way,â Paul said. âBody of a bear and the head of an elk. Better than Bigfoot.â
âPeople have made a lot of money off Bigfoot,â Ed said.
âI like money,â said Paul. âI should license it.â
âItâd sound scarier in Latin,â said Ed.
âOkay,â said Paul agreeably. âSo âbear-elkâ in Latin is . . . Who knows Latin?â
âUrsa-cervus,â
Silas said.
Ren turned. âYou can translate âbear-elkâ into Latin?â
He looked over, smiling, finally, at her, then not smiling, just looking. She looked back. She blinked. Before she blinked again, they both looked away. Paul said something else she didnât hear. She could feel Silasâs eyes on her again; then she heard his chair creak and his feet slide against the dirt.
âNight, everybody,â he said. She turned then to say good night, and she saw his hand raised. She thought he might pat her back or squeeze her shoulder. But he brushed one knuckle along the line of her jaw, so brief she didnât register that it had happened until after the crunch of his footsteps had faded.
When she looked back toward the fire, she saw Ed watching her. She didnât recognize his expression. She thought he might tease her or tease Silas, but he kept quiet; his silent, speculative gaze unsettled her more than the touch of Silasâs finger.
That night Scott woke her by leaning in close to her face, his nose almost touching hersâit was a trick their old terrier used to do when he wanted to be let out in the middle of the night. She opened her eyes and stared directly into Scottâs darker brown ones. He seemed solid in the moonlight. She shoved at him and felt nothing but air.
âGo away, Scottie,â she said. âYouâre not the one Iâm trying to see.â
Back in the days and weeks and maybe months right after the accident, she could feel him behind her without turning her head. The air felt different when he was nearby. For a while he was next to her bed most mornings. He seemed to be around every corner. Then, over time, she didnât see him as often. Eventually he stopped speaking, but he never stopped singing to her. Sometimes she couldnât make out the words, but she always recognized the tune. He sang the same music he had taught her.
He used to come to her in the in-between timesâwhen she was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes in the morning; when she was staring at her bedroom wall, bodiless and mindless, forgotten homework spread over her bed. He came to her as she paced the empty house in the long afternoons before her parents came home.
Ren rolled back over, and Scott was still standing by the bed. The bad thing about these nighttime visits was that her mind was open and relaxed whether she meant it to be or not. She could never be sure which song might slip under her skin and where it might go. She hoped heâd stay quiet.
She sighed. âI really need to get some sleep. Really. Go haunt someone else for a while.â
Sometimes if she closed her eyes fast enough, she would feel only annoyance with him. She could pretend she would see him in the morning, eating breakfast and piling folders in his book bag. And if she was lucky, she could fall back asleep without feeling anything else.
three
----
If art is intended to communicate with others, artists are additionally constrained by the necessity of producing images that can be âread,â or understood by an appropriate audience.
âFrom âPicturing Differences: Gender, Ritual, and Power in Mimbres Imageryâ by Marit K. Munson,
Mimbres Society
, 2006
----
For the first week, Silas drank his coffee black. On the seventh day, he was making his lunch while she fixed her coffee. He layered thin slices of ham, sprinkled them liberally with salt, then added the top piece of bread. He finished with one more shake of salt, straight on the
âPeople have made a lot of money off Bigfoot,â Ed said.
âI like money,â said Paul. âI should license it.â
âItâd sound scarier in Latin,â said Ed.
âOkay,â said Paul agreeably. âSo âbear-elkâ in Latin is . . . Who knows Latin?â
âUrsa-cervus,â
Silas said.
Ren turned. âYou can translate âbear-elkâ into Latin?â
He looked over, smiling, finally, at her, then not smiling, just looking. She looked back. She blinked. Before she blinked again, they both looked away. Paul said something else she didnât hear. She could feel Silasâs eyes on her again; then she heard his chair creak and his feet slide against the dirt.
âNight, everybody,â he said. She turned then to say good night, and she saw his hand raised. She thought he might pat her back or squeeze her shoulder. But he brushed one knuckle along the line of her jaw, so brief she didnât register that it had happened until after the crunch of his footsteps had faded.
When she looked back toward the fire, she saw Ed watching her. She didnât recognize his expression. She thought he might tease her or tease Silas, but he kept quiet; his silent, speculative gaze unsettled her more than the touch of Silasâs finger.
That night Scott woke her by leaning in close to her face, his nose almost touching hersâit was a trick their old terrier used to do when he wanted to be let out in the middle of the night. She opened her eyes and stared directly into Scottâs darker brown ones. He seemed solid in the moonlight. She shoved at him and felt nothing but air.
âGo away, Scottie,â she said. âYouâre not the one Iâm trying to see.â
Back in the days and weeks and maybe months right after the accident, she could feel him behind her without turning her head. The air felt different when he was nearby. For a while he was next to her bed most mornings. He seemed to be around every corner. Then, over time, she didnât see him as often. Eventually he stopped speaking, but he never stopped singing to her. Sometimes she couldnât make out the words, but she always recognized the tune. He sang the same music he had taught her.
He used to come to her in the in-between timesâwhen she was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes in the morning; when she was staring at her bedroom wall, bodiless and mindless, forgotten homework spread over her bed. He came to her as she paced the empty house in the long afternoons before her parents came home.
Ren rolled back over, and Scott was still standing by the bed. The bad thing about these nighttime visits was that her mind was open and relaxed whether she meant it to be or not. She could never be sure which song might slip under her skin and where it might go. She hoped heâd stay quiet.
She sighed. âI really need to get some sleep. Really. Go haunt someone else for a while.â
Sometimes if she closed her eyes fast enough, she would feel only annoyance with him. She could pretend she would see him in the morning, eating breakfast and piling folders in his book bag. And if she was lucky, she could fall back asleep without feeling anything else.
three
----
If art is intended to communicate with others, artists are additionally constrained by the necessity of producing images that can be âread,â or understood by an appropriate audience.
âFrom âPicturing Differences: Gender, Ritual, and Power in Mimbres Imageryâ by Marit K. Munson,
Mimbres Society
, 2006
----
For the first week, Silas drank his coffee black. On the seventh day, he was making his lunch while she fixed her coffee. He layered thin slices of ham, sprinkled them liberally with salt, then added the top piece of bread. He finished with one more shake of salt, straight on the
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