Into the Quiet

by Beth C. Greenberg

  She’d told him. Cupid raised his hands in surrender. “I asked her for her phone number once, and she shot me down right away. I can take a hint.”

  “And yet, here you are in our home.”

  “She needed this room built.”

  “Needed . . .” Zach muttered under his breath. “You’re telling me you don’t have designs on my wife?”

  “Absolutely not. She gave me work, and I am appreciative. I am not a”—what was the expression Mia had used? Oh, yes—“home-wrecker.”

  Zach weighed Cupid’s explanation for what felt like days before delivering his verdict. “You do seem to know what you’re doing with the carpentry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you don’t look like a psycho killer.”

  “Definitely not.” It wouldn’t help to explain he was the consummate lover, not a fighter.

  “I haven’t quite figured out how, but you seem to have sparked something in Ruthie. She’s . . . different since she met you. I wish to hell I’d been the one to help her move forward—God knows I tried—but I certainly won’t let my ego stand in her way. You have my seal of approval.” Zach extended his hand, and Cupid grabbed it before Zach changed his mind.

  “Thank you.”

  Maybe Aphrodite was right about making Zach a Worthy after all. It felt strange to root for Zach while Cupid was still trying to swallow his own profound loss.

  They both released a long breath before Cupid spoke again. “Does Ruthie know you’re here right now?”

  “No,” Zach answered, somewhat sheepish for the first time.

  “Are you planning to tell her?”

  “I have no secrets from my wife,” Zach said, his tone shifting swiftly from defense to offense, “and I fail to see how that is your affair.”

  Cupid’s cheeks flared with heat, an unfortunate response to Zach’s unfortunate choice of words, which, also unfortunately, Zach did not fail to notice. A slew of inappropriate replies popped into Cupid’s head. Unpracticed as he still was at lying, Cupid had at least learned when to keep his mouth shut. Sometimes, though, saying nothing said everything.

  Zach threw his head back and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Unbelievable. Fucking Gail!” Pookie scrambled onto her paws and let out a startled woof. “She’s filled your head with a load of crap about me, hasn’t she?”

  Cupid didn’t trust himself even to shake his head.

  With an audible sigh, Zach pushed his fingers through his hair. “Christ.” Clearly, he was frustrated, but Cupid couldn’t discern whether it was because Zach felt wrongly accused or rightfully exposed. “I am not having this conversation with you.”

  Not a confession, not a denial.

  Nothing good would come of challenging Zach, and Cupid certainly did not want to be the cause of a marital spat. If Cupid had reached an impasse on his primary mission, at least he could make progress on the construction project.

  “I should probably get back to work.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Zach said with a huff. “You missed a spot under the windowsill,” he added as he strode out the door.

  Pookie’s rear end wagged the rest of her body as she faithfully stood guard by Cupid’s feet, her tiny ears perked until Zach’s footfalls faded out of range. She lifted her face to Cupid’s, then cocked her head as if to ask, “What was that about?”

  Cupid chuckled, crouching to scratch Pookie’s chin. “Looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me, eh, girl?”

  Pookie’s lips parted into a grin, revealing two tiny rows of teeth and a soft, pink tongue that quivered as she panted.

  “Are you laughing at me, you little stinker?”

  Pookie leaned into Cupid’s attentive fingers, indifferent to the Cornsilk paint clotting on the paint brush, Cupid’s work schedule, and Ruthie and Zach’s marriage. Her jaws opened with a high squeak, and she yawned so hard her whole body quaked. She ambled over to her sunbeam like the last guest to leave the Bacchanalia, circled the warm spot on the new carpeting, then flopped to the floor, closed her eyes, and began to snore.

  23

  Fanning Flames

  There was only so much wife-wandering a god, especially one with self-esteem issues, could take. In recent weeks, Aphrodite’s level of hero worship for Ares had progressed from the occasional, manageable swoon to a constant gnawing at Hephaestus’s manhood.

