Path of Smoke (12 page)

“You came.”

Sam looked slightly nervous. “Yeah. I guess I'm dumber than I thought.”

“There's safety in numbers.”

“I think that only applies when you're in a crowd.”

“If it makes you feel better, we can put tinfoil on the windows.”

Sam chuckled. “I guess I am being paranoid.”

“Not at all.” Ingrid gestured for her to come in. “We're absolutely in danger. But I've got cherry blintzes.”

“You don't seem too bothered by the situation.”

“I have a four-year-old. I'm used to dealing with minor apocalypses.”

Sam stepped into the living room. Ingrid closed and locked the door behind her. Putting tinfoil on the windows might not have been the worst idea. Or maybe some kind of tinting. Could you tint an entire house? It seemed like a question that only Beyoncé could answer.

“Coffee?” Ingrid asked.

The trip to the kitchen would buy her some time. Sam was a complete cipher, and she didn't have the faintest idea of what they might talk about. Everything was parking, although at this point, it didn't matter. Her life had become a parking lot, and she would endlessly wander through it, like that episode of
Seinfeld
. Funny, how
park
had antithetical meanings. A square of protected land in the middle of an urban sprawl. A hateful verb, expressed through clenched teeth. An accident site where civilization crashed into nature, leaving behind a spray of safety glass.

“No thanks,” Sam replied. “I think I'm already vibrating at a high frequency.”

“Ah. Okay. Well, let me know.” Ingrid sat down. “I've also got luncheon meat.”

“I'm fine. Thank you.”

They both stared off into space for a moment. Ingrid's mind wandered back to last night. She couldn't believe that Fel had kissed Morgan. It was unlike her—unlike both of them. She tried to remember the kiss in detail, but it rippled, indistinct, as if she were watching it transpire on a hot day. They were both sweating beneath their armor. Slowly, the sun went down, and the marsh fire surrounded them. She was a yew bow, awash in moonlight and curving beneath impossible pressure. Fel opened her mouth to admit Morgan's tongue, and an arrow pierced her side. It was the gnomo's arrow, with its obsidian head. She cried out.

“Did you say something?” Sam asked.

Ingrid blinked. “No. Sorry.”

“Okay.”

This was painful. Why had Sam come so early? What was keeping Shelby and Carl? Ingrid wanted to check her phone, but it seemed rude. Sam had her hands folded politely in her lap, as if she were visiting an older relative. Ingrid suppressed a sigh. Had she really become this boring? Sam wasn't that much younger. There must be some point of commonality between them. Didn't they spend most of their time in the same library, scouring articles, searching for some detail that would validate whatever they were doing?

“What are you working on?” Ingrid asked. It was a safe question, a mechanical one. A conversational entrée for people who didn't know how to talk about sports or the news.

“Wind.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“My thesis analyzes the effects of high-velocity wind on bridges throughout the province. So I guess I study tension and anxiety.”

“There's a metaphor in there somewhere.”

“Yeah. Probably. What about you?”

“Gender and sexuality in the young-adult canon.”

“Huh.” Sam tapped her knee lightly. “The canon. That sounds explosive.”

“It's not like—”

“I get it.”

“Oh. Right.”

Sam got up and examined a row of framed drawings. “Did your son do these?”

“Yes. He calls them his museum of captivity.”

“Why?”

“No idea.”

“They're fun.” Sam pointed to one picture. “Is that a dinosaur?”

“It's an archaeopteryx.”

“Oh.” She sounded faintly impressed but also a bit confused. “I don't remember being into dinosaurs when I was little.”

“I suppose we all go through that phase, but none of us remember it.” Ingrid smiled. “When Neil first started talking about dinosaurs, I tried to recall how I'd felt about them. But it was so long ago. It's odd, to think that we all used to be little paleontologists, rattling off statistics about prehistoric fauna. If those childhood intensities lasted, the earth would be teeming with archaeologists and firefighters and astronomers. Doesn't sound so bad.”

