The clever hunter was skilled beyond his years in tracking, trapping, and taking animals. All kind of meat the clever hunter pursued, and he never missed what he was after.

One day, deep into the dry season, the tribesmen were starving for want of food. They called on the clever hunter to go into the mountains, to leave all he had, to become the hero of the tribe by returning with meat.

Go, clever hunter, go.

The mountains were hot on that day the clever hunter left.

The mountains rose red before him, the wind blew swirls of orange dust into the blue, cloudless sky.

Climb, clever hunter, climb.

After many hours of searching, the clever hunter came across and shot an enormous emu with his clever arrow. This would feed his tribe for some time, he knew, but the journey home was far, and the longer he walked, the more flies accumulated on the dead meat. The more the clever hunter tried to keep the flies away, the more came. At length, in fear that the meat would spoil before he arrived home, the clever hunter rested and built a fire in order that the smoke and flames would keep the flies away. This worked, but in a twist of fate, the winds took the flames along with the mountain dust and began an unquenchable fire in the grasses, trapping the clever hunter in a ring of heat and smoke.

Run, clever hunter, run.

Though he ran, he could not escape the flames. They chased him onto a ledge of rock, where he became frantic. In pity, the gods bestowed upon him a gift, and clever hunter saw he could fly.

Fly, clever hunter, fly.

The clever hunter rose high above the smoke and flames, high up into the distant world of the night sky where he forever remains, apart from his tribe but above them all.

Oscar was trying—trying not to think about it, but he couldn't seem to shut off his mind. Vicious thoughts were pouring out of his subconscious into his head, seeping out of his eyes so that all he seemed capable of seeing was his betrayal to himself, his perfidious hypocrisy, the infidelity toward his own ideals which he was, at that very moment, proliferating. Through his own hands he was fashioning the sepulcher for his artistic principles. Every design he delineated, each scrap of metal he worked and welded, every chemical treatment he applied and each screw he turned was a design, a scrap, a treatment, a screw closer to his creative demise. His nights were plagued by muses who tormented his dreams with visions of colored glass and smooth white lines, mercurial forms sparking with light and black dew tracing the contours of figures unknown. He'd wake from such reveries with water and aches behind his eyes; lethargy would consume him, a disinclination to get up and face the mundane day ahead. His hours' consistency was like a heavy liquid—walking through the moments was as arduous as wading through quicksand. His heart was heavy, and it was weighing him down. He did not doubt that it would eventually entirely devour him.

He knew, now, what Dr. Chilton had seen in his work, and it had not been, as he had attempted to fool himself into believing, ingenuity. It hadn't even been money (which was a baser yet understandable motive). It had been something more basic, more sordid, and even though he'd picked up on it (wanted it, perhaps?) at the beginning, he'd told himself that he'd been granted such opportunity due to his own merit. The problem was not that he blamed her or liked her less for her purposes but that, now that they were in the open, he was just as incapable of saying no to them as he had been when he was able to label his suspicions as such. He wanted the recognition—he deserved it!—no matter the reason he got it; he truly felt this, and yet he simultaneously hated himself for lowering his standards.

He'd sold seven more pieces: three to a gallery South of the city, and four to various clients Kate claimed to know. Oscar had no idea who any of them were; he merely created what Dr. Chilton advised. Ugly things. Ugly angular, cold, colorless, functional things. The fact that they were functional did not bother Oscar—he dreamed of composing functional, beautiful pieces—things that would make life just that much more worth living for people seeking a balance between the reality they inhabited and the ideals they sought. What bothered him—was beginning to haunt his thoughts—was that what they were using as functional artifacts were travesties of his true capabilities . . . and they had his name on them. Each and every one of the works he'd crafted at Dr. Chilton's request was a farce. Sure, he was being paid quite well for them, and his name was wheedling its way into art circles and museum shows, but what people were seeing and liking and buying were not truly his. And while he should have been happy enough that he was gleaning a profit and making a name, he couldn't have been more ashamed of himself. He was pretending to be someone he was vehemently opposed to being; he felt neither love nor even appreciation for what he'd produced over the past few months. He had thought he could handle it . . .

