The Shepherd

6

The restaurant that the man had them go to was beyond any that Oliver had ever gone to. The fortune that one must have to order anything more than a plate of toasted bread was astounding to him. The walls were covered with portraits and commodities from Italy and a soft flute tune was wafting through the air in the background. Oliver felt uncomfortable being in such a setting while looking and smelling the way he did.

The two of them were sitting at a two-seated table, facing each other, like they were on a date. Oliver was sitting silently and occasionally sipping on a glass of water, fidgeting with his thumbs, while the man was enjoying yet another helping of wine. His cane was leaning on the table beside him. Oliver stared at him for a moment and said, "You really like wine, don't you?"

"Quite," the man laughed.

He set his wine glass down as a waiter came and tapped him on the shoulder. "Your food has arrived, Mr. Shepherd," he said. He waved to two servers, who came and set a hefty plate of strange-looking pasta in front of each of them. They offered to add cheeses and various herbs and spices to the meals. Oliver declined, but the man told them with great exuberance to add everything they had.

When the servers left, Oliver studied the man as he began to eat. "So, your name's Mr. Shepherd?" he asked, as if he were conducting n interrogation.

Mr. Shepherd paused just before taking a bite, and then proceeded to. After he had swallowed, he picked up a brilliantly white napkin and wiped his mouth. "You asked before why I picked you up from the police station," he said. The words came out slow and mysteriously, and Oliver wondered why he was just getting to this question now. Perhaps he was just old. In any case, Oliver was interested to hear the answer. Mr. Shepherd took another quick bite of pasta. He seemed to be savoring this mouthful more than the last, because his chewing was slow and he closed his eyes in pleasure. "The flavor," he marveled. "The spices are just absolutely divine! Oliver, you should really—"

"You were saying?" Oliver let his impatience show.

Mr. Shepherd opened his eyes again in alarm. "Oh, yes! I apologize, Oliver, but my love for food has never quite balanced itself out." He wiped the corners of his mouth again before continuing on. "I bailed you out because I am a shepherd, and you just happen to be one of my sheep."

Oliver thought that it was a strange analogy— or at least, he hoped it was an analogy— and it didn't clear anything up for Oliver. "What does that mean?" he asked.

Mr. Shepherd shrugged. "It means what it means, but there is a more important matter— you haven't touched your food!"

"I told you I wasn't hungry."

"You most certainly did, as much of a lie as it was. Perhaps you would enjoy some food that you are more accustomed to."

He called for the nearest waiter, who came almost immediately. "Yes, sir? What do you need?"

"I would like a box for this gentleman's meal," said Mr. Shepherd, pointing to the barely touched pasta in front of Oliver. The waiter obliged and ran off to find a box. When he was away, Mr. Shepherd looked at Oliver and said, "You know, out of principle, I never throw out food that I still have room to stomach."

"Good for you," Oliver grumbled. Oddly enough, his stomach did the same. Mr. Shepherd only laughed and made some remark about his empty stomach. Oliver wasn't listening. He just wondered how much longer he had to stay with this creepy old man.

***

The next place they went was home, according to Mr. Shepherd. They were back in the comfort of the limousine, doing the same as they had been on the way to the restaurant— sitting there, staring at each other. Mr. Shepherd intended to finish the glass of wine he had poured himself earlier. As he did, Oliver quietly munched on a bag of pretzels he had found. He suddenly looked up from the bag when he heard Mr. Shepherd's wine glass smack against the table; he had finished. "It sounds so cliché," he said casually, leaning back in his seat like he had just finished a large buffet, "but I never will tire of a good, strong Bordeaux." He cleaned the dirty glass out with a rag and put it back with the other three that were off to the side. A brief silence followed that made Oliver scrounge for things to say. There was one question he longed to ask, but he knew that he wouldn't get a straight answer. Oh well, he thought. I might as well ask. "What happened to my parents?"