The ritual gave the Florist great pleasure. Every Thursday night at eight o’clock, he took a small gold key from his bureau and unlocked his den. His mother had died at precisely eight o’clock on a Thursday night, almost twenty-five years ago. With growing apprehension, he wondered if she would speak to him tonight. It was so frustrating. Sometimes he felt as if she were right in the room with him. At other times, out of spite, she refused to appear.
The lock turned and the door silently swung open. The room was in stark contrast to the rest of his apartment, which was sparsely furnished in a minimalist style. Three wooden tables were stacked high with chinaware. On the walls hung rows of prints of African masks, frighteningly primitive.
According to ritual, he took five measured paces toward the window and then drew open the drapes, letting the moonlight sweep into the room. Light shimmered across the three wooden tables stacked with chinaware, the finest Spode, in a variety of floral patterns.
The artist examined the round and heavy soup tureen (mother’s favorite), then caressed a sugar bowl, and then a creamer. With loving care, he set the pieces down and faced the window.
“Mother, you would be so proud of me. Despite my deformity, I am becoming a very fine artist. I have worked very hard.”
Holding the sugar bowl up, serenity crept over his features. Swiftly, he snapped the handles from the little bowl. He spoke softly, as if in prayer. “Mother, I have met a woman. Her name is Katharine Rowe and she is perfect. I want you to see her.”
He carefully placed the shards of china onto a snowy white napkin and wrapped them up.
“Goodnight,” he said. “I love you, Mother.”