The Rule of Four

I'm not being stubborn. I've just got other things to do.

Charlie grimaced. Like what, Paul's thesis?

I scowled, waiting for Paul to stand up for me. But he just stood there behind them, silent. For more than a week he'd hoped that an answer was just around the bend, that I was making progress against the riddle, just painful progress.

We're going to the arch sing at Blair, Gil said, meaning the Friday a cappella concert held outdoors.

All four of us, Charlie added.

Gil gently closed the book beside me. Katie's going to be there. I told her you'd come.

But when I flipped the book back open and said I wasn't going, I remember the look that crossed his face. It was one Gil had never given me before-one he'd always reserved for Parker Hassett and the occasional class clown who didn't know when to stop.

You're coming, Charlie said, stepping toward me.

But Gil waved him off. Forget it. Let's just go.

Then I was alone.

It wasn't stubbornness or pride, or even devotion to Colonna, that kept me away from Blair Arch. It was heartache, I think, and defeat. The fact is that I loved Katie, and also, in an odd way, that I loved the Hypnerotomachia, and that I'd failed to win either of them. The look on Paul's face as he left meant he knew I'd lost my chance with the riddle, whether I knew it or not; and the look on Gil's face as he left meant he knew I'd done the same with Katie. Staring at a group of woodcuts in the Hypnerotomachia—the same ones Taft would use in his lecture a month later, the ones of Cupid driving women into a forest on a burning chariot-I thought of Carracci's engraving. Here I was, being pummeled by the little boy as my two loves looked on. This was what my father meant, the lesson he'd hoped I would learn. Our hardships cannot move him, hove conquers all.

The two hardest things to contemplate in life, Richard Curry once told Paul, are failure and age; and those are one and the same. Perfection is the natural consequence of eternity: wait long enough, and anything will realize its potential. Coal becomes diamonds, sand becomes pearls, apes become men. It's simply not given to us, in one lifetime, to see those consummations, and so every failure becomes a reminder of death.

But love lost is a special kind of failure, I think. It's a reminder that some consummations, no matter how devoutly wished for, never come; that some apes will never be men, not in all the world's ages. What's a monkey to think, who with a typewriter and eternity still can't eke out Shakespeare? To hear Katie say that she wanted to make it final, that she and I were finished, would stunt all my sense of possibility. To watch her there, beneath Blair Arch, warming herself in Donald Morgan's arms, would strip the pearls and diamonds from my future.

And then it happened: just as I'd reached the full bloom of self-pity, a knock came at the door. It was followed by a turning of the knob, and the same way it had happened a hundred times before, Katie let herself in. Beneath her coat I could see she was wearing my favorite of her sweaters, the emerald-colored one that matched her eyes.

You're supposed to be at the arch sing was the first thing I managed to say, and of all the monkey-written combinations, it was probably the worst.

So are you, she said, staring me up and down.

I knew how I must look to her. The wolf Charlie had shown me in the mirror was the one Katie saw now.

Why are you here? I said, glancing at the door.

They're not coming. She forced herself back into my focus. I'm here so you can apologize.

For a second I thought Gil had put her up to this, inventing something about how bad I felt, how I just didn't know what to say. But another glance told me otherwise. She knew I had no intention of saying I was sorry.

Well?

You think this is my fault? I asked.

Everyone does.

What everyone?

Do it, Tom. Apologize.

Arguing with her was only making me angrier with myself.

Fine. I love you. I wish things had worked out. I'm sorry they didn't.

If you wish things had worked out, why didn't you do anything?

Look at me, I told her. The four-day beard, the unkempt hair. This is what I did.

You did that for the book.

It's the same thing.

I'm the same as the book?

Yes.

She glared at me as if I'd dug myself a hole. But she knew what I was about to say; she'd just never accepted it.

My father spent his life on the Hypnerotomachia, I told her. I've never felt more excited than when I'm working on it. I lose sleep over it, I don't eat because of it, I have dreams about it. I found myself looking around, searching for words. I don't know how else to say it. It's like going to the battlefield to see your tree. Being near it makes me feel like everything's right, like I'm not lost anymore. I kept my eyes away from her. So are you the same as the book to me? Yes. Of course you are. You're the only thing that's the same as the book to me.

I made a mistake. I thought I could have you both. I was wrong.

Why am I here, Tom?

To rub it in.

Why?

To make me apologi-

Tom. She stopped me with a look. Why am I here?

Because you feel the same way I do.

Yes.

Because this was too important to leave it up to me.

Yes.

What do you want? I said.

I want you to stop working on the book.

That's all?

That's all? That's all?

Now, suddenly, emotion.

I'm supposed to feel sorry for you because you gave up on us to act like a slob and live in that book? You ass, I spent four days with my shades down and my door locked. Karen called my parents. My mom flew down from New Hampshire.

I'm sor—

Shut up. It isn't your turn to talk. I went out to the battlefield to see my tree, and I couldn’t. I couldn't, because now it's our tree. I can't listen to music, because every song is something we sang in the car, or in my room, or in here. It takes me an hour to get ready for class, because I feel like I'm dazed half the time. I can't find my socks, I can't find my favorite black bra. Donald's always asking me, 'Honey, what's wrong, Honey, what's wrong?' Nothing's wrong, Donald. She pushed her wrists into her cuffs and blotted her eyes.

That's not wh— I began again.

But it still wasn't my turn.

At least with Peter I could understand. We weren't perfect together. He loved lacrosse more than he loved me; I knew that. He wanted to get me in bed, and after that he lost interest. She moved a hand through her hair, trying to push away the bangs that had gotten snarled in tears. But you. I fought for you. I waited a month before I let you kiss me the first time. I cried the night after we slept together, because I thought I was going to lose you. She stopped, galled by the thought. And now I'm losing you to a book. A book. At least tell me it's not what I think,