packed up his clothes, I’ve torn open one of the boxes in the garage
simply to have a look at those reading glasses, at that sweater.
In such moments I can’t escape the truth that I’m not coping as well as
I pretend to be. The cataract of grief is a longer drop than Niagara,
and I guess I’ve not yet reached the river of acceptance at the bottom.
When I got out of the Explorer, I didn’t hurry into the house, though
the grizzled morning was now almost fully upon us. The day did little to
restore the color that the night had stolen from the world, indeed, the
smoky light seemed to deposit an ash-gray residue on everything, muting
tones, dulling shiny surfaces. The cumulative UV damage I would sustain
in this shineless sunshine was a risk worth taking to spend one minute
admiring the two oaks in the front yard.
These California live oaks, beautifully crowned and with great canopies
of strong black limbs, tower over the house, shading it in every season,
because unlike eastern oaks, they don’t drop their leaves in winter. I
have always loved these trees, have climbed high into them on many
nights to get closer to the stars, but lately they mean more to me than
ever because they remind me of my parents, who had the strength to make
the sacrifices in their own lives required to raise a child with my
disabilities and who gave me the shade to thrive.
The weight of this leaden dawn had pressed all the wind out of the day.
The oaks were as monolithic as sculpture, each leaf like a petal of cast
bronze.
After a minute, calmed by the deep stillness of the trees, I crossed the
lawn to the house.
This Craftsman-period structure features stacked ledger stone and
weather-silvered cedar under a slate roof, with deep eaves and an
expansive front porch, all modern lines yet natural and close to the
earth.
It is the only home I’ve ever known, and considering both the average
life span of an XPER and my talent for getting my ass in a sling, it’s
no doubt where I’ll live until I die Sasha had unlocked the front door
by the time I got there, and I followed her into the foyer.
All the windows are covered with pleated shades throughout the daylight
hours. Most of the lights feature rheostats, and when we must turn them
on, we keep them dim. For the most part, I live here in candlelight
filtered through amber or rose glass, in a soft-edged shadowy ambience
that would meet with the approval of any medium who claims to be able to
channel the spirits of the dead.
Sasha settled in a month previous, after Dad’s death, moving out of the
house provided for her as part of her compensation as general manager of
KBAY. But already, during daylight hours, she moves from room to room
guided largely by the faint sunshine pressing against the lowered window
shades.
She thinks my shrouded world calms the soul, that life in the low
illumination of Snow land is soothing, even romantic. I agree with her
to an extent, though at times a mild claustrophobia overcomes me and
these ever present shadows seem like a chilling preview of the grave.
Without touching a light switch, we went upstairs to my bathroom and
took a shower together by the lambent glow of a decorative glass oil
lamp. This tandem event wasn’t as much fun as usual, not even as much
fun as riding two on a surfboard, because we were physically weary,
emotionally exhausted, and worried about Orson and Jimmy, all we did was
bathe, while I gave Sasha a seriously condensed version of my pursuit of
the kidnapper, the sighting of Big Head, Delacroix, and the events in
the egg room.
I phoned Roosevelt Frost, who lives aboard Nostromo, a fifty-six-foot
Bluewater coastal cruiser berthed in the Moonlight Bay marina. I got an
answering machine and left a message asking him to come to see me as
soon after twelve o’clock as was convenient and to bring Mungojerrie if
possible.
I also called Manuel Ramirez. The police operator said that he was