The End of Innocence by Allegra Jordan

three clipper ships. A large bank of windows overlooked the east garden full of Russian blue sage, lavender hydrangeas, and four trellises of climbing wild roses. Her father, Helen felt, had been right to refuse the red velvet curtains her mother had installed when he’d gone on a fishing trip to Maine. But perhaps he’d been hasty when he’d called the Boston Animal Hospital to haul them away to use as bedding for orphaned dogs.
    It was in this library on an early Sunday morning that Helen sat across from her father, fidgeting in her chair. Her shirtwaist’s high lace collar prickled her throat. She shifted, pulling her feet under her long white skirt as she tried again to concentrate on her reading.
    Mr. Brooks, across from her, lay back in his chair dozing off, his chin on his chest and his newspaper draped over his stomach. He was still in his dressing gown and slippers. His hair, once dark, was now peppered with gray. He was stouter and grumpier these days. And that morning so was she after the disastrous party the night before, finding it impossible to think of anything that would make her happy, despite the promise of a handsome young man coming to move her things that afternoon.
    The grandfather clock in the corner chimed the half hour in a low, sonorous tone. Helen looked up from the manuscript she was reviewing. It was on the history of clipper ships and she’d promised her father she would read it before she left that afternoon for college. A breeze from the windows fluttered his paper and rustled the flowers outside. He twitched in his chair, and his breathing became more stubborn, lapsing into a series of occasional snores.
    Helen glared at her spotted purse beside the green banker’s lamp on the reading table, recalling the remarks of the young German. In her mind she could see him lifting his eyes, his vision blurred by excessive drink.
    Her poem was quite good , she grumbled to herself.
    She looked out the window to the bright day, hoping to go back to better thoughts. Perhaps she’d write a poem about a man asleep at a dance who wakes to find himself…trampled. She smiled at the prospect.
    â€œI didn’t know that I was writing a comedy.”
    She had not realized her father was awake. “Not a comedy, Father.”
    â€œA tragedy?” her father asked.
    â€œOf sorts,” she said.
    â€œWhat is the subject of this most recent drama? The great clipper race I allude to on page thirty-five?”
    â€œFather, I admit I was thinking about something other than this draft.”
    â€œImpossible.”
    She thought she caught a smile and gave one back. “I’ve a question about that poem I wrote last week. I was quite proud of it. Did you think it too emotional?”
    â€œI don’t recall,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œBecause a young man at the dance last night told me to avoid death in poetry completely until I could do it better.”
    His eyebrows shot up. “He said that?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWell, without trying how does this ruffian think one is expected to learn?”
    â€œMy point exactly.”
    â€œHelen, his comment makes little sense. He sounds daft.”
    â€œI agree,” she echoed.
    â€œNot, Helen, that one can’t learn wisdom without experimentation. We don’t start from scratch. I’d never suggest that. It would be an insult to Edmund Burke. I’d never insult his memory.”
    â€œI never thought you would,” she said, settling back into her chair.
    Her father roused himself and stretched. “Let me see your poem again,” he said with a yawn. She went over to her purse and brought it to him, watching closely as he looked at the paper.
    â€œThis appears smudged.”
    â€œHe put it beside his four glasses of champagne. Or whiskey. Or some type of alcohol.”
    â€œHe sounds intemperate to me.”
    â€œHe’s German.”
    â€œHe is? Well,