by Lyndsay Faye
“Nah.” Ben realizes it’s true only as he says it. “We’ll always have Bulvmania.”
“You impossible nutter, what is it you’re doing?” Horatio questions as they walk back into daylight, bells tinkling a farewell.
“Like I said, I always thought the universe was made up of atoms, but this time it needs to be a story, and that story needs to end.”
“But why?”
“So that ours can start.”
It’s not the entire explanation, but it’s the only one Horatio will stand for.
I don’t actually know who’s ending.
But someone is.
Lia said so.
And I would crack every unsolved equation left in the world to make sure that it isn’t you.
They go back to the car. It’s awkward pretending to laugh over champagne when they’re both navigating the labyrinth of what came before and what comes next.
“Do you remember the day we met?” Ben asks.
“Ha, um, yes.” Horatio tilts the neck of his champagne bottle. “But I don’t suppose you do.”
“What do you mean? Of course I do. Rude.”
Ben was exploring the Columbia campus—trespassing recast as mapping. But he got bored with just linoleum and metal folding chairs. Columbia was meant to be exotic in the way only old things are; a penny is a mere penny unless it’s an ancient penny, then it’s an artifact or a treasure. So when he came to a door in the most castle-esque building yet, and it said FACULTY ONLY, he honored the spirit of Magellan and strode through corridors that emitted the inky-clean scent of midterms being graded. He reached a room, and Ben didn’t know that he was about to meet him in person, this person, all he knew was that a handsome dark-skinned man chewing the end of a Bic pen was looking at a sheaf of papers like they needed stabbing.
“Need any help with that?” Ben asked, slouching against the carved doorframe.
For some reason, the man’s face lit up. “Oh, hullo. Why, are you much cop at papers on plagiarism and post-colonialism?”
“Nope, I’m better with the conceptual foundations of quantum mechanics.”
The man offered his hand when Ben approached him. “Horatio Ramesh Patel.”
“Benjamin Jackson Dane. Soooooo, you’re faculty, then?”
“Oh, um, no. But you are?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Ha! Well, I just started the graduate program, but Mum told me that if I was going to spend all our money going to America’s Hogwarts, I had to find its hidden passageways and send her pictures. I’m not doing any harm, no one’s booked in this room till a library staff meeting at seven. Cross my heart.”
Ben laughed. “America’s Hogwarts is actually Harvard, I think. Any luck with the secret passageways?”
“No, you?”
No. But I found you, he thought.
“It was when we were both invading the faculty wing looking for chambers of secrets.”
Horatio laughs fondly. “It was not. It was outside of Pulitzer Hall, the first day, and you told me that we only marked time because it was passing. So we could orient ourselves. You weren’t even showing off—the thought just sort of . . . delighted you. You could have been talking to your bedpost. I didn’t mind.”
Frowning in consternation, Ben answers, “Weeeeell, that does admittedly sound like me. So I believe you. Even though not remembering when we actually met makes me hate myself slightly more than the usual.”
“Benjamin . . . for heaven’s sake, I never. Please don’t take it that way?”
Ben squints, trying to remember regaling a magnetic stranger about time. He can’t for the life of him. The Cristal is getting warmer and flatter, but it’s almost gone. South, south, south they go as the sun fades, toward the gala venue and the Dutch settlement of New Amsterdam.
In the alphabet of their personal time, of this story, where are they now? C? Q? X?
“Benjamin,” Horatio’s voice breaks in again.
“Yeah, sorry, right here.”
“We’ve arrived.”
Ben slides against Horatio, thigh to thigh. He sees red carpet through the tinted glass, thin people with thick wallets, strutting as if it’s totally natural to stop, dislocate your hip, arch your neck like you’re about to come, wait for the flash. Repeat.
“All right, let’s get this over with. Just smile and know you look like a tasty, tasty snack. Or don’t smile. You look fantastic like that, too.”
