The Path Of Dreams

by Eugene Woodbury

  “Check out the wicked little dress Melanie gave me,” Elly said, showing her both outfits.

  “Oh, Elly,” Susan said, her eyes alighting on the cocktail dress, “you’d sure turn a lot of heads wearing that! It’s awfully close to breaking BYU standards, don’t you think? You might make Connor jealous.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Connor said. “But I think she’d turn a lot of heads without a dress.”

  “I bet she would,” Susan said, and both women burst out laughing.

  Connor moseyed into the kitchen and moved boxes around.

  Elly invited Susan to dinner, but Susan said she wanted to drive back to Salt Lake and get her luggage and move in that night. Elly understood the sentiment. Relatives’ couches only got more uncomfortable the longer they were used. “I’ll let you know when we get the pictures from the wedding,” she promised. “We’ll have all of you over for dinner.”

  “Oh, and you have to make sure Melanie brings Chalmers Ch r , so he can see the new me.”

  They hugged and parted friends. A few months earlier, Elly had been happy to put Nevada, California, and the Pacific Ocean between Susan and herself. But now she knew her old companion was right: prayers had been answered, and in more ways than one.

  Later that night, having taken the dress out to show Susan, Elly finally tried it on. “What do you think?” she asked, posing for Connor.

  He sat on the bed, folded his arms, and studied her carefully. “Susan has a point.”

  Elly glanced down at her hemline. “I do wonder what Melanie was thinking. Maybe that I was an inch or two shorter.”

  “Again, I’m not complaining.”

  “No? You wouldn’t be even a little bit jealous showing me off in public in a dress like this?”

  “I don’t know about showing you off. I’ve never dated a woman who wore a dress like that. Or looked so good in it.”

  She grinned and stole onto the bed. In the black dress, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, she looked like a sleek, lithe panther. She crept into his arms and nipped at his ear. He ran his hands up the backs of her thighs.

  “Meow,” she said.

  The dress got a bit rumpled after that.

  When Connor first moved in, Wanda insisted that they have dinner together. He’d resisted, of course, as such arrangements were contrary to the mind-set of the single college student—apron strings and all that. He tested out the “I don’t want to be a burden on you” excuse, and then and only then had Wanda briefly let down her guard.

  “Dining alone every day,” she retorted, “is about as depressing for a person my age as you can imagine.”

  He hadn’t argued about it since. Sundays and two or three times a week they ate together. Connor came to appreciate both Wanda’s reasons and her cooking.

  Over breakfast, Wanda mentioned to Elly, “That bed of yours is part of a set.”

  “What kind of a set?”

  “The frame is the base of a four-poster brass bed.”

  Elly’s eyes lit up.

  Connor groaned.

  “Connor groans,” explained Wanda, “because he was the one who took it apart. Where did you put the headboard and footboard, Connor?”

  He glowered at his aunt. “It’s in the garage.”

  “Really? You still have it? Can we put it back together?”

  “Elly,” he said, “it’s like a jigsaw puzzle, only in three dimensions.”

  She jumped up from the table. “I want to see it. C’mon, let’s see it.”

  Connor relented, grumbling about how it should have been carted off to Deseret Industries long ago. He finished his bagel and headed for the garage, Elly pushing him along. She stood in the empty parking space next to the Camry and turned around. “Where is it?”

  Two paces to the right of the kitchen steps, a knotted rope hung from the ceiling. Connor tugged on it. A hinged ladder unfolded and slid to the floor. “That switch there,” he said, indicating the wall next to the door. Elly turned on the light.

  The attic was lit by a bare bulb. The air was musty and cool. The attic floor was an obstacle course of gardening tools, a push-mower, knee-high stacks of plastic planting pots, a box of Ball canning jars, and a rack of growing lamps. Wanda had given up gardening after Walter died, and now only fussed with the flower beds in the front yard.

  Connor said, “I got off my mission in time to help my parents move to Maine. You wouldn’t believe the amount of junk that went to the Salvation Army and the landfill.”

