Dogs and Goddesses Page 18

  “I believe we were both involved in the kissing,” Christopher said politely. “As a matter of fact, you were the one—”

  “Apology accepted,” she said hastily. She knew perfectly well she’d been flirting and she’d only gotten what she deserved. The best kiss she’d ever had in her entire life.

  “Since I’m here, why don’t I give you a hand getting that mattress in place?” he said.

  She would have liked to refuse the offer, but the mattress was now resting in the upstairs hallway and her delusions of being superwoman were rapidly vanishing. “That would be very kind of you,” she said, trying to sound distant and failing miserably. Especially since he came up the narrow, enclosed staircase so that he was very, very close.

  “Where’s it going?”

  She edged backward, away from him. No cookies, Abby. No punch, no cookies, no superpowers. “In my room. If I can get past it, I can pull it while you push.”

  “Sounds logical.” He was his usual practical self, all math brain and no heart. So why was she caring? She managed to squeeze past the thick mattress, into her bedroom, and then grabbed onto the pillowed end of it. “Ready,” she said, prepared to use all her strength to haul the damned thing into the room.

  A second later she jumped out of the way as the mattress flew into the room, landing crosswise on the box spring, followed by an unruffled Christopher. “Why didn’t you let the furniture store deliver this instead of trying to drag it up here by yourself?

  She really didn’t want to be talking about beds with him. “That would have taken a week. I’ve been sleeping on an air mattress and it sprang a leak. I decided if I was going to stay around here for a while, I might at least be comfortable, and I didn’t want to spend another night on the floor.” She started to yank the mattress onto the foundation, and he pushed it into place with seemingly no effort.

  It went right up under the window, and it looked so wonderful that she immediately sat down on it, bouncing lightly. “Good God, this is heavenly,” she said in a voice that came out almost sexual in its pleasure. Damnation, she thought, jumping up quickly.

  “I’m sure it is,” he said, his voice cool and even. “You never let me tell you what I came to apologize for.”

  God, they weren’t going to talk about the kiss again, were they? She sat back on the bed, bouncing lightly. “No need,” she said.

  “I’m not usually rude.”

  “Really? You could have fooled me.”

  He grimaced. “My life is … complicated. Not that it’s any concern of yours. I just wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “You mean you’re not really a stiff-rumped bastard who cares more about numbers than people?” she said, her voice syrupy sweet. There was no way she was going to soften around him again.

  She saw a flash of amusement in his eyes, but he still didn’t smile. “No, I’m definitely a stiff-rumped bastard who cares more about numbers than people. I’ve never wasted much time on social skills.”

  “Could have fooled me. Maybe you’ve just been having trouble sleeping. I gather your house is haunted.”

  The amusement fled, leaving his eyes cool. “Who told you that? I don’t happen to believe in ghosts. There’s a rational explanation for everything.”

  “And what’s your rational explanation? Who’s haunting you? The old math professor who used to live there?”

  “Someone has been far too busy talking about my personal life. And I’d like to know what business is this of yours?” His voice was frosty.

  “Just curious. I’ve never known anyone who’s actually seen a ghost.”

  “And you still don’t,” he snapped. “There are no ghosts. There are just…” His voice trailed off.

  “Just what?”

  “Voices.

  Abby froze. “You hear dogs talking?”

  He looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Of course not. Why in the world would dogs be talking? That’s totally ridiculous.”

  “Totally,” she said as Bowser grumbled in the corner. “So who is that you hear?”

  For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to say anything, just turn and leave. “A four-thousand-year-old mage.”

  Abby hooted with laughter. “Been playing too many computer games recently, Professor?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do play,” he said stiffly. “But this has nothing to do with it. The wizard I’m talking about is from Mesopotamia.”

  Suddenly things were no longer so amusing. “Mesopotamia?” she echoed, uneasy. She shook her head, as if shaking off the shadows. “That’s easily explained. The college is a major center for Mesopotamian studies. Even the ancient history building has been moved from the Middle East. It just sank into your subconscious and…”

  “And whispers math equations in my ears? The kind of thing no one else could possibly think of?” He sounded as removed and logical as one of his math equations.

