By Rebecca Morn
Chapter 3
The Darkened Room
Thursday, June 27
David Anthony Burke banged the side of his head against
the wall, next to the window.
His thirteen-year-old body, small for his age, lay
sprawled across the chair in his room at the Greenfield Convalescent Care
nursing home. He had one arm thrown over the back of the green fabric
cushion, the other dangling through the hole between the wooden armrest and
the seat. The light blue pajamas he wore had shifted both up and down, the
top halfway up his stomach and the bottoms exposing a few inches of pale
buttocks. His skin there was the same color as the rest of his body--the
pasty, almost transparent pallor of someone who spends too much time
indoors.
Outside the window before him, a trio of blue jays
fought and tumbled over one another on the lawn, seeking dominance over the
seed-filled wooden feeder. David's hazel eyes pointed in their general
direction, but were vague, unfocused. He hummed a single note, his mouth
slightly open, and a few drops of spit trailed down the side of his cheek.
He continued to roll his head up and over, knocking
against the wall beside the window. He'd been doing this for nearly an
hour.
Just then, a nurse came in and, muttering a few mild
curses to himself, moved the chair away from the window, and David along
with it. The boy stopped humming instantly. Otherwise, he displayed no
sign of volition or awareness.
The nurse, a man of about thirty with a severe case of
acne and whose name was Karl, turned the chair to face the safety-glassed
window more directly. "Geez, David!" he said as he lifted the boy's
unresponsive form into a sitting position. "You're gonna give yerself a
concussion."
Karl put slippers back onto David's feet and wiped the
trail of saliva from the boy's cheek with the large handkerchief he kept
tucked in the back pocket of his uniform whites. In a lowered voice, he
added, "That or completely rattle loose the little bit of brains God saw fit
to give ya."
With a grunt, he began pulling the boy upright. "I’m
gettin’ too old for this… Geez, kid, you may not look like much, but you’re
heavier than you look, know what I mean?" As he extricated David's arm from
under the chair's armrest, he glanced out the window. "Nice day out, huh?"
Karl said. "Sure wish we was in it. Better than worryin' about what's on
the news, huh?"
He readjusted the pajamas and put David's hands
together in his lap. Then, Karl stood and stretched while he glanced around
the small private room. "Why don'tcha draw a picture?" He said the last
word in a typical South-Side Pittsburgh accent, pronouncing it 'pitcher.'
Looking at the various sketches and crayon drawings that adorned the walls
of David's room, he said "Ya got a talent there, David."
The room contained a bed, a small wooden table with a
stool tucked under it, a high chest of drawers, and the green chair. On the
walls were dozens of drawings, done in a variety of media--crayon, charcoal,
pencil, and watercolor. There was one even done in ink, though they'd had
to take the pen away after one of the other nurse's found David had broken
it and smeared his face with its contents.
The drawings showed a degree of detail and
sophistication unexpected because they came from a boy who spent most of his
days apparently staring at nothing. The subjects varied--a large oak tree
on a hillside, two dogs--a golden retriever and a huge
Newfoundland--wrestling together in a field of grass, an old-style station
wagon of the variety with the fake-wood sides. Most, however, were of
animals: Horses, dogs, cats, bears, and so on. Most were drawn on
cream-colored construction paper, although some had been done on larger
white easel-sheets.
In the bottom drawer of the chest were a dozen sheets
of the construction paper, a half-box of charcoal, and a huge box of
crayons, two hundred fifty six different colors in all, most of which were
worn down to less than half their original length. David didn't do much,
but he did clearly enjoy Drawing Time.
Karl was just about to leave the room, when he heard
voices approaching, one of them he recognized as Dr. Sanda Beck, the chief
administrator of Greenfield. "I'd be quite happy to give you a complete
tour of our facilities," she was saying in the clipped, precise tones of a
schoolteacher, "and of course, you can visit with your nephew for a time.
However, I must insist that if he shows any sign of restiveness or distress,
we will have to leave him be."