  “As you know,” Elly said, “I cannot empathize.”

  They came at last to a blue tarp by the far wall. Connor drew back the tarp. The brass posts threw off a muddy gleam in the mottled light. To one of the posts he’d taped a plastic bag stuffed with nuts and bolts. He’d used duct tape and the adhesive was baked onto the metal.

  “It’s so pretty,” exclaimed Elly.

  “It’s a mess,” said Connor.

  “Then we’ll clean it.”

  “Cleaning is not the issue. What makes antiques rare is that all the rest of them fell to pieces before they could become antiques. This one is well on its way to joining them.”

  “If everybody thought that way, nobody would have any antiques to collect.”

  “Somebody’s always going to win the lottery too. That doesn’t mean playing the lottery is a smart idea.”

  Connor climbed down the ladder, growling under his breath. This is so stupid, he said to himself. A total waste of time. But he couldn’t remember why putting the bed together again was so stupid, only that there was a very good reason.

  “I had a good reason for taking it apart. This bed is just not—” and he paused, but said the dreaded word anyway, “practical.”

  “Practicality doesn’t have anything to do with it, Connor.”

  “Practicality matters if you consider the hours you could be spending doing something else truly useful.”

  Elly rolled her eyes. “Our lives aren’t exactly filled to the brim doing useful and necessary things.”

  At that moment, Wanda opened the kitchen door. “Oh, Connor, there you are. Could you come help me with something?”

  Connor slapped the dust off his jeans and followed his aunt into the kitchen, glad for an excuse to end the discussion. Wanda set a jar of green paint on the counter. “I was thinking of touching up the shutters. You know how old paint jars can get.”

  The paint had glued the lid on quite solidly. He rapped it against the counter and gave it another try. The lid gave way with a scrunch of metal against glass, scattering flecks of enamel onto the Formica. He shook the cramp out of his hand. His palm was creased with the grooves stamped into the lid.

  “You know—” Wanda said in an offhand manner, “you’re right about that bed.”

  Connor nodded in agreement. It was good to hear a modicum of common sense injected into the matter.

  “Your grandfather would have agreed with you one-hundred percent. Such trivial sentiments cannot stand up to rational examination. Interesting how these things run in the family.”

  A tick of the second hand, and the expression froze on Connor’s face. Whatever response his brain was contemplating, the words never made it past his vocal cords. He stared at his aunt. She pretended he wasn’t there and stirred the paint.

  When motion returned to his limbs, Connor retrieved the car keys and strode purposefully to the garage. Elly was perched halfway up the ladder steps, elbows on knees, chin in her hands. She clambered down the ladder when Connor hit the switch for the garage door opener. The door clanked open, spilling a bright band of morning sunlight across the concrete.

  The noise died away. Elly said, “The bed’s not that important, Connor. I mean, we could get around to it anytime. She saw the car keys in his hand and said, “Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got to move the car,” he said, gesturing at the Toyota.

  “Move the car?” Elly echoed. “Why? Where?”

  “I’m just going to move it
.” He got into the car, took a deep breath, started the engine, and backed into the driveway. Then he lowered the garage door and stared at the ceiling.

  “What are you looking for?” Elly asked.

  “One of the plywood sheets isn’t nailed down. I can never remember which one.” He got a rake and jabbed between the floor joists until he found it. He replaced the rake and brought back a coil of rope and a pair of safety glasses. “It’ll be easier if we lower the headboard and footboard rather than trying to haul them down the stairs.” He fitted the glasses over her nose.

  “You mean we’re going to put the bed together?”

  He answered with a sheepish grin. “I guess the bed’s not such a bad idea after all.” He examined his sneakers, until she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

  “How does this work?” she asked eagerly.

  “I figure I’ll lower the pieces with the rope. You make sure they come down straight and don’t scrape on the floor.”

  “Got it,” she said, with a toss of her long ponytail.