  Hephaestus would have been lying if he denied a grudging respect for the God of War—ingenuity, good looks, and brass balls. Sadly, Heph could no longer miss the obvious manifestations of his wife’s dangerous fascination: stolen glances below the belt of Ares’s chiton, a quickened flutter of her treacherous lashes, the rosy flush in her cheeks, a breathy lilt whenever she spoke to him.

  And what of the “private strategy sessions” called on a moment’s notice at Ares’s whim? Hephaestus could only imagine—and he often did, in torturous detail—exactly what Aphrodite and Ares were up to behind closed doors at the compound. Hephaestus took little reassurance from his own occasional conjugal couplings with Aphrodite, who returned his romantic attentions with legs barely open and eyes tightly closed.

  The longer Cupid sojourned on Earth, the more perilous grew Hephaestus’s marital situation. The first trial had taken Cupid less than two weeks to sort out; this new punishment was already into week five. Frankly, Hephaestus hadn’t seen much progress, hence his fixation on this new Worthy couple.

  Hephaestus felt for Ruth. He’d spent centuries in her shoes, drying up in the corner like last year’s raisins while the juicy new grapes plumped on the vine. It was neither here nor there whether Zach had cheated on his wife. Her insecurity alone would be enough to ruin their marriage.

  Enter Cupid, a charming admirer, slavishly devoted to Ruth’s happiness. Even with the best intentions, the boy could not necessarily be relied upon to discern short-term comfort from everlasting happiness. Hadn’t Cupid proven that by diddling Mia in that parking lot?

  Hephaestus had been quick to judge Cupid’s indiscretion, even convinced Aphrodite to impose a second labor. It was the right move, but oh, he was kicking himself now. The Divine Council surely would have overruled Cupid’s ascension, but at least they would have taken over his case and supplanted the unholy alliance of Aphrodite and Ares.

  With those two manufacturing excuses to draw out Cupid’s punishment, Hephaestus could no longer stand idly by. The time was upon him to set his plan into motion. Aphrodite would be angry at first, but the nobler part of her, the part Hephaestus had fallen in love with over and over again, would eventually win out. Above all else, she was a mother who loved her son. Once Hephaestus got Cupid home, Aphrodite would appreciate the enormity of what he’d done for her. She would forgive, and somewhere down the road of eternity, she would respect her husband not only for rescuing Cupid but also for restoring Aphrodite to her finest self. Her attraction to Ares would wither and die without a purpose to nourish its existence.

  If his plan worked.

  Generally speaking, Hephaestus lacked the discipline of his nemesis. Today would have to be different. He suspected his first chance might be his only chance, and he’d damned well better get to it before Aphrodite caught wind of his scheme.

  It was helpful that Cupid had settled into a routine: report to the Millers’ by eight, put in an impressive day’s work, and close up shop at four; debrief and dinner with Pan, though lately, Pan tended to be out more often than home; another three to four hours devoted to study and practice of his new craft before Cupid would fall into bed and surrender to Hypnos.

  It was just after four now in Indiana. Hephaestus fixed his stare through the gaiascope and located Cupid in the nursery. The boy was talking to himself as he sealed paint containers, packed up brushes, and tidied his workspace. Cupid had taught himself well.

  A pang of paternal regret agitated Hephaestus’s heart. If only the boy had sh
own a morsel of interest, Hephaestus would happily have taught Cupid the finer points of construction. He allowed himself the brief fantasy of crafting side by side with the boy in true father-son fashion upon Cupid’s return to the palace. But no, this Earth-Cupid would not be the one returning to Mount O, if he returned at all. It was one thing for a winged preteen to manage the bow he was born to; wielding a hammer was an entirely different story.

  Movement drew Hephaestus’s attention back to the glass. Cupid skipped down the stairs and out the door, the little furball hot on his heels. Heph’s pulse quickened. Am I really about to do this? If his plan backfired, he might well find himself on the other end of the gaiascope at the mercy of Ares, if such a quality existed.

  He could see the whole sordid ordeal, playing out in his mind as clear as that humiliating day he cast his golden net over the two adulterers, his wife with his own brother. There they would be, wife and lover, naked in each other’s arms, frolicking in Hephaestus’s marital bed, the two of them laughing at the fool suffering his punishment on Earth below until their mutual passions fizzled out, and they allowed his ascension . . . right around never.

