“You think it was a setup?” Elizabeth asks. It’s clear this option is not one she’s considered until now, and she feels stupid for it.
“I think that a man as experienced as Arbus would need a reason to make such a public display,” Millie says. “And how convenient that you should be there to witness it. But what do I know? Maybe he’s too old to care anymore. That’s possible. The question is whether it’s probable.”
I look around the hexatorium for answers. But Millie is saying she doesn’t know, and neither do we. I look at all the volumes on the shelves. We are surrounded by so many books, so many words, so many thoughts . . . and not a single one can help us. I think, What’s the point of all this magic, if no one really knows how to use it? But I guess the same could be said about life. Which is another form of magic, only less showy.
Millie starts asking very pointed questions about my grandfather, and I wonder if my inquisition sounded as fierce to Elizabeth. She answers dully—maybe because she’s already been through it with me, or maybe because the idea of a trap has sprung full force in her head, and suddenly she’s regretting some of her bravery. I don’t want her to do that. No matter what Millie says, saving others is always more important than saving yourself. It has to be, or none of us would do any good.
As Elizabeth explains further, I look around the hexatorium again. This fortress of books. And I think, perversely, of the Three Little Pigs. I wonder if we are the pig who built his house out of books and words and thoughts. What happens when the Big Bad Wolf arrives there? Does the house hold up? Or does it all fall down?
“It was so . . . powerful,” Elizabeth says. “Intense. You can talk as much as you like about it, but when it’s there, there’s no way to explain it. It just is. And you have to respond.”
“You’re not ready,” Millie says.
“But what does ready matter, when it’s happening?” Elizabeth counters.
“You can’t do anything like this again,” Millie insists. “You must promise you won’t.”
“I promise,” Elizabeth says.
I look at Millie’s reaction, then Laurie’s. I gauge my own.
We all know she’s lying.
* * *
Laurie does most of the talking on the way home, fantasizing out loud about giving Millie a makeover and getting her a reality show on Bravo. It’s a verbal blowing of bubbles—weightless words to make us smile despite ourselves. I admire the attempt. Elizabeth doesn’t appear to be listening.
When we get back to our floor, there’s a tense moment when we each realize that we don’t know what Elizabeth’s next step will be. Is she coming back to my apartment or going home with Laurie?
She looks at me apologetically. “Mom should be home soon,” she says. “So . . .”
“Can I just borrow you a little longer?” I don’t want to leave her yet, not like this. “I promise I’ll give you back.”
“Go ahead,” Laurie says. “I’m going to run up to Sean for a sec anyway. And family bonding is never the same when I’m not around.”
“Sure,” Elizabeth replies. But then she doesn’t say another word until we’re in my apartment.
Again, I think there have to be boyfriend rules about how to handle these things, and then I think that there’s no way that boyfriend rules cover this kind of problem.
“What’s going on?” I ask. Because I want to know. Because it feels like I have to know, to help her. I can’t be there for her until I know where there is.
I mean it sincerely, but from her reaction, you would think I’m asking about a sports team, or the weather.
“Not much,” she tells me. “And yourself?”
I know I should just leave her alone. I should let her talk when she wants to talk. But I am not reacting to the things I know I should do. I am reacting to the emptiness, the loneliness I feel when she’s standing right in front of me and feels as far away as the ends of the world.
“Talk to me,” I plead.
She shakes her head, and I know: she’s regretting that she followed me here. She’s regretting that she agreed to come.
“You have to listen to Millie,” I go on. “If she says this is dangerous, you have to listen to her.”
“I don’t have to do anything. I understand that Millie’s been doing this a lot longer than I have. I get it. But you have to understand that she’s basically locked herself away from the world. She’s given up. And it’s fine if she can sit there and watch people get hurt. I can’t. I’m not like that. Besides, I have more power than she does. I can do more.”
“I know,” I say. “But you have to be careful.”
“Careful. I don’t even know what that means anymore. It’s not like I search these things out. It’s not like I walked into the Frick and thought, ‘Gee, I wonder if Arbus will be here.’ I don’t get to choose what I see, what I sense. Not anymore. These people just sit there like burning buildings, Stephen. And the choice is whether you walk on by or whether you do something about it. Careful isn’t part of it.”
“But you have to know your limits. You can’t take everything on. Especially not with someone like Arbus.”
“Give me a little credit, will you? Just for one moment, I would love to be given a little credit.”
The look she gives me is withering. The sound of her voice is both critical and disbelieving.
Every relationship hits this moment: the first time it stops coming together and starts coming apart. Often it’s just a brief glimpse, but this lasts longer.
“Let’s stop,” I say. “This is ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
I try to make the air less heavy. I try to ease us back on track. I say, “Most couples have their first fight about what movie to see, or about whether or not they should, like, split the check. We’re having our first fight over how to best use your spellseeking powers. You have to find that at least a little bit funny.”
But she doesn’t. Not in the least bit.
“You weren’t there,” she says. “None of you were there. None of you saw what it looks like. None of you felt what it feels like.”
“True,” I say—and then I don’t know where to go from there. I could ask her to tell me what it was like—but I already have, and she already hasn’t.