Page 73 of Gifted & Talented

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The funeral went on despite global panic in the wake of apocalypse, the predictable nihilism of internet memes. Event planning is such that contracts are largely nonrefundable. People had already traveled from all over the country, and anyway, who could logistically say when eternal darkness might lift?

In lieu of consulting cosmologists about being left to float in the infinite dark of the unfeeling abyss, the funeral was held outdoors, in the woods. Thayer did famously love the woods, although I’m not sure he could have guessed it would be pitch black at the time of his memorial, which rendered a normal request egotistically laborious. There was a particular circle of trees we all had to hike to; fortunately, for this reason, it was a casual affair, most people in the instantly recognizable loungewear and hiking shoes that quietly signaled luxury in the magitech industry. All of us were holding phones and flashlights with various degrees of incompetence as part of a procession I’d planned to imperceptibly join at the rear until Arthur spotted me. He whispered something to Gillian, who nodded—she was accompanied on her other side by Yves—and then Arthur wandered over to me, looking every inch the man you loved from the very first moment you saw him as a boy, purely because you couldn’t help it.

“We’re running an experiment,” he said. “Death by chocolate.” He explained the finer details of the European reliance on the metric system to me as if I was, like him, the kind of person who didn’t question a volume exceeding two fucking sticks of butter as an appropriate dosage for magical chocolate. “Like I said, it was an honest mistake, and whatever, I’m basically fine. Where’s Monster?” he asked, looking hopefully around.

“At home,” I said. “With my mom. Because it’s dark. And a funeral.”

“Oh. Right, of course. Makes sense.” Arthur walked in step with me, watching his feet. “You know, if this whole dosage mishap—”

“Inability to read,” I corrected him.

“This dosage mishap, which frankly could have happened to anyone—”

“This impressively stupid act of carelessness, yes, go on.”

“If it turns out to be the fix, then I don’t think you’ve earned your fee.” I could tell he was teasing me. Arthur was always a playful person. It’s part of the can’t-help-it thing, even if he thinks it’s reasonable to just take a random amount of drugs—after all, what’s the difference between two tablets and two truckloads of ibuprofen?

“Considering that your sister set a biblical swarm of flies on me and my fragile baby son, I do plan to collect,” I told him. “Besides, you signed a contract.”

“What? Did not.”

“Messages count, legally. It’s in writing, offer and acceptance.”

“Are you bullshitting me?”

“Right now, with this? Absolutely. But in court? It holds up.”

“What do you know about contract law?”

“More than you, if you’re asking dumb questions.”

“What’s your son’s name?”

“Aragorn.”

“Damn,” sighed Arthur. “I really thought I’d get you that time.”

We walked a little bit longer in silence, twigs snapping underfoot.

“What will you do?” I asked him. “When your bereavement is at an end.”

“About the accidental pyrotechnics, you mean? It’s calmed down a lot since you’ve been around. You actually did help with that part, so maybe you’re right about services rendered.” He paused, segueing as he often did to levity. “Any chance you’re open to full-time employment? Two weeks’ paid vacation to become part of the Wren family, plus a commemorative pin.”

I rolled my eyes, though far be it from me not to notice he’d incidentally offered me the one thing I’d always wanted, which was to be one of them. “I told you, your magic is misfiring because you’re doing everything wrong. Or you were.” I stumbled over a tree root and he caught me by the elbow. “You don’t need me, Art, you need a mental health professional. Maybe two or three of them.”

“Fair enough.” He seemed unaffected by this, the bastard.

“And what about the rest?” I asked, pressing him. “The nonmagical stuff. What’s next?”

He riffled a hand through his hair, or at least, I think he did. I was concentrating on not stumbling to my death.

“I guess I’ll attend another funeral and then lose my reelection campaign,” said Arthur. “Maybe look into fostering or adoption. Do some recreational basket weaving with Yves.”

I paused to frown at him, not that he could see it. “What makes you so sure you’re going to lose?”

“Well, only the fact that I’m losing,” he said.

“Losing isn’t lost. Your opponent is an asshole.”