  Happy are those who dare courageously to defend what they love, or so said Ovid.

  Setting aside paralyzing thoughts, Hephaestus jumped off the bed, gaiascope shaking between his hands. “Let’s go! Let’s go!” he yelled at Cupid, even as the boy’s footsteps turned away from the driveway. “Get in the car! What are you doing down there?”

  Oblivious to Hephaestus’s meltdown, Cupid jogged across the grass behind the house, picked up a colorful disc, and tossed it to the opposite end of the yard. The dog bounded after it, rushed back to Cupid’s feet with the toy in its mouth, and stood there panting until Cupid wrestled the toy from its jaws. Hephaestus groaned in frustration as the disc crossed the grass again and again until the pup finally trotted over to the bushes, sniffed around, and squatted. Her tiny body quivered for several seconds, then she pranced over to Cupid as if she’d just sculpted the Jockey of Artemision. “What a good girl you are,” Cupid cooed at her.

  “Alleluia!” shouted Hephaestus. “A pile of turds. Now get in your car . . .”

  Cupid batted playfully at the little rat, spilling her onto her back in the grass and knocking her off-balance again each time she regained her footing and scampered back for more. Hephaestus paced and muttered curses into the glass until Cupid finally led the little mutt inside and emerged from the house alone. All that waiting time had strengthened Hephaestus’s resolve. He was as ready as he’d ever be.

  Cupid started up the Prius, and Hephaestus commandeered the controls. Aphrodite controlled her son’s heart, but the God of Fire could still handle a hunk of metal.

  Cupid gripped the steering wheel tighter at first, surprise turning to panic as he fought the force of Hephaestus’s will. To the boy’s credit, Cupid quickly figured out that stabbing at pedals and spinning the wheel had no impact on the speed or direction of his vehicle. With a resigned sigh toward the clouds, Cupid slumped back against the driver’s seat and left the driving to the god above.

  What a good boy you are.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  Aphrodite had breezed into their boudoir earlier than Hephaestus had expected. All the better to impress her with his cleverness in real time.

  “Just turning up the flame under Cupid’s bottom.”

  “What?” Aphrodite snatched the gaiascope out of his grasp. “What did you do?”

  “I figured out how to get our son home.”

  Aphrodite snapped her head up from the Earth scene. Oh, how her pretty mouth twitched with the effort of not correcting him. But there were bigger issues at stake than parentage, and Aphrodite was not easily sidetracked. “Do tell, husband.”

  “The way I see it, we need to motivate the boy to leave Earth and keep him out of trouble in the meantime. I’ve engineered a solution that accomplishes both.” Taking Aphrodite’s awed expression as encouragement, Hephaestus puffed out his chest. “Cupid fornicates with Pan’s girl, thereby mucking up his friendship with Pan for good—part one—while giving him a safe place to relieve his appetite—part two.”

  “Why?”

  “Did I not explain my reasoning?”

  “What you did not explain is why you decided to stick your nose into the situation and take action without consulting me.”

  Not exactly gratitude, but that would come later. “The opportunity arose, and you were not here to consult.”

  “Ares and I have our son’s situation under control.” And there it was.

  “I see. And how is your little scheme to get the boy home working so far?”

  She answered her husband as if speaking to a small child. “You seem to forget there’s more to this than simply bringing Cupid home. He needs to be taught a lesson.”

  “And which lesson is that?”

  Aphrodite sighed. “Have we not been over this a hundred times?”

  “Indulge me, wife.”

  “Love is not a game? People’s hearts are not to be trifled with for the entertainment value? Sound familiar?”

  Did she not see the irony?

  “Hmm,” Hephaestus began, “to clarify, then, the idea would be to teach Cupid the lesson with minimal suffering to the boy and the least amount of collateral damage. Is that correct?”

  Aphrodite tossed the gaiascope onto the bed and paced to the window, robes swishing along the floor behind her. “Not necessarily. We want the lesson to really sink in. So naturally, some pain is . . . constructive.”