Horatio’s jaw drops. “We’re . . . we don’t have to . . . oh shit, you’re Benjamin Dane. Of course we have to—”
“Gonna stop you right there.” Ben plants a kiss on Horatio’s shoulder, because he can. “Yep, we have to. Now, man up and get that Columbia-legendary ass on display.”
Horatio splutters in annoyance, but it’s better than the outright horror. They enter the line. Ben’s entire neck feels like it’s wrapped in a thunderstorm. He slides a Xanax out of his pocket, dry swallowing and covering it with a cough. When they reach the river of red and set sail, something still doesn’t feel right. But Ben quickly susses out one of the things prickling like pure static charge.
“What . . . um . . .” Horatio squawks, staring down at their joined hands.
“Shoulda plied you with more Cristal.” Ben beams. Everything is easier now. “This is cute too, though. Tallyho, as you would absolutely never say!”
the red carpet passes with dozens of
flick flickflick snap flick flick flick snap snap
everyone absolutely rabid now they see Ben Dane is holding hands with
snap snap snap flickflick flick snap flickflickflick
a tall dark and handsome
flick snap snap snapsnapsnap flick snap
and now they’re yelling and doubling the rate of
flickflick snapsnapsnap flick snapsnap flickflickflick snap snapflickflicksnap
But really it takes scant time for them to get through security (because he’s goddamn Benjamin Dane and Horatio’s sword cane looks like a Broadway-worthy accessory and that’s all), and then they’re past the bottleneck and the night is upon them. Which feels like nearing the end of a very painful line of dominoes.
“Killer job your first time getting papped. Mother of tap-dancing Christ,” Ben remarks, craning his neck.
It’s a South Street waterfront space hovering above the city like a helipad, the sheer bragging footprint spaced by pedestals sporting gargantuan floral arrangements. Shocking pink lilies, fruit tree branches, jungle leaves. Catering stations dole out champagne, mini-crepes with caviar, prime rib toasts. Spiral staircases lead to massive balconies where people survey the room like archers seeking a kill. It’s grander than any of the galas his father ever lived to see. And even if Jackson Dane wasn’t all he pretended, that makes Ben bleed under the leather cuff. A chandelier like a sun presides, metal rays shooting out with blazing illumination at the tips.
“T Tauri star,” Ben says, nodding up at the light fixture. “Major X-ray flares, killer solar winds. One of my faves.”
Horatio darts a smitten glance at him. “It’s, um, really quite something.”
“Hey, if you’re gonna celebrate cheating, do it in style, am I right?”
“Benjamin, a word.” His friend tugs him behind the closest floral monstrosity. “I detest prying, but, well . . . You’ve been acting quite oddly about this dream earlier, and I want to understand, so—are you willing to give me the SparkNotes version?”
Ben winces his eyes shut.
It just all happened so quickly. There isn’t any time. Paul was alive (then he wasn’t), Ben was panting into his hands for hours (then he wasn’t), Ben’s clothes were still hanging on his body (then they weren’t), the shower was hot and the scotch bottle half full (then it
wasn’t), and before he knew it he was tumbling into
THE DREAM HE HAD TODAY THAT HE ALMOST TOLD HORATIO ABOUT BUT DIDN’T BECAUSE HORATIO WOULD HAVE LOST HIS SHIT:
A DRAMA IN ONE ACT
The fly system of the old World’s Stage Theatre building was a relic of vaudeville. So the fly gallery offstage right was a charming eagle aerie, and he and Lia sat far above the proscenium, their legs skinny enough to poke through the gaps in the guardrail. Below, a stooped old man in a janitor’s uniform pushed a wide broom, whistling something ancient and evil. A tune for luring wild horses or maybe enslaving a demon.
Ben reached for Lia’s hand, tears threatening.
“I never knew.”
“I never wanted you to. Anybody, really. But that’s what the art was for. And the gin, you’re probably thinking, but I’ll say it first.”
“What did he want?” Ben pleaded. “Shit, I just can’t . . . why?”
Lia bit her lower lip. “What everybody wants, I think. What serial killers want when they taunt the police. Somebody to tell their story. That’s what the universe is made up of, in the end. People’s stories. If he got caught, then I carried his inside me.”
