wrong?”
Maybe Shep read the fine print on his brother’s soul, but even eye to eye, Dylan glimpsed nothing in Shepherd but mysteries more difficult to decipher than ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.
As his eyes clarified behind waning tears, the boy said, “Moon, orb of night, lunar lamp, green cheese, heavenly lantern, ghostly galleon, bright wanderer—”
This familiar behavior, which might be a genuine obsession with synonyms or which might be just another technique to avoid meaningful communication, still occasionally annoyed Dylan, even after all these years. Now, with the unidentified golden serum circulating through his body and with the promise of ruthless assassins riding this way on the warm desert breeze, annoyance quickly swelled into irritation, exasperation.
“—silvery globe, harvest lamp, sovereign mistress of the true melancholy.”
Keeping one hand under his brother’s chin, tenderly insisting upon attention, Dylan said, “What’s that last one—Shakespeare? Don’t give me Shakespeare, Shep. Give me some real feedback. What’s wrong? Hurry now, help me here. What’s this about the moon? Why’re you upset? What can I do to make you feel better?”
Having exhausted his supply of synonyms and metaphors for the moon, Shep turned next to the subject of
light,
speaking with an insistence that implied a greater meaning in these words than they otherwise seemed to possess: “Light, illumination, radiance, ray, brightness, brilliance, beam, gleam, God’s eldest daughter—”
“Stop it, Shep,” Dylan said firmly but not harshly. “Don’t talk
at
me. Talk
to
me.”
Shep made no effort to turn away from his brother. Instead, he simply closed his eyes, putting an end to any hope that eye contact would lead to useful communication. “—effulgence, refulgence, blaze, glint, glimmer—”
“Help me,” Dylan pleaded. “Pack up your puzzle.”
“—shine, luster, sheen—”
Dylan looked down at Shep’s stocking feet. “Put on your shoes for me, kiddo.”
“—incandescence, candescence, afterglow—”
“Pack your puzzle, put on your shoes.” With Shepherd, patient repetition sometimes encouraged him to act. “Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle, shoes.”
“—luminousness, luminosity, fulgor, flash,” Shep continued, his eyes jiggling behind his lids as though he were fast asleep and dreaming.
One suitcase stood near the foot of the bed, and the other lay open on top of the dresser. Dylan closed the open bag, picked up both pieces of luggage, and went to the door. “Hey, Shep. Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle, shoes.”
Standing where his brother had left him, Shep chanted, “Sparkle, twinkle, scintillation—”
Before frustration could build to head-exploding pressure, Dylan opened the door, carried the suitcases outside. The night continued to be as warm as a toaster oven, as parched as a burnt crust.
A dry drizzle of yellow lamplight fell on the largely empty parking lot, soaked into the pavement, was absorbed as efficiently by the blacktop as light might be captured by the heavy gravity of a black hole in space. Broad blades of sharp-edged shadows lent the night a quality of guillotine expectancy, but Dylan could see that the motel grounds did not yet seethe with the squads of promised pistol-packing killers.
His white Ford Expedition was parked nearby. Bolted to the roof, a watertight container held artist’s supplies as well as finished paintings that he had offered for sale at a recent art festival in Tucson (where five pieces had sold) and would offer also in Santa Fe and at similar events thereafter.
As he opened the tailgate and quickly loaded the suitcases into the SUV, he looked left and right, and behind himself, leery of being assaulted again, as though crazed physicians armed with enormous syringes full of
stuff
could be expected to travel in packs as surely as did coyotes in desert canyons, wolves in forests primeval, and personal-injury attorneys at any prospect of product
Maybe Shep read the fine print on his brother’s soul, but even eye to eye, Dylan glimpsed nothing in Shepherd but mysteries more difficult to decipher than ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.
As his eyes clarified behind waning tears, the boy said, “Moon, orb of night, lunar lamp, green cheese, heavenly lantern, ghostly galleon, bright wanderer—”
This familiar behavior, which might be a genuine obsession with synonyms or which might be just another technique to avoid meaningful communication, still occasionally annoyed Dylan, even after all these years. Now, with the unidentified golden serum circulating through his body and with the promise of ruthless assassins riding this way on the warm desert breeze, annoyance quickly swelled into irritation, exasperation.
“—silvery globe, harvest lamp, sovereign mistress of the true melancholy.”
Keeping one hand under his brother’s chin, tenderly insisting upon attention, Dylan said, “What’s that last one—Shakespeare? Don’t give me Shakespeare, Shep. Give me some real feedback. What’s wrong? Hurry now, help me here. What’s this about the moon? Why’re you upset? What can I do to make you feel better?”
Having exhausted his supply of synonyms and metaphors for the moon, Shep turned next to the subject of
light,
speaking with an insistence that implied a greater meaning in these words than they otherwise seemed to possess: “Light, illumination, radiance, ray, brightness, brilliance, beam, gleam, God’s eldest daughter—”
“Stop it, Shep,” Dylan said firmly but not harshly. “Don’t talk
at
me. Talk
to
me.”
Shep made no effort to turn away from his brother. Instead, he simply closed his eyes, putting an end to any hope that eye contact would lead to useful communication. “—effulgence, refulgence, blaze, glint, glimmer—”
“Help me,” Dylan pleaded. “Pack up your puzzle.”
“—shine, luster, sheen—”
Dylan looked down at Shep’s stocking feet. “Put on your shoes for me, kiddo.”
“—incandescence, candescence, afterglow—”
“Pack your puzzle, put on your shoes.” With Shepherd, patient repetition sometimes encouraged him to act. “Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle, shoes.”
“—luminousness, luminosity, fulgor, flash,” Shep continued, his eyes jiggling behind his lids as though he were fast asleep and dreaming.
One suitcase stood near the foot of the bed, and the other lay open on top of the dresser. Dylan closed the open bag, picked up both pieces of luggage, and went to the door. “Hey, Shep. Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle, shoes.”
Standing where his brother had left him, Shep chanted, “Sparkle, twinkle, scintillation—”
Before frustration could build to head-exploding pressure, Dylan opened the door, carried the suitcases outside. The night continued to be as warm as a toaster oven, as parched as a burnt crust.
A dry drizzle of yellow lamplight fell on the largely empty parking lot, soaked into the pavement, was absorbed as efficiently by the blacktop as light might be captured by the heavy gravity of a black hole in space. Broad blades of sharp-edged shadows lent the night a quality of guillotine expectancy, but Dylan could see that the motel grounds did not yet seethe with the squads of promised pistol-packing killers.
His white Ford Expedition was parked nearby. Bolted to the roof, a watertight container held artist’s supplies as well as finished paintings that he had offered for sale at a recent art festival in Tucson (where five pieces had sold) and would offer also in Santa Fe and at similar events thereafter.
As he opened the tailgate and quickly loaded the suitcases into the SUV, he looked left and right, and behind himself, leery of being assaulted again, as though crazed physicians armed with enormous syringes full of
stuff
could be expected to travel in packs as surely as did coyotes in desert canyons, wolves in forests primeval, and personal-injury attorneys at any prospect of product
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