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the leaves up near her house turned pretty
    colors. Her dyed black hair was up tonight in a smooth chignon,
    and she was wearing an understated little black dress that made
    her look like a sophisticated matron and not an artist who had
    raised Brian with a tiny income and lots of self-reliance. It didn‟t
    matter—she still smelled a little like pine and a little like paint, and
    her blue eyes were all teary and her hug held nothing back. Her
    boyfriend Craig—a big, bulky man with gray curly hair and a
    mustache who said less than Brian in any given social situation—
    kept squeezing her shoulder like he was trying to support her.
    “Isn‟t it amazing?” Lyndie said excitedly, taking Talker‟s arm.
    “Oh my God—do you realize I‟ve never had a show this big? I‟m so
    thrilled for him! This is like… I mean, when he was a kid I gave him
    everything, paint, papier maché, models, crayons—nothing took. I
    even gave him modeling clay, and he just played with it, enjoying
    the texture—but whenever I looked to see what he‟d made, he had
    already squashed it and was kneading the clay again. It was
    Talker’s Graduation | Amy Lane
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    like….” Her voice trailed off, and she stopped and caught Doc
    Sutherland‟s eye.
    Tate looked up long enough to see him grimace. “He didn‟t
    want you to see,” Doc said, and Talker was a loss.
    “Why wouldn‟t he want anyone to see?”
    Lyndie cocked her head, pursing her lips like she was keeping
    something bittersweet behind them. “You‟d know best, sweetheart.
    Has he ever had a voice?”
    They were coming up on a sculpture, and Talker paused to
    look at it. He‟d seen it before—it started out as a building with a
    sound foundation but flawed walls. The glazes on the bottom were
    intentionally rough, cracked, awkward brown and pebbly. Each wall,
    though lengthened, became sound, more graceful, until the top of
    the building was nothing but spires and arches, as graceful as
    Asgard or Rivendell, lovely and pure beyond belief. (Brian had spun
    the spires on the potting wheel, Tate knew, because he‟d wanted
    the absolute symmetry.)
    “He has one now,” Tate said quietly, and Lyndie looked at the
    sculpture and gave a little hiccup. Craig‟s arms came up around her
    shoulders, and the big man bent his bulky body over Lyndie‟s tiny
    one in a gesture that was as tender as it seemed unlikely.
    “It‟s beautiful, Lyndie,” Craig said softly. “If that‟s his soul, you
    did good, you know?”
    Tate was about to agree, when he felt a hand on his arm. He
    looked up and almost elbowed Mark Skeezenbacher in the chest.
    He held back at the last minute, but his initial reaction—hostility and
    disgust—wasn‟t going anywhere.
    Skeezypervenbacher knew it too. “Hey, can we talk for a
    minute?”
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    “I‟m here with Brian‟s family,” Tate said defensively, and
    Skeezenbacher frowned a little at the motley assortment of people
    there.
    “He hasn‟t introduced us,” Mark said, and even Talker heard
    the tiny bit of hurt and bitterness there. He felt petty—but still
    justified—for not carrying out introductions himself.
    “What did you want?” Tate‟s voice was cold—but then, so was
    his stomach—and the older man grimaced.
    “Look, can we go somewhere?”
    Talker looked back behind his shoulder to Lyndie and the
    others. He‟d told Doc Sutherland about Skeezenbacher‟s unsubtle
    lust for Brian, and the narrow look the kindly, gray-bearded doctor
    gave Brian‟s boss/mentor warmed his heart. Doc Sutherland was in
    his corner.
    “We‟re just gonna walk to the next sculpture,” Tate said, trying
    to keep his discomfort out of his voice. “I haven‟t seen it yet—Brian
    really wants me to.”
    “You haven‟t seen it yet?” Mark‟s voice was more than bitter—
    it was downright hurt.
    “No. I‟m guessing you have?”
    “Yes, Tate Walker, Brian‟s inspiration, muse, and life, I have
    seen this