Ben took a shaking breath. Jórvík looked like a Greek character from up here, but not Sisyphus of the eternal long-handled broom: King Sisyphus, before he was caught murdering hapless travelers.
“Is this your dream or my dream?”
“Does it matter anymore?” Lia chuckled suddenly. “Remember how we used to spy on that poor City Diner waiter? Because we needed to know his origin tale? Ask him straight out next time you see him, please.”
“How can that still interest you?”
“Some weird shit has gone down where I live now. So . . . pay attention to whatever he says. It matters. To everyone. It might be the ending, I think.”
Ben lifted their laced fingers, covering them with his other hand. He wanted to take Lia’s prints and ink them and gently press them into very expensive paper like hide parchment or Egyptian papyrus or the gilt-adorned margins of an illuminated manuscript.
Jórvík’s whistling grew fainter and fainter. A trapdoor staircase had opened in the stage floor. Down and down he went, broom and all, till his head disappeared, then the wooden handle. An easy stroll down to hell. Lia flicked her fingers and the trap slammed shut, locking. Wildflowers sprouted over its surface.
“My god, Lia,” Ben marveled.
“Yeah, I did that once before.” Lia squeezed his hand. “Minus the flowers. I was a young girl, and he was a monster, and the last time he made me pick and I’d put together what it meant, I thought, Someone else will die. So I made sure all the exits down there were locked and shut him in, told him I thought I’d heard a rat or something, would he please check. I was going to go call the police.”
Ben turned to her in shock. “What happened?”
“I got scared,” Lia answered. “Like I said—I was a girl and he was a monster, and I thought no one would believe me. I waited too long, wondering about what I’d watched him doing before I shut him in there. He’d been planting what I now realize were tiny fuses, timed ones. Accelerants. Lord knows what arcane kind. I locked him in and went to stare at shit in the park, trying to muster the courage to go to the police. Wondering what my dad would think. What your family would think. If I’d go to jail for choosing pictures. Stupid kid stuff. Eventually I forgot about him touching all those walls, those curtains, planting things, and could only focus on the terror of what would happen to me if I tattled. World’s Stage burned a few hours later.”
Ben dropped Lia’s hand. But only to throw his arm around her shoulders, and she nestled her head with a sigh.
“It’s not that I . . . that I felt bad exactly. I knew I killed someone evil.”
“How did you feel?”
“Corrupted,” she whispered.
Flames licked along the stage, making patterns like glimmering snakes. Ben intended to tell her that Paul was . . . untimely deceased, if not exactly how. But after that confession, his own story was wiped from his mind.
“Remember how Jórvík was obsessed with fire tricks? I was sorta kinda starting to suspect his sick-ass brain burned down the theatre. Like a last hateful hurrah. But . . . that doesn’t make sense anymore, for him to burn down his own refuge. Do you know why it happened?”
“No. I know what it did to me. I know it was him. But not why it happened.”
The fire snakes darted up the walls, the curtains. Countless more now, a whole vipers’ nest.
“I started a new art project.” Lia nodded down at the burning meadow flowers. “It was going to be me trapped under him, pinned down by vines. But I’ve grown even since drawing the plans. Now I . . . I suppose I know I’m powerful. So I don’t need to do that piece anymore.”
Flower stems crackled, then vanished. Petals melted. The proscenium was covered in intricate swirling flame, whorls licking at the ceiling.
“Listen,” Lia said. “A lot of pieces are going to fall into place at the gala tonight. And some of it will involve tragedy. Death. But you need to listen—no matter what happens, it’s going to be OK. I promise. And I . . . I can do that now, I can promise.”
Ben sank into the warm cloud of her hair. He believed her. More than that, he felt it ring true, somewhere at the back of his skull. Calm washed over him.
“We’re gonna wake up in a second, and it’s not going to be pretty for you.” Lia laughed.
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
“I do. But I don’t want to leave you. I never did.”
