Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  Hello, irony.

  What Ruthie couldn’t know—because Zach had not shared his plans for the exact reason she’d just articulated—was how close he was to bringing their days in Tarra, Indiana to an end. Ruthie’s timing for executing the home improvement project could not have been worse, but Zach couldn’t bear to burst her bubble now. So much for sharing his news about the Glover grant tonight.

  “I’m happy for you, Ruthie.” Zach lifted his half-emptied glass. “To your sanctuary.”

  She accepted his peace offering with a soft clink. “Thank you.”

  “So, when do I get to meet this Quentin?”

  17

  Echo Beat

  The right turn onto Third Street provoked a nasty tug inside Cupid’s chest. Cursed gods, not now! Ignoring his heart pull would cost him dearly, but not meeting Gail at the restaurant she’d picked—“blowing her off,” as Pan would say—would make Cupid the kind of unreliable asshole he’d been cleaning up after since he fell. Of the two unappetizing options, Cupid chose to bear the heartache himself.

  Staying the course to the restaurant brought first a burn, then a throbbing choke-release, choke-release, then a relentless, mighty squeeze. Beads of sweat rolled down the edges of Cupid’s cheeks. Pain tossed his body left and right against the driver’s seat like a hydra batting a sheep from one head to another. The gods did not like being ignored.

  The seat belt bit into Cupid’s shoulder as he thrashed about, but freeing himself from the restraint offered little relief and triggered an irritating warning bell that took turns with Cupid’s anguished moans echoing against the walls of the Prius. He wondered if his chest would explode like the eggs he’d blown up in the microwave; he pictured Pan scraping off bits of his innards after they’d splattered all over the car’s interior.

  After a harrowing twenty minutes with the singular goal of reaching Gail in one piece, Cupid and his wrecked heart arrived at Saffron. The pulsating agony continued even after he exited the car on shaky legs. He mopped his face with the hem of his shirt, but sweat was pouring off him in buckets.

  “Hey, you made it.” Gail’s delight quickly turned to worry. “Holy shit, are you okay?” She rushed over to the entrance and grasped Cupid’s arms.

  “I’m sorry about this, Gail, but I—gah!” A sharp, stabbing pain stole Cupid’s breath away. “Can we step outside?”

  “Are you having a heart attack? Should I call 911?”

  “No, no, I’ll be okay.” He let out a cautious breath. “Would you mind terribly if we don’t eat dinner here tonight?”

  “Of course not. Why didn’t you just tell me you don’t like Indian food?”

  “Oh. Yeah, I think—ouch—the spices . . .” Gods, he was a terrible liar.

  “Jeez, let’s go somewhere else. Did you have another place in mind?”

  If only he knew. “Can I surprise you?”

  Gail’s face lit up. “Sure. Are you okay to drive?”

  “Yes,” he answered, pleasantly surprised to find it was true. He was quite okay the moment he’d decided to follow his heart signal. “Why don’t you follow me in your car?” Whatever Cupid needed to handle tonight, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage Gail too.

  Cupid’s heart led them both, in separate cars, back to the fateful Third Street crossing where he’d earlier ignored the pull of his heart. This time, he followed the course set by the gods. The occasional twinge tugged at him when the streets didn’t quite align with his destiny, but this pain Cupid could bear. In fact, he found a surprising comfort in the external guidance once he got past the idea of being bridled like one of Helios’s stallions. Cupid’s fate eluded him, but at least he knew which way to turn.

  He checked his rearview for Gail every few blocks. Right on his tail, bless her heart. He’d have to remember to tell her she looked pretty when they got wherever they were going.

  The zigzag route took Cupid—and, consequently, Gail—to a part of town Cupid had not yet seen. They were definitely not headed toward Ruthie’s house, but Cupid fully expected to find her at the end of the journey. He drove under a string of lights stretched across the road, illuminating a grayed wood sign that read Welcome to the Boardwalk. The blacktop street ended with a row of barriers directing cars toward a parking lot. Beyond the barriers, tightly set wooden planks laid on the diagonal invited foot traffic, and there was plenty of it. Carnival games lined the left-hand side of the street; on the other, a series of walk-up food stands boasted gyros and french fries, taffy and ice cream. Whatever this place was, Cupid’s heart-motor had reached its destination.

