Zeno

Behind the bookshelves the children sit with their scripts in their laps: Christopher Dee with his squinty blue eyes and that charming way of talking out of the corner of his mouth; Alex Hess, the thick-chested lion-headed boy who wears gym shorts no matter how cold the weather, who seems impervious to any discomfort save hunger, who has that surprisingly high, silken voice; Natalie, her pink headphones around her neck, who has a real feel for the old Greek; Olivia Ott with her short bob, frighteningly smart, wearing the kaleidoscope dress she worked so hard to make; and redheaded rail-thin Rachel, on her stomach on the carpet, surrounded by props, following the lines of the play with the tip of her pencil as the actors read them.

“On one side is dancing, and the other is death,” whispers Alex, and pretends to turn pages in the air. “Page after page after page.”

The children know. They know someone is downstairs; they know they are in danger. They are being brave, incredibly brave, completing a read-through of the play behind the shelves at a whisper, trying to use the story to slip the trap. But it’s long past time for them to go home. It seems an eternity since they heard Sharif call upstairs that he was going to take the backpack to the police. They haven’t heard a sound since; Marian hasn’t come upstairs with pizza; nobody has called on a bullhorn to tell them it’s over.

Pain shudders through Zeno’s hip as he rises.

“Just read to the end of the book, little crow,” whispers Olivia-the-goddess, “and you’ll learn the secrets of the gods. You can become an eagle, or a bright strong owl, free from desire and death.”

He should have told Rex he loved him. He should have told him at Camp Five; he should have told him in London; he should have told Hillary, and Mrs. Boydstun, and every Valley County woman he went on a miserable date with. He should have risked more. It has taken him his whole life to accept himself, and he is surprised to understand that now that he can, he does not long for one more year, one more month: eighty-six years has been enough. In a life you accumulate so many memories, your brain constantly winnowing through them, weighing consequence, burying pain, but somehow by the time you’re this age you still end up dragging a monumental sack of memories behind you, a burden as heavy as a continent, and eventually it becomes time to take them out of the world.

Rachel flaps her hand, whispers, “Stop,” and fans the pages of her script. “Mr. Ninis? The two really messed-up folios, the one with the wild onions, and the dancing? I think we have them in the wrong place. Those don’t happen in Cloud Cuckoo Land—they happen back in Arkadia.”

“What,” says Alex, “are you talking about?”