  “Well, Shar said you were some kind of child prodigy. You’re brilliant. Maybe that’s just the way your twisted brain works,” she suggested, trying to be helpful.

  “My brain isn’t twisted, thank you very much. And I know exactly who’s talking to me. The man who invented modern mathematics. Milki-la-el.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Professor, but if he lived four thousand years ago, it’s not modern mathematics.”

  He just looked at her. “You’re fairly pedantic for a flower child. Are you sure you’re not a closet mathematician?”

  “Perish the thought.” She shuddered. “So you’re being haunted by the ghost of an ancient math professor. What’s that got to do with me?”

  “Hearing voices isn’t normal.”

  “You’re telling me,” she muttered.

  “And this isn’t the first time I’ve heard them.”

  She was momentarily at a loss for a snappy comeback. “When did you first hear them?”

  “When I was a child I had an imaginary friend named Uncle Milki who told me stories about the beauty of numbers. It annoyed my foster parents no end, so I eventually stopped telling them about him and eventually he stopped talking. But once I moved here, he started up again.” He pushed away from the dresser. “Ever heard of John Nash?”

  “A Beautiful Mind,” she said promptly. “And you think you’re crazy as a loon like he was?”

  “Such a delicate way to put it,” he said. “It appears to be that way. So I have no business getting involved with anyone, kissing anyone, moving beds with anyone.…” He gestured toward the bed angrily. “I have no business being around you.”

  “So why are you here again?” she said, climbing off the bed. He was still leaning against the dresser, and on impulse she moved closer. Something was moving in the air between them, mystery and desire and irrational longing, and she had no idea whether he felt it as strongly as she did.…

  “Oh, hell,” he said, and pulled her into his arms.

  “Oh, hell—” The word was cut off as his mouth silenced hers, and she flung her arms around his neck, pressing her body up against his, trying to get closer, for one brief moment not giving a damn about anything but kissing a crazy mathematician.

  And then Christopher tore himself away with a muttered curse. “Hell, no,” he said.

  “Hell, no?” she echoed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean there’s no room in my very complicated life for an irresponsible flower child. There’s no room in my life for anything but numbers.”

  “Numbers are pretty cold comfort in bed.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting we sleep together?”

  “Of course not,” she said. Oh my god, yes, she thought. For a moment she didn’t move, as everything suddenly became clear. She knew what she wanted. He was standing right in front of her. He heard voices, but then, so did she. A crazy, annoying, gorgeous math genius with the social skills of a kumquat.

  She was out of her mind. Maybe the temple tonic had a long-lasting effect; maybe the cookie
s were hallucinogenic. Whatever it was, she wasn’t about to give in to it. “That’s all right, Christopher,” she said in a calm voice. “I agree. You go home and play with your prime numbers.”

  He stared down at her, obviously struggling to find something cool and dismissive to say. Nothing came. He left without another word, his feet clattering down the wooden stairs, and she heard a brief, polite exchange with Daisy before the door slammed.

  “Are you okay, Abby?” Daisy said from the doorway.

  Abby stood up. “I’m not sure. He’s not my type, is he?”

  Daisy grinned. “Not at all, but when has that ever had anything to do with it?”

  “With what?”

  Daisy didn’t answer. “What do the cookies tell you?”

  “I’m not going to eat any more. I’m not going to drink temple tonic, and I’m going to put this all down to temporary insanity,” she said, determined. “There’s absolutely no reason for me to see him again.”

  “Of course not, honey,” Daisy said in a soothing voice.

  Abby didn’t want to think about it. Think about what it felt like when he put his hands on her, what his mouth tasted like, the crazy feelings that started between her legs and spread through her body. She’d never been interested in sex before, and she could easily go back to that nice safe state again.

  As long as she kept out of the way of a certain gorgeous, neurotic math genius, all would be well.

  At least she could hope.