  Remembering his date as they both emerged from their cars, Cupid turned just as Gail slammed her car door with a force that surprised him. “We’re eating at Pier Ten? Really?”

  Cupid didn’t have to strain to see the bold neon sign rising from the roof of the sprawling restaurant sitting at the end of the street like Poseidon on his throne, a far cry from the cozy Indian restaurant Gail had chosen for their date. Also, strangely named, Cupid thought, with no water in sight.

  “I’m sorry, Gail. I know this wasn’t your first choice, but it seems like the kind of place with a big selection.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Despite Cupid’s noblest efforts, he’d angered her. “Come on, Quentin. You mean to tell me you didn’t know the Millers were coming here tonight?”

  Aha! His heart had driven him to Ruthie after all. “No, I didn’t. I would never have brought you here if I’d known it would upset you so.” That was the truth, though how would Cupid have explained showing up here by himself? “Also, you look really pretty tonight. Sorry I didn’t mention it earlier.”

  Gail studied Cupid’s face, no doubt seeing only earnestness where experience had led her to expect lies. The hard lines of her irritation softened, and Cupid took advantage of his opportunity.

  Grasping her hand, he said, “Gail, I promise I didn’t know they were coming here, but what difference does it make? You’re my date. We’re here, and I’m starved. Can we go inside, please?”

  Once through the door, Cupid’s compulsion returned with a vengeance. Ruthie was nearby.

  While Cupid was busy sorting out his signals, Gail slipped in front of him to plead for a table. “I know you’re packed, and we don’t have a reservation. Whatever you can do . . .”

  Little did Gail know, the hostess’s pulse had quickened with one look at Cupid. A table miraculously became available.

  Heads turned as they walked past. Cupid tried to hold Gail in focus, but there was no ignoring the sideways tug of his heart. Once he caught sight of Ruthie, all pretense fell apart. Even from the back, she was stunning. Cupid dropped out of line, a soldier following the commands of his heart.

  Cupid rationed his steps with as much discipline as possible, but the sliver of exposed neck peeking out just above the collar of Ruthie’s blouse unraveled him. He’d worked out a greeting during the strange odyssey here—something appropriate, or at least socially acceptable—but before his lips could form words, his fingertips met the soft skin at the back of her neck.

  Ruthie batted away the hand and turned with a gasp. “Quentin?”

  Ruthie’s husband stood suddenly, the fork en route to his mouth clattering to the plate, his napkin sliding to the floor. Behind dark, rectangular frames, his eyes blinked slowly as if he were not the least bit surprised to see Cupid standing there and somehow knew every wrong feeling Cupid held for his wife. “Speak of the devil.”

  “I’m sorry, Ruthie. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  Ruthie twisted all the way around in her chair. “Gail? What are you doing here?”

  Gail’s hand closed around Cupid’s arm. Her answer dripped with tension. “Happy anniversary, guys.”

  Ruthie’s gaze settled on the fingers staking their claim on Cupid. “Really, Gail? You had to bring him here? Tonight?”

  The
two women eyed each other like cobras. “He brought me, actually,” Gail said. “It was a surprise.”

  Zach chimed in with a hollow laugh. “I’ll say.” Stepping to Ruthie’s side, Zach clasped his hand onto her shoulder, subtle but effective. Hadn’t Hephaestus pulled the same possessive move on Aphrodite countless times? “Ruthie was just telling me about you.”

  “She was?” Cupid’s gaze shifted to Ruthie’s. The color returned to her cheeks, casting a warm glow from her forehead to the deep valley of her cleavage.

  Zach’s head tipped ever so slightly toward his wife. “Yes. You’re going to be doing some work in our home?”

  “Oh,” Cupid said. “Yes, I’m very excited.” Zach’s eyebrows arched. Ruthie’s hand flew to her throat. Gail tightened her grip around Cupid’s arm. “Should be an interesting project, I mean.”

