The Tree of Knowledge by Daniel Miller (room on the broom read aloud .txt) 📕

“Yeah, that’s right,” responded Albert. “Do you know her?”

Brick rose from the couch and bolted the door. He gazed into the darkness and turned to the rest of the group. “Have you all turned off the power on your cell phones, laptops, etcetera?”

Turner and the rest of the group nodded.

“Angus, have you called the Book Club?”

“Yes. Gabe, Raphael, and Ariel are on their way.”

“Gentlemen and lady, I suggest you get some sleep, because you’re in much deeper than you thought.”

Chapter 9

When Albert Puddles finally collapsed into the immaculately made bed that had been provided to him, every part of his body cried out in happiness. The sensation of the mattress and soft pillow propping up the young professor’s weary muscles and strained neck was so sublime that Albert hoped sleep would never come; he simply wanted to bathe in slumber. Still, his mind refused to rest. Ideas and images danced in and out of his head like flames in a fire. Eva, the Tree, Turner fighting, the fear in Ying’s eyes, his own panic. He thought of his parents. How he wished he had called them. About his friends, about the school. Would they believe his story? He wondered if he would ever sleep now that his life had changed.

But he did sleep. And when he slept, he dreamed. And when he dreamed, he saw one image: Eva.

She sat beside him swathed in white lace, looking up at him with those charcoal eyes and holding his hand with the rare blend of delicacy, devotion, and trust offered by a woman deeply in love. Albert returned her gaze with a pursed smile and a twinkle in his eyes, then stood and turned to his guests, who were anxiously clinking their forks on their wineglasses.

He wore a tuxedo, but unlike the cheap rentals that he was used to from his friends’ weddings, the coat and pants fit him as though they could never know another owner. The tailored fit made him a man. He ran his hands across the luxurious satin lapel and slid his left hand in the front pocket to reach for his glasses, but realized that he didn’t have any—yet he could see perfectly.

Standing at the center of the crowded dais with his loving bride by his side, he looked at the aesthetic spectacle that was his wedding. The event was held outside on a flagstone patio under a full moon. The men wore tuxedos, and the beautifully coiffed women wore elegant gowns and sparkling jewels. In one direction, an emerald lawn sloped down to a white-sand beach, gently lapped by the waves of what he knew was a warm ocean; in the other, a mansion of honey-colored stone dominated the sky. The dinner tables and dance floor were flanked by gently gurgling fountains, the water flowing from the mouths of carved nymphs and fauns. Each table glittered with china, silver, and crystal beneath the light of the candelabra. Intricate flower arrangements adorned every spare surface. As Albert looked out at his friends and mentors, he was transformed. Suddenly, the staring eyes, which had so haunted him in the past, shone with admiration and envy. The uncertainty and impatience he had felt around women and men of power had been replaced by a holistic calm. He realized that while he was present in this space, he somehow hovered beyond himself. He felt completely at ease in his own skin but also deeply understood how his guests perceived him.

And at this moment, standing in front of the microphone, about to make a grand toast at his even grander wedding, he was being perceived as a man of consequence. He imagined that this must have been how James Bond felt as he calmly smoked cigarettes, played baccarat, and traded witty repartee with the glamorous and dangerous. The potent, visible, tangible wave of admiration that surrounded him produced a crush of happiness that Albert had never experienced, and as he looked back at Eva, noticing how her crisp white gown contrasted brilliantly with her shimmering dark skin, he wished this night would never end.

On this night, the man of consequence spoke with passion and heart. He skillfully spun the story of how he and Eva had met in Professor Turner’s class at Princeton. He reminisced how, on that very day, he knew that she was the only woman he’d ever love. He carefully intertwined self-deprecating jokes with poetic admiration for his wife until he knew that his guests truly understood that theirs was a love most people dream of.

And as he concluded his toast, Albert looked to his left and saw his parents. They were together, and they were happy. He traded a knowing glance with his father, who raised a champagne glass and winked.

The next thing he knew, Albert was in the hotel suite looking into the mirror and untying his tuxedo’s bow tie. It had been a glorious evening. Speeches, congratulations, dancing, music, the perfumed air. The large room was immaculately appointed, and rose petals drifted on the floor and bed. He could hear Eva’s humming from the bathroom as he calmly popped the bottle of champagne and smiled back at himself in unvarnished contentment.

The bathroom door opened, and Albert turned to give his new wife one of the champagne flutes. He immediately spilled half the glass in stunned disbelief when he saw what was in front of him.

Eva stood before Albert in an exquisite white satin corset and stockings brandishing a giant, glistening butcher’s knife. Her blood-red lips were parted in a smile, and she fondled the pearls of her necklace in an expression of visceral menace. As Albert looked at her, his shock fading, he felt no fear, only sadness. Earlier in the evening, while he danced and drank the night away with his new bride, Albert had known that it couldn’t be truly real, that this feeling could not endure. He had hoped it