Smiling a little, Karl knew the reason for the
administrator's mannerisms and speech patterns was because she'd actually
been an elementary schoolteacher, first grade, for some twenty years before
getting her doctorate and changing careers. He shot a glance at David to
make sure the boy was still presentable; Karl knew that in all likelihood,
within minutes of leaving, the kid would be slouched down, half-undressed,
and drooling again. For now though, David was staying put, giving every
appearance of merely staring out the window, hands limp in his lap. The boy
blinked only every now and then.
Dr. Beck bustled into the room, a short, sturdy,
matronly woman who always wore her long, gray hair up in a complicated
hairdo and just the barest touch of makeup. She looked every inch the
grandmotherly figure, too, long brown skirts under a floral jacket, plain
stockings, and sensible shoes. As she caught sight of the nurse, she said,
"Oh, hello Karl. I'm glad you're here." Two people--a man and a
woman--followed her into David's small room, making is somewhat crowded.
Indicating the pair, the administrator continued, "These are Mister and Miz
Anderson--David's aunt and uncle. They've asked to see him. This is Karl,
one of our senior care nurses. He's been with us for...what is it? Five
years now? And how is David?"
"Six actually, ma'am," Karl acknowledged and nodded to
the couple. "Pleased to meet'cha. As for a visit, shouldn't be a problem.
He's been in one of his better moods today."
Mr. and Ms. Anderson looked to be a fairly ordinary
couple in their late thirties--with the exception of their attire. The
gentleman wore a gray pin-stripe Brooks Brothers suit, a 'power-blue' silk
tie (knotted perfectly in a modified Windsor), and impeccably shined black
wingtip shoes. He was of average height and build, with sandy-brown hair,
cut in the latest style--slightly longer on top and combed just-so. The
eyes behind his gold wire-rim glasses were a vague, watery blue that seemed
to skitter here and there. In one hand, he carried an expensive leather
briefcase. As for his wife, she too could've been almost anybody, but for
the obvious quality of her clothes--her gray wool pants-suit obviously
tailored, with matching charcoal-colored pumps, and over this a Burberry
trenchcoat. Her black handbag bore a Prada label. She wore no visible
makeup, and her dark brown hair hung neatly to her shoulders. In contrast
to her husband, Ms. Anderson's eyes were green, sharp, and intense--like a
predator's.
Both otherwise seemed eminently forgettable, neither
attractive nor unattractive. In fact, the only thing that really stood out
about them was the almost improbably impeccable nature of their clothing and
appearances.
Of course, it didn't surprise Karl very much that
David's relatives would be well-off. As far as nursing homes in the greater
Pittsburgh metropolitan area went, Greenfield was one of the most expensive.
"I feel I must caution you," Dr. Beck continued, "that
although David here is a very high-functioning autistic, he has severe
limitations. In particular, I ask that you not touch or attempt to hug
him. Trust me--he would not experience the physical contact as the simple
gesture of affection you might intend it to be. For that matter, he may not
react well to any attempts at interaction, particularly since you are not
familiar to him. So please keep this in mind. It's not personal or a sign
that we or anyone else has been abusing him--it's just the way he is."
"I understand," said Ms. Anderson, in a low, throaty
voice. "Has de boy had any other visitors recently?" She spoke in a thick,
Russian-Slavic accent, full of aspirated h's and lightly rolled r's.
Dr. Beck thought about this for a moment, tapping a
painted forefinger nail against her teeth before answering. "No," she said
slowly. "I don't believe so, but I didn't take time to check the files when
you arrived. Is it important?"
"Yes, please," said the woman. "However, it can vait
until ve finish vith dis visit."
Karl had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from
bursting into laughter. Ms. Anderson's speech patterns were so extreme as
to be a virtual parody. It reminded him of Ensign Chekov's quasi-Russian
accent from the original Star Trek TV series. He put his hands behind his
back and kept his eyes down, or on David.
If Dr. Beck felt similarly, she gave no sign of it,
professional as she always was, whatever the circumstances. "Certainly,"
she said, smiling. "Do you have any other questions? I mean, about David?"
