The Cure for Dreaming

by Cat Winters

  We cruised onward, past the slumbering businesses on Third. My hair streaked behind me and probably smacked Henry in the face, but he never complained—in fact, he chuckled the whole time, and, when I steered us around the corner to Yamhill, he whooped like a French Canadian cowboy.

  “You’re not going to fall off, are you?” I yelled into the wind.

  “Not unless you do.”

  “In a few more blocks,” I called again, “you need to look in the window of McCorkan’s Bicycle Shop on our right.”

  “Why is that?”

  “They sell bicycle bloomers. Buying a pair is yet another one of my unladylike dreams.”

  “I could get you a pair from backstage.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. I’ve seen them in the costume room.”

  That grand possibility inspired me to pedal faster, and the chain buzzed like a mighty industrial machine beneath our legs. Overhead, the moon peeked between the clouds, washing the road before us in swaths of silver. “Beautiful Dreamer” waltzed through my mind, especially the line “Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee,” which seemed particularly lovely in the lamp-lit splendor of the nighttime streets of Portland.

  Henry’s arms tightened around my waist.

  “I’m not going to stop,” I yelled over my shoulder, “because I don’t want to fall, but there they are. Turkish trousers.”

  We sped past the red and blue beauties, which were mere poufs of shadow in the unlit store, and Henry asked, “Is it because you want to dress like a man?”

  “Pfft. No. I want to dress like a woman who drives men around on her bicycle.”

  He snickered near my ear, and we both laughed like grammar school children all the way back to my street, drunk on moonbeams and speed and the incomparable exhilaration of hanging on to another person as if one’s life depended on it.

  The descent wasn’t half as graceful as the flight. Two blocks from my house, we hit a bad bump, and the handlebars jostled in my hands like a thing possessed. Henry dragged his feet across the dirt to skid us to a stop, kicking up dust and tiny pebbles, but the bicycle fought his efforts and dumped us on our sides one block away from home. We landed with a thump in a tangle of arms, legs, fabrics, and metal.

  I pushed myself up to my elbows and unwound my feet from Henry and the bike. A sore spot, bound to become a bruise, formed on my hip.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  My now supine passenger sat up with a dopey grin and wiped dirt off the sides of his coat. “Mademoiselle Mead, I had no idea you were a daredevil.”

  “My father would call me a scorcher.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A reckless bicyclist.”

  “Olivia ‘Scorcher’ Mead.” He nodded his approval. “I like it.” He climbed to his feet and lent me his outstretched hand.

  I let him pull me upright, and we faced each other with our hands entwined. A pine tree bobbed a shadow across his scratched-up cheek, and the nail marks faded and glowed with the peekaboo moon.

  His smile faded, and his dark-blond eyebrows turned serious. “What will your father do if he catches you sneaking in?”

  I shrugged. “What more can possibly happen?”

  “That’s what has me worried.”

  “I’ll just say I desperately needed fresh air after getting sick.” I slid my fingers out of his. “Don’t worry about me, Henry. Go home and take care of your sister. How is she tonight?”

  “Exhausted. That’s why I was reading the newspaper in the hotel lobby. I didn’t want to bother her.”

  I nodded. “Well, you’re a good brother. I’m sure she greatly appreciates you.”

  “I don’t . . .” He turned his face downward and grimaced as if his ribs ached.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He ran his fingers through his hair and tried to smile away whatever was bothering him.

  “Tell me, Henry.” I inched closer, my soles stirring up bits of gravel in the road. “Are you hurt? Was it the crash?”

  “No, it’s just . . .” He swallowed with a loud bob of his Adam’s apple. “This isn’t the life I ever expected to lead, Olivia. I’m beginning to think I’m bad luck.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m certainly not good luck to you. Look what I’ve done by agreeing to tinker with your mind. And look at my family. Every single person I love dies on me. I feel as if I’m being punished, but I don’t know what I could have done that’s so indescribably awful.”

  “I’m sure your parents’ deaths had nothing to do with you.”

  He swallowed again. “My mother died of cancer, the same kind as Genevieve’s. My father lost his life to a bad typhoid outbreak when I was twelve. And . . . well, I already told you about Uncle Lewis and his poor choices.”

  I nodded. “I agree—all of that is bad luck. But it has nothing to do with you.”

  He released a long wheeze of a breath that had to have hurt his lungs, and he smoothed down the hair he’d just tousled. “Thank you. You’re really far too kind to me.”

  “The scratches on your face don’t look kind.”

  “I know, but . . .” He reached out and wove his fingers through mine. “Thank you.”

  Another breeze nudged the needles of the rustling pine and toyed with my hair, tickling stringy strands across my cheek. My skirt billowed around my legs and flirted with the knees of Henry’s trousers.

  “Henry, do I look like a monster to you?” I asked with a squeeze of his hand. “I saw myself in the mirror in the hotel lobby . . .”

  He shook his head. “No, you look like someone who’s been on a wild ride and could use a rest—that’s all. Go get some sleep, and on Tuesday we’ll figure out a way to set everything right. And if you let me, I’ll take you away from all your troubles.”

  “I still don’t—”

  “Olivia,” he whispered, bending his face toward mine. “Pieces of me have been dying with each loved one I’ve lost.”

  “I’m sorry . . .”

  “But that ride through the city”—a grin burgeoned at the corners of his lips—“that daredevil, bicycle scorcher ride, reminded me what it’s like to be wide awake and alive. Please, let me do something for you.”

  I nodded. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “Good. I hope you do.”

  He kept his face close—close enough to kiss—and I wasn’t sure if I should give him a peck on the cheek or back away.

