I’ve read a lot of,” he said at last. “I like him.”
    “What, you too?” Rose yelped. “Nobody reads G. K. Chesterton these days!” She intoned,
“The men of the East may spell the stars
And times and triumphs mark,
But the men signed of the cross of Christ
Go gaily in the dark.”
    “…go gaily in the dark…” Bear’s deep voice repeated the line in harmony with Rose’s.  He was smiling in recognition. “That’s the Ballad of the White Horse. ”
    “It is!  I love Chesterton’s poetry! Have you read his romances, like Manalive and The Napoleon of Notting Hill? ”
    “Yeah, I have, though it’s been quite a while,” Bear said. “You’re right, not too many people read him these days.”  He looked just as bewildered as Blanche felt. “I like his poetry best, I guess. I like poetry in general.”
    “Do you know any? I mean, to recite?” Rose wanted to know, tossing her red head from side to side excitedly.
    “‘When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state …’” Bear paused. “That’s Shakespeare. I used to know more of it, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten.” He took another bite of the sandwich.
    “Blanche, you say something next. It would only be fitting,” Rose urged, her cheeks flushed with eagerness. Poetry went to Rose’s head like wine.
    Softened a bit by Rose’s delight, Blanche searched her mind, and at last said, as dispassionately as she could, “‘Dust I am, to dust am bending, from the final doom impending, help me, Lord, for death is near.’”
    “That sounds like Tennyson,” Rose said.
    “T. S. Eliot,” said Bear, setting down his glass, empty. “ Murder in the Cathedral. ”
    “You’re right,” Blanche said, surprised yet again.  What sort of reading habits did this drug dealer have?
    “It’s a favorite of mine,” Bear admitted.
     Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, Bear, you must come visit us again. We haven’t found anybody interesting in the City to be friends with and it would be such fun to talk poetry with someone again!”
    “Well, maybe I will, if you like.” Bear’s face reddened.
    “Do, please. I beg you,” Rose said.  Blanche, almost stupefied by her sister’s naïveté, said nothing and looked at their mother.
    Mother had been sitting on the chair with her dinner tray on her lap, listening to their conversation. “You’re welcome to come any time, Bear.”
    Bear grinned, and Blanche went cold inside again.  “Maybe I will.  Thank you.”  He swallowed the last of his sandwich and bent down to put on his socks and shoes.
    Mother stopped him. “Wait, you really shouldn’t put on those wet socks again. Rose, go look under the stairs for that box of your father’s I’ve been saving for the Goodwill collection. I think you’ll find some men’s wool socks in there. And see if there’s that old pair of overshoes, too. They might fit him.”
    Bear started to protest. “Look, I couldn’t take—”
    “You don’t really have a choice when Mother makes up her mind,” Blanche said, so grimly that Bear was silenced and Mother glanced quickly at her daughter.
    “Well, uh—thanks a lot for saving my feet,” Bear said awkwardly, accepting the socks and overshoes Rose had brought to him. “I’m really grateful.”
    “Glad to help. And make sure you come back,” Mother said,