Mr. Anderson had wandered off to inspect David's
artwork, decorating the walls of his room; as yet, he'd still not said a
word. Karl found himself wondering if he'd have an accent as preposterous
as his wife's.
So far, David blissfully ignored them all.
"Has there been any change in his condition?" asked Ms.
Anderson. "Any sign of awareness? Or other improvement?"
Dr. Beck blinked, puzzled. "I'm sorry, I really don't
think you understand the nature of autism," she replied. "It's a life-long
condition. Those with cases as severe as David's are almost never able to
function outside the controlled, predictable environment of an institution
such as this one. They crave sameness, order, even something as basic as an
unchanging schedule. He will likely spend the rest of his days, if not
here, then in a place very much like it. If he's fortunate."
"I see," Ms. Anderson said, frowning.
"Just so you know," Dr. Beck added quickly, "we have
had David evaluated regularly. We've also tried him on a number of the more
promising new treatments, but I'm afraid he just hasn't responded to any of
them so far."
Mr. Anderson spoke up then, from over near the head of
David's bed. "Excuse me," he said, and unlike his wife, he had no
discernable accent whatsoever. "Did the boy paint this?" He pointed to the
large portrait on the wall just above the headboard.
Done in acrylics on canvas, the framed painting
depicted a deer, the head and neck of a large buck set against a darkening
twilight sky. Its branching antlers rose high, and the evening star shone
among the ivory tines. The animal faced dead-on straight, muzzle down, a
hint of moisture showing on its dark nose. The eyes, though black,
reflected the purple of the heavens, and seemed to be looking directly at
you, no matter where you stood in relation to it. Its detailed brown fur
gave the illusion of being stirred by a gentle wind. The painting was quite
gorgeous, the work of a master.
"Why yes," replied Dr. Beck. "Yes, he did. Quite
remarkable, isn't it? As a matter of fact, David drew all the art you see
in the room here, plus a few more we have tacked up in the Activity Room.
Autistic he may be, but David is not without his talents. We try to
encourage him in this. I wasn't here when that particular painting was
done--but you were, weren't you, Karl?"
"Yes, ma'am," Karl answered, nodding. Then, directing
more of his attention to the odd couple, he continued, "Usually we only let
him draw with watercolors, crayons, or pastels, but the Channel 2 news
people insisted on giving him real paint for a change. No idea how they
found out about David, maybe through somebody who used to work here, I dunno.
It was right after that TV movie won all the awards. Y'know--'Jeffrey's
Story'? They wanted to do a story about some of the different kinds of
savant syndromes."
"'Savant syndrome'?" repeated Ms. Anderson. "I do not
understand. What is this?"
This last came out as 'Vot eez deese?'--and Karl
had to bite his cheek again.
"It refers to an extraordinary ability or gift that
those with...mental challenges will sometimes exhibit," Dr. Beck jumped in,
almost as if sensing Karl's discomfiture. "It's a rare thing, and not even
limited to the autistic. But they do seem to have these gifts somewhat more
often than do the others."
"What kinds of gifts?" Ms. Anderson asked, quite intent
now, more so than seemed warranted, at least in Karl's opinion. "Things
besides drawing well?"
If Dr. Beck took any particular note of the tone, she
gave no indication. "Oh, some are calendar counters--that is, give them any
date at all, and they can tell you which day of the week it fell on. Others
can memorize huge amounts of information at a glance. In my last position,
I once met a young girl--completely uncommunicative in every way, not even
potty-trained--but she could play piano. Any song Jessica heard a single
time, she could repeat perfectly. Bach, Rachmaninoff, Mozart--even the
Beatles. You should have heard her rendition of 'Hey Jude'--it brought
tears to my eyes, it was so beautiful. She was more remarkable because
girls with autism are usually more profoundly impaired than the boys, and
Jessica was no exception."
"Has the boy shown any 'gifts' besides painting?" Ms.
Anderson wanted to know. Again, to Karl's ear, there seemed to be a great
deal left unsaid here, a certain avid intensity, as if they expected
David to have other abilities.
