“Oh, Megs.” Padraig slides his fingers down my arm and takes one of my hands in his and holds it gently. “I wish I could find the answers for you. We aren’t always in control of these things, are we?”
“I want to be.”
“So do I.”
“Maybe it’s not so much about finding the answers as it is asking the questions,” he says. “And using your imagination.”
“That makes no sense, Padraig.” I search in my mind for a smart rebuttal, one that will convince him. “One of my Somerville fellows, her name is Elizabeth Anscombe, likes to quote Wittgenstein, who says, ‘The world is determined by the facts, and by their being all the facts.’” I pause. “The facts. That does not include imagination.”
“If you really think about it, you’ll see that it does. All my life I’ve watched Father trying to find the one big answer that will explain the beauty of the world with science—all that measuring and adding and subtracting.” Padraig rolls his eyes in such a childlike way I almost laugh. “It’s important,” he says. “Trust me, I know. Advances in science will happen because of people like my father and you, but it’s not everything, you know? You can’t measure everything. And there is more than one way of understanding our lives.”
“Your father. He sounds very smart.”
“He is.”
“Is he in Ireland?”
“Not any longer. He’s a professor. Here.”
“What?” I lean forward. “What is your last name?”
“Cavender.”
I exhale. “I’ve been to his lectures!”
“I thought so.”
“And you didn’t say anything?”
“What does it matter? Mathematics snobbery isn’t a family trait, and I didn’t want you to think I was—”
My laugh erupts, and I shush myself quickly, although we are the only two in the darkening library with our books scattered about. “Mathematics snobbery? I do believe there is some snobbery in literature, non?”
“Of course there is. But you won’t find it here.” Padraig taps at his chest with an open palm.
I glance at the large wall clock. “They close in five minutes,” I say before I lean closer to him, lowering my voice. “So do you think stories have a beginning? A place they come from? Like the universe? Like the Big Bang with a single primordial atom?” I take a breath. “I’m asking for George.”
Padraig ponders in silence, and when I look closer at him I think to myself that I’m looking at a friend. I’ve not really had many, not in the way others speak of their friends. I had one girlfriend in Worcester, but she moved across the ocean to take a job in America. I’ve never had a boyfriend to kiss me under the willow tree like some of the town girls do. I’ve always had my family and George and the village and my numbers and a few acquaintances. But Padraig, he is beginning to take the shape of a friend. I can feel it and see it, and it makes me nervous.
“The beginning?” He looks off as if I’ve asked him something he has never thought of before: where does a story start?
“Yes, the beginning. I think that’s what George wants to know: Where does it come from? But Mr. Lewis just keeps giving me more stories.”
“Every mythology in the world has a beginning story,” says Padraig. “They call it an origin story. Every culture has a legend about where we began. But no one—not in science or story or myth—can really say where stories start.”
“That doesn’t help me.”
“I didn’t think it would. You know, Megs, you and me, we’re trying to answer the same questions, just in different ways. You don’t have to be so against one kind to be working with another kind.”
“I’m not against anything.”
“You seem to be. You seem embarrassed that I caught you reading MacDonald. You should feel proud. Your life just expanded.”
The floor behind us creaks, and we turn together to see Miss Collins, the librarian who brought me up hours before. “Closing time.” She wraps her pale green cardigan closer and nods to my book. “Have you enjoyed it so far?”
“Very much so,” I tell her the truth, and she smiles and walks off.
Padraig and I gather our things, then emerge from the library to find ourselves in a snowfall. The only light comes from flickering gas lampposts, the moon hiding far beneath the layers and layers of snow clouds.
“May I walk you home?” he asks.
“I’d like that.”
We amble along so our arms bump each other, and the warmth of him waves toward me. We don’t talk of myths or Einstein or school but instead about our favorite hike on Shotover Hill, and the way Longwall Street curves like a snake and how anyone could ever truly enjoy punting when there is always a lurking possibility of falling into the river.
We reach my residence hall and stand on the steps, snow falling like white dust in his red hair, the ends curling in the moisture. “Thank you,” I say.
“I’m glad I ran into you, Megs,” he says before sauntering off and leaving me with a flipped inside-out feeling.
Fourteen
The Secrets Inside a Story
I stayed up most of the night reading Phantastes instead of working on my equations and preparing for exams. The snowfall persisted through the following day and only stopped an hour ago. Oxford is hushed and secretive, hidden beneath inches of new fallen snow. It is evening now and I’m standing at the bus stop in front of the Bodleian Library.
The bus trails down the street’s untracked snow to where I wait on the corner in coat, mittens, and hat. I am as bundled as a package ready to be mailed. The bus’s tire marks dent the soft blanket of white as it comes to a stop, and I climb aboard.
I’m the only passenger. The bus driver with his black hat and broad shoulders smiles at me. “Out on an evening like this? Most are at the pubs, if I’m a betting man.” He winks. “Which I am.”
“I have an appointment, so no waggling about for me.” I smile in return and feel it holds some pride. I am proud of my appointment. How many people get invitations to the Kilns?
I climb into my seat and stare out the dusty window as he drives. The world is covered in white, hushed and looking brand-new. The mounds of snow change the trees’ shape, and the pavement and road blur so I can’t tell where one starts and another begins. The driver is careful on the icy roads.
I can tell myself that I keep visiting Mr. Lewis out of obligation to my brother, or I can also admit I’m enjoying the time and his stories. He seems to have answers he isn’t revealing, and there I am, slowly realizing I have questions of my own. Those questions had been lurking below, hidden beneath the snow of my own certainty, and now I find myself wanting some answers. There has been born in me a hope that one day Mr. Lewis will say something that will have me understanding all the pain and death and joy that seem to bump into each other in my life.
Mr. Lewis doesn’t talk about love, not yet at least, but I also want to understand the peculiar grip that Padraig has on me. The way I feel when I see him is both fuzzy and clear, as is the way I think about him when he’s not around. Padraig is obviously a fantasy; my wondering about and longing for him is powerful and false. It does not add to my life—I have no doubt about that.