Let the Dark Flower Blossom (34 page)

“You'll hate him,” he said.

“I won't,” she said.

“You should,” he said.

“I know,” she said.

“I'll wait,” he said.

He said that he would wait.

And he would look out for Shelly.

He would wait to write his story.

She started to get up from the table.

He put his hand on her arm.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Do you believe me?” he said.

And didn't she feel terror then?

She knew all that there was to know.

And this knowledge was no consolation.

He held her arm.

She struggled.

She stopped struggling.

He let go.

She stood.

He said, “I promise.”

He said, “I promise to take care of your brother.”

The sky was light.

The stars were gone.

“I'll keep his secret,” he said.

“I'll look out for him,” he said.

“Just say that you believe me,” he said.

He pushed back his chair.

Ro stood.

The sun on the water.

He said, “Do you believe me?”

Ro in sunlight.

He looked. He looked—

Ancient.

Did she believe him?

He waited.

He waited.

She said, “Yes.”

He kissed her.

He kissed her then.

It was too late.

It was early.

The sun was coming up.

Isn't that stupid?

The sun coming up.

Like Apollo riding his chariot across the sky.

The waves were crashing against the shore.

Like Poseidon in his kingdom.

And the sea girls singing each to each.

Isn't that stupid?

He tore her dress.

Her dress was torn.

He did not know.

And she did not see.

The shadow in the doorway.

Like Odysseus to Penelope.

The sky was red like pomegranate seeds.

Like the eyes of old weeping Zeus.

Like the Sirens singing sailors to the rocks.

The door opened.

Zigouiller stood in the doorway.

He had brought her licorice.

He called her a whore.

He broke the clock.

She broke the eggs.

Roman and Zigouiller ate.

Because they were hungry.

Isn't that stupid?

Zig collected the pieces of the clock.

There was no hope for them after that.

Was there?

It seemed that there wasn't.

But here she was.

In another year.

Another winter.

It's so cold.

Should she start a fire?

She could have cake.

Or stay up all night.

Or sleep.

And dream of great fallen Babylon.

She had a brother.

She did not hate him.

She loved him.

Jesus, what a thing to say.

It's funny how things go.

She saw the actress. The girl—

She saw Harlow on television the other day.

She was on a soap opera.

She played a widow accused of murder.

Funny.

Roman kept his promise.

He never told the story.

He died and a little bit of the story died with him.

But not all of it.

Roman Stone is dead.

Fate is a girl with scissors.

She's so beautiful.

Zig asked her to choose.

How could she choose?

When she was a character in someone else's novel?

Louie told her to write the story.

How could she write a story?

When someone else was already writing it?

It was the story of a sister and a brother.

How could she write; how could she destroy a story?—when she was, when she had always been—a reader.

She found the bodies.

She started the fire.

She burned down the house.

But she did not burn the story.

She took the cedar box.

She hid the box in the woods.

She did not open the box.

She had not opened the box.

Not in all these years.

She could not open it.

The story was locked inside.

She didn't have the key.

She had the box.

She gave her brother the key.

When they were children. In the woods.

He put out his hand for the key.

And she gave it to him.

So that he could lock the box.

Locked inside the box—

There was.

There is.

Their story.

The first story.

It was the story of a brother and sister.

A girl and boy who kill their parents.

It was only a story.

It was a dream in the woods.

They dreamed in the woods.

What one dreams is always possible.

She hid the box beyond the salt creek.

She gave her brother the typewriter.

So that he could tell his own story.

She set the house on fire. She stood watching the house burn. She waited for Shelly. She told him that she was burning down the house because the story had come true. He took an apple from the tree. He cut it in two halves. And he gave her half. He said, “El, it's just us now.”

And then he said, “We'll start again.”

Once years later.

It was day or maybe it was night.

She saw Roman.

She heard him call her name in a hotel lobby.

It was snowing.

She held her daughter by the hand.

She did not let go.

She did not turn.