  Back in the garage loft, Connor set aside the loose plywood sheet. Using the crossbeam as a pulley, he lowered the headboard until Elly could catch and guide it to the floor. After repeating the process with the footboard, Elly came up to the attic and they carried down the posts.

  “It a mess,” she conceded. Their hands were already black from the dust and oxidation.

  They attacked the glum metal with damp rags. Wanda came out to take a look. “I say, it’s looking quite handsome already.”

  “How long has the bed been in the family?” Elly asked.

  “Its provenance supposedly traces back to Aunt Zariah. My dad was the one who replaced the steel in the frame. You might want to try a brass cleaner. Don’t apply anything harsher. On Antiques Road Show they’re always talking about how important it is to maintain the original finish.”

  They drove to Lowe’s and got some brass cleaner and the replacement pieces of hardware. The Brasso did a good job on the muddy patina. A little gasoline took care of the rotted duct tape. In other places they uncovered geological strata of gunk: poster paint, decades-old gum, furniture wax, and who-knows-what.

  Wanda confirmed that in a previous incarnation the bed had bunked visiting grandchildren, who’d left behind this evidence of their sojourns. All told, as far as restorations of faux heirlooms went, the cost was mostly in elbow grease and a certain measure of stubborn pride.

  Chapter 37

  Atsuko

  T he Ohs’ minivan pulled into Wanda’s driveway around three. “That must be Atsuko,” said Elly. She took off her gloves and went

  out to greet them. The minivan’s door slid open. A Japanese girl jumped

  out.

  “Atsuko!” Elly called out.

  “Chieko!” the girl shrieked in turn. Though a half-foot shorter than

  Elly, she nearly bowled her over by force of enthusiasm alone. “Aunt and

  Uncle told me all about it on the way back from the airport. I mean, married? Your mom is going to go ballistic!”

  Connor walked up and Atsuko yelped, “Connor!” She perched on her

  toes and gave him a hug. “Auntie says Uncle was trying to set you two up

  all along. You know what? I even heard my mom mention it to Elly’s

  mom once.”

  “Really?” Elly said, with honest incredulity.

  “Yeah, she kept going on about how they had this guy from BYU

  working for them, and she thought you two would be great together.” Connor said, “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  Atsuko whacked him on the arm. “But you were working too hard to

  pay attention to any of our schemes. Still, it turned out to be a great idea,

  neh? Look at you two!”

  Atsuko’s American demeanor notwithstanding, she spoke in a spitfire

  stream of Kansai-ben, the rough Osaka dialect that even made Oh Sensei

  wince at times. At the beginning of Spring term, before sending Connor

  over to Japan, he’d explained the sociolinguistics of the situation thusly:

  “Imagine a family of Boston Brahmins (by lineage, not fortune) moving to

  Atlanta, Georgia, and discovering fifteen years later that their pride and

  joy sounded like Dolly Parton.”

  Wanda came out to meet them halfway through the conversation. Elly

  said, “Aunt Wanda, this is my cousin Atsuko.”

  Atsuko sobered up a bit and offered the older woman a polite bow. “I

  am pleased to meet you,” she said, in her best grammar school English. “And I’m happy to meet you, Atsuko.”

  June said, putting a hand on Atsuko’s shoulder, “We’re on our way to

  the bookstore to get her textbooks and supplies.”

  Atsuko switched back to Japanese. “First, you have to show me where

  you live. Auntie said you had the whole basement all to yourselves.” “Not to ourselves,” Elly corrected her.

  But after the five-minute tour, Atsuko was considerably impressed.

  “It’s a lot bigger than my tiny dorm room. Now that’s a rabbit hutch.” June interrupted to invite Elly and Connor over for dinner. “The refrigerator is full of leftovers. And the jet lag should be catching up with

  Atsuko by then too.”

  “What?” said Atsuko.

  June put her arm around her niece’s shoulders and steered her toward

  the stairs. “What I’m saying is, you’re a poster child for Ritalin. I always

  thought it was a mistake to send you to a private school.”