"No, he hasn't," Dr. Beck replied, plainly puzzled. "I
think we may be getting off track here. These savant gifts are a wonderful
thing, but they don't begin to make up for the profound neurological
difficulties. People focus on what the mentally challenged person can do
well, and ignore everything else they cannot do at all. People with autism
could be said to live in a very different world from the rest of us. They
demand order, because they can't create it for themselves, inside their own
heads. Furthermore, they can only process certain kinds of sensory
input--and that often very poorly."
"So he cannot understand us? Is he aware of us?"
"I'm certain he's aware of us," said Dr. Beck, shaking
her head. "Whether he can interact with us in any meaningful way is another
matter entirely. Karl here could probably get David to follow simple
directions, because the boy's familiar with his voice and his presence. If
you spoke to him, the words would likely be perceived as complete
gibberish. Random noise, with no more content than the quacking of ducks."
Karl was barely following this conversation himself,
because the administrator wasn't saying anything he hadn't heard before.
Instead, he was remembering the day David had painted his masterpiece, that
beautiful deer painting above the boy's bed.
* * *
When he'd guided David toward the Activity Room, Karl
had been certain the kid would either withdraw completely or become confused
and start thrashing about. In unfamiliar situations, David had done both
before. The staff psychologist called these violent episodes "acting out";
Karl, coming from far more modest origins, called it "pitching a fit" or
"throwing a tantrum."
It amounted to the same thing, whatever you called it.
And a thirteen-year-old boy could throw quite an impressive tantrum, even if
he was small for his age and didn't get much exercise.
The way the Activity Room looked now, it couldn't have
gotten farther from 'familiar' if they'd tried. The large, open room
contained at least a half-dozen adult strangers, bright lights, cameras,
equipment, cables, and painting materials--every one of them things David
had never seen before.
Even the staff psychologist had recommended to the
young reporter that she allow David to draw with his own supplies. He
further advised they conduct the interview at the time of day David almost
always worked on his drawings, after physical therapy in the morning and
lasting until lunch, or in the afternoon after David's nap. But there was
no swaying the ambitious young woman with the exquisitely coiffed ash-blonde
hair and chiseled cheekbones. She'd insisted the paints and easel would
have far more impact than David's usual media.
Karl led the boy over to the center of all this chaos,
using a pinch of sleeve to do the directing. This always seemed to work
better and more consistently than touching David's arm or hand directly. He
remembered how the boy looked confused at first, and more than a little
frightened.
Then, David's half-focused eyes happened upon the
paints, in a pile on the table nearest the easel the TV people had set up
for him. Before anyone could react, he rushed over and grabbed at the
slender metal tubes. Clutching a double-handful of the paints to his narrow
chest, he literally crooned with wordless delight, "Haaeeeeeeeeeeeahhhh!"
Then, with unnerving efficiency, the boy uncapped
nearly all the tubes of paint and began to mix them on the palette near the
easel. Although he'd never seen these implements before, he seemed to
understand how to use both the palette and plastic palette knives provided.
All the while, the pretty blonde TV news reporter kept trying to ask David
questions, but it was as if she didn't even exist to him.
Karl remained alert, still halfway certain that David
would astound them all by eating the paints he'd so carefully mixed. But he
didn't. Instead, he sorted among the half-dozen brushes on the table and
picked the largest one. Then he worked it on his palette and set the brush
to the canvas. Minutes later, when he set down the first brush, he'd done
the background, a broad sweeps of deep purple-blue that looked to Karl like
the color at the edge of outer space.
David went through the selection of brushes again,
chose a medium grade slant-tip this time, and began to sketch with a dark,
loamy tint he'd mixed from brown, red, and black. All the while, the
reporter prattled on about "hidden, genius-like abilities" and "natural
musicians," and "calendar counters." The cameras rolled.
Once, when the reporter got in his way, David leaned to
one side and painted around her. His strokes were sure, precise, and
incredibly fast.
