The Anatomy of Color

The Anatomy of Color

“Today?  Today, I am a pirate, Walter!  And there’s not one thing you can do about it!” 

With a bath towel hanging lengthwise around his neck and a broom handle sticking out in sword-like fashion from his belt, Sigmund waved his hands in exaggerated motions, mischievously drawing his weapon from its sheath and stabbing the absent foes surrounding him.  Eyebrows raised so high they might have leaped off of his face and into his curly blonde hair.  With wild, frantic leaps, around the brightly lit room his thin figure looked more comical than threatening.  His hair bounced and flopped with each bound and twist and excessive gesture he made.   

Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the corner of his mouth slid upwards in amiable amusement.  With bright eyes he watched his brother leap around the room defending his marauding vessel from imaginary attack. 

“A pirate huh?  Why would I want to stop that?  That’s a great idea, Sigmund.  Just a great one!  And what will your pirate name be?  You know you need to have a clever pirate name!”

“I think I shall be Captain…Captain…”

The sunlight was shooting through the window panes like golden spears stuck in the ground.  Sigmund fell in a dizzy on the floor and was becoming preoccupied with the rays on the ground that now pierced his hands and face.  Running his arms along the angled axis of the sun, delight filling his eyes.  The room was bright now, as somewhere outside the clouds found themselves pushed along on their way.  Sigmund sighed a long, exaggerated gasp, rocked back and lay facing the ceiling.  Closing his eyes he smiled.

“I can see colors, Walter.  So many colors I can’t even tell you.  Should I paint them

Walter?  I don’t know if I can, but I would try.  Do you want me to?”

On the far end of the house the doorbell was being rung and Walter (whose name was not Walter) stood up straight and reached for the handle of Sigmund’s open door.

“I would love to see you try.  Go get your paints while I get the door.  You need to promise me that you will not make a mess while I am gone, alright Sig?”

“As you wish Brother!  But I will paint you such a masterpiece, you might fall over in shock!”

“Yes, I just might at that!”

Smiling, Sam (for that was actually Walter’s name) shut the door and made his way down the hallway and down the stairs towards the front of the house.  The large double doors stood twelve feet high and the thick mahogany made the doorbell reverberate in the large foyer.  The door opened and a middle-aged brunette stood in the sunlight, holding a piece of paper and a black portfolio open in her hand.  Behind her, a black SUV sat in the large gravel driveway.  She stood for a moment, looked Sam over in one sweeping glance and jotted down a note in her book.  Sam’s young, slender frame was not an imposing sight. 

“Good afternoon.  You are Sam Rhodes, yes?” she said, in a flat business tone without eye contact.  “I am Ruth Meadows from the Department of Children and Families.  You were told to expect us?”

“I was, yes.  Won’t you come in, Ms. Meadows?  Sig is painting in his room right now.  Do you want to speak to him now?”

“All in good time,” she said as she walked into the sunlit foyer, her high heels making a harsh knocking sound on the tile floor. 

“I have some paperwork to fill out and a few questions before we get too far along.  You have been taking care of Sigmund since your mother and father’s accident?”

“That’s right,” Sam replied and looked at his shoes.

“By yourself?”  Her tone lent itself to disbelief and suspicion rather than admiration or respect.  “Eighteen-year-old brothers do not often choose to take sole custody of their special needs siblings.”

“He’s my brother,” Sam stated more as defense than explanation.  “He also has special needs, but first he’s my brother.”

A moment of silence ensued as they both looked at each other – only broken when Ruth resumed scribbling in her notebook, which was still cradled in her arm. 

“I understand that finances will not be a problem, considering your parent’s estate was considerably large?  Do you have a financial advisor to…oversee…that…you…”

“To make sure I don’t spend it all in one place?” Sam quipped.

“I suppose you could say that.” 

“Yes, my Uncle David.”

“I see…”  More scribbling.

There was a long, uncomfortable silence as Ms. Meadows checked boxes and jotted down notes in her file.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, suddenly remembering that he was a host, “would you like something to drink?  I have water, juice, soda…”

Ms. Meadow’s eyes slowly raised and narrowed at Sam.

Knowing her suspicion, Sam answered “No, there’s no alcohol.  I’m eighteen, remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” she said as she went back to her notes.  “Some tea would be nice.”

Sam started to head for the kitchen to boil some water for the tea.

“Thank you,” she said suddenly.  “That’s…very considerate of you.”

