Read Online Perfect Reader by Maggie Pouncey - Free Book Online Page 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