By time he finished an hour later, everyone, including
the camera crew, had stopped everything and stood gaping with astonishment
at David's creation. The magnificent, majestic deer held them all
spellbound, pinning everyone with its jet black eyes, including the boy. As
Karl stared at the portrait for an unknown amount of time, he felt the
sensation of falling endlessly into those dark orbs.
The Buck gazed steadily back, deep into and through
him. Somehow, it seemed to know every last thing about him.
* * *
In David's room now, caught by the deer's eyes once
more, Karl felt a little of the same sensation, despite the presence of all
these others.
He also realized with a start that he'd missed the last
couple minutes of conversation between Dr. Beck and Ms. Anderson. He shook
himself. The administrator was saying, "I'm really sorry, I don't know how
I can make this more clear. I'm delighted that you've taken an
interest in David's welfare, and I hope you will come back for return
visits. Until you arrived, we had no idea he even had any living
relatives. The Burke Family Trust has been paying for David's care since
the day he was admitted, but we've only been in contact with the trustee in
charge of financial matters, Mr. Logan."
"Then I fail to see problem," Ms. Anderson said
angrily, the emotion, if anything, making her accent thicker and more
incomprehensible. "We are family. Why can we not take the boy with us
now?"
Uh oh, Karl said to himself. I smell
trouble...
"First of all, I truly don't think you understand what
you are proposing," Dr. Beck explained, her lips a thin line, much of her
usual natural ebullience long gone. Karl knew full well she got like this
any time she felt the health and well-being of one of her charges, young or
old, was at risk. "You have as much as admitted you know nothing about
caring for an autistic child. David has special needs; he's having them met
here, and quite well, I might add. Greenfield really does represent the
best long-term care money can buy."
"We can hire specialists, if that is what is needed,"
argued Ms. Anderson, her husband having moved closer to David, almost
possessively.
Karl realized something just then. The Andersons
didn't really give the impression of being a married couple at all. It was
more like...what? An instant later he had it: Boss and underling.
Furthermore, married or not, there was no doubt at all which of these two
people was in charge.
He made up his mind then to intervene, if what he
thought might happen actually did. No, he wouldn't put it past them
at all to try to snatch the kid and make a run for it. Karl managed to
catch Dr. Beck's eye. He pointed at his own chest, and then down at the
carpeted floor, and looked the question at her. The unspoken words, You
want me to stay here, right?
Dr. Beck understood, thankfully, and gave him a small,
imperceptible nod. She said, "I am trying to be reasonable here. And
further, to explain why it's not in David's best interest to put him through
such an upheaval, unprepared. I would add that I have only your word that
you are who you say you are--"
Ms. Anderson interrupted, saying, "We have papers.
Documents. Hospital and vaccination records. Copy of the boy's birth
certificate." She nodded towards her 'husband,' who made as if to open his
leather briefcase, but Dr. Beck stopped him with an imperious gesture.
"Unless one of those papers is a notarized court order
giving you legal custody, don't bother," she said firmly. "You are not
taking David today, and that is final."
"Not even if the trust organization has authorized
this?"
"Not even then," replied Dr. Beck. "I know David's
case is somewhat unusual, but when he was admitted to our care, the courts
appointed us as his legal guardian. In fact, there is only one person with
the authority to make final determinations regarding his care--and that
happens to be me, as chief administrator of Greenfield. Were you to take
him from here, he'd still be my legal ward, until a court says otherwise or
I'm replaced. Now I have no idea why his parents went to all the trouble of
setting up a trust fund for him, yet left it up to the courts to select a
guardian, but that's neither here nor there."
"So you are saying if we get this court order, you will
release the boy to us?" Ms. Anderson pressed.
Dr. Beck's hands were clenched in fists at her sides;
Karl had never seen her this angry before. "Cleary you have not been
listening to me," she said, her words becoming increasingly clipped and
precise, like stones dropped from a great height, one by one. "Don't you
care at all for David's well-being?! You cannot simply bundle him up
in a car, drop him into a completely unfamiliar environment, and expect
everything to be hunky-dory. Are you prepared for violent outbursts? Hours
of endless screaming? Do you have breakables? Do you even know what David
likes to eat? Have you laid in a supply of diapers? Because I can assure
you, it's not at all uncommon for an autistic child to regress when they're
faced with intolerable changes to their routines and environment."