  “Are you waiting for me to kiss you?” I found myself asking in a voice too high-pitched.

  He gave a startled blink and lifted his head. “What? No.”

  “You were so close . . . I didn’t know if . . .” I lowered my eyes.

  “No, I couldn’t kiss you if I wanted to.”

  I peeked up at him. “Why not?”

  “It’s not easy for me.”

  “What do you mean? Is something wrong with your mouth?”

  “No.” He gave a strained smile. “Ladies have a habit of saying the only reason they’re kissing me is because they’re under my spell. They especially say that if they seem to like it but feel guilty about liking it, and if they’re a bit older than me.”

  “Oh.” I loosened my hand from his. “Is this a common problem?”

  “No, but it’s happened twice. A hazard of the profession, I suppose, but it makes me nervous about kissing anybody.”

  “Oh. Well”—my voice faltered; I tried not to stare at those red lips of his—“I certainly don’t want to complicate this odd relationship of ours even further.”

  “No.” He tucked his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s for the best if we stick to simpler pleasures, like bicycle rides . . . and buggy outings.”

  I laughed and brushed my hair out of my face. “Yes, that’s much simpler and far less intimate.”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “And we don’t need any more transgressions going onto my long list of post-hypnosis sins,�
� I added.

  “No, absolutely not. You don’t want—”

  I placed my hand on his shoulder and kissed him, just to try it with someone who wasn’t drunk and Percy—and only because my heart was still thumping so rigorously from the bicycle ride—and because he fascinated me—and because it seemed as if we both desperately needed a kiss. His mouth felt so velvety soft that I let my lips linger. He tilted his head and held on to my waist and returned my kiss in such a way that lovely little prickles tingled across my stomach and down the backs of my legs.

  Our lips parted, and I marveled at how hard I had to work to catch my breath. Henry brushed his thumb across the line of my jaw, but I stopped him by taking hold of his hand.

  “I need to go home,” I said.

  He withdrew his fingers from mine, and the absence of their pressure left my hand empty and cold. “All right.”

  “Henry . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I smiled. “I had ridiculous amounts of fun on that bicycle ride, too.”

  His face brightened clear up to the golden tips of his hair. “We’ll figure out a way to make Tuesday work,” he said. “I promise. Let me know if you concoct any ideas.”

  I nodded and grabbed hold of the bike.

  Without a single other word—or kiss—he slipped his hands back into his pockets and walked away into the shadows, whistling a song that sounded both sad and lovely, like a Pied Piper who pitied the children he was luring out of town.

  FATE WAS KIND TO ME THAT NIGHT. DESPITE THE AWFUL creaks that accompanied my footsteps when I snuck up the staircase, Father’s bedroom door remained shut, the light within extinguished. I believed I’d made it safely back to my bedroom by the grace of the brandy swimming through his veins.

  In the darkness of my room, I hurried to shed my day clothes, climbed into my long nightgown, and threw an extra quilt over the mirror to hide my reflection from myself. My plate of half-eaten supper still waited on my floor, so I hustled it down to the kitchen in fear of mice sneaking into my room to feast.

  Back upstairs, I tucked myself beneath my cotton sheets and the piles of autumn blankets that warmed away the chill of the house. My legs still experienced the fluttery sensation of whooshing through the streets of the city, and my just-kissed lips spread into a smile.

  On the brink of sleep, when my mind hovered in that strange off-balance twilight between wakefulness and dream, I envisioned a ballroom inhabited by anti-suffrage ladies with Whitehead gags silencing their mouths. Below the peculiar image, like the suffrage caricatures printed in the Oregonian most weeks of late, ran a caption:

  A TASTE OF THEIR OWN MEDICINE.

  My eyes blinked back open.

  A grin stretched to my ears.

  A taste of their own medicine. The solution to the dilemma of our election-night performance.

  ather distributed Sunday morning’s heaping spoonful of bad news, quite appropriately, in the kitchen.

  “Now that Gerda is gone,” he said from behind me at the sizzling griddle, “you’ll need to manage the housework every day of the week.”

  The flapjack I had been flipping dropped to the floor.

  “What about school?” I asked.

  “The house needs tending, and we have no one else.”

  “But you said you worried about leaving me home on my own.”

  “Your industriousness will keep you active and out of trouble, and the hypnosis will prohibit you from attending any unsavory rallies. But fear not”—he bent over and picked up the crumbling pieces of oatmeal from the floor—“I have a strong inkling you’re going to be in high demand Tuesday night. If we find you a young society gentleman, which I’m certain we will when those boys witness your demure personality, you may not ever need worry about cooking and cleaning again. You’ll likely acquire a maid and a cook with your future husband. You’ll be able to devote your full attention to my grandchildren.” He nodded with an optimistic arch of his eyebrows.

  An argument rushed up my throat, but the fight wilted at my lips.

  You are free to speak your mind, but you will do so with caution around your father, Henry had instructed me in his hotel room. You will limit your volatile words only to moments when someone is about to get hurt.

  Father moved to leave the room.

  “Father,” I said before he could go. “Frannie’s family invited me over for Mr. and Mrs. Harrison’s twentieth anniversary dinner tonight, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Am I allowed to go? I’d prepare your meal before I left.”

  He picked at the ends of his beard. “I would have to escort you to their front door and pick you up. No bicycling.”

  “Because it’s unladylike?”

  “Because I don’t want you conspiring with that hypnotist. He’s signed a contract with me.”

  “I—” I bit down on my tongue, for I was about to slip and say, I know.

  “You what?” asked Father.

  “I’m glad you signed a contract. It’s a sensible thing to do.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve forgotