Dreaming of the Bones

Faculty will fuel the office gossip for months. I’m sure they’ve all paid up their outstanding parking tickets, just in case you come back.”
    ”I’m sorry,” he said, sounding a bit injured. ”I didn’t mean to make things difficult for you.”
    ”I should be used to difficult by now. I can’t imagine the days when I thought academia would provide a peaceful life. Do you mind if I keep your notes?”
    ”Not at all.”
    She scooped the pages from his notebook off the lamp table and added them to the neat stack in her lap. ”Will you get in trouble with your mates if I use this information in the book?”
    ”I’m not going to worry about it.” Kincaid’s smile held a hint of acid. ”Besides, you know policemen don’t read.”
    ”Too right,” Vic said, making a visible effort to parry the thrust lightly. ”Well, if you must go, I’ll see you out.”
    In the hall, she stopped and called out to Kit.
    ”Just a sec,” he yelled back, and a moment later appeared from the office. ”I had to pause it,” he explained. ”I made it all the way to the seventh level.”
    ”What does that mean?” asked Gemma.
    ”It means I’m lean and mean and one cool dude.” Kit swaggered. ”And I toasted a whole platoon of aliens.”
    ”Kit!” Vic tousled his hair. ”You sound like some character in a bad American film. I think we’ll have to cut back on the videos.”
    Ignoring this for the empty threat it undoubtedly was, Kit caught up to Kincaid at the door. ”Can I look at your car? Mum says it’s awful, so it must be pretty cool.”
    ”Sure. You can even start it.” They went out and walked across the graveled drive to the Midget.
    Gemma and Vic stood on the porch, watching them. The rain had stopped, and a few gaps in the western clouds hinted at a glorious sunset. ”Is Toby your son?” asked Vic.
    ”He’s three. And he already loves cars. Must be genetic.”
    ”I know. And to think I used to believe all that stuff about raising your children free of gender stereotypes.” She laid light fingers on Gemma’s arm. ”I’m glad you came.”
    The Midget’s engine sputtered to life. Kit jumped out of the driver’s seat and ran across to them. ”It’s really neat, Mum. Can we get one like it? Our car is so boring.”
    Vic laughed. ”I like boring.”
    Kincaid had followed Kit and now shook his hand. ”I’ll sell it to you when you’re sixteen.” He pecked Vic on the cheek, then took Gemma by the elbow. ” ‘Bye, thanks for the tea.”
    There was something in Vic’s stance, thought Gemma, looking back as they pulled away, that could be read as easily as words on a page—an invisible angle of determination. Liking the pattern the words made in her mind, she repeated them to herself, and she felt an odd quickening inside her, as if something stirred in its sleep.
    By the time they reached the motorway the fissures in the clouds had widened, revealing the sunset in full hue. Kincaid always thought of sunsets as feminine, and this one was particularly voluptuous, with rosy gold billows of cloud forming shapes reminiscent of reclining Rubenesque nudes. He smiled at his metaphor and glanced at Gemma, wondering if she’d accuse him of sexism if he shared it with her.
    She sat silently beside him, watching the sky, not even complaining, for once, about his car. He thought about asking her what she was thinking, but just then a passing lorry spattered sludge on the windscreen, and fighting its back draft while momentarily blinded required all his attention. When he could see again, he put a piano cassette in the tape player and concentrated on his driving.

    They found the lights switched on in Gemma’s flat and a vase of daffodils on the table. Beside it lay a note from Hazel, a pot of beans, and a loaf of homemade bread. ”Have a good feed,” the note read. ”Gourmet beans on toast.”
    ”I see your fairy godmother’s been,” said Kincaid, dipping a finger into the still-warm beans for a taste. ”If she weren’t already taken, I’d snatch her in a minute.”
    ”She wouldn’t have you,” Gemma said equably. ”Just count yourself lucky to get some of the fringe benefits.” When Toby had been fed and put to bed, and they’d finished up the last of their toast and tea, Kincaid rolled up his shirtsleeves. ”I’ll do the washing up,” he offered, ”if I can have a glass of wine. I could swim in the tea I’ve drunk today.”
    ”Red or white?” Gemma stood on tiptoe as she