“I had a lot of sticker books,” Sam said. “I remember that much. Is there a future in collecting stickers?”

“Anything's possible.”

“He seems really smart and creative. Your parents must be proud.”

Ingrid stared uncomfortably out the window. “They don't see him very often.”

“Oh.” Sam looked embarrassed. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“It's fine. They live in Alberta. I moved out here for my degree, and my brother, Paul, came with me.”

“Alberta. That's so close.”

“Distances can be deceiving.”

There was a knock at the door. Ingrid offered a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might be listening. She didn't need to be having this conversation right now. There was no delicate way to explain that your foster parents had gradually lost interest in you, like an outdated toy. Neil was still a baby when she'd last spoken with her foster mother. The connection had been full of static and untenable silences. “Diapers are expensive,” April had said. “I'm glad we didn't have to go through that. It was hard enough raising the two of you.”

How difficult we must have been,
she thought.
Shell-shocked kids who barely spoke, trying to make ourselves as small as possible.

Ingrid opened the door. Shelby looked out of breath, as if she'd just run across the driveway. Her expression was peculiar.

“What's up?” Ingrid asked. “Where's Carl?”

“In the car. We brought veggies and dip and Andrew.”

She said “Andrew” like he was also included with the veggie tray. It took Ingrid a moment to process what she'd meant.

“He's here?”

“He called, and—I'm sorry, but I couldn't think of an excuse. I already feel like shit. All we do is exclude him.”

Ingrid peered over her shoulder. Andrew was getting out of the car. He waved to her, shyly. He was carrying a two-liter bottle of cream soda.

She waved back. “You couldn't think of anything to throw him off the scent?”

“He knows that we study together. What other reason could we possibly have for meeting in the middle of the day?”

“We need to discuss strategy. How are we going to manage that?”

“I don't know. We can talk in code, or something.”

“Is everything okay?” Sam asked from the living room.

“It's all good.” Ingrid kept her voice low. “No cause for alarm. I'm just going to quietly set myself on fire, but once that's done, I'll put more coffee on.”

Lying was nothing new to her. Ingrid understood the intimate contours of the lie, the way to put a proper spin on it, with just the right amount of detail. She'd been lying to Paul and Neil for years. With Paul, it had become a depressing reflex. She spun lies without even thinking about it, not even entirely original lies, but Paul trusted her. It was actually harder to deflect Neil's questions. When they were lying in bed, in that softly textured moment between waking and sleep, and he asked her where she'd gone . . . her heart fluttered, and she wanted to tell him everything.

Darling, you wouldn't believe it. There are stone skyways, and a clock shaped like a giant wheel, and little mechanical spiders that skitter at your feet, and invisible things that lap up the oil from crumbling shrines. And your mother knows how to use a sword.

And she half expected him to say:
I knew that, already, Mummy.

But he slept on richly in her arms, his feet making small patterns, like a cat kneading the blanket. So she didn't have to say anything. But she suspected that he was dreaming of her other life, dreaming of the miles with one greave and a chipped sword. Perhaps even dreaming of that alley, just off Aditus Papallona—smelling of incense and garbage—where she'd first felt him move inside her belly.

Ingrid made coffee. Sometimes she felt like this was her greatest skill—the ability to produce coffee in any situation, even in her sleep (once, according to Paul, she had primed the coffeemaker while sleepwalking). She could recall her foster aunt's funeral, where she'd made coffee for everyone. She'd been barely twelve, but even April said that she made the best coffee. It felt good to dole out the small cups. Everyone thanked her with weak smiles. And it was useful. She felt no grief. She'd barely known the woman. This, at least, was something that she could do. Her response to death: a cup wobbling on its saucer.

Shelby unwrapped the veggie tray. “It looked bigger in the store,” she apologized.

“It's fine,” Ingrid said.

