Praying for Sleep

Orient. Their culture? They grow in increasingly sophisticated social clusters. And how about religion? Roses’ve had as bad a time on that subject as we have. They were burned by early Christians because of pagan—excuse the expression—roots. And then what happened? The Pope converted them. Now, ask a Catholic what roses represent—Mary, of course. That’s the Mother, by the way, not the prostitute.”
    Lis’s love of flowers began when she was around nine. Skinny and tall, the girl would herd Portia into the huge backyard, where their mother’s helper presided. The imported au pair would send the girls on missions to find wildflowers of certain colors, after of course delivering the litany of warnings: the lake, snakes, hornets, bees, abandoned wells, strangers, men with candy, on and on. (The caveats were the product of Andrew L’Auberget; no chubby, carefree Dutch girl could possibly find the world so threatening.)
    The speech delivered, paranoia invoked, Jolande would then dole out the assignments. “Leesbonne, a golden flur. Breeng me a gold flur.”
    Off the children would go.
    “Leesbonne, now a red one. A red flur . . . Be careful of that, how you call it, beehive. Poortia, a red one . . .”
    The girls would charge off into the woods and return with the blossoms. The daughters would then ask the big girl to trim and wash the bouquet and the trio would deliver the works of art to Ruth L’Auberget, who would nod with approval and thank the girls. She would then tie the blossoms into bright arrangements for the rectory office where she spent her afternoons.
    This combination of aesthetics and generosity was irresistible to Lis, and she would sit at the dinner table, too timid to speak, but praying that Mother would report to Father about the flowers—or that talkative Portia would blurt the story to him. Impatient with religion, Andrew L’Auberget only managed to tolerate his wife’s involvement in St. John’s (it was, the liquor merchant was fast to joke, her only vice). Still, he usually dispensed some backhanded praise. “Ah, very good. Good for you, Lisbonne. And Portia too. You were careful of thorns and wasps?”
    His face was stern but Lis believed she heard pleasure in his voice. “Yes, Father.”
    “And don’t run through tall grass. Has our Jolande been careful with you? Broken legs can turn gangrenous very easily. Then off they come. Zip! How about the Reverend Dalcott? He going to snatch you up in a bag and turn you into little Episcopalians?”
    “Andrew.”
    “No, Daddy. He has yellow teeth and his shirt smells funny.”
    “Portia!”
    If he was in a good mood, Father might recite some Robert Burns or John Donne. “ ‘O my love’s like a red, red rose. . . .’ ”
    Lis harbored a secret belief that the bouquets she’d delivered to her mother had inspired her to build the greenhouse and to start tending roses all year round.
    Flowers were what Lis thought about too when her father’s mood grew dark and the inevitable willow whip descended on her exposed buttocks. The image of an orange hybrid seemed somehow to anesthetize much of the pain.
    Through the mottled windows she now gazed toward the very tree—a black willow—that had sacrificed hundreds of young shoots so that two daughters might grow into proper women. She could see only a vague form, like an image in a dream. It seemed to be just a lighter version of the darkness that filled the yard tonight.
    Lis squinted and gazed past the tree. It was then that she saw a curious shape in the water.
    What is that? she wondered.
    Walking outside, she looked again—at a portion of the shoreline a hundred yards from the house. It was a configuration of shapes she’d never noticed. Then she understood—the water had risen so far that it was ganging near the top of the old dam. What she was looking at was a white rowboat that had slipped its moorings and floated to the concrete rim. Half the rocky beach beside the dam was obscured. In thirty years, the water had never been this high. . . . The dam! The thought struck Lis like a slap. She’d forgotten completely about the dam. It was of course the lowest spot on the property. If the lake overflowed, the water would fill the low culvert behind it and flood the yard.
    Suddenly from her youth she recalled a sluice gate in the dam, operated by a large wheel. Opening this gate diverted the water to a creek that flowed into the Marsden River a mile or so downstream. She