iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第31章

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e　to　so　few。　I　think　it　would've　changed　things　for　him；　knowing　his　son　had　finally　e　around。
　〃Why'd　you　e　late？〃　I'd　asked　him　one　night；　after　he　showed　up　at　halftime　during　the　last　basketball　game　I　ever　played。
　〃I'm　sorry；〃　he　said。　〃It　took　me　longer　than　I　expected。〃
　He　was　walking　in　front　of　me　back　to　the　car；　preparing　to　drive　us　home。　I　fixed　my　eyes　on　the　patch　of　hair　he　always　forgot　to　b；　the　one　he　couldn't　see　in　the　mirror。　It　was　mid…November；　but　he'd　e　to　the　game　in　a　spring　jacket；　so　absorbed　at　the　office　that　he'd　picked　the　wrong　one　from　the　coatrack。
　〃What　did？〃　I　prodded。　〃Work？〃
　Work　was　the　euphemism　I　used；　avoiding　the　title　that　was　such　an　embarrassment　to　me　around　my　friends。
　〃Not　work；〃　he　said　quietly。　〃Traffic。〃
　On　the　way　back；　he　kept　the　speedometer　just　two　or　three　miles　per　hour　above　the　speed　limit；　the　way　he　always　did。　The　tiny　disobedience　of　it；　the　way　he　refused　to　be　bound　by　rules；　but　could　never　really　break　them；　grated　on　me　more　and　more　after　getting　my　driver's　permit。
　〃You　played　well；　I　thought；〃　he　said；　looking　over　at　me　in　the　passenger's　seat。　〃You　made　both　of　the　foul　shots　I　saw。〃
　〃I　was　oh…for…five　in　the　first　half。　I　told　Coach　Ames　I　didn't　want　to　play　anymore。〃
　That　he　didn't　pause　told　me　he'd　seen　it　ing。
　〃You　quit？　Why？〃
　〃The　smart　take　from　the　strong；〃　I　said；　knowing　it　would　be　the　next　thing　out　of　his　mouth。　〃But　the　tall　take　from　the　short。〃
　He　seemed　to　blame　himself　after　that；　as　if　basketball　had　been　the　final　straw　between　us。　Two　weeks　later；　when　I　returned　from　school；　the　hoop　and　backboard　in　our　driveway　had　been　taken　down　and　given　to　a　local　charity。　My　mother　said　she　wasn't　sure　why　he'd　done　it。　Because　he　thought　it　would　make　things　better；　was　all　she　could　say。
　With　that　in　mind；　I　try　to　imagine　the　greatest　gift　I　could've　given　my　father。　And　as　sleep　descends　on　me；　the　answer　seems　strangely　clear：　my　faith　in　his　idols。　That　was　what　he　wanted　all　along…to　feel　that　we　were　united　by　something　permanent；　to　know　that　as　long　as　he　and　I　believed　in　the　same　things；　we　would　never　be　apart。　What　a　job　I　did；　making　sure　that　never　happened。　The　Hypnerotomachia　was　no　different　from　piano　lessons　and　basketball　and　the　way　he　parted　his　hair：　his　mistake。　Then；　just　as　he　must've　known　would　happen；　the　moment　I　lost　faith　in　that　book；　we　were　more　and　more　apart；　even　sitting　around　the　same　dinner　table。　He'd　done　his　best　to　tie　a　knot　that　would　never　slip；　and　I　managed　to　untie　it。
　Hope；　Paul　said　to　me　once；　which　whispered　from　Pandora's　box　only　after　all　the　other　plagues　and　sorrows　had　escaped；　is　the　best　and　last　of　all　things。　Without　it；　there　is　only　time。　And　time　pushes　at　our　backs　like　a　centrifuge；　forcing　us　outward　and　away；　until　it　nudges　us　into　oblivion。　That；　I　think；　is　the　only　explanation　for　what　happened　to　my　father　and　me；　just　as　it　happened　to　Taft　and　Curry；　the　same　way　it　will　happen　to　the　four　of　us　here　in　Dod；　inseparable　as　we　seem。　It's　a　law　of　motion；　a　fact　of　physics　that　Charlie　could　name；　no　different　from　the　stages　of　white　dwarfs　and　red　giants。　Like　all　things　in　the　universe；　we　are　destined　from　birth　to　diverge。　Time　is　simply　the　yardstick　of　our　separation。　If　we　are　particles　in　a　sea　of　distance；　exploded　from　an　original　whole；　then　there　is　a　science　to　our　solitude。　We　are　lonely　in　proportion　to　our　years。
　
　Chapter　16
　
