Chapter 12
hadn’t published Arthur’s book . . . a book that bore Gwen’s own name as a coauthor, at Robin’s insistence. Gwen hardly felt
she had done anything. She had merely filled in the blanks Arthur had left behind, as she had done for a thousand crosswords
they had shared. The book had done well enough. Some people liked it, some didn’t, there were a few good reviews and a few
bad ones, and if sales continued like they were, it might even stay in print awhile.
They celebrated Robin’s forty years in the business on the roof of the publishing house, with a view of the Thames. There
was a pyramid of glasses with champagne spilling over them and there were waiters in white bow ties carrying trays loaded
with little cakes. There were speeches from celebrity writers like David Mitchell and Donna Tartt and Francis Spufford. An
actor who had starred in Friends was there; Robin was publishing his memoir, although she would be well into her retirement before it came out.
Gwen stood on the roof and watched the sunset behind the London Eye, the sky smoky and pink, the breeze pushing her hair back from her face.
She shut her eyes and listened to the lively hum of conversation behind her, punctuated by the occasional shout of Robin’s laughter.
She thought the night was just about perfect, and she was filled with a desire for London, a wish to stay here, not for a few weeks, but for a few years.
Of course, wanting England was much the same as wanting Arthur, she supposed.
She walked Robin home after eleven, Robin tipsy and singing, and while they were crossing Westminster Bridge in the damp, chilly night, Russia invaded Ukraine.
In the days after the party, Gwen and Robin sat on the couch in her flat, parked in front of the TV, watching a line of tanks
move toward Kyiv, staring at video of buildings with holes punched through them by missiles. On the ninth of March, something
hit a maternity ward in Mariupol: a shattering blast, a gush of fire. A pregnant woman was killed; her baby was stillborn.
Video of the sky, the night of the bombing, showed flashes of bright flame against a backdrop of smoke. Something detonated
in a flash, and in the sudden, evil flicker of light, Gwen thought she saw a reveling dragon, its black bat-like wings open,
its jaws agape. She grabbed for Robin’s hand. Their fingers wound together and her old friend squeezed back and Gwen knew
she had seen it too.
“It’s another,” Gwen gasped. Her chest hurt, where the ribs had been broken years before. She had to fight to get the air
her old, beat-up lungs needed. “Goddamn it. It’s another one, Robin! I knew there were more. I started thinking it after those fires, those insane wildfires in California a few years ago. There was
something off about that, how big they got and how quickly. And then Notre-Dame. And there was that massive detonation in
Beirut, remember? They said ammonium nitrate. Ammonium nitrate, my ass. How many more of these things are there, and what
are we supposed to do about it? Don’t we have to try and stop it? Don’t we have to do something, somehow? You and me?”
“We can’t fight all the dragons ourselves, love,” Robin told her. “Let someone else have a turn. There are plenty of dragons
to go around.”
—Joe Hill
Good Friday, 2022