If she had turned—

She would have turned to salt.

And god knows she loved salt.

And sweet.

Each word is a symbol.

Each word replaces a thing.

A clock.

A bird.

An apple.

A girl.

A minute.

An hour.

A day.

Or maybe a night.

A story is a memory game.

This is the memory game.

Choose one moment.

Choose one word over another.

Choose rock or paper or scissors.

She didn't want words.

She didn't want memories.

She didn't want licorice.

She wanted chocolate cake.

On a green plate.

Maybe she would stay up all night.

Zig was sleeping.

Ro was dead.

Sheldon was living on an island.

Louie wanted a story.

She rolled the red ball across the floor.

Zola chased it.

She threw it.

Zola caught it.

She took the ball from the dog.

She threw it; it bounced.

It knocked a vase from the table.

The Etruscan vase fell to the floor.

And broke.

On the Persian rug.

She laughed.

She might stay up all night.

She might stay up one thousand and one nights.

After all, who would stop her?

Eloise she was named after her mother

Eloise she named her daughter.

She sat on the velvet sofa.

And picked up her book.

It was open to the first page.

She began again.

W
E ATE BAKER'S BREAD THICK WITH MARMALADE
, honey, and butter. There were garden roots, al forno: red potatoes, yams, carrots, quince, and peppered turnips. The black cat stood at the windowsill. The morning sun did not impress him, as though he knew something about destruction that the rest of us did not, or could not, or pretended not to know.

We talked of dreams.

Salt said, “Last night I dreamed I was at King Arthur's grave. And the great old ghost in a coat of armor pointed his sword and held up his shield, and he said to me, “Benjamin Salt! Benjamin Salt? You have a very stupid name. Are you ever called anything else?”

Inj laughed. In sunlight.

The day was promising, wasn't it?

Whatta day!

And then I remembered the fire.

It had burned everything to ash.

“I woke up,” said Salt. “And I knew just how my story should go.”

Beatrice peeled a hard-boiled egg.

Ben and Inj and I set out for the jetty after breakfast. Inj swung her arms as she walked. Ben talked. He spoke of pine trees; ash and candle; of paper and ink, pepper and plum liquor. I let him go on ahead of me, and his voice was lost against the cries of the birds.

I had a terrible desire—

A nearly sickening want—

To confess to her.

In the woods.

To tell my story to a girl.

Who never had a tragedy to call her own.

One could love or hate a girl for this.

For being so easy. For not being difficult.

For being a girl, just at the moment when one wanted a girl most.

She turned and looked back at me.

There was nothing tragic about her.

Nothing terrible had ever happened to her.

Nothing terrible would ever happen to her.

Salt had made his way far beyond us.

Into the woods.

Deeper, darker.

She took my hand.

Salt went on—through the thick trees—into the sunlight.

He was so taken with the day.

Can you imagine?

A day so bright—

That you couldn't see the past.

Only the future.

Only the path before you.

A day so promising.

That you couldn't see the shadows of the pines.

I held her hand in mine.

And then I let go.

She opened her hand.

Palm up in the glittering sunlight.

Her cheeks were flushed.

She said.

She told me—

From beyond us Salt called out.

“Inj,” he called.

“Here's the boat,” he said.

Inj pulled away from me.

Inj closed her hand.

And kissed her rolled fist.

“Benny,” she called.

She ran to him.

The lake was dark blue.

The ferryman waited.

Inj waved to me from the boat.

The boat moved slowly, cutting through the cold dark water.

Benny was staring straight up at the sun.

A cloud came across the sun.

It began to snow.

I took the path through the woods.

To the doctor's house.

Thinking about Inj and her questions.

And why I answered them.

I could describe her face.

But I won't.

I want to remember Inj.

The idea of a girl.

The memory of a girl.

Inj at the window.

Pru on her bicycle.

Wren waiting to hear Ro's ghost story.

Eloise in the woods, running.

A girl in the snow.

I want. I want.