Pile of Bones (6 page)

“This is going to go so well.”

“You had faith in the idea when you were sober.”

“I’m still sober. I mixed my wine with water, remember?”

“That’s because you’re sharp as a t—” Babieca’s tongue
stumbled over the word. “—sharp as a sharp thing, with lovely barbs and hooks.”

“I’m choosing to take that as a compliment.”

“We should go,” Roldan said. “It’s nearly time.”

They made their way back to the clepsydra, joining the crowd that was also leaving the city. Roldan studied his fellow noncitizens in the waning light, the people who, like him, divided their time between worlds. Domina Pendelia had slept easier when she was one of them. He barely slept at all. Sleep had always been his enemy, the monster prowling the edges of his thought, waiting for him to blink first. Sometimes he wanted to give in, but his wheels kept turning, powering the infernal machine that refused to gather rust. Staying awake was a talent that helped him in that other life, where reading seemed so dreadfully important. The closer they got to the alleys, the more he was able to think of his twin, the one on the opposite shore.

Words are his shield. He thinks he can read the whole world.

Once the sun dropped, the silenoi would appear. They used to hunt beyond the city walls, but now they roamed the streets in packs.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He smelled something, like a mixture of iron and rain-soaked ground. His alley was close. A part of him always resisted this moment. It wasn’t that he hated change. It was that he feared it. He wanted the alley forever, the blind corners of Anfractus, the smoke, power, and din that made him Roldan. It would all unravel. He couldn’t hold it together.

Just as they were about to part, Babieca squeezed his hand. “
Tack
,” he said, grinning.

T
HE SALAMANDER WAS SITTING ON HIS CHEST
. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. Also, its breath was smoke, which meant that his bed appeared to be on fire. He tried to meet its gaze but couldn’t quite tell where to look. He felt its claws kneading him.

“You don’t exist on this side of the park.”

This one thinks it knows everything.

The kneading grew more enthusiastic. Andrew grimaced. Drops of blood appeared on his bare chest. He felt the lizard shift position.

What do you desire?

“I’d need to make a list. Can I get up? My notepad is on the dresser.”

No. What is the one thing?

“It isn’t just one thing.”

It is.

He closed his eyes. “There is something.”

We can give it to you.

“Really?”

Yes. Would you like to make a deal?

“What do I have to give in return?”

You know.

He swallowed. “Okay. I accept.”

The salamander paused, one claw still on his chest.
You are certain?

“Yes. Do it.”

The claw sliced him open. He screamed. The salamander reached both paws into his chest, tugging on the sides of the incision. It grew, until it was large enough to accommodate the lizard’s head. Andrew gasped as it pushed its way inside him.

Everything must go.

He woke up sweating. He couldn’t catch his breath. There was a dull pain in his chest, which he tried not to think about. Surely it was indigestion. Nothing a little ginger ale couldn’t fix. There wasn’t actually a lizard setting up shop in his chest cavity. He swallowed around the dry lump in his throat. Coffee first, with a ginger ale chaser. That seemed like the healthiest option. He got out of bed and made his way to the living room.

Their drive back from the park had been curiously silent. Carl dozed in the backseat, and Shelby kept her eyes on the road. The white noise of the wipers put everyone in a trance. He remembered watching fat drops of rain strike the window, Albert Street a blur of trees in shadow. Then there was the silence of the house, a short fall into the empty bed. Sleep as heavy as hemlock, until the salamander dream.

He argued with the coffeemaker. Once the green light was on, and he was sure it wouldn’t explode, he allowed himself to look at the pile of marking. Professor Laclos had asked his students to write about the problem of obscurity in Old English literature. Most of the short essays began with a
Webster’s
definition of
obscurity
, followed by spliced Wikipedia articles pertaining to various topics. One student had written on
Hamlet
, firmly believing that Shakespeare was alive and well in the ninth century. He moved that essay to the bottom.

There comes a time—usually during the second semester of a master’s degree—when all graduate students ask themselves the same question:
Why am I doing this?
It was
a more neurotic version of the poet Rilke’s question:
Must I write?
If you answered in the affirmative, it meant that you were a writer. But Rilke never asked:
Must I write a thesis?
The desire to be an academic was poorly understood. Andrew didn’t fully know why he’d chosen to pursue graduate studies. Complicating things just seemed to be what he was good at.

