without coaching, Shep could relate almost normally,
if awkwardly, to Dylan and to others. More often than not, however,
he needed to be guided toward communication, constantly and
patiently encouraged to make a connection and to maintain it once
it had been established.
Conversation with Shep frequently depended on first making eye
contact with him, but the boy seldom granted that degree of
intimacy. He seemed to avoid such directness not solely because of
his severe psychological disorder, and not merely because he was
pathologically shy. Sometimes, in a fanciful moment, Dylan could
almost believe that Shep's withdrawal from the world, beginning in
early childhood, had occurred when he had discovered that he could
read the secrets of anyone's soul by what was written in the
eyes... and had been unable to bear what he saw.
'By the light of the moon,' Shep repeated, but this time
with his gaze fixed on the floor. His whisper had fallen to a
murmur, and with what sounded like grief, his voice broke more than
once on those six words.
Shep seldom spoke, and when he did, he never spouted gibberish,
even if sometimes it seemed to be gibberish as surely as cheddar
was a cheese. Within his every utterance lay motive and meaning to
be discerned, although when he was at his most enigmatic, his
message could not always be understood, in part because Dylan
lacked the patience and the wisdom to solve the puzzle of the boy's
words. In this case, his urgent and fiercely felt emotion suggested
that what he meant to communicate was unusually important, at least
to him.
'Look at me, Shep. We need to talk. Can we talk, Shepherd?'
Shep shook his head, perhaps in denial of what he seemed to see
on the motel-room floor, in denial of whatever vision had brought
tears to his eyes, or perhaps in answer to his brother's
question.
Dylan put one hand under Shepherd's chin, gently lifted the
boy's head. 'What's 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,
if awkwardly, to Dylan and to others. More often than not, however,
he needed to be guided toward communication, constantly and
patiently encouraged to make a connection and to maintain it once
it had been established.
Conversation with Shep frequently depended on first making eye
contact with him, but the boy seldom granted that degree of
intimacy. He seemed to avoid such directness not solely because of
his severe psychological disorder, and not merely because he was
pathologically shy. Sometimes, in a fanciful moment, Dylan could
almost believe that Shep's withdrawal from the world, beginning in
early childhood, had occurred when he had discovered that he could
read the secrets of anyone's soul by what was written in the
eyes... and had been unable to bear what he saw.
'By the light of the moon,' Shep repeated, but this time
with his gaze fixed on the floor. His whisper had fallen to a
murmur, and with what sounded like grief, his voice broke more than
once on those six words.
Shep seldom spoke, and when he did, he never spouted gibberish,
even if sometimes it seemed to be gibberish as surely as cheddar
was a cheese. Within his every utterance lay motive and meaning to
be discerned, although when he was at his most enigmatic, his
message could not always be understood, in part because Dylan
lacked the patience and the wisdom to solve the puzzle of the boy's
words. In this case, his urgent and fiercely felt emotion suggested
that what he meant to communicate was unusually important, at least
to him.
'Look at me, Shep. We need to talk. Can we talk, Shepherd?'
Shep shook his head, perhaps in denial of what he seemed to see
on the motel-room floor, in denial of whatever vision had brought
tears to his eyes, or perhaps in answer to his brother's
question.
Dylan put one hand under Shepherd's chin, gently lifted the
boy's head. 'What's 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,
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