  Ares had worked his hooks into Aphrodite even deeper than Hephaestus had allowed himself to imagine. He could no longer hold his tongue. “Constructive?”

  “Pain lingers in the memory long after other emotions dissipate.”

  “No need to remind me of that, my love,” Hephaestus shot back.

  She half turned toward him but changed her mind. “As for collateral damage, humans do a fine job muddling their own affairs.”

  “Interesting choice of words.”

  “Fie!” She wheeled around, moral indignation renewed. “The situation was well in hand, I assure you. Yes, the measures we imposed were strict but doable. Now, what you have gone and done?”

  “I simply moved Cupid’s car in the direction that would be most fruitful.”

  “You moved a car?”

  “Yes, dear. Have you forgotten I command the power to manipulate metal?”

  Her lips curled into a hideous sneer. “I did not forget your powers, oh big, mighty god. I just cannot believe you took such a liberty.”

  Hephaestus could feel the pressure hammering in his ears. “So, it’s okay for my brother to cause a multi-car collision and . . . kill . . . a human . . . being”—Hephaestus’s tirade broke into separate, clipped words, as if their meaning would be too evil to withstand if strung together—“but not for me to safely deliver Cupid into a lover’s arms?”

  Aphrodite leveled a hard glare at Hephaestus. “I was none too pleased with Ares about that maneuver of his, if you’ll recall.”

  “I recall that you accepted his judgment as I would expect my wife to respect her husband’s.” I dare you, his glare said.

  “Oh, Heph.” Not exactly the affirmation he was hoping for. “What makes you think Pan even cares about that girl? He hasn’t seen her in weeks.”

  “He’ll care when Cupid sleeps with her.”

  Aphrodite rolled her eyes. “Men.”

  Great, now the conversation had devolved into pity and disdain. He needed to jolt them back on track.

  “Tell me, Aph, why were Ruth and Zach chosen? What makes them Worthies?”

  Aphrodite’s shoulders fell, all the fight seeping out of her. She glided over to her favorite chaise and sank onto the cushions. “They were a beautiful match, one of my very best,” she said without a trace
of boastfulness. “One’s dreams found nourishment and light in the other.”

  In all the centuries piled upon centuries of marriage, had Hephaestus ever heard the Goddess of Love express her ideal? Now that she’d laid out the definition of Right Love like the answer to a test, could he ever again delude himself that he was Aphrodite’s? Best not to think about it.

  He shifted uncomfortably and stole a glance at Aphrodite. She seemed fully absorbed in the mortal union. Her tone held a faraway quality. “You know I rarely intercede in the work of the Fates—”

  “A quality I’ve always admired in you, sweetheart.” If only the Olympians would leave each deity to his realm, how much less drama there would be on the Mount and on Earth.

  “It wasn’t easy, but I held my tongue when Atropos took the first baby from Ruth’s womb. After the strain of the second miscarriage, I could no longer remain silent.” There’s my fierce tiger, Hephaestus mused with an unexpected gush of warmth. “I pleaded with Clotho to intercede on the unborn baby’s behalf, but you know how intractable the sisters can be.” Aphrodite’s lovely forehead pinched in anguish.

  Hephaestus regarded the physical form draped along the frame of the chaise. Goddess. Wife. Woman. So powerful, so tender.

  “Yes,” Hephaestus answered gently, shuffling toward his wife’s side.

  “There was no changing Atropos’s mind once she’d decided to take the third child.” Aphrodite sighed wistfully. “Ruth would’ve made a wonderful mother. They didn’t deserve this.”

  “Would a strong marriage not survive even such misery?”

  Aphrodite blinked up at him. Were her lashes moist? “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it? They both believe themselves diminished in the other’s esteem. Ruth is not the wide-eyed, confident girl who caught Zach’s eye, and he’s not the all-powerful protector he might once have thought himself. Instead of seeking answers together, they’ve drifted down separate paths. They’ve lost their way as a couple.”

  Hephaestus set his hand on Aphrodite’s shoulder, pleased when she didn’t flinch at his touch. “Then help me bring them back together, my goddess.”