As if in response to these very issues, David began
finally to react to the ruckus going on around him. Ducking his head, he
slowly slumped in his chair like a balloon deflating. From behind closed
lips, he made a noise--a low, wordless whine that started off low, but
threatened to grow in volume.
Most other times, Karl would've taken this as a typical
warning sign of an impending tantrum; in this instance, however, he also saw
it as an opportunity. "Uh, Dr. Beck?" he said into the first available
pause in the two women's argument. "I know it's not my place to say what
happens in the end, but all this--well, all this is getting to the kid. You
know how sensitive he is to people expressing strong emotions around him--he
handles angry people least well of all."
"You're right, Karl," Dr. Beck sighed, consciously
unclenching her hands and her jaw. "I'm sorry, I don't know what got into
me." Turning her attention back towards the strange, wealthy Andersons, she
said, "We can discuss this further in my office, if you like, but I must
insist that we leave David alone now. If you wish simply to visit, you can
come again next week."
"That won't be necessary, we have seen all we need to
see at this time," Ms. Anderson replied, obviously still fuming, and David's
whine stepped up a notch in volume and pitch. "We will be back when we have
secured the required papers."
Karl knew that if they delayed much longer, that whine
would soon become a piercing shriek. So did Dr. Beck. Herding the visitors
toward the door, the administrator said, "If I might ask a favor, could we
return to my office for a few minutes anyway? I should like copies of those
vaccination and treatment records--our own files aren't complete in that
regard. If you'll start ahead of me, I need to speak with Karl here for
just a moment."
As soon as Mr. and Ms. Anderson left the room, David
stopped his whine in mid-note. A small trail of spittle leaked from the
corner his mouth though, and he slumped further down in the chair.
When Dr. Beck waved Karl over, he stepped close and
asked quietly, "We don't really need those records, do we, ma'am?"
"No," the administrator acknowledged. "But I do want a
look at what they do have, make copies if they'll let me. I want to see
what we're up against."
Karl saw the worry plain on Dr. Beck's motherly face.
"What is it, really?" he asked.
"I don't trust those two, not as far as I could throw
the both of them," she admitted, frowning. "I've seen their type
before--they never have any doubt about getting their way, eventually. Most
times, they do. What I don't understand is why they want physical custody
of a boy whose needs they can't possibly understand. Or meet."
"Could be the trust fund," Karl suggested. "Ever think
of that?"
"You could be right," Dr. Beck replied thoughtfully,
shaking her head sadly. "On the other hand, if that's all they wanted, why
take physical custody when legal guardianship would suffice? No, something
about this stinks to high heaven, something they're not telling us.
Whatever the case, it's imperative we do what we can to protect David. I
will not stand by quietly while they attempt the moral equivalent of locking
him in the attic and throwing away the key--assuming that isn't their actual
objective. The important thing though is I want you to inform the rest of
the staff that Mr. and Ms. Anderson are not to be allowed
unsupervised visits with David. At all times, I want at least two staff
members present. Is that clear?"
"Yes ma'am," said Karl, nodding. "You really believe
they might run off with him?"
"Them? I wouldn't put it past them. That woman
claimed to be the boy's aunt--his mother's sister. If there's the least
family resemblance there, I don't see it."
"Gotcha. Anything else, ma'am?"
"Just keep an eye on David today, make sure this
business hasn't upset him too much, all right?" With that, Dr. Beck clapped
her hands together lightly. "Now I really must get back to our...'guests.'
Do let me know if there are any problems."
"Yes, ma'am."
With that, Dr. Beck hurried away, the low heels of her
sensible shoes clacking on the tile floor in the long hallway.
