look at myself, because the single bulb in the overhead fixture was of
low wattage and had a peach tint.
Only rarely have I seen my face in full light.
Sasha says that I remind her of James Dean, more as he was in East of
Eden than in Rebel Without a Cause.
I myself don’t perceive the resemblance. The hair is the same, yes,
and the pale blue eyes. But he looked so wounded, and I do not see
myself that way.
I am not James Dean. I am no one but me, Christopher Snow, and I can
live with that.
Finished with the lotion, I returned to the bedroom. Orson raised his
head from the armchair to savor the coconut scent.
I was already wearing athletic socks, Nikes, blue ‘cans, and a black
T-shirt. I quickly pulled on a black denim shirt with long sleeves and
buttoned it at the neck.
Orson trailed me downstairs to the foyer. Because the porch was deep
with a low ceiling, and because two massive California live oaks stood
in the yard, no direct sun could reach the sidelights flanking the
front door; consequently, they were not covered with curtains or
blinds. The leaded panes-geometric mosaics of clear, green, red, and
amber glass-glowed softly like jewels.
I took a zippered, black leather jacket from the coat closet. I would
be out after dark, and even following a mild March day, the central
coast of California can turn chilly when the sun goes down.
From the closet shelf, I snatched a navy-blue, billed cap and pulled it
on, tugging it low on my head. Across the front, above the visor, in
ruby-red embroidered letters, were the words Mystery Train.
One night during the previous autumn, I had found the cap in Fort
Wyvern, the abandoned military base inland from Moonlight Bay. It had
been the only object in a cool, dry, concrete-walled room three stories
underground.
Although I had no idea to what the embroidered words might refer, I had
kept the cap because it intrigued me.
As I turned toward the front door, Orson whined beseechingly.
I stooped and petted him. “I’m sure Dad would like to see You one last
time, fella. I know he would. But there’s no place for You in a
hospital.”
His direct, coal-black eyes glimmered. I could have sworn that his
gaze brimmed with grief and sympathy. Maybe that was because I was
looking at him through repressed tears of my own.
My friend Bobby Halloway says that I tend to anthropomorphize animals,
ascribing to them human attributes and attitudes which they do not, in
fact, possess.
Perhaps this is because animals, unlike some people, have always
accepted me for what I am. The four-legged citizens of Moonlight Bay
seem to possess a more complex understanding of life-as well as more
kindness-than at least some of my neighbors.
Bobby tells me that anthropomorphizing animals, regardless of my
experiences with them, is a sign of immaturity. I tell Bobby to go
copulate with himself.
I comforted Orson, stroking his glossy coat and scratching behind his
ears. He was curiously tense. Twice he cocked his head to listen
intently to sounds I could not hear-as if he sensed a threat looming,
something even worse than the loss of my father.
At that time, I had not yet seen anything suspicious about Dad’s
impending death. Cancer was only fate, not murder-unless You wanted to
try bringing criminal charges against God.
That I had lost both parents within two years, that my mother had died
when she was only fifty-two, that my father was only fifty-six as he
lay on his deathbed . . . well, all this just seemed to be my poor
luck-which had been with me, literally, since my conception.
Later, I would have reason to recall Orson’s tension-and good reason to
wonder if he had sensed the tidal wave of trouble washing toward us.
Bobby Halloway would surely sneer at this and say that I am doing worse
than anthropomorphizing the mutt, that now I am ascribing superhuman
attributes to him. I would have to agree-and then tell Bobby to go
copulate vigorously with himself.
Anyway, I petted and scratched and generally comforted Orson until a