starry night in late winter,
just before the Ides of March, in the parterre which was filled
with art and flowers, that a sleepless Joshua Fflowers had had the
idea for the very best present he could give to Elena for her
forty-fifth birthday.
It was a time of congruence. Things long
worked for were falling into place. Finally, after fifteen years,
the China market was exploding. Cygnetics just had reported record
quarterly earnings for the twentieth time in a row. The delayed
fledging process had been making remarkable progress. After a dozen
tries, the special embryos of the Centsurety Project, still no
bigger than beans, seemed to be thriving. It was time for him to
give Elena her wings. It was not that he had had no doubts about
his gift. After all, the wings would be grafted, not grown. And
Elena, who had helped millions to fly, had never expressed her own
desire to fly. Soon after Elena’s battle with ovarian cancer and
resultant hysterectomy eight years before, Fflowers had argued with
her to get wings as a balm to her wounds, but she had wanted
nothing to do with it. Rather than flying in an empty sky, she
preferred to lose herself in work.
At the time, Fflowers had heard his wife’s
wishes, but he hadn’t believed them. There had been too many other
times when Elena’s initial resistance later had turned to
acceptance. Fflowers had convinced himself that, once the gift was
made, Elena would be immensely grateful that he had taken the
initiative.
But, Elena had not been grateful. She had
been horrified. And as her revenge, she had left and taken all of
her, and so much of him, from him. He had been left with an
incurable emptiness, and progeny he could not own within his heart.
Now, with the appearance of the girl, who, in some miraculous way,
must be egg of Elena’s egg, the girl who had conjured herself at
this auspicious moment, Fflowers knew that he was about to be
rejuvenated in both body and soul.
As he was wheeled into the surgery, Joshua
Fflowers was more hopeful and more excited than he had been in more
than fifty years. Fate had come round. He was forgiven.
Seventy-two hours later, a half-dozen slight
sighs away from death because of a rejected liver split and a
pancreatic transplant gone spectacularly wrong, hope and promise as
well as any interest in Prissi Langue, her history and kin, were
far removed from Joshua Fflowers’ guttering thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
Lost Paths
As he lay dying, Joshua Fflowers could not
pursue his interest in Prissi, but the same could not be said of
Prissi’s interest in Joshua Fflowers.
The day after the Bissell dedication, Prissi,
along with a scattering of students and a smattering of Dutton
faculty had listened while Vartan Smarkzy had given a Sunday Series
lecture called False Paths. Smarkzy’s talk focused on some of the
heralded scientific theories or paradigms which had led to little
or nothing—humouristic medicine, a geo-centric solar system,
alchemy, the id/ego/superego trinity, and dark matter.
After the lecture, on a beautiful balmy
afternoon with a soughing wind and dumpling clouds, Prissi was
taking a necessarily slow walk across campus with Dr. Smarkzy—slow
both because of her teacher’s infirmities and because Prissi
herself was still sore from hurting her shoulder the day before.
Smarkzy was adding to the false paths he had mentioned in his
lecture—phrenology, natural design. Prissi was listening but she
also was feeling a sense of loss because Spring Break was to start
in just two more days.
Even though she would be relieved to get
through the rush of work Dutton teachers assigned to be due just
before break, if she couldn’t be out of the country vacationing on
an island as seemingly most of her friends were scheduled to do,
then Prissi would rather be at Dutton than home. Although it was
almost three years since her mother had died, Prissi thought that
her father now was even more wounded by grief rather than in the
days and weeks
just before the Ides of March, in the parterre which was filled
with art and flowers, that a sleepless Joshua Fflowers had had the
idea for the very best present he could give to Elena for her
forty-fifth birthday.
It was a time of congruence. Things long
worked for were falling into place. Finally, after fifteen years,
the China market was exploding. Cygnetics just had reported record
quarterly earnings for the twentieth time in a row. The delayed
fledging process had been making remarkable progress. After a dozen
tries, the special embryos of the Centsurety Project, still no
bigger than beans, seemed to be thriving. It was time for him to
give Elena her wings. It was not that he had had no doubts about
his gift. After all, the wings would be grafted, not grown. And
Elena, who had helped millions to fly, had never expressed her own
desire to fly. Soon after Elena’s battle with ovarian cancer and
resultant hysterectomy eight years before, Fflowers had argued with
her to get wings as a balm to her wounds, but she had wanted
nothing to do with it. Rather than flying in an empty sky, she
preferred to lose herself in work.
At the time, Fflowers had heard his wife’s
wishes, but he hadn’t believed them. There had been too many other
times when Elena’s initial resistance later had turned to
acceptance. Fflowers had convinced himself that, once the gift was
made, Elena would be immensely grateful that he had taken the
initiative.
But, Elena had not been grateful. She had
been horrified. And as her revenge, she had left and taken all of
her, and so much of him, from him. He had been left with an
incurable emptiness, and progeny he could not own within his heart.
Now, with the appearance of the girl, who, in some miraculous way,
must be egg of Elena’s egg, the girl who had conjured herself at
this auspicious moment, Fflowers knew that he was about to be
rejuvenated in both body and soul.
As he was wheeled into the surgery, Joshua
Fflowers was more hopeful and more excited than he had been in more
than fifty years. Fate had come round. He was forgiven.
Seventy-two hours later, a half-dozen slight
sighs away from death because of a rejected liver split and a
pancreatic transplant gone spectacularly wrong, hope and promise as
well as any interest in Prissi Langue, her history and kin, were
far removed from Joshua Fflowers’ guttering thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
Lost Paths
As he lay dying, Joshua Fflowers could not
pursue his interest in Prissi, but the same could not be said of
Prissi’s interest in Joshua Fflowers.
The day after the Bissell dedication, Prissi,
along with a scattering of students and a smattering of Dutton
faculty had listened while Vartan Smarkzy had given a Sunday Series
lecture called False Paths. Smarkzy’s talk focused on some of the
heralded scientific theories or paradigms which had led to little
or nothing—humouristic medicine, a geo-centric solar system,
alchemy, the id/ego/superego trinity, and dark matter.
After the lecture, on a beautiful balmy
afternoon with a soughing wind and dumpling clouds, Prissi was
taking a necessarily slow walk across campus with Dr. Smarkzy—slow
both because of her teacher’s infirmities and because Prissi
herself was still sore from hurting her shoulder the day before.
Smarkzy was adding to the false paths he had mentioned in his
lecture—phrenology, natural design. Prissi was listening but she
also was feeling a sense of loss because Spring Break was to start
in just two more days.
Even though she would be relieved to get
through the rush of work Dutton teachers assigned to be due just
before break, if she couldn’t be out of the country vacationing on
an island as seemingly most of her friends were scheduled to do,
then Prissi would rather be at Dutton than home. Although it was
almost three years since her mother had died, Prissi thought that
her father now was even more wounded by grief rather than in the
days and weeks
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