The Shepherd

9

Days went by before an actual date was set for the trip. Oliver never stopped asking, but finally, after one particularly persistent attempt— or, series of attempts— during breakfast, Mr. Shepherd smiled and said, "We leave tomorrow, as a matter of fact."

"Really?" Oliver asked in excitement. He jumped up and quickly scarfed down his toast and sausage. "I'm going to go pack." He ran upstairs before Mr. Shepherd could reply and went to his room.

It was quite strange— ever since he had learned about Mr. Shepherd's true identity and his parents' whereabouts, something in him had changed. The anger and disrespect he had for the world had been eradicated, seemingly, though his hatred for the orphanage still remained. For the first time in his life since becoming orphaned a glow exuded from him. For the first time in a long, raging storm, he was happy. He pondered these things carefully as he reached his room. It was then, when he saw nothing but the furniture and a used towel on the floor, that he realized he didn't have any real possessions of his own. The backpack he had brought from the orphanage contained mostly food, and it was either confiscated and discarded at the police station, or already eaten. He only brought one set of clothes, which he was wearing. Packing, he realized, was not an available option. He went back downstairs to tell Mr. Shepherd, but he was no longer in the kitchen. When Oliver inquired of him, Damon answered, "He said he had some errands to run. He should be back in a few hours." Oliver muttered something under his breath in agitation and went off to do something else.

The remainder of his day was quite mundane. Mr. Shepherd, sure enough, came back around noon with armfuls of newly-bought clothing— so much of it that a maid had to help him carry in the bags and hangers. "These are for you," he told Oliver, who was watching from the foot of the stairs. "I've been meaning to get them, but my mind has been on other things."

"I don't need this many clothes," he protested, but Mr. Shepherd dismissed him promptly.

"Who knows how long we'll be away."

"I guess." Oliver stared at the shimmering bags of clothes. Many of them were t-shirts and jeans, but some dress shirts were mixed in. There was even a suit neatly placed on a hanger wrapped around the maid's arm. "What do I need a suit for?" Oliver asked.

"What a ridiculous question," Mr. Shepherd exclaimed. "There has never been a time to not wear a suit. Besides, don't you want to look nice for your parents?"

"Not really."

"Well, you're going to. Betty," he turned to the maid by his side, "Could you help Oliver take these bags to his room?"

"Certainly," said Betty in a faint accent that Oliver couldn't quite determine.

"Wonderful," replied Mr. Shepherd half-heartedly. He handed Oliver his share of the bags and walked off into the kitchen. Together they struggled with their loads up the flights of stairs until they reached Oliver's room and dumped the bags on his bed.

"Thanks," said Oliver. Betty, the maid, gave little acknowledgment of him, quickly flashing a strange smile before hurrying out. Perhaps there was a reason he never got to know any of the maids in the house. Turning that thought over in his mind, he started going through the bags and ripping off various tags from the clothes. As he had noticed before, the vast majority of the clothes were t-shirts and dark-colored jeans. One dress shirt was at the bottom of the pile, out of place from the others. Oliver picked out a shirt and pair of jeans to wear and set them on the bed next to him. As he began to shed the dirty set of clothes he had fled in he looked at the suit laying on the bed. He had never worn a suit in his life, and he wasn't about to start now. They were hot and constraining, and they symbolized to him tragic conformity to adulthood. He wasn't a businessman, and so why would he need a suit? Disgusted, he brushed the suit aside to make way for the other clothes. Then he dressed and hastily put the clothes for the trip in a small pile. Also in the shopping bag was a toothbrush and small tube of toothpaste, both of which were stilled packaged in their own separate containers. He threw those into the pile as well. After admiring his work, which amounted only to two equally messy and indistinguishable piles of clothing and toiletries, he looked himself in the wall mirror and walked down for lunch.