Free Perfect Reader by Maggie Pouncey Page A

in Darwin in general, a metaphor for its disconnection from the larger world. If the would-be intruder thought to cut the phone lines, she’d have no way to call for help. She and Larks would be on their own.
    What Flora needed was expert advice. Her fellow literary executioners and Plath and Joyce were of no practical use. Her father was not Plath or Joyce. But even when an early Plath poem had lately been discovered by some graduate student rousing long-slumbering manuscripts, it had birthed only limited curiosity. Flora knew because she’d read about the incident in the library. There was no such thing as a poem heard around the world. But still, her father had been a prominent scholar, of the Harold Bloom and Helen Vendler crowd—the triumvirate of pop poetry criticism, could there be said to be such a thing. It was not unthinkable that Lewis Dempsey’s poems could prompt limited attention, too, whether they were any good or not.
    She needed to consult someone who knew things. Paul something—something Welsh, or Scottish—that was her father’s lawyer; he had drawn up the will. He’d put everything in order, officially documenting and organizing her father’s death. A former student was as much as she knew. A Darwin English major turned attorney. She opened the phone book to the business pages in the back. The last name started with a B , or a D . In the D’s she found “Davies, Paul, Esq.” It was nearly midnight, but she would just call the office while no one was there and leave a message, while she was thinking of it. But a man answered on the first ring.
    “Oh,” she said. “I must have dialed the wrong number.”
    She was about to hang up when she heard the man say, “Who are you trying to reach?”
    “A lawyer. I’m sorry if I woke you. I thought I was calling an office. I was going to leave a message.”
    “Is this an emergency?”
    “No, no, I was just hoping to make an appointment. Please accept my apol—”
    “You have called a lawyer. This is my office.”
    “Who is this?” she asked.
    “Who is this calling?”
    Had she stumbled upon some pervert who now wanted to play late-night phone games with her? “Listen, I really am sorry to have disturbed you. I’m going to hang up.”
    “This is one of the stranger phone calls I’ve ever received,” the man said. “Let’s start over. Hello, this is Paul Davies.”
    “Really? That’s whom I was calling. I was assuming no one would be there, I was going to—”
    “Yes, leave a message, but here I am. Who is this?”
    “This is Flora Dempsey. My father—”
    “Sure, Lew Dempsey. One of my favorite clients. One of my favorite teachers. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “Was he? Thank you.” Almost no one called her father Lew—her mother, Ira Rubenstein. In the mouth of this stranger, it sounded overly intimate, intrusive, crass.
    “A great guy—a legend in town.” He paused. “What can I do for you today, Ms. Dempsey?”
    Today? Was it even, officially, one day or another? Was the lawyer always this preemptory? Was he working against a major deadline? Or had she caught him mid-tryst? “Flora, please,” she said. She was not prepared; she was in her pajamas. “Why don’t we make an appointment for another time. I’m just hoping to ask your advice on a few details of the will.”
    “What sort of details?”
    “Details maybe isn’t the right word. More overview, I guess.”
    “All right, overview of what?”
    “These things I’ve inherited—the house, the writing. Mostly the writing. I’m not sure what to do. But it’s late, and I feel I must be keeping you from something important.”
    “It’s pretty straightforward. And you’ve caught me now. Why don’t I run through what I’d tell you if you came in for an appointment.”
    “If it’s no trouble—”
    “As literary executor, essentially you are a stand-in for your father vis-à-vis his work. So, in that capacity, you may be asked to sign contracts or