  “Seems so,” Zach answered, squeezing his wife’s shoulder once more before extending his hand to Cupid. “Zach Miller. Pleased to meet you, Quentin.”

  Cupid slipped out of Gail’s grasp to lean into the handshake. “Please, call me ‘Q.’”

  “Q,” Zach repeated with a grin. “Well, you two have a lovely evening, and send my regards to double-oh-seven.” Cupid had no idea who double-oh-seven was, but Zach’s dismissal left no room for misinterpretation.

  “You, too,” Gail sing-songed, shooting Ruthie a smirk.

  They were supposed to leave for their own table now, but Cupid couldn’t quite tear his gaze away from the sorrow behind Ruthie’s eyes. He hated to think their unwelcome interruption had ruined her evening, but wouldn’t that be better than the alternative—that Ruthie was already miserable at her own anniversary celebration?

  The story of Ruthie and Zach’s evening stretched across their table in the steady glow of the mechanical candle. Ruthie’s wine glass stood nearly full while her husband’s held a mere sliver of dark liquid at the bottom. A single dessert plate sat abandoned at the center of the table, Ruthie’s side of the cake untouched. Two people going through the motions that might have worked in the past but seemed to be failing them now.

  Cupid’s heart sank for Ruthie. No, that wasn’t sinking; it was beating. And—did his godly powers deceive him?—a beat back from Ruthie that met his ears with a resounding thump-thump-thump. Ruthie was beating for him! He knew it!

  It all made sense now. This was why Cupid’s heart had dragged him here tonight. The gods had righted their error. Ruthie was meant to be with Cupid after all. Oh, how happy he would make her!

  Cupid closed his eyes to concentrate on their delicious duet. His frenzied ba-boom, ba-boom chased after her steady thump-thump . . .

  Wait, something was wrong. Cupid’s beat didn’t line up with Ruthie’s, and yet, there was an echo. He was sure of it . . .

  The truth sucked the air out of Cupid’s lungs. He forced his eyes open.

  Backlit by the unwavering votive, Ruthie and her Right Love stared back at Cupid.

  18

  About Marriage

  “This is good,” Pan said. “Now you know for sure.”

  “Wonderful. Watch out for the doorframe!” Sometimes, Cupid doubted whether Pan knew where his body ended and the world began.

  “I got it. Keep your panties on.”

  “You should have let me walk backward,” Cupid said. “It took me three hours to get the stain finish just right.”

  Pan kept quiet until the entertainment center was safely lowered into its new space. “You did a great job on this, Q. First table I built, you’d set your beer down on one end, next thing you know, it’s sliding off the other side.” Pan acted this out with great theatrical flair for Cupid’s benefit.

  “Your cheering-up routine’s not working, but thanks for trying.”

  Pan’s smile drooped. “You knew Ruth wasn’t beating for you. Why do you torture yourself?” He slapped his arm around Cupid’s shoulders and jostled him as if he could shake Ruthie right out of his system.

  “It just doesn’t seem possible the two of them are meant to be. They didn’t even look like they wanted to share a meal, let alone a life.”

  “Ah, well, that’s marriage, isn’t it? How many years did you say they’ve been together now?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “Damn, I will never understand monogamy. You want to help me with this cable box?”

  Cupid followed Pan’s lead, half watching the complicated unscrewing of wires in case he ever needed to manage this himself. “Have you never had a mate you’d want to keep for eternity?”

  Pan’s huff floated up from the lower shelf. “I guess there were a few I wouldn’t have minded as long as I could have banged whoever else I wanted, too.”

  “Good thing you never married a mortal, then.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “What if Echo would’ve had you? Or Syrinx?”

  “Thanks for bringing up those shit shows. I’m not saying this excuses my behavior, but I was half goat back then. And Mount O is not Earth.”

  “No, but spurned love is spurned love. I’m beginning to appreciate how one might be moved to violence.”

  Pan popped his head up from behind the electronics. “Do I need to worry about you?”

  “Of course not.”