　The　summer　after　sixth　grade；　my　father　sent　me　to　camp；　a　two…week　affair　for　wayward　ex…Boy　Scouts；　the　purpose　of　which；　I　realize　now；　was　to　get　me　reinstated　among　my　merit…badge　peers。　I'd　been　de…kerchiefed　the　year　before　for　lighting　bottle　rockets　in　Willy　Carlson's　tent；　and　more　specifically　for　saying　I　still　thought　it　was　funny　even　after　Willy's　weak　constitution　and　excitable　bladder　were　explained　to　me。　Time　had　passed；　and；　my　parents　hoped；　indiscretions　had　been　forgotten。　In　the　hubbub　surrounding　twelve…year…old　Jake　Ferguson；　whose　pornographic　ic　book　business　had　turned　the　morally　constipating　experience　of　Scout　camp　into　a　lucrative　and　horizon…broadening　enterprise；　I　was　demoted　to　lesser…evil　status。　Fourteen　days　on　the　south　shore　of　Lake　Erie；　my　parents　seemed　to　think；　would　bring　me　back　into　the　fold。
　It　took　less　than　ninety…six　hours　to　prove　them　wrong。　Halfway　through　the　first　week；　a　scoutmaster　dropped　me　back　at　home　and　drove　off　in　a　wordless　huff。　I'd　been　dishonorably　discharged；　this　time　for　teaching　campmates　an　immoral　song。　A　three…page　letter　from　the　camp　director；　heavy　with　correctional；　parole…style　adjectives；　ranked　me　among　the　worst　Boy　Scout　recidivists　of　greater　central　Ohio。　Unsure　what　a　recidivist　was；　I　told　my　parents　what　I'd　done。
　A　troop　of　Girl　Scouts　had　met　us　for　a　day　of　canoeing；　singing　a　song　I　knew　from　my　sisters'　own　dark　days　of　camps　and　badges：　Make　new　friends；　but　keep　the　old；　one　is　silver；　the　other　is　gold。　Having　inherited　a　set　of　alternative　lyrics；　I　shared　them　with　my　fellow　men。
　
　Make　no　friends；　and　kick　the　old。
　All　I　want　is　silver　and　gold。
　
　Those　lines　alone　were　hardly　grounds　for　expulsion；　but　Willy　Carlson；　in　a　brilliant　stroke　of　retribution；　gave　the　oldest　camp　counselor　a　kick　as　he　bent　over　to　light　a　campfire；　then　blamed　the　act　on　my　influence；　the　new　lyrics　having　conjured　his　foot　into　the　old　man's　ass。　Within　hours；　the　full　machinery　of　Boy　Scout　justice　was　in　motion；　and　both　of　us　were　packing　our　bags。
　Only　two　things　came　out　of　that　experience；　other　than　my　permanent　retirement　from　scouting。　First；　I　became　good　friends　with　Willy　Carlson；　whose　excitable　bladder；　it　turned　out；　was　nothing　but　another　lie　he'd　told　the　scoutmasters　to　get　me　kicked　out　the　first　time　around。　You　had　to　like　the　guy。　And　second；　I　got　a　stern　lecture　from　my　mother；　the　motivation　for　which　I　never　understood　until　my　Princeton　years　were　almost　over。　It　wasn't　the　first　line　of　the　revised　lyrics　she　objected　to；　despite　the　fact　that；　technically；　the　kicking　of　old　people　was　what　got　me　bagged。　It　was　the　strange　mania　of　the　second　line　that　she　read　into。
　〃Why　silver　and　gold？〃　she　said；　sitting　me　down　in　the　small　back　room　of　the　bookstore；　where　she　kept　the　overstocks　and　old　filing　cabinets。
　〃What　do　you　mean？〃　I　asked。　There　was　an　outdated　calendar　on　the　wall　from　the　Columbus　Museum　of　Art；　turned　to　the　month　of　May；　showing　an　Edward　Hopper　painting　of　a　woman　sitting　alone　in　her　bed。　I　couldn't　help　staring　at　it。
　〃Why　not　bottle　rockets？〃　she　asked。　〃Or　campfires？〃
　〃Because　those　don't　work。〃　I　remember　feeling　annoyed；　the　answers　seemed　so　obvious。　〃The　last　word　has　to　rhyme　with　old。〃
　〃Listen　to　me；　Tom。〃　My　mother　placed　a　hand　on　my　chin　and　turned　my　head　until　I　was　facing　her。　Her　hair　seemed　gold　in　the　right　light；　the　same　way　the　woman's　did　in　the　Hopper　painting。　〃It's　unnatural。　A　boy　your　age　shouldn't　care　about　silver　and　gold。〃
　〃I　don't。　What　does　it　matter？〃
　〃Because　every　desire　has　its　proper　object。〃
　It　sounded　like　something　I'd　been　told　once　at　Sunday　school。　〃What's　that　supposed　to　mean？〃
　〃It　means　people　spend　their　lives　wanting　things　they　shouldn't。　The　world　confuses　them　into　taking　their　love　and　aiming　it　where　it　doesn't　belong。〃　She　adjusted　the　neck　on　her　sundress；　then　sat　beside　me。　〃All　it　takes　to　be　happy　is　to　love　the　right　things；　in　the　right　amounts。　Not　money。　Not　books。　People。　Adults　who　don't　understand　that　never　feel　fulfilled。　I　don't　want　you　to　turn　out　like　that。〃
