Once Upon a Wardrobe(36)

“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.