The bungalow was still dark when he arrived, greasy pizza and fried ravioli in hand, but he didn’t let himself think about what that might mean. He set the boxes of food on the table, but before he could put the rest of his stuff down, his phone buzzed.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:It’s been 97 minutes, Taliesin. Are you alive?
He smiled to himself as he looked down at the screen and shrugged off his bag, heavy with books he’d brought home from the library, and added his shoes to the pile by the front door. Another message came in.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:Send proof of life
Arthur:I’m alive
Magnolia Linden, PhD:Flimsy proof. How do I know you’re not texting from beyondthe veil, doomed to haunt the labs of Ilex Hall forever?
He snorted, though if he let himself think about death for too long, he felt a familiar bubbling anxiety. He pushed it down, like he always did, and went to snap a picture of himself, but he was horrified when he opened the camera on his phone. The dark circles under his eyes looked like deep bruises, and the grays in his stubble were too obvious for his liking. Instead, he flipped the camera around and took a picture of his hand against the window. His truck was in the background, surrounded by scraggly scrub grass. Before he could send it off, another text came in.
Magnolia Linden, PhD:RIP
His grin grew again as he sent off the photo he’d taken.
Arthur:Not a ghost (yet)
Magnolia Linden, PhD:Thank goodness
It was probably pathetic to read into that “thank goodness,” but Arthur did it anyway.
“What are you smiling at?” came Rory’s voice, muffled through the storm door. He was followed closely on his heels by Simon.
“Uncle Artie! Uncle Artie!” Simon chanted as he sprinted inside. Arthur carefully slid his phone into his pocket before swooping Simon up into his arms.
“Who wouldn’t smile with such a cute nephew around?” Rory narrowed his eyes but didn’t press. Arthur knew he had other things on his mind.
Simon rambled about something that had happened on the playground and Arthur nodded along, as distracted as Rory. He wandered back into the kitchen with Simon, Rory right behind them, and deposited his nephew at the kitchen sink to wash his hands.
Rory leaned over his son to help him. They looked like twins, just separated by a few decades, with their matching curly brown hair, a shade lighter than Arthur’s, the same freckled skin, the same quirked half smiles when they told jokes. Simon looked so much like the little boy Arthur still thought of first before remembering Rory was grown.
As Arthur arranged plates on the table around the pizza box, Rory scrubbed playground dirt from beneath Simon’s fingernails. “Uncle Artie, are you coming to my baseball game?”
Arthur didn’t care if he had to rearrange his entire schedule, he’d already planned to be at every game. “Of course.”
Rory helped Simon down from the sink, and the boy dashed off to his room. “He sits on the bench for most of the game and reads, but he loves it,” Rory grumbled, but there was a note of pride in his voice as he added, “Reminds me of his uncle.”
Arthur watched his brother, looking for signs of worry on his face, but Rory was consumed by making sure Simon was settled for dinner. He put a slice of pizza on a plate for him and poured him a glass of lemonade, grabbing napkins and forks and knives. Finally, when there was nothing left that anyone could conceivably need for a pizza dinner, Rory sat down. Simon was happilyeating, but Rory kept watching the clock, nervously biting the skin at his nail.
“Hey, whatever happens,” Arthur said, “we’ll figure it out. I’ll call in favors, we’ll get her the best…” Rory nodded his head toward Simon, who had stopped eating his pizza to look at the two men. Arthur finished his sentence with, “Ice cream.”
Simon perked up at that. “Ice cream?” he repeated, a gleam in his eyes. Rory gave Arthur an exasperated look and Arthur shrugged.
“Uncle privilege! We’ll go out for ice cream later.” He ruffled Simon’s hair until the boy grimaced into his pizza.
When the storm door swung open, slamming against the wall of the bungalow like it had for Arthur’s entire life, Rory shot up. “We’re home,” Barry called, followed by the familiar sounds of his arrival. He dropped his keys into a metal dish with a clang, and after muffled badgering from Lane, they heard him slide open the coat closet door to drop off his shoes.
“You don’t live here anymore, Laney,” Barry muttered, his tone exasperated, but Arthur noted his father’s affectionate name for his ex-wife.
“Thank the gods above for that,” Lane retorted.
Rory gave Simon a nervous glance, but Arthur gestured to the front of the house with his head. “Go,” he mouthed. Rory nodded his thanks and left the kitchen.
Their conversation was muted, and Arthur couldn’t make out the words. He kept an eye on Simon, who had finished his pizza and was now distracted by the Captain Long Johns book he was flipping through. Arthur tapped his foot, his own anxiety climbing higher.
This November would mark two years since Rowena Taliesin’s death. Arthur couldn’t believe how time continued to march on without her in it. It just didn’t make sense. Her brief illness had been brutal, but Rory had been there for him as much as he could be, and Arthur was relieved that, if his brother needed him in the same way, he could be here for him.