  “Public schools in Japan are the worst,” Atsuko opined.

  “Public school did wonders for Elly.”

  “Yeah, but Eri got to go to an American high school. I would have

  made the perfect American high school student.”

  “That’s what we all feared,” said her aunt.

  June sent them home that night with two Tupperware bowls of sukiyaki, enough to feed them for the rest of the week. Atsuko had opted to stay the weekend with her aunt and uncle before moving into the dorms. Getting ready for bed, Elly asked, “My aunts’ scheming notwithstanding, did you ever harbor romantic intentions toward my cousin?”

  “It honestly never occurred to me.”

  “Really? You must have noticed how cute she is.”

  “Guys notice how cute total strangers are. And you’re the one who

  pointed out that she’s only eighteen.”

  “Seven years isn’t that much.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I like her, to be sure, but the same way I

  like my sisters. I know, that’s a cliché. Anyway I love you, Elly. Telling the difference isn’t hard.” “My, and aren’t you the man with the right words.” She put her arms around his neck and kissed him.

  “I manage now and then.”

  She tossed her head back, thought about her own question. “Atsuko is a bit too genki for the sedate McKenzie blood.”

  “I got the idea that you used to be a bit like that.”

  “In elementary school, maybe. But Atsuko’s missing that all-important gene for self-consciousness that’s supposed to kick in at puberty. Even Emily’s more feisty than I was at her age.”

  “You don’t strike me as a self-conscious person.”

  She laughed. “Compared to you. I knew Atsuko when she was in high school. She was probably a lot like your Billy Bragg or my Becky Hoggan. She really is a decent, well-mannered person underneath.”

  “True about Billy as well.”

  “But to hear my parents tell it, her parents figured that Atsuko was safer being Atsuko in Japan than in America. I wonder if Atsuko is what my mom was like at her age. Maybe that’s why she went on a mission, to calm herself down.”

  “If so, your dad never had a chance.”

  “Neither did you.”

  “I figured that out soon enough.”

  “And
when was that?”

  “The time you hit me pretty much settled it.”

  “I’m sorry. I never meant to hit you. I was so afraid you were going to think I was some sort of terrible dragon lady. To be honest, I am a dragon lady, but it makes for a poor initial impression.”

  “As Martin says, sometimes that’s what it takes to get a male’s attention. Though he was referring more to large farm animals.”

  “I’ve got better ways now,” she said, pressing her body against his.

  They made love. She fell asleep in his arms. He watched her sleep and marveled—at the warmth of another human body, the warmth of a shared bed. He wondered at the silky texture of her skin, at what it was like to be caught up so completely within the senses of another person, in her touch and taste and scent. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. A fierce expression crossed her face, and just as quickly was replaced by one of such perfect peace and gentle calm that it made his heart ache.

  His thoughts flashed back to the moment in the kitchen and that needle of fear shot through him. Wanda spoke with such deceptive nonchalance as she slipped the cold steel into his entrails: Your grandfather would have agreed with you one-hundred percent.

  Sitting in the Camry, it had taken all his self-control not to slam his head against the steering wheel. Idiot! What was he thinking? Drawing a line in the sand over this?

  Interesting how these things run in the family, Wanda had said. Interesting, indeed, and terribly depressing. What was the old saying? What’s bred in the bone comes out in the flesh. His grandfather was buried inside him, hiding in places he didn’t even know were there.

  He knew without a doubt that he would love Elly for the rest of his existence. But he had a hard enough time believing that she liked him. He did not for a moment doubt her friendship or her loyalty or her commitment. “By mine honour I love thee,” he whispered. “By which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to flatter me that thou dost.”

  All he could do was make her happy. He wasn’t sure how, but it was a goal worth striving toward. Her hand rested on his chest, her cuticles stained a copper oxide green. He thought of emeralds.

  She stirred and opened her eyes. “Hey,” she said, sleepily, “what are you still doing up?”