Carl and Shelby had more obvious connections to academia. Carl was one of those kids who’d started watching the History Channel when he was six years old, entranced by animated reenactments of siege warfare. Shelby’s mother was head of the Cree Languages Department, and she’d practically grown up in the translucent corridors of First Peoples University. Andrew had no such pedigree. For as long as he could remember, his father had managed a used furniture store. His mother lived in various places, none of them nearby. She was an avid reader, as evidenced by the funny, well-written postcards that she sent him. The rest of his family held reasonable jobs, which granted them things that he still regarded as magical: dental benefits, deductible prescriptions, vacation time. They smiled kindly when he described whatever paper he was working on, like you do when someone tells you they want to become a graphic designer.

He sat down at his kitchen table, separating the essays into piles of ten. They remained sinister, and so he divided them again into piles of five.
Mark five, and you can do something fun, like watch a commercial or go to the bathroom.

When he was first applying to graduate school, he’d asked for reference letters from a number of surprised college professors. They were surprised because he’d barely spoken in class, and most of his essays, while competently written, had been late and off-topic. When he’d asked his favorite professor what the hardest part of her job was, she’d replied, without hesitation: “Marking. It’s like yard work. It never gets easier, and you always have to do it.”

Everyone had different strategies. Shelby wrote detailed
comments that were uniformly encouraging, while Carl liked to scrawl
What?
or simply
no
in the margins. Andrew had tried everything—a marking rubric with codes, a form of shorthand, typewritten comments, even colorful stamps (a jumping rabbit for
use the active voice
)—but in the end, none of these tactics cut down on the labor. His professor had been right. Of course, she’d also taught four classes per semester and still been available during office hours, while he could barely get through the work of forty-five students. College professors had guts.

He turned on the radio.

—found stripped to the waist in an overgrown area of the park. Drugs and alcohol were most likely a factor, although police are not releasing any more information at this time. The hiker may have already been disoriented and suffering from exposure when the wild animals discovered him.

Andrew shook his head. Wascana Park was in the middle of the city. How could a pack of coyotes get this close without being seen? It was like being attacked by wolves in the Cornwall Centre food court. They were supposed to be shy animals. He’d heard of them teaming up to take down a deer, but a full-grown man?

The phone rang while he was pouring the coffee. Andrew turned off the radio, then hit the speaker button. Shelby’s voice filled the kitchen, singing: “Maaarking paaarty, we’ve got wine and highlighters!”

“I was just about to have a coffee.”

“Perfect. Coffee lays the foundation, which you can then sprinkle wine on.”

“When exactly did we plan this marking party?”

“It all came together about fifteen minutes ago, when I woke up Carl. Now we’re on our way. He’s not super-awake yet, so he could probably use some coffee as well.”

“Wouldn’t it be more efficient for you to just mark at a pub?”

“Your place has the best lighting. Be there in a sec.”

He hung up and surveyed the piles again. Was five pushing it? Bundles of three seemed more humane. Three was
a sacred number, after all. The doorbell buzzed. Andrew realized that he still wasn’t wearing pants. He threw on a pair of shorts and went downstairs. Carl appeared first, holding a box of pilsner.

“She’s got more in the trunk,” he said.

Still barefoot, Andrew made his way across the unkempt lawn, avoiding the dandelions. Shelby handed him two bags.

“What’s all this?”

“Comestibles. We have to feed our minds.”

“Is there anything here that isn’t a starch?”

“You’re in no position to critique anyone’s eating habits. Besides, I got you those dried mango slices that you like, even though they creep me out.”

“Thank you.”

Carl had already set up camp in the living room. The table was now covered in essays and exam booklets. He had both a beer and a coffee in front of him.

“That was mine,” Andrew observed, pointing to the mug.

“Sorry.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “There’s still some left, I think.”

Andrew bit off a caustic comment. He returned to the kitchen and poured himself what remained, which was about two thirds of a cup. He gathered his essays and walked back into the living room. Shelby had already deployed her marking, next to Carl’s. There was no room left. Andrew exhaled. Then he piled his essays on the nearby chair. The living room was modest in size, and two extra people made it feel snug. He loved them both to death, but there was something about having people over—even great people—that never failed to make him anxious. It seemed like he should be cleaning, or handing out coasters, or something.

Carl opened up a bag of Funyuns. “Want some?”

“God, no.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I brought Malbec,” Shelby said, “in case you want to feel like an adult.”

“I’m older than both of you,” Carl reminded her. “I’m
like the hoary-headed sage of this group. You should listen to what I say.”

