REM. Rapid eye movement. According to psychologists, such movements of the closed eyes indicated that a sleeper was dreaming.
Skeet’s eyes weren’t closed, and though he was in some peculiar state, he wasn’t asleep.
Dusty said, “Help me, Skeet. I’m not on the same page. What rules are we talking about? Tell me how the rules work.”
Skeet didn’t at once reply. Gradually the frown lines in his brow melted away. His skin became smooth and as pellucid as clarified butter, until it appeared as though the white of bone shone through. His stare remained fixed on the ceiling.
His eyes jiggled, and when the REM ceased, he spoke at last in a voice untouched by tension but also less flat than before. A whisper: “Clear cascades.”
For all the sense they made, those two words might have been chosen at random, like two lettered Ping- Pong balls expelled from a bingo hopper.
“Clear cascades,” Dusty said. When his brother didn’t respond, he pressed: “I need more help, kid.”
“Into the waves scatter,” Skeet whispered.
Dusty turned his head toward a noise behind him.
Valet had gotten down from the armchair. The dog padded out of the room, into the hallway, where he turned and stood with his ears pricked, tail tucked, staring warily in at them from the threshold, as though he had been spooked.
More bingo balls.
A small snowflake moth, with delicate patterns of piercing along the edges of its fragile white wings, had landed on Skeet’s upturned right hand. As the moth crawled across his palm, his fingers didn’t twitch; there was no indication that he could feel the insect. His lips were parted, jaw slack. His breathing was so shallow that his chest didn’t rise and fall. His eyes jiggled again; but when that quiet seizure ended, Skeet could have passed for a dead man.
“Clear cascades,” Dusty said. “Into the waves scatter. Does this mean anything, kid?”
“Does it? You asked me to tell you how the rules work.”
“Those are the rules?” Dusty asked.
Skeet’s eyes twitched for a few seconds. Then: “You know the rules.”
“Pretend I don’t.”
“Those are two of them.”
“Two of the rules.”
“Yes.”
“Not quite as straightforward as the rules of poker.”
Skeet said nothing.
Though it all sounded like sheer gibberish, the ramblings of a drug-soaked mind, Dusty had the uncanny conviction that this strange conversation had real — if hidden — meaning and that it was leading toward a disturbing revelation.
Watching his brother closely, he said, “Tell me how many rules there are.”
“You know,” Skeet said.
“Pretend I don’t.”
“Three.”
“What’s the third rule?”
“What’s the third rule? Blue pine needles.”
Valet, who rarely barked, who growled more rarely still, now stood at the open door, peering in from the hallway, and issued a low, menacing grumble. His hackles were raised as dramatically as those of a cartoon dog encountering a cartoon ghost. Although Dusty couldn’t identify, with certainty, the cause of Valet’s displeasure, it seemed to be poor Skeet.
After brooding for a minute or so, Dusty said, “Explain these rules to me, Skeet. Tell me what they mean.”
“I am the waves.”
“Okay,” Dusty said, although this made less sense to him than if, in the tradition of the Beatles’ psychedelic- era lyrics, Skeet had claimed,
“You’re the clear cascades,” Skeet continued.
“Of course,” Dusty said, merely to encourage him.
“And the needles are missions.”
“Missions.”
“Yes.”
“All this makes sense to you?”
“Does it?”
“Apparently it does.”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t make sense to me.”
Skeet was silent.
“Who is Dr. Yen Lo?” Dusty asked.
“Who is Dr. Yen Lo?” A pause. “You.”
“I thought I was the clear cascades.”
“They’re one and the same.”
“But I’m not Yen Lo.”
Frown lines reappeared in Skeet’s forehead. His hands, which had fallen slack, once more curled slowly into half-formed fists. The delicate snowflake moth flew out from among the pale clutching fingers.
After watching another REM seizure, Dusty said, “Skeet, are you awake?”
After a hesitation, the kid replied, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you’re awake. So…you must be asleep.”
“No.”
“If you’re not asleep and you’re not sure if you’re awake — then what are you?”
“What am I?”
“That was my question.”
“I’m listening.”
“There you go again.”
“Where?”
“Where what?”
“Where should I go?” Skeet asked.
Dusty had lost the gut feeling that this conversation was full of profound if mysterious meaning and that they were approaching a revelation that would suddenly make sense of it all. Though unique and extremely peculiar, it now seemed as irrational and depressing as numerous other discussions they’d had when Skeet had been brain- bruised from a self-inflicted drug bludgeoning.
“Where should I go?” Skeet inquired again.
“Ah, give me a break and go to sleep,” Dusty said irritably.
Obediently, Skeet closed his eyes. Peace descended upon his face, and his half-clenched hands relaxed. Immediately, his breathing settled into a shallow, slow, easy rhythm. He snored softly.
“What the hell happened here?” Dusty wondered aloud. He cupped his right hand around the back of his neck, to warm and smooth away a sudden stippling of gooseflesh. His hand had gone cold, however, and it pressed the chill deeper, into his spine.
With hackles no longer raised, sniffing quizzically, peering into shadowy corners and under the bed, as if in search of someone or something, Valet returned from the hall. Whatever spooked him had now departed.
Apparently, Skeet had gone to sleep because he had been told to do so. But surely it wasn’t possible to fall asleep on command, in an instant.
