“You wish.” Finn smirked.
“Yes. I do,” Bonnie said deadpan. She was being silly, but it was still hot, and Finn really wished stinky William wasn’t in the backseat so he could kiss her.
“Mr. Infinity, the Almighty, King of Kings, Lord of Lords, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace. Mr. X himself. The unknown quantity!” William was done eating the first sandwich and he delivered the names like he was announcing professional boxing.
“Are you ready to ruuuuuuummmmble?” Finn said under his breath.
Bonnie giggled.
“I don’t think I’ve heard God referred to as Mr. Infinity or Mr. X, or even the unknown quantity, for that matter,” Bonnie said as William started in on his second sandwich.
“X and the unknown quantity are mathematical terms,” Finn offered, enjoying himself, amazingly enough. The next three hours would not be boring. William’s beard was so full of veggies he could make a salad later on, unless of course, the sonic boom of his voice shook everything loose.
“Do you like mathematics, Mr. Infinity?” William asked. Finn met William’s gaze in the rearview mirror, but he didn’t answer. It had just occurred to him that he hadn’t told William his name was Infinity, but Finn.
“Tell me this, does mathematics exist because it’s a reflection of our world, or does the world exist because of mathematics?” William said, making Bonnie’s eyebrows shoot up and causing Finn’s heart to stall. It was obviously not a question he expected them to answer, because he finished the sandwiches, and with a small burp, sat back heavily against the seat.
“I was hungry and you fed me, thirsty and you gave me drink. And now I will rest a little while,” William declared in much more normal tones, and within seconds he was snoring in the backseat, one of his filthy, stocking-clad feet propped on the armrest between Bonnie and Finn.
“Aren’t you glad I offered him a ride?” Bonnie said, trying to keep a straight face. When Finn didn’t respond she poked him.
“That question that he asked—does mathematics exist because it’s a reflection of our world, or does the world exist because of mathematics—did you hear that?” he asked, distracted.
“Yes. I heard it.” Bonnie snickered. “How could I not? It blew the top layer of skin clean off my face. I won’t have to exfoliate any time soon.”
“My dad always used to ask us that.” Finn felt strange, unnerved even. “I guess other people may have asked the same question. But it was weird hearing William just shout it out like that.”
“Well, his initials are G.O.D.” Bonnie said softly, smiling. Finn could tell she was trying to ease the sudden tension he was feeling.
And then a memory surfaced. His dad had posed a paradox for the second time in as many days, and Fish had altered the question, inserting their names. He’d said, “Does Finn exist because he’s a reflection of me, or do I exist because I’m a reflection of Finn?”
His father had looked at Fish as if he had no idea what Fish was talking about, and Fish had burst out laughing, enjoying the feeling of stumping his father for once. That night they’d gotten drunk, though, and the question had been posed again, this time with a slightly different paradox.
“Fisher! Wait! You’re going to fall.”
Finn felt the fog in his own brain, in the way his lips struggled to form the words. He was drunk. He hated being drunk. Fish was drunk too. Which was why walking along the roofline was a bad idea. But Finn followed him, just like he always did, climbing the ladder that wouldn’t hold still, placing his feet on rungs that wavered before his eyes.
Fish just laughed. “I’m not gonna fall. What was that thing Dad told us about the arrow in flight? The paradox? Or was it the pair o’ dicks? The arrow isn’t really moving, remember? It’s motionless. If we fall, we aren’t really falling.” Fish laughed uproariously at himself, and Finn laughed too.
Pair of dicks. That’s what they were. They shared the same face, the same room, the same friends, but at least they didn’t have to share the same dick. That was good. Fish liked to put his in some nasty places. He had terrible taste in women.
The paradox Fish was talking about was another one of the Greek philosopher Zeno’s—Dad loved Zeno. Zeno said in order for an object to move, it has to change position. But in any given instant, the arrow isn’t moving to where it is, because it’s already there, and it’s not moving to where it’s not because no time has passed for it to get there. So in essence, if time is made up of instants, and if in any given instant the arrow is not moving, then motion is impossible.
The tangle the paradox created in Finn’s head became a tangle in his feet, and about halfway up the ladder he slipped, proving motion is indeed possible and extremely painful as he hit the ground.
He laid there, stunned, the wind knocked from his chest, his eyes on the sky. It was unclear and the air felt wet and heavy as he struggled to pull oxygen into his deflated lungs. You couldn’t see stars in Southie. He wondered if you could see the stars in St. Louis, where his father was moving. The thought made him angry, the anger clearing the muddle from his head better than the fall from the ladder.
“Since when have you ever listened to anything Dad says, Fish? And you are going to fall,” Finn shouted, and struggled back up the ladder, wondering if he was already too late. He hadn’t heard anything.
Fish was sitting on one of the little gables above the two windows that overlooked the front yard. Finn made his way gingerly to the other, straddling it like he was taking a turn on the mechanical bull at O’Shaughnessy’s, and the roofline swam and bucked a little, making the comparison even more apt. The alcohol in his belly sloshed and rose in his throat, and Finn realized that the bull was going to throw him if he didn’t hold on. He lay against the shifting shingles and gripped the edge of the dormer weakly. But instead of getting tossed he did some tossing of his own, throwing up the contents of his stomach, watching as it waterfalled over the side of the roof and down onto the front walk. He was pretty sure he hadn’t made the eight second whistle.