By the light of the moon

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, patient
repetition sometimes encouraged him to act. 'Puzzle, shoes. Puzzle,
shoes.'
    '—luminousness, luminosity, fulgor, flash,' Shep
continued, his eyes jiggling behind his lids as though he were fast
asleep and dreaming.
    One suitcase stood near the foot of the bed, and the other lay
open on top of the dresser. Dylan closed the open bag, picked up
both pieces of luggage, and went to the door. 'Hey, Shep. Puzzle,
shoes. Puzzle, shoes.'
    Standing where his brother had left him, Shep chanted, 'Sparkle,
twinkle, scintillation—'
    Before frustration could build to head-exploding pressure, Dylan
opened the door, carried the suitcases outside. The night continued
to be as warm as a toaster oven, as parched as a burnt crust.
    A dry drizzle of yellow lamplight fell on the largely empty
parking lot, soaked into the pavement, was absorbed as efficiently
by the blacktop as light might be captured by the heavy gravity of
a black hole in space. Broad blades of sharp-edged shadows lent the
night a quality of guillotine expectancy, but Dylan could see that
the motel grounds did not yet seethe with the squads of promised
pistol-packing killers.
    His white Ford Expedition was parked nearby. Bolted to the roof,
a watertight container held artist's supplies as well as finished
paintings that he had offered for sale at a recent art festival in
Tucson (where five pieces had sold) and would offer also in Santa
Fe and at similar events thereafter.
    As he opened the tailgate and