When she was gone, Karl waited a minute to be sure that
David would remain still and calm. The boy seemed completely unaware and
oblivious again. Satisfied, Karl pulled the large handkerchief from his
back pocket and wiped the drool from the corner of David's mouth. When this
seemed not to bother the boy, he pulled him upright, arranging the chair so
he could see outside the window more clearly. It looked like there were
some birds goofing around out on the lawn out there, which he hoped would be
entertaining--particularly after what had just happened.
Watching David, such a frail, pale boy, Karl felt a
curious surge of affection and sympathy for the him. Impulsively and
against his better judgment, he took a risk and ruffled David's tangled
brown hair, saying, "Catch you later, kid. Be good."
* * *
As soon as the nurse was gone and the room quiet once
more, David began to squirm to the right and slump down. The slippers came
off and, with a twisting motion, he pushed his bare feet against the
carpeted floor, slowly maneuvering the chair back to an angle with the
window. He slid his legs up onto the left armrest. In minutes, he was in
exactly the same position as he had been before. One arm lay over the back
of the chair, the other between the arm and seat, and his head lolled and
knocked against the wall.
The blue jays moved closer, playing dominance games on
the green lawn. They squawked and flapped at one another among the dappled
patterns of sun and shade thrown by the large maple tree outside the
window. The light and dark green flickered and jumped like flames as
breezes ruffled the maple's leaves.
To David's deliberately unfocused eyes though, the
green flames became dancing bubbles of light. The note he hummed
relentlessly made the bones of his jaw and forehead vibrate, and each time
he knocked his head against the concrete wall, the bubbles would scatter and
coalesce. Almost, he could make out the pattern.
Somehow, it was important to see the pattern.
No, not just important, but imperative. That
was a word he'd heard just recently, and for some reason, it had stuck with
him. On an intuitive level, he understood that it meant "dreadfully
important and essential."
To see and comprehend the pattern was imperative.
The jays added blue and black to the dancing greens.
David half-closed his eyes and the bubbles became points, dimmer but more
distinct. First, the motes would all shift one way and back, as if carried
on ocean waves, riding up and down. Then there might be a twirling, round
and round, groups of points all orbiting unseen centers. Once in a great
while, the tiny lights would swirl around in a gyre, each mote circling in
still smaller spirals, the whole like wheels within wheels, like Ezekiel's
chariot of fire. In these moments, David would hum ever louder and bang his
head with greater force against the wall.
In the middle of the gyre of lights, he glimpsed things
in flashes: A huge explosion that went on forever, burning everything. An
open door, standing alone in the middle of a snowy field. A man, in a white
robe, with gray-green eyes, graying brown hair and beard, and a sad face.
A frightened woman, dressed in jeans and a blue
sweater, walking down a city street. She carried a heavy bag over one
shoulder. This particular vision lasted long enough, he tried to wave to
her. But before he could see if she reacted, both she and the street were
gone.
Then he saw the door again, a large oaken thing,
standing in a polished marble archway. On the door was carved a shape that
looked something like the painting he'd made--a deer, only different. On
one side of the door was a shallow, snowy valley with a dark, still pool in
the middle; on the other side, nothing at all. A void of utter black
emptiness.
The last thing he saw was his own hand, and a large,
silvery key laying across his palm. Motes of light and cobalt sparks danced
around the key's length. The key's handle was ring of entangled vines and
flowers, but the teeth at the other end of the shaft shifted constantly,
impossibly for anything of this world.
The motes had grown dim by now. Eventually, a cloud
bank covered the sun and the points of light went out. The jays had long
since settled their territorial dispute, each had eaten his fill from the
feeder in turn and left.
David stopped humming and lay his head against the
jutting corner of the wall. Exhausted, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.
Unnoticed, thin red rivulets gathered and trickled down from a lacerated
wound on the side of his head, towards the back.
Red drops trembled at the uneven ends of his tousled
hair and fell to the carpeted floor below.
(Copyright 2005, all rights reserved. Duplication, retransmission, or
alteration without permission is prohibited.)
[ Top of page ] [ Back ] [ Home ] [ Up ] [ Next ]
|