  When Shar got up the next morning, Milton was gone, but when she and Wolfie went downstairs, they found him on the back of the chair by the window, barking, “CatCatCatCatCat!”

  Wolfie jumped up beside him, looked out the window, and said, “That’s a squirrel.”

  Milton sighed and then barked, “SquirrelSquirrelSquirrelSquirrel!” and Wolfie waited a moment and barked, “SquirrelSquirrelSquirrelSquirrel!” too, until Sam yelled, “ENOUGH!” from the kitchen and both dogs shut up.

  And Shar thought, He’s back, and tried not to be glad.

  She went in and saw him sitting at the kitchen table, eating the anise star cookies she’d brought home the night before. She had to work on her book, she wanted to paint her bedroom, the kitchen needed to be cleaned from her paint orgy, but there he was, and she thought, Now what? What did you say to somebody you’d come in front of the night before, with no participation from him? Somebody you’d kissed hard enough to rearrange his tonsils? Somebody—

  “Good morning, Shar,” Sam said, and she said, “Good morning,” and made eggs because he needed some protein with his sugar and because he hadn’t mentioned the orgasm. Instead he asked questions about the world, so after breakfast she sat him down on the couch and the dogs climbed on top of him and she turned on CNN. “This isn’t the whole truth,” she said, “but it’s some of it.” He nodded and began to watch, and she went to clean up the kitchen, and since Sam wasn’t there, distracting her, this time she really saw the kitchen.

  It glowed with color, and she stood there and soaked it in, feeling it beat in her blood again as she stared at the eight amber wedge shapes she’d slashed into the red-orange paint, like a sunburst or a daisy or a star. The symbol looked familiar and then she realized what it was, the ancient cuneiform symbol for “goddess.” The colors vibrated and she felt herself begin to tense again and thought, This is going to be really inconvenient, and then she gave herself up to the sensations, little ones this time, more like a series of pops instead of the cataclysm that had shaken her the night before, no pounding and very little moaning.

  She was developing an understanding of why Grandma Sharrat had painted everything beige and gray.

  She cleaned everything up and went into the living room and found Sam looking bleak, which made her want to go to him, enfold him, make him smile again.…

  Don’t even think about it.

  “These are terrible stories,” he said, and she said, “I know, I know,” and to make him feel better, put in a DVD—Big Trouble in Little China, because she figured Sam could relate to Jack Burton better than he could to, say, Elizabeth Bennet—and then watched as he and the dogs stared at the TV fascinated, occasionally talking back to it. Wolfie’s contribution mostly consisted of, “Bite him!” with Milton chiming in, “Bite!” (which made Shar say, “Wolfie!” and Wolfie nudge Milton with his nose and say, “We’re not allowed to bite”) while Sam just shook his head during the fight scenes. He stayed intent, focused, absorbed enough that Shar could look at him without drawing his attention, which was good, because it was hard to look away from him. By the end of the movie, Shar realized she’d found the perfect god-and-dog-sitter, and for the rest of the weekend Sam and the dogs watched adventure—Ghostbusters, Romancing the Stone, all three Indiana Joneses, The Mummy, and Big Trouble in Little China two more times—while she worked on finishing up the citations for her mother’s book and painted the rest of the house, doing one wall at a time because the color made her come. So did the pizza with sausage and olives they ordered for dinner Saturday night, and the smell of the daylilies in the front yard when she opened the door Sunday morning, and the feel of her worn Egyptian cotton sheets when she slid into bed each night, and about forty other things. And through every paroxysm, she heard gunshots and squealing tires from the TV, Milton toddling around the living room saying, “Slimed!” and, “Sonofabitch,” and, “Toast!” while Sam talked back to the TV in adventure-hero-speak.

  “You know these movies aren’t real, right?” she said to Sam after The Bourne Identity. “They’re just stories. This isn’t the way life is here.”

  “They’re your myths,” Sam said. “They tell me much … a lot about this world.”

  “Not really,” Shar said. “They’re not like Gilgamesh or—”

  “Gilgamesh,” Sam snorted, “that loser.”