Sam smiled and left the room.  Ms. Meadows found a chair in the foyer and continued her notes.  A few moments passed in silent writing, when from the hallway she could hear someone humming and singing quietly.  She stood, closed her portfolio and walked cautiously down the wooden hallway.  At the doorway she stopped and listened for the music to continue.  She quietly opened the door and the rays of sunlight caught her off guard.  In the far corner of the room, a blonde haired figure was bent sideways, staring at a canvas.  A bath towel was in a pile on the floor next to him.  His entire torso was cocked to the side while one hand jaggedly slung paint on the cloth.  She stood in the doorway and tilted her head to the side along with the painter.  The color wheel, with bursts of designs and swirls seemed to played tricks with her mind.  The extremities with the tails and waves decorating the circular center appeared to move and sway.  They seemed to wave at her and change color under the yellow sunlight.  An optical illusion like she had never seen.  Mesmerized, Ruth straightened up and slowly made her way to the back side of the couch and leaned forward on her arms, cautious not to make a sound.  It was a hologram.  On the canvas were layers of colors that danced with depth in her mind.  There were only a dozen or so colors the child was working with, but the layers and motions and force of the patterns gave dimension and colors, more colors than her mind could take in.  Her thoughts were interrupted by a single sound.

“Hello.”

The word was so casual and melodic; it hardly brought her out of the trance at all.  It was when she realized that the painter had not turned around or sounded startled that she saw it as an anomaly.  She smiled.

“How did you know I was here?  I hardly made a sound.”

She took a deep breath.  Now realizing it was the first real breath she had taken since she entered the room.  She felt as if she had just taken a nap in the sun, and was awakened by a pleasant aroma.  As she breathed, she could almost smell the flower that had woken her up.

“I saw it was different in here.  I can see it you know.  Most people can just talk about it or feel it, but I can see it.  Walter says it’s special, but I don’t see how.  It’s just what I see.”

He never stopped his movements at the canvas, fixed on his task, but willing to engage as a courtesy to Ruth.  At this point, he slowly turned around and studied her face quizzically.  His eyebrows narrowed and eyes zeroed into lasers.

“Can you see it?”

“See what?”

At this, his face shrugged and he whipped back to his painting, tilted sideways again and continued.

“Neither can Walter.  But he loves when I talk about it.  I don’t see why though.  It’s as plain as daylight.”

“What does it look like?”

He said nothing for a moment as his hand made two more marks with the brush.  He straightened up and took a step back. 

“Like this.”

Ruth stared at the hologram Sigmund had painted and tilted her head in confusion.

“It’s really something, isn’t it?”

Startled, she straightened up and snapped her head to see Sam standing next to her with a cup of tea steaming in his hand.

“I’m sorry, the door—“ she stammered.

“You wanted to meet Sigmund?  You’ve met him.  I see you’re both getting along.”  Sam handed the cup to Ms. Meadows and smiled at Sigmund.

“She likes my painting, Walter!  Do you?  Do you like it?”

“Oh Sig!” Sam bounded around the couch to get a closer look and tilted his head to the side.  “This one is amazing!  I think I like this one the best.  I still have no idea how you do that!”

He stared at it for a few moments more and Sigmund gave Ruth a wide smile, bursting with joy and pride.

“Run and put it with the others Sig.  You are amazing!”

Sigmund made his way over and gathered the easel and canvas in his arms and took them across the room to an oversized filing cabinet. 

“I’m sorry” Ruth said; as she flipped open her files again. “Is your name Sam or Walter?  My files have you down as…”

“It’s Sam…legally.”

“Then why does Sigmund call you Walter?”

Sam put his hands in his pockets and sat down on the back of the couch and smiled. 

“If you have a question about why Sig does something, I guess you should ask him, huh?”

There was a moment of silence as Ruth pondered.  She walked over to Sigmund and knelt down.

“Sigmund, why do you call Sam, Walter?”

He set the canvas in one of the drawers and upon hearing her question burst out:

“Because it’s his name!”

Ruth jumped at the sudden volume that he produced and quickly looked back at Sam.  He was chuckling under his breath, hands still in his pockets, relaxed and casual.  Sigmund continued like a flight attendant giving instructions.

“Everything has energies and they all have colors and his colors are a Walter, not a Sam.  I can see the energies in colors, but no one else can because they are stupid!  Why do you even like the name Sam?” he shot at his brother.  “It’s not your name!  It’s terrible and it doesn’t even match anything.  You can’t see anything.  I can see it plain as day.”

There was a moment of silence and then Sam burst out into laughter, filling the room with his bellowing noise.  Ruth was next, and then Sigmund.  It was contagious.  As the mirth subsided and tears were wiped away from corners of eyes, Ruth asked, through the tail of a laugh,

“What about me?  Is my name Ruth?”

“Your name?  Your name is…is…”

He smiled and looked around, up in the air and in every corner of the room.  He fixed his eyes on the top part of the window and said,

“There!  There is your name!”

Ruth looked up and saw only the top of the window, sunlight still pouring through.   Sigmund grunted.

“You can’t even see it, can you?”

“No Sig, I can’t.  What does it look like?”

“I will paint it for you.”