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The indoor pool was frothing with waves as a hundred boys swam and splashed and yelled.
He’d left the light on but his thoughts were of the dark, sacred night. And the blue coyote. And the woman with the getaway face. Soon all of those thoughts disappeared with him into the dark.
Conklin brought his eyes up to Bosch’s and Bosch realized the old man was smiling. “Hieronymus Bosch,” he whispered.
“Like the painter.” Bosch nodded slowly. He now realized he was as shocked as the old man. “How do you know that?” “Because I know of you.” “How?” “Through your mother. She told me about you and your special name. I loved your mother.”
“You know, I knew someday you would come.” “How?” “Because I knew you would care. Maybe no one else. But I knew you would. You had to care. You were her son.”
“I am closer to hell than heaven for what I’ve done. For my silence. I need to tell my story. I think you’d be a better confessor than any priest could be.”
“I think, young man, that you only run into a person that is a perfect fit once in your life. When you find the one that you think fits, then grab on for dear life. And it’s no matter what she’s done in the past. None of that matters. Only the holding on matters.”
“The past is like a club and you can only hit yourself in the head with it so many times before there is serious and permanent damage.
Great aphorism!