“That’s not what your goodbye letter said.”
“Oh. You got my goodbye letter?”
“Yeah, my friends made sure I did.”
“Well. If I said that—then that part wasn’t true.”
Lia turned wide brown eyes up to Ben’s. “It’s almost over. The clock is ticking. Go get ’em, Benny. You can do this.”
Sinking his fingers into her curls, Ben replied, “I am, like, way uncertain of that.”
“But I am entirely certain.” Lia smiled. “And I’ll see you there.”
FIN
Trudy floats into the room on Claude’s arm, her honey-colored hair swept up, makeup so professional that you can’t tell her face isn’t exactly “procedure-free.” Her poison-emerald gown plunges in a sweetheart V. Behind the complete assurance she radiates, something else simmers, at odds with her goddess half-smile. Ben swallows, thinking of holding her hand as they searched for antique clocks in the flea markets. Him adoring, her doting, licking it up, coaxing him to speak, and buying him treats. Trudy might just be the most voracious object science has ever encountered.
Oh Mom
I Love You
And You Look Very Pretty
But You Are Not A Size 6 Socialite
You Are A Supermassive Black Hole
Billions Of Times The Weight Of Our Sun
Uncle Claude, meanwhile, even outfitted by Vincentio, looks like a suburban real estate broker.
“Are you OK?” Horatio takes a half step to shield Ben from view. It is objectively adorable.
“Oh shit, listen, I have to talk to the techs, all right?” Ben watches Rory and Garrett Marlowe scuttle up to the happy couple, hissing reports under their breaths, and makes a face like he just chewed tinfoil. “Before you got back and I got plastered, I made a few changes to my speech for tonight. Minor ones. Go see if they have anything involving vegetables, and I’ll, like, find you in a few.”
Horatio struggles for calm. “But we don’t know what the Marlowes just said, what if it’s dangerous, what if you can’t find—”
“Horatio Ramesh Patel.” Ben slides his hands behind his friend’s neck. “I will find you. They could stand a single atom from you in a huge police lineup of
atoms, holding up little numbered signs, and I’d still see you. Yeah?”
His friend swallows. “Yeah. Be careful please?”
“When am I ever not careful?”
Air huffs from Horatio’s nose, but Benjamin strikes off before he can lose nerve himself. A floating manager readily directs the Dane heir to a small tech booth hidden between a supply closet and a restroom on the second level. Away from skin contact with Horatio, Ben’s stomach fires with nerves.
Lia thinks you can do this. Trust her.
He delivers the thumb drive. The staff press a remote into his hand to advance his slides. Thanking them, Ben takes the circular route back and finds himself passing the DJ booth, which has been producing party-guaranteed pop tunes, and is unsurprised to see Ariel Washington at the helm. One night a year, Ariel—repaid by Paul with a swag bag, free food, and a decent DJing fee—does what he’s really best at, which is music. Since the swag bags are worth thousands, it’s not such a terrible arrangement, and even though Ariel was a guitarist, he’s worked practically every sort of gig known to man.
Keep it all in the family, Paul used to say. Ben shudders, knowing now that he meant keep it all under my thumb.
Currently Ariel is playing eighties music so white that Ben suspects sarcasm.
I get frightened in all this darkness
I get nightmares I hate to sleep alone
I need some company, a guardian angel
Ben approaches, waving warmly. All the wrinkles in Ariel’s face sprout in an answering smile. He holds up a finger, enters some instructions, pulls off huge headphones, and comes down to wrap Ben in a hug.
“Eddie Money, Ariel, really?”
“Benny, my boy, you want a turn at this here gadget?”
“Dude, only you have the stones to play ‘Take Me Home Tonight.’ And no thank you.”
“It’s one of the nicest on the market, no kidding.”
“Please. Like I’ve ever handled a DJ board in my life. Keep mocking us with your synth-riddled radio candy.”
Ariel winks. “Listen, Benny, I’m glad you’re here. Gonna fill you in on something real quick, all right? After our last talk, I did a little digging for you.”