“You told me in the car that pilsner gives you unholy gas.”

“And that was true.”

“I’m going to open all of the windows,” Andrew said.

“Good idea,” Shelby replied. “While you’re up, can you put the Brie in the oven?”

“You brought Brie?”

“It’s amazing with Triscuits. Which I also brought. No thanks necessary.”

I could start a fire in the oven,
he thought idly, while unwrapping the soft cheese.
I can see the headline now: Promising grad students maimed by Brie.

When he returned, Carl and Shelby were mired in their favorite debate: whose discipline was clearly better.

“History deals with things that exist,” Carl was saying, “or at least things that used to exist: fortifications, weaponry, governments. English is totally subjective.”

“You sound like these essays.”

“Historians actually have to dig around in the dirt.”

“When’s the last time you were near dirt?”

“I’m more of an archivist.”

“Literature has to be read within its historical context. I’m as much of an archivist as you—I just don’t use an indecipherable method of notation.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Chicago style!”

“Are you kidding me?”

Carl looked up. “Andrew, what do you think?”

“I think that none of us are getting jobs, so it doesn’t matter.”

“I can’t believe you just went there.”

He sat down. “I’ve been thinking—”

“Don’t become a librarian,” Shelby interrupted him. “I know it seems like the greatest job in the world, but the competition is just as fierce.”

“That’s not it.” Andrew blinked. Some of the fuzziness
had vanished, and he could remember more about the previous night. “I’m still thinking about the fibula.”

Carl stared at him, still holding a Funyun. “Dude. No parking.”

“We’re not in public. This is my house.”

“He has a point,” Shelby said. “The rule of anachronism cuts both ways. Talking about work or school when you’re in Anfractus weakens the power of the city. Parking, when you’re not actually in the park, weakens the fabric of our lives here.”

“Maybe it brings us closer to being citizens.”

Shelby gave him a look. “Is that what you want?”

“I don’t know. It seems more interesting than marking forty-five versions of the same essay. In Anfractus, things are different. We have a quest—not some job that barely lets us break even, but a real quest, for the first time ever.”

“You don’t just become a citizen,” Carl said. “It’s not like applying for a student loan. Once you cross that line, your life here is over. Anfractus claims you.”

“A person could do it gradually, at first.”

“What would you tell your dad?
I’m going to live in a made-up city?
”

“At least finish your thesis,” Shelby said, only half-joking.

“I just—” Andrew stared at the carpet. “Sometimes I don’t know why I’m doing this anymore. Going to class, spending hours in the library, trying to write something original when I know that my ideas aren’t impressing anyone. When I’m in the park, I have a purpose. Lares talk to me. Things actually happen.”

Carl touched his shoulder. “You’re just in a funk, man. Besides—none of us has the resources to become a citizen. We wouldn’t survive the night.”

“Speak for yourself,” Shelby replied. “I’ve spent nights in the city before.”

“Right.” Carl took a sip of beer. “In the arx, surrounded by sagittarii.”

“There’s no place that isn’t dangerous at night.”

“The Arx is impregnable.”

“That’s not historically—”

“The Brie’s ready.” Andrew rose. “I’ll be right back.”

He lingered in the kitchen, spreading warm cheese on Triscuits, listening to them debate who would die first once the sun went down. He poured himself a glass of wine. It would clash with the coffee, but he didn’t care. He needed a distraction, something to keep him in this world, rather than endlessly wondering about the other.

Dad might even believe me if I said I was going to live in a made-up city. We used to build cities out of sofa cushions.

He remembered storming the love seats and leather sectionals, then fleeing to the bunk bed section, which provided the best cover. His father would chase him, brandishing a fluorescent light tube like a bastard sword.
I’ll never yield the Papasan chairs! Not even under torture!
And they would run in ever-expanding circles, around the legion of recliners and glass-topped tables that formed the boundaries of their kingdom. Even now, when Andrew found himself in strangers’ living rooms for the first time, he always wanted to arrange their furniture into a citadel. They were rarely amenable to it.

He brought the plate of Triscuits back to the living room. Shelby was viciously circling something on an exam. Carl saw his wineglass and nodded in approval. The next hour was a frenzy of eating and underlining. They managed to reduce their piles. Carl was only marking historical précis, which required fewer comments. After the third essay, Andrew stopped trying to explain what a caesura was. Gradually, marking-and-drinking became just drinking.

“I want to write a song for my exes,” Carl said, half-reclining on the couch.