Page 130 of Under Story

“Gloria,” Laurel says, in a warning tone.

Gloria lifts a hand off the steering wheel, her palm upturned. The Chevy swerves. “I just feel like there’s something you’re not telling me. I don’t want to sound like a stalker, but I’ve studied your work. And I’ve never found anything that has to do with mazes.”

“I’ve told you: I couldn’t find the evidence. And please keep both hands on the wheel.”

“I just think,” Gloria says, “that if some past experience is, like, bleeding into our work together, I have a right to know about it.”

“Nothing is bleeding!” Laurel shouts.

They pass the next leg of the drive in silence. Eventually Laurel suggests they stop at their favorite pasty stand for dinner. Gloria claims that she has a stomachache. Laurel doesn’t press her, even though Gloria was eating Cheez-Its as she said so.

The next day, they arrive at the site in early morning.

“Gloria, I’m sorry,” says Laurel, as they walk from the parking lot to the tree. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you yesterday.”

Gloria purses her mouth.

“You’re right,” says Laurel. “There are things I haven’t shared with you—things that I can’t explain.”

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

They duck below a branch. Laurel can feel Gloria’s eyes on her.

“These things you haven’t told me,” Gloria says. “Have you told anyone else?”

“Eli knows,” says Laurel.

And Nita, she thinks. But there’s no good reason to turn Gloria’s world upside down. Her life has already been unstable enough.

“You’re still my student,” says Laurel, gently. “And this is personal.”

The oak tree stands before them.

“Ah, there she is,” she adds, relieved to change the subject. Wind moves powerfully through the branches, which sway as if in greeting. Over time, Laurel has tried to show herself to be a friend. In winter, she brushes snow from its limbs so that they don’t snap; in summer, she sits against the trunk while eating lunch or naps under the canopy. On windy days, the rhizomorphs can crack and blow away. If a storm has passed since her last visit, Laurel searches the vicinity and tucks these errant cords into the soil; that way, they’ll feed the tree when they disintegrate as spores.

Gloria walks swiftly to the cave. She doesn’t look up when Laurel joins her.

“Gloria,” Laurel says.

“It’s fine.”

“You’re still upset.”

“Not at all.”

“All right, then.”

Laurel begins to attach the pins in the rhizomorphs to wires. Because the cave is so much larger than the mazes she used in her first experiment, they need dozens of voltmeters. To keep the wires untangled is a challenge in itself.

“It’s just…” says Gloria. Laurel looks up. “I tell you things.”

Putting the voltmeter down, Laurel sighs. “I know how this is going to sound. But can you try to trust me when I say that it’s for your own good?”

“I can try,” Gloria mutters.

They separate to pursue their typical tasks. Gloria records data in the cave, and Laurel observes the tree. Caterpillars and songbirds have made homes in its branches. Squirrels seize fallen acorns. Laurel sweats despite the breeze. Michigan has reached the peak of summer: the air is a soupy murk, the sun so warm it makes her want to close her eyes. After lunch, she sits down to rest, leaning her head against the trunk.