He was beginning to realize he couldn't.

He was at the airport, just then, killing time by browsing the magazine headlines in a convenience shop. It was close to the last thing he wanted to be doing because his purpose was to meet his mother, who had flown in from St. Louis to see him and attend his graduation, but for as exasperated as he'd been when she'd told him she was coming, he'd also felt an odd inkling of relief. He did love his mother, of course, but she was overbearing at times; Oscar was the only thing she had (as she'd frequently insisted), and when he'd moved away, her heart had been torn asunder, even though she'd known it was what he had to do to get the education he deserved; the knowledge that he'd better himself and open opportunities had been her only reason for concession—she would have kept him closer to her otherwise. She would, at any time, do anything he wanted, but her willingness to be blind to his faults was exactly what had, at times, driven Oscar insane. His mother had been to see him twice since he'd moved, and each time she'd come she'd nitpicked his living situation, his job, his friends, his classes—everything—nearly to death, insisting he could do better in virtually every aspect of his life. Her commentary had been overwhelming, and so it was with reluctance that he'd listened to her reasons for visiting again. On the other hand, so much was wrong at present—so many things he'd kept from her had been weighing him down—that her arrival and his inevitable purging actually fostered in him hope for respite. The more he thought about not wanting to see her, the more he knew he'd give in to her mothering when she arrived.

Alessandra Marcus was unhealthily overweight, but Oscar couldn't picture her any other way; when she waddled toward him out of the arrivals gate, he felt the little boy in him take over and grinned and hugged her. Immediately, he felt lighter-hearted than he'd been seconds before seeing her. He was embarrassed to see her eyes were watery when he released her from his embrace. He said nothing about it.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you," she said, rubbing distractedly at her face. She handed her bags to her son, who was about a foot taller than she was. "You look good, maybe a little thin . . . but nothing some of your mother's cooking can't fix. You do have a stove in that closet of yours, don't you?"

"Mom, yeah. You've been in it before, remember?"

"It's been so long I can hardly tell."

Oscar sighed inwardly, knowing she was trying to guilt trip him. "How was your flight? Good? Did you have any problems?"

"No, no," she assured him as they began to head toward the train station. He sensed the "but" in her tone and smiled wanly to himself as she added, "There was this man next to me, though—his headphones were so damn loud. I swear, I was stuck listening to his awful music the entire time. I just about called over the stewardess to ask if I could be moved, but you know how they are."

She went on, and he listened. Her prattle was soothing, because it took his mind off of everything else. All week, since she'd told him she was coming, he'd been trying to figure out what to do with her. His classes were over, and she knew he'd quit his restaurant job, so he didn't have many excuses as to why he couldn't spend daytime with her unless he wanted to let her know how he'd been making his money over the last several weeks: by building products for his professor to sell. He knew his mother would be thrilled with the notion, but he didn't even want to talk about Dr. Chilton; the thought of her made him nervous. He'd begun meeting with her almost every other day, in her classroom, after hours, but he'd told her he had family coming in town for a few days. So his evenings, too, were free.

"How's that little friend of yours, Oscar?" his mother asked as they sat down on the train and her son positioned her two bags so they were not blocking the aisle.

"Did you bring a towel? I don't have extras."

"Yes, but don't change the subject."

Oscar sighed. He had tried very hard not to think about Eve, not because he wanted to forget her—he was going to return her calls, he kept telling himself—but because it pained him to consider how each day that passed without her voice, her eyes, her vitality made it less likely that the damage he was doing could be repaired. "We're taking a break, right now," was what he ended up saying.

"Well it's about time. I knew it wasn't meant to be."

Anger crept into his gut, but at the same time, he was overcome with shame, because he knew that he could never disagree with his mother, especially in public.

"Anyone my son is too embarrassed to introduce me to . . ." her voice trailed off.

Oscar maintained his silence. He could tell his mother wanted more information, but he couldn't bring himself to speak about Eve; it made him resentful.