“Yeah, but I’m, quote, uninspiring. My policy isn’t progressive enough for the progressives, it’s too progressive for the conservatives. Hedging my bets only got me voted out in a single term.” Arthur sighed heavily, like someone who’d witnessed the ravages of war.

“So then bet riskier,” I said, pointing out what I felt was obvious. “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

“Aside from an election?” grumbled Arthur.

“If you can’t do something from inside the box, then destroy the box,” I said.

“What does that even mean?”

“It means, I don’t know, you’re not allowed to just fuck off and do nothing. You have money, you have influence, so you should use it.”

“But nobody will let me use it.” He gave me a wry look. “I’m just some guy.”

“So what? At one point your father was just some guy.” I wasn’t sure whether this was a helpful train of thought, so I added, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Keep trying. Just take the beating and keep going.”

“What if I’m not a masochist?”

“You’re a complete masochist, first of all—”

“Okay, then what if it’s hard and it sucks and I’m tired and I just want to be happy?”

“Do you think it’ll make you happy to recreationally weave baskets?”

Arthur sounded sulkier than Monster when he said, miserably, “No.”

We trudged along farther.

“You’re capable of great things, Arthur Wren,” I said, having lost a battle with myself. “No, not great things. Fuck great things, that’s just capitalist jargon. You are capable of good things.” I looked at him then, shining my phone’s flashlight on his face so he knew I was looking right at him. “You are capable of such good things, Arthur. And I have a son who needs good schools, and I have a mother who needs good medical care, and I am in dire need of goodness in my politics.”

“So then I should do it for you?” he asked with another air of playfulness.

“Do it for Monster,” I said. “Do it for Riot.”

He looked thoughtful. “Do you think they’ll be friends someday?”

“Maybe, unless your opponent helps burn the world down, sure.”

“Do you really think one politician can do anything?”

Not really, but he made me want to. And shouldn’t that mean something? “If one politician can hold a government hostage, then yeah, one should be good enough to fix it, too.”

“Not if the system’s broken.”

“Who can fix the system but you?”

“What if no one lets me try?”

“You mean what if they do and you fail?”

“Yeah, sure, what if I fail?”

“Oh, darling, but what if you fly?” I sing-songed.

“I hate you,” said Arthur, and then, “What’s your son’s name?”

I was quiet a second.

And then I said, “It’s Arthur.”

“It is?” he said, sounding awed. “Wait. No. You’re fucking with me.”

“His name is Arthur,” I grudgingly admitted. “It actually is.”

When I found out I was having a boy—I knew it like a dream I’d had, a vision I’d already witnessed from the future—I suggested the name to Ben, thinking he’d shoot it down. He didn’t. He never asked, either, what made me think of it. But what is early motherhood if not a time steeped in nostalgia, wondering how to remedy the past with our dreams for the future, to build tomorrow on the wounds of yesterday?

The procession came to a halt, having reached the clearing Thayer had selected. I realized that Arthur had to leave my side, to go and join his sisters. Meredith was standing alone. Eilidh was a distance away from her. Dzhuliya was several people away in the crowd, not standing with either of them.

“Wait,” said Arthur. “He’s not mine, is he?”

I was so lost in thought that it took me several seconds to decipher what Arthur was asking me. When I realized, I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw my hands up and leave.

“Art. We slept together over a decade ago . Monster is two years old.”

“Oh. Right.” He laughed. The trees rustled. It felt holy, despite all evidence to the contrary.

“We’ll talk later,” Arthur said, and kissed my cheek. He was off to say goodbye to his father, the archbishop of assholes; the assholiest of them all.

I pulled him back. “Arthur,” I said, with a weird flame of desperation in my voice. “I’m sorry Thayer didn’t want to know you. He missed out. You’re the best person, the very best one. I’ve been meaning to tell you that for a while.”

My eyes were full of tiny remorseful fire ants. My throat was thick with them.

“Nah,” said Arthur, his smile a lilt of gentlemanly disagreement.

Then I let him go, and he went.