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Show 22 aware of colors separating into unstable bands around the two figures, and he saw the claw of a dead branch through the face and chest of the older man. He lay for a long time staring at a webwork of twigs in early leaf against a cold blue sky before trying to get up, and when at last he did his knees buckled under him. He crawled to the nearest sapling and pulled himself upright, but his muscles had gone soft. He made his way home, groping for branches and fenceposts, crawling when there was nothing along the roadside to reach for, and finally crept up the steps to the small farmhouse kitchen, omitting to glance at the mirror that flashed white at him as he went past. He opened the door and limped past his frightened mother who followed him into the living room, wringing her hands in her apron and asking him if he was sick as he leaned his forehead against the fireplace mantel. He told her he was all right, just leave him alone. He would be fine in a minute. Sometimes he went to sleep right afterwards, and sometimes he lay awake reviewing the spectrum of colors around the two heads and bodies. They were different each time. * * * He had not been driving long, and still became flustered if other cars were crowding him when he had to shift gears. He killed the motor twice trying to get from first to second gear after stopping at the crosswalk in front of Temple Square, and swore violently both times. His face was hot with embarrassment. "That doesn't help, does it?" Donna said. "What?" He pushed on the starter, glancing left and right at the pedestrians who had to walk around him. Somebody behind him honked. "Swearing. It doesn't make it any better, does it?" |
