Seize the Night

father's car was in the garage, as were boxes of his clothing and his personal effects.
    The day would come, with his death far enough in the past, when I would not feel that disposing of his belongings would diminish him in my memory. I was not at that day yet.
    In this matter, I know I'm being illogical. My memories of my dad, which give me sustaining strength every day, are not related to what clothes he wore on any particular occasion, to his favorite sweater or his silver-rimmed reading glasses. His things do not keep him vivid in my mind, he stays with me because of his kindness, his wit, his courage, his love, his joy in life. Yet twice in the three weeks since I've 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