many think he was brilliant. I think he was brilliant.”
The Boy knitted his brows, looking for the lesson in this.
“You mean he was smart?”
“Smart is knowing your multiplication tables. Brilliant is casting a different light on the world.”
The Boy frowned, struggling with the concept. “I don’t get it,” he admitted.
“Some people look out at the world and they see it differently from other people, Son. They try to share that sight with us, through paintings, or poetry, or the classical music we listen to sometimes.”
“Like Beethoven? Like the Ninth?”
He loved the Ninth. In his plodding and single-minded life, it was light through a prison window. It made his blood move faster. “Yes, exactly like that.”
The Boy looked at the Dali book with new interest.
“And you’re saying this man does the same thing with his paintings?”
“I’m saying he does the same thing for me with his paintings. You might not feel that way.”
Confusion set in hard. In his world, Father was always right.
“That doesn’t make any sense, sir. How can I see something differently from you?”
“I’m raising you to be strong, Son. There’s a world out there full of ways to be weak. It’s true, the road of strength is simple, single, and narrow, so in most things I teach you, there’s just one way. You follow?”
“Of course.”
“But when it comes to this,” he gestured at the book, “or to the music or poetry, it’s not as clear-cut. And that’s okay.” His father rubbed a hand across the book, a loving gesture that the Boy had never seen and rarely felt. “Dali’s paintings talk to me. They may not talk to you. The point, though, what I’m trying to tell you, is that you need to find the ones that do.”
The Boy pondered this, struggled with it, could come up with only one question.
“Why?”
His father turned to him, his gaze serious. “The basic key to survival isn’t toughness, Son, it’s speed. Thinking and doing and killing faster than others. You’ll never be as fast as you can be unless you’ve found the ones that talk to you. I don’t know why it’s so, but it’s so.”
Why didn’t you say that in the first place? is what the Boy thought but didn’t say. “Find the one that talks to you, Son, because it’ll make you quicker. But don’t fall into the trap of thinking that it proves anything. It’s an x-factor, like a vitamin that works but we don’t know why. We read the poems, and we listen to the music, and they make us faster,but neither one is evidence of the soul.” He leaned forward, like a dark tower, overwhelming the boy with his presence and his blackness. “There is no soul, Son. There’s only meat. Never forget it.”
“Yes, sir.”
And he never did.
CHAPTER TEN
I wake up exhausted but not unhappy. It’s the wrung-out but comfortable feeling of satisfaction that comes from doing good work.
Some part of me had known, I suppose. I’d let certain things slide when it came to Bonnie, because of her past, and that was a mistake. I feel I’m on the right road to correcting that error.
Tommy is already gone from our bed. This is the case most mornings. He is one of those infernal morning people, who wakes at 6:00 A.M. —or earlier—and lands on both feet, ready to go. He likes to run in the morning, which is a nightmare scenario for me. Sometimes I’ll wake up as he’s putting on his sweats and watch with a single, bleary-but-appreciative eye.
I listen with an ear and sniff the air. I hear a faint murmur of voices from downstairs and smell the delicious aroma of frying bacon. It’s enough of a motivation to get me out of bed. Tommy cooks a mean breakfast.
I stumble my way into the shower and turn it up to high and hot. This is my bliss place. Six years ago or so, Matt gave me a serious shower upgrade as a birthday gift. A contractor gutted the old vinyl one and installed a double-headed, temperature-controlled, marble-tile-and-glass wonder.
The Boy knitted his brows, looking for the lesson in this.
“You mean he was smart?”
“Smart is knowing your multiplication tables. Brilliant is casting a different light on the world.”
The Boy frowned, struggling with the concept. “I don’t get it,” he admitted.
“Some people look out at the world and they see it differently from other people, Son. They try to share that sight with us, through paintings, or poetry, or the classical music we listen to sometimes.”
“Like Beethoven? Like the Ninth?”
He loved the Ninth. In his plodding and single-minded life, it was light through a prison window. It made his blood move faster. “Yes, exactly like that.”
The Boy looked at the Dali book with new interest.
“And you’re saying this man does the same thing with his paintings?”
“I’m saying he does the same thing for me with his paintings. You might not feel that way.”
Confusion set in hard. In his world, Father was always right.
“That doesn’t make any sense, sir. How can I see something differently from you?”
“I’m raising you to be strong, Son. There’s a world out there full of ways to be weak. It’s true, the road of strength is simple, single, and narrow, so in most things I teach you, there’s just one way. You follow?”
“Of course.”
“But when it comes to this,” he gestured at the book, “or to the music or poetry, it’s not as clear-cut. And that’s okay.” His father rubbed a hand across the book, a loving gesture that the Boy had never seen and rarely felt. “Dali’s paintings talk to me. They may not talk to you. The point, though, what I’m trying to tell you, is that you need to find the ones that do.”
The Boy pondered this, struggled with it, could come up with only one question.
“Why?”
His father turned to him, his gaze serious. “The basic key to survival isn’t toughness, Son, it’s speed. Thinking and doing and killing faster than others. You’ll never be as fast as you can be unless you’ve found the ones that talk to you. I don’t know why it’s so, but it’s so.”
Why didn’t you say that in the first place? is what the Boy thought but didn’t say. “Find the one that talks to you, Son, because it’ll make you quicker. But don’t fall into the trap of thinking that it proves anything. It’s an x-factor, like a vitamin that works but we don’t know why. We read the poems, and we listen to the music, and they make us faster,but neither one is evidence of the soul.” He leaned forward, like a dark tower, overwhelming the boy with his presence and his blackness. “There is no soul, Son. There’s only meat. Never forget it.”
“Yes, sir.”
And he never did.
CHAPTER TEN
I wake up exhausted but not unhappy. It’s the wrung-out but comfortable feeling of satisfaction that comes from doing good work.
Some part of me had known, I suppose. I’d let certain things slide when it came to Bonnie, because of her past, and that was a mistake. I feel I’m on the right road to correcting that error.
Tommy is already gone from our bed. This is the case most mornings. He is one of those infernal morning people, who wakes at 6:00 A.M. —or earlier—and lands on both feet, ready to go. He likes to run in the morning, which is a nightmare scenario for me. Sometimes I’ll wake up as he’s putting on his sweats and watch with a single, bleary-but-appreciative eye.
I listen with an ear and sniff the air. I hear a faint murmur of voices from downstairs and smell the delicious aroma of frying bacon. It’s enough of a motivation to get me out of bed. Tommy cooks a mean breakfast.
I stumble my way into the shower and turn it up to high and hot. This is my bliss place. Six years ago or so, Matt gave me a serious shower upgrade as a birthday gift. A contractor gutted the old vinyl one and installed a double-headed, temperature-controlled, marble-tile-and-glass wonder.
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