been giddy with delight, for the first time in too long. He’d started having nightmares a few days after the accident. They didn’t come quite as often these days, but still with some regularity he’d wake screaming in the night, terrified that everyone he loved was dying.
Maggie and son had gone on to develop other approaches. A few brushstrokes of potato broth and sugar on a log would yield a healthy patch of Aspergillus in a couple of days. Sugar water brought the textured black of a sooty mold. With a million species to choose from, the possibilities were endless. They had a wonderful time with their joint project while her leg healed. Dylan still awoke from nightmares, thrashing and sweating, but not quite as often. Maggie had hoped that once the cast was off her leg, the last reminder of the accident, everything might go back to normal.
But then Dylan had his first panic attack.
A short spur trail led them to their major task this morning—the removal of the wax paper from their latest Fungus-Among-Us project. There were now bits of mycological art on trees and stumps all over Ithaca, thanks to the mother-and-son Connor team. They both loved the idea of unsuspecting travelers happening upon their creations, certain that forest sprites had been at work. Today’s project was a triquetra.
It was as large as a pumpkin and chest-high on the trunk of a decaying spruce. The wax paper was still affixed to it. “You do this one,” she said to her son.
“Really?”
“Go for it.”
Dylan scrunched up his face and went to work, delicately tugging at the edges, peeling it bit by bit. Maggie had always loved the design, the interlocking strands. The triquetra was of Celtic origin, and only later was it appropriated by Christians as a symbol of the Holy Trinity. To the Celts, it represented the three phases of the feminine life cycle: the maiden, the mother, and the crone.
The removal step was tricky; sometimes pieces of the fungus would rip off and give the work a flawed, torn-edged look. But this time the wax paper came off perfectly, and the result was stunning. The ancient symbol melded elegantly with its surroundings, life growing out of the dead. She gave her son a squeeze. “It’s beautiful.”
“I don’t know. There’s a little spot at the bottom.…”
She mussed his hair. “It’s perfect . Just like you. Now come on.” She looked around. “Turtle?”
They met up with the dog at the top of a small rise. With the leaves half down, you could see the sharp lines of Rivendell in the distance. They started back, but they hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Turtle stopped, cocked his head. Maggie picked it up a second later. Panicked voices.
“Maaaagggiiieeee!!!!!”
“Dylan!!!!!!!”
THEY WERE BREATHLESS BY THE TIME THEY MADE IT BACK .
Cindy was on the back porch, arms wrapped around her chest. Beside her stood the county sheriff, a shiny star of metal on his chest.
Cindy had tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry.”
4
TWO HUNDRED STUDENTS WERE PACKED INTO SCHWARTZ AUDITORIUM for the nine a.m. lecture of Physics 1205, “Physics for Presidents.” Jake Sterling was twenty minutes into the lecture. He’d gotten off to a slow start—the long night before had seen too much honesty, and the subsequent three a.m. end of a four-month relationship—but now he was hitting his stride.
The premise of “Physics for Presidents” was simple: assume your audience was composed of future presidents of the United States. You have them for one semester. What lessons would be of optimal utility? Jake’s answer was simple: he taught them the rules of the world. What could and could not happen. We could build a nuclear submarine but not a nuclear airplane. There was enough sunlight to power the United States by solar, but only if we carpeted a good chunk of Nevada with solar cells. His was an Army man’s approach, a presentation of options. Jake hadn’t worn the uniform for well over a
Maggie and son had gone on to develop other approaches. A few brushstrokes of potato broth and sugar on a log would yield a healthy patch of Aspergillus in a couple of days. Sugar water brought the textured black of a sooty mold. With a million species to choose from, the possibilities were endless. They had a wonderful time with their joint project while her leg healed. Dylan still awoke from nightmares, thrashing and sweating, but not quite as often. Maggie had hoped that once the cast was off her leg, the last reminder of the accident, everything might go back to normal.
But then Dylan had his first panic attack.
A short spur trail led them to their major task this morning—the removal of the wax paper from their latest Fungus-Among-Us project. There were now bits of mycological art on trees and stumps all over Ithaca, thanks to the mother-and-son Connor team. They both loved the idea of unsuspecting travelers happening upon their creations, certain that forest sprites had been at work. Today’s project was a triquetra.
It was as large as a pumpkin and chest-high on the trunk of a decaying spruce. The wax paper was still affixed to it. “You do this one,” she said to her son.
“Really?”
“Go for it.”
Dylan scrunched up his face and went to work, delicately tugging at the edges, peeling it bit by bit. Maggie had always loved the design, the interlocking strands. The triquetra was of Celtic origin, and only later was it appropriated by Christians as a symbol of the Holy Trinity. To the Celts, it represented the three phases of the feminine life cycle: the maiden, the mother, and the crone.
The removal step was tricky; sometimes pieces of the fungus would rip off and give the work a flawed, torn-edged look. But this time the wax paper came off perfectly, and the result was stunning. The ancient symbol melded elegantly with its surroundings, life growing out of the dead. She gave her son a squeeze. “It’s beautiful.”
“I don’t know. There’s a little spot at the bottom.…”
She mussed his hair. “It’s perfect . Just like you. Now come on.” She looked around. “Turtle?”
They met up with the dog at the top of a small rise. With the leaves half down, you could see the sharp lines of Rivendell in the distance. They started back, but they hadn’t gone more than a few steps before Turtle stopped, cocked his head. Maggie picked it up a second later. Panicked voices.
“Maaaagggiiieeee!!!!!”
“Dylan!!!!!!!”
THEY WERE BREATHLESS BY THE TIME THEY MADE IT BACK .
Cindy was on the back porch, arms wrapped around her chest. Beside her stood the county sheriff, a shiny star of metal on his chest.
Cindy had tears in her eyes. “Oh, God. I’m so, so sorry.”
4
TWO HUNDRED STUDENTS WERE PACKED INTO SCHWARTZ AUDITORIUM for the nine a.m. lecture of Physics 1205, “Physics for Presidents.” Jake Sterling was twenty minutes into the lecture. He’d gotten off to a slow start—the long night before had seen too much honesty, and the subsequent three a.m. end of a four-month relationship—but now he was hitting his stride.
The premise of “Physics for Presidents” was simple: assume your audience was composed of future presidents of the United States. You have them for one semester. What lessons would be of optimal utility? Jake’s answer was simple: he taught them the rules of the world. What could and could not happen. We could build a nuclear submarine but not a nuclear airplane. There was enough sunlight to power the United States by solar, but only if we carpeted a good chunk of Nevada with solar cells. His was an Army man’s approach, a presentation of options. Jake hadn’t worn the uniform for well over a
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