"What are you doing for money these days, honey? I know you quit your job at the restaurant a long time ago because your classes were tough. What now, huh? Any offers from the Art Institute? Have you even applied? I mean, you're graduating in a few days; what have you been doing about jobs?"

"I haven't sent out any applications."

Her shock was loud and obvious. "What?! No applications? Oscar, you've got to—"

"Listen," he said, cutting her off before she made a scene in front of the seven other people in their train car. "I've got a job already. I didn't even need to apply. It's making me more money than I know what to do with, right now, and it's getting my name out, just like you'd want. I'll tell you all about it when we get home."

She stared at him for a moment, her large round face made rounder by the "O" her mouth had formed. Perfect brown curls—just like Oscar's golden ones—fell down around her shoulders, accentuating the fact that she had no neck. He waited, not sure what she'd say. At length, she asked in a near-whisper, "What kind of job? Nothing illegal, is it?"

That was the last thing he'd expected her to ask. "No, mom! Of course not. It's . . . it's in the arts. I'm making art, all right? One of my professors has me commissioning pieces, a few to museum exhibits, some to clients, that sort of thing. Not a big deal, right now, okay?"

"Not a big deal? Are you telling me you've got stuff in a museum? People are buying your stuff? Oscar! Why didn't you tell me? How long has this been going on? A long time, no doubt. Why am I so surprised? Of course I'm not. Of course this is what was supposed to happen. That's why you're up here, isn't it? In this huge, impersonal, dirty city. That's why you sacrificed—for this sort of opportunity. This is why you've always gone the extra step, taken it upon yourself to think outside the box and everything. I always knew I couldn't keep your talent closeted up at home."

He wasn't quite sure what flavored her tone—surprise, no doubt, and a bit of glee . . . but there was something else to it. Some slight overweening, know-it-all nuance was mixed in. In spite of his swelling pride, he bitterly recognized how undeserving he was of any sort of praise. His mother hardly knew him! He had never sacrificed, never gone an extra step. Everything had been so much easier than he could have anticipated. Was she really that deluded? Nothing to say came to mind. He remained silent, staring out of the train windows across from him until the dark walls of the underground changed into huge day-lit rectangles of traffic and distant buildings. The city seemed too far, right then; he'd never felt so distant from another human being as he felt right then from his mother. Even Eve seemed closer to understanding him at that moment. Oscar wished she was there. He missed her small hands—they were always colder than his; he missed taking them and wrapping them in his own to warm them. He missed her mischievous smile and trying to guess what thoughts danced behind it. He missed the color of her skin as she lay sleeping in bed and the morning light gave it a seraphic glow. He missed the frustrating but endearing "I'm saving my heart" explanation she gave him whenever the subject of sex came up in conversation, her AM tea-making ceremonies, the obnoxious way she mussed his hair just to have an excuse to touch him, the way she always chose the most bizarre food off a menu just to try it, the charming little things she created in her free time "just because," the child-like way she swore at the weather when it was zero degrees (as if it heard her), how she never missed walking on a curb or dancing along the wall by the lake each time they headed down to it . . . everything. He missed everything. Even the admonishments he dreamed she gave him in her mind each time he'd inconvenienced her with his late-night escapades and the patience with which she loved him. And yet, he couldn't have missed it all too much, or he wouldn't continue doing things he knew separated him from her. He would have called her by now; he would have told her he couldn't lose her. He certainly wouldn't be screwing his professor . . . but his pride was clogging his heart.

". . . and I told your aunt—she's always asking about you—that the minute I got here I'd let her know what you were up to. I was a little nervous, let me tell you, because I didn't know what I'd have to say! Didn't know how you were getting on. But now I'm proud to call her. So proud, honey. So proud!"

Of someone that doesn't actually exist, Oscar thought bitterly.

"You know, why don't you take me to somewhere where your work is, this week? Oh! Please do, honey. You've got to show me . . ."

He stopped listening to her again. Pressure filled his chest and his breaths felt constrained and quick. He wondered if he was about to have a panic attack. His mother was going on and on, but he'd tuned her out effectively enough; the only problem was that now he was left listening to the vacuum in his head, which said nothing.