They crunched carrots and played with their cups. Nobody was willing to speak. Andrew was watching Sam. Not in a dramatic way, but every once in a while, in short glances. Why were they studying with an engineering student? It was a good question. He'd met Sam during the library battle, and Shelby had explained that she was a member of the failed LARP. Sometimes the lies curved back on each other, like a Moebius strip. That was a dangerous moment. When the helices crossed, there was always the chance that everything could dissolve.

She could sympathize with his confusion. Only a few months ago, he'd been part of a closed triad with Shelby and Carl. Now there were these two extra people, and he couldn't remember how or why they'd been admitted to the group. It was like being told, as a child, that you would be spending time with a previously unknown relative. You were expected to be polite, to express a love that you were told must exist, although you'd never felt it. Andrew took their sudden friendship at face value, but a part of him didn't quite trust it. She worried that Paul might feel the same way. But if that was true, then he hid it well.

“So—” Andrew spoke, and everyone looked up. He wasn't expecting the attention. His eyes scraped the ground. “What's everyone working on?”

“Well,” Ingrid replied, “I have to hammer out my prospectus. It's overdue.”

“It sounds like you're forging a weapon,” Andrew said.

“Sometimes it feels that way.”

“I'm writing an abstract,” Shelby said. “The Canadian Society for Eighteenth-Century Studies is having their conference in London this year. Something about parallel enlightenments. I'm not totally sure what that means.”

“Are the enlightenments dueling?” Carl asked. “Like some kind of UFC match?”

“Possibly.”

“Cool.”

Andrew looked at him. “What about you?”

“Me?”

He frowned slightly. “What are you working on?”

“I—”

Carl trailed off. They all looked at him. Ingrid wondered if this would be the moment. He was close to breaking. She prepared herself to make more coffee. A condolence beverage. Nothing said
Sorry for lying to you about our portal fantasy
like a cup of dark roast.

“I . . . have an idea.” Carl stood. “Ingrid, is it okay if I use your printer?”

“Ah—okay. That's fine. The office is down the hallway.”

“Thanks.” He disappeared.

“Was that odd?” Andrew asked.

“He didn't get much sleep last night,” Shelby said. “I think he was at—”

“Hockey practice?”

“Right.”

Sam chuckled.

Andrew looked at her. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She couldn't quite meet his gaze. “It's just—the thought of him stick-handling is kind of funny. I don't know why. I'll stop talking now.”

Ingrid glanced at the doorway. This would be the perfect moment for them to come home. Neil would distract everyone. What was taking them so long? She looked around the room and realized that nobody had brought any books. This was becoming the worst farce in history. No wonder Andrew was confused. They were all acting like Martians.

“So—Ingrid—” Shelby was gesturing with a carrot. “You know that person who was just hired in your department? I think her name is—Lapona? Patty Lapona?”

Ingrid gave her a long look. “Patty Lapona.”

“I didn't know that the ed department was hiring,” Andrew said. “What's her specialty?”

She struggled to maintain a neutral expression. “Urban education,” she said slowly. “I think that's what Patty Lapona specializes in.”

Sam was beginning to catch on. Her mouth opened slightly, as if she were watching a train derail itself in slow motion.

“So,” Shelby persisted, “I hear that—Patty—is gunning for the chair's position. She's even met with the dean.”

“I didn't realize that,” Ingrid said flatly.

“A person like that can be hard to deal with. You need to protect your . . . department. Otherwise, she'll run amok.”

“Does she have any weaknesses?” Sam asked. “I mean, academically?”

“She's arrogant,” Ingrid replied. “She doesn't respect the traditional alliances. That sort of thing could blow up in her face.”

“You all seem to know a lot about this Patty,” Andrew said. “Are you sure that she'd make such a terrible chair?”

“She'll destroy the city,” Shelby murmured.

“What?”

“I mean—the campus. She'll destroy it with—” Shelby was losing it. “Prairie dogs.”

Andrew blinked. “Prairie dogs?”

“Yeah. She's got this plan—”

Carl emerged from the hallway, carrying a stack of papers. “Okay, everyone. I know we came here to work, but I thought we could try this new game, just for a bit. You know—to get our creative mojo flowing.”