  The expression of alarm faded from Pan’s face, but he kept one eye on Cupid as he set back to work. “Good, because I’ve got a situation brewing with Euphrosyne, and I can only put out so many fires at once.”

  “That’s fine. I’ve been thinking I probably need some kind of outside help with this one, anyway.”

  Pan shot up again, bumping his head on the wall. “Ow. Fuck!” He scrubbed his knuckles over his scalp. “What do you mean, ‘outside help’?”

  “Advice from someone who has actually been married. Earth married.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense. What about Gail? She’d know Ruthie better than anyone, right?”

  “She’s too close to the situation, and frankly, I’m not entirely sure of her motives.”

  “Beyond relieving you of your pants?” Pan beamed at his own little joke.

  “Gail is complicated.” While Cupid believed Gail was rooting for Ruthie’s happiness, he found it unlikely that Gail would encourage Ruthie to work out her issues with a cheating husband, given her own sordid marital history.

  The twinkle of mirth in Pan’s eyes mellowed into something resembling admiration—or maybe a surge of pride at his own mentoring skills. “You’re learning.”

  “I was thinking . . .” Cupid took a sudden, keen interest in a loose cable lying near his foot. “I might ask Mia’s advice.”

  Pan stopped working again and shifted his full focus onto Cupid. So much for slipping the idea past Pan’s notice. “Mia,” Pan repeated.

  “She was married.”

  “Very badly.”

  “Maybe it takes a person who’s been in a bad marriage to recognize how to fix one.” At least, this reasoning had convinced Cupid—mostly.

  Pan’s bushy red eyebrows drew together. “So, this is all about your mission, and not about trying to rekindle something with Mia.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You do realize this has ‘fucking terrible idea’ written all over it?”

  “I can handle it, Pan.”

  “Dammit, Q, I can’t watch you get fucked up over Mia again. You barely survived it the first time.”

  “Yes, I remember.” Cupid’s confidence, shaky at best, faltered at Pan’s doubts. “I do miss Mia and the boys so much, but it doesn’t ache like before.”

  “You also haven’t been anywhere near Mia since the day she clicked with her lieutenant.”

  “True, but look what a mess I was afterward, and I was nowhere near her then. It isn’t about physical distance. Once my signal locked onto Ruthie, my heartbreak over Mia faded into the background.”


  “The gods can be somewhat merciful.” Pan stopped there, and Cupid wasn’t inclined to probe. “If you honestly believe talking with Mia might help, at least do it over the phone.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

  Pan jutted his chin toward Cupid’s room. “Go on. I’ve got this.”

  “You sure?”

  “I have moved at least thirty times since the invention of electricity. I’m decent at wiring shit. Quit stalling.”

  19

  Mia’s Advice

  Cupid’s great idea grew a scary set of fangs on the way to his room. He flopped onto the bed, the exact site where he’d rotted away for days, paralyzed with heartache over losing Mia. But he did not have the luxury of time to wallow now when there was a clear and urgent job to do. Ruthie and Zach’s marriage was teetering at the peak of a steep slope, and Cupid needed to steady the boulder before it rolled down the hill and met Sisyphus at the bottom.

  Find your center.

  Cupid sat up straight, folded his legs, closed his eyes, and inhaled. Pressing his index fingers to the cartilage in his ears, he hummed out the high pitch of the “bee breath” Mia had taught him. After three minutes of the Bhramari, he felt relaxed enough to pick up the phone and dial her number.

  “Q! How are you?” Even after everything, her sunny voice sent a pulse of longing through his system.

  “How are you? What’s new with the boys? How’s everything going with Patrick?”

  Her laughter floated into his ear. “Whoa. Slow down. Breathe.”

  His body complied automatically with Mia’s instructions, drawing in a long, deep breath and releasing it purposefully. “It’s nice to hear your voice, Mia.”

  “Yours, too. We’re doing great here. I can’t explain it, but being with Patrick just feels easy, like we’d been holding a place for him in our lives. He’s here now, sitting on the floor with Joe and Eli, surrounded by trucks and blocks.”