In honor of Bloomsday, June 16
The morning of December 16, 2004 is cold. Henry Flower sees this through his kitchen window, pausing in the middle of scrambling breakfast for his wife Moira, who was still in bed: a bright clear blue through the trees, though it was only 8 a.m. Still, implacable, its substance invisible, Flower stares at one thing (nothing) and thinks of another (subject).
The yolks, an uncomfortable color, saturated ochre against the inverted bowl of a Scandinavian sky stare up at him, he a reflection hanging over a viscous pool. Caught between action and decision, the fact of thought arriving just before its content, Flower does not beat the eggs. They cannot be unbeaten and, if beaten twice after an interval, may not be the same. The meal still unmade will not be complete; it lacks flesh.
On Main Street in Trumansburg heading for the P.O., Flower crosses the eponymous creek and passes the café. He does not stop in now and recalls the mornings past when all he wanted was a cup and no protracted interaction, and bought it at a service station instead.
His unread letter in his pocket, Flower, his hat pulled down around his ears, pauses before the millstone memorial. It begins to snow. Down the hill Flower sees a bent figure limping toward him through the white air: his tricorn bound down, his overcoat clutched before him: Abner Treman, long dead, returning home shy one foot.
At the Free Press Flower stares at the reflection of the front page in the window and recalls the smell of Hassidic boys hunched over their texts on the northbound A train. But for the grace of circumstance, there went he.
In the office he places a classified ad that reads simply, “Help wanted,” with his number. A young man drops off a letter to the editor that he did not write. Flower will see to him later.
In the Falls restaurant Flowers eats a silent meal alone and thinks about the earlier, happier days of his marriage. On his way in, Neely Blynn, an old flame, went by him and said, “Hello, Henry” without a trace of rancor. Last month he returned home to find his wife, an actress, had gone away on tour. She had left a note on their bed and he had never found it, having slept on the couch in the living room the entire time she had been away.
Feeling strangely expansive after drinking three Yuenglings in the Falls taproom, Flower regales fellow patrons with his interpretation of the 1984 Alex Cox film Repo Man as a retelling of the Grail quest. His interlocutors are divided between puzzlement and disinterest.
Neely Blynn encounters the ghost of Abner Treman on East Main and in the snow mistakes him for a tramp. She presses three dollar bills into his chapped fingers. He stares at the portraits of his former commanding officer and then moves off toward the warm café.
While eating a plate of fries in the Pourhouse, Flower watches his wife’s tour manager make his stolid way across Main, his figure blurred by fogged glass and flaked air. Flower knows the terminus of Malloy’s excursion and smiles wanly as the fiddler in the corner makes his way through “Rockin’ the Cradle.”
As the evening darkens, the Pourhouse fills with well-known faces and opinions. Flower finds that he is listening to an attack on his plan for peace in the Middle East. His companion, his good eye rimmed red with exhaustion, is loudly insisting that the Palestinians have every right to every acre, and he will not hear Flower’s “perverted thoughts” on finding a reasonable compromise between European and Near Eastern traditions of land use.
The young woman next to him is leaning forward as if she would like to hear words that he is not speaking. This provides a view of which she seems proud. Flower looks up at the silent television. He sees footage of a hummingbird suspended before a conical corolla, its beak plunged inside, and he smiles.
At the home birth of his niece Flower thought it possible that she would learn to speak by making every sound every generation before her had uttered and then just join them together when she was ready to be understood.
Flower is standing outside, where the wind and snow have stopped, looking up at the stars.
Flower: I see shapes that I’m not supposed to see. Look there’s Moira. She doesn’t look happy.
Moira: What ever happened to my breakfast? What ever happened to you? You just disappeared … about 10 years ago.
To escape the speaking sky, Flower ducks into a doorway and up the stairwell to sound of a party. Once inside he spies the young man from the newspaper office and makes for him.
Flower: Didn’t I see you earlier today?
Daniel Icarus: I believe you saw right through me, sir. I now I am looking right through you. What of it?