  “Your English is getting better,” Shar said. “Nobody would know you weren’t from this century.”

  In between writing and coming and watching DVDs with Sam and the dogs, Shar walked to the coffeehouse, stopping along the way to buy bright-colored gauze skirts and cotton sundresses from the boutique that she’d never gone into before, and then opening the door to the coffeehouse and inhaling the scent of whatever marvelous thing Abby was baking before joining her and Daisy at the big kitchen table to talk and laugh and then grow sober as they tried to figure out the goddess thing. She also stripped off Bea’s old wallpaper and primed the walls white, mostly managing not to come by super-vigilance and helped by the fact that stripping wallpaper was not an orgasmic experience. Abby seemed distracted, but Daisy was ecstatically happy, so Shar didn’t point out something that worried her: Noah, the source of Daisy’s happiness, worked for Kammani.

  Like Sam.

  Actually, there were so many things that worried her—what Kammani was doing, what Sam was doing with her, what Sam was doing with other women, what it meant to be a goddess, what their powers meant, whether there was a price to pay for using them, whether she could keep from coming in the middle of the coffeehouse—that it was hard to pick one to focus on, although the fact that Sam was not expansive when she asked him about Kammani pretty much moved that one to the top of her list.

  On Tuesday morning, she had to go into the college to teach, so she put on a deep blue sundress shot with turquoise, kissed the dogs good-bye, and waved to Sam as he concentrated on Gladiator. She walked down Temple Street to the history building, passing the coffeehouse on the way and thinking that they really had to paint the outside and give it a new name. A bright red car seared across her eyes and blared its horn at her just as the scent of Abby’s baking wafted out, and her brain shorted out again and she had to hold on to a lamppost until she stopped shuddering and gasping, smiling at a guy who’d stopped to watch and saying, “Asthma!” to get rid of him. Everywhere she went, everything was sharper, sweeter, richer, brighter, more exciting.…

  Stop that, she told herself.

  The history department definitely wasn’t orgas
mic. Her mailbox was stuffed full of meeting notices, messages from students, and the miscellaneous flyers that people put into faculty mailboxes under the misapprehension that they’d be read; her department head remarked that she was late for her office hours and then stopped to compliment her on her dress and her hair; and one of the student aides told her that her class handouts weren’t finished.

  “They will be,” Shar said to her. “I need them in half an hour.”

  “Well, that’s just impossible,” the student began, and then Shar stared at her and she faltered.

  “You will finish them,” Shar said.

  “Half an hour,” the student said, and Shar turned and walked down the hall to her office, not sure that what she’d done was right but completely sure she needed the damn handouts.

  The door to Ray’s office, next to hers, was open, and he called to her as she went past, so she stopped.

  “I’m sorry about the TV,” he began, and then he stopped and looked more closely at her. “Are you wearing a dress?”

  “Yes, Ray,” Shar said, obviously swathed in about six yards of gauze skirt. “I’m wearing a dress.”

  She shook her head and started to move on to her office and Ray said, “Wait, listen, what do you know about this guy Sam? You were only married six months—”

  “I know a lot,” Shar lied, and then remembered what Ray knew a lot about. “Ray, what do you know about Kammani Gula? I know she had seven priestesses but after that, I can’t find anything.”

  “I can find out,” Ray said, stepping closer. “I should have offered before. Listen, Shar—”

  “Thanks,” Shar said, stepping back.

  “So.” Ray stepped back, too. “Uh, do you have an era? Assyrian? Babylonian?”

  “Not Babylonian,” Shar said, thinking back to the relief. “Northern, near the site my grandfather excavated. I’m betting it’s early. Three thousand B.C.? Two thousand? Give or take a millennium? I can’t find anything on her except for this bas-relief at the back of the auditorium, but I know she existed. And if anybody can find her, you can.”

  “Thanks,” Ray said, ducking his head a little, and she knew he’d do his damnedest, which was pretty darn good. “I like your hair.”