Dark Knowledge by Keith Pyeatt
Copyright 2009 Lyrical Press, Inc.

  • Dark Knowledge
  • Keith Pyeatt


    • Bobby sat on the bed and wondered how much Wesley understood. It was hard to tell. Wesley sat quietly in his chair. Bobby bent forward and placed his elbows on his knees, leaning closer to his friend.

    “So you understand I’m sick?”

    “Yeah,” Wesley answered.

    “I’ll be going away but not right now. We have plenty of time to talk more about this, okay?”

    Wesley stared at him without speaking. Was he understanding or drifting off into his own world?

    “The color?” Wesley finally asked. “Is it the color?”

    “I don’t understand, Wes. What color?”

    “You saw it outside, when you were sick. When you urped.”

    “I don’t know what you mean about color, but yes, the tumor is what made me throw up.”

    Wesley nodded vigorously. His face was strained. He looked very old. He looked very...mentally retarded.

    “Wes?”

    Wesley continued nodding. It was becoming a rocking motion.

    “Wes, listen to me now. Nothing is going to happen right away. We have time to get used to this. All right? Do you hear me?”

    It had been years since he’d seen Wesley rock. Was it a mistake to tell him about the cancer so directly? Why was he making so many bad decisions lately? Wesley rocked harder and faster. Bobby needed to stop it before the rocking became a pattern, a retreat, a thumb-sucking gesture for the mentally challenged. He needed to stop it for himself as much as for Wesley. He couldn’t bear to see the regression.

    He grasped Wesley’s arm and lifted. Wesley stood.

    “Let’s take a walk outside,” Bobby said. He led Wesley into the hallway. Wesley shuffled along for about twenty feet then stopped. He gaped at Bobby as if he suddenly remembered today was his birthday.

    “You okay?” Bobby asked.

    Unreadable emotions flashed across Wesley’s face. He started down the hallway again, no longer shuffling. In fact, Bobby had to lengthen his strides to keep up. Once outside, Wesley continued leading. They always headed south on the trail near the building, but today Wesley abandoned routine. He headed up the path that was normally the last leg of their return route. He trotted to a patch of grass off the trail, the place where Bobby had thrown up, and stopped.

    “Do you see the bad color?” Wesley asked. “Are you sick?”

    It occurred to Bobby that he had described seeing colors before becoming sick the other day. Dr. Simms said the tumor triggered migraine headaches. Light sensitivity and seeing colors and spots were often a prelude to the headaches.

    Wesley was trying to understand the tumor in any way he could, making associations to the day he saw Bobby sick. Returning to this spot and asking about the colors was his way of understanding an abstract idea. At least Bobby now understood a little of what was going through his friend’s mind.

    “No, Wes, but this is where I saw the colors before. You’re right, but they’re in my mind. Do you understand? They’re not really colors I see around me.” He shielded his sensitive eyes with his left hand and repeated, “They’re in my mind.”

    “I understand,” Wesley said.

    Bobby almost grinned at the level of comprehension in Wesley’s voice. He couldn’t possibly grasp such a subtle concept. Bobby lowered his hand to see Wesley’s expression. The green eyes meeting Bobby’s looked intelligent, deeply intelligent. The impulse to grin left. Looking in Wesley’s eyes made Bobby think there was true understanding there, not just the illusion Wesley often gave off.

    Bobby started to cover his eyes again, but he noticed Wesley searching them. Wesley’s stare penetrated, probed.

    He’s trying to see inside my head. Bobby’s first impulse was to recoil at such unaccustomed directness, but he held his gaze.

    Wesley blinked twice, and his eyes returned to normal. Bobby’s heart raced. He didn’t understand why.

    “I understand,” Wesley repeated without looking away.

    He just might.