　Why　it　meant　so　much　to　her；　this　correct　aiming　of　my　passions；　I　never　understood。　I　just　nodded　in　a　solemn　way；　promised　that　I　would　never　sing　about　precious　metals　again；　and　sensed　that　my　mother　was　pacified。
　But　precious　metals　were　never　the　problem。　What　I　realize　now　is　that　my　mother　was　waging　a　bigger　war；　trying　to　save　me　from　something　worse：　being　my　father。　My　father's　fixation　on　the　Hypnerotomachia　was　the　essence　of　misguided　passion　to　her；　and　she　struggled　with　it　until　the　day　he　died。　She　believed；　I　think；　that　his　love　for　the　book　was　nothing　but　a　perversion；　a　crooked　deflection；　of　his　love　for　his　wife　and　family。　No　amount　of　force　or　persuasion　could　correct　it；　and　I　suppose　it　was　when　she　knew　she'd　lost　the　battle　to　realign　my　father's　life　that　she　brought　the　fight　to　me。
　How　well　I　kept　my　promise；　I'm　afraid　to　say。　The　stubbornness　of　boys　in　their　childish　ways　must　be　a　prodigy　to　women；　who　learn　faster　than　angels　how　not　to　misbehave。　Throughout　my　childhood　there　was　a　monopoly　on　mistakes　in　my　house；　and　I　was　its　Rockefeller。　I　never　imagined　the　magnitude　of　the　error　my　mother　was　warning　me　against；　until　I　had　the　misfortune　of　falling　into　it。　By　that　time；　though；　it　was　Katie；　and　not　my　family；　who　had　to　suffer　for　it。
　　
　January　came；　and　Colonna's　first　riddle　gave　way　to　another；　then　a　third。　Paul　knew　where　to　look　for　them；　having　detected　a　pattern　in　the　Hypnerotomachia　：　following　a　regular　cycle；　the　chapters　grew　in　length　from　five　or　ten　pages；　to　twenty；　thirty；　or　even　forty。　The　shorter　chapters　came　in　a　row；　three　or　four　at　a　time；　while　the　long　ones　were　more　solitary。　When　graphed；　the　long　periods　of　low　intensity　were　interrupted　by　sharp　upticks　in　chapter　length；　creating　a　visual　profile　we　both　came　to　conceive　of　as　the　Hypnerotomachia's　pulse。　The　pattern　continued　until　the　first　half　of　the　book　ended；　at　which　point　a　strange；　muddled　sequence　began；　no　chapter　exceeding　eleven　pages。
　Paul　quickly　made　sense　of　it；　using　our　success　with　Moses　and　his　horns：　each　spike　of　long；　solitary　chapters　provided　a　riddle；　the　riddle's　solution；　its　cipher；　was　then　applied　to　the　run　of　short　chapters　following　it；　yielding　the　next　part　of　Colonna's　message。　The　second　half　of　the　book；　Paul　guessed；　must　be　filler；　just　as　the　opening　chapters　of　the　first　half　appeared　to　be：　a　distraction　to　maintain　the　impression　of　narrative　in　an　otherwise　fragmented　story。
　We　divided　the　labor　between　us。　Paul　hunted　for　riddles　in　the　longer　chapters；　leaving　each　one　behind　for　me　to　solve。　The　first　I　tackled　was　this：　What　is　the　smallest　harmony　of　a　great　victory？
　〃It　makes　me　think　of　Pythagoras；〃　Katie　said　when　I　told　her　over　pound　cake　and　hot　chocolate　at　Small　World　Coffee。　〃Everything　with　Pythagoras　was　harmonies。　Astronomy；　virtue；　math　。　。　。〃
　〃I　think　it　has　to　do　with　warfare；〃　I　countered；　having　spent　some　time　at　Firestone　looking　at　Renaissance　texts　on　engineering。　Leonardo；　in　a　letter　to　the　Duke　of　Milan；　claimed　he　could　build　impenetrable　chariots；　like　Renaissance　tanks；　along　with　portable　mortars　and　great　catapults　for　use　in　sieges。　Philosophy　and　technology　were　merging：　there　was　a　mathematics　to　victory；　a　set　of　proportions　to　the　perfect　war　machine。　It　was　only　a　small　step　from　math　into　music。
　The　next　morning；　Katie　woke　me　at　7：30　to　go　jogging　before　her　9：00　class。
　〃Warfare　doesn't　make　sense；〃　she　said；　beginning　to　parse　the　riddle　as　only　a　philosophy　major　could。　〃There　are　two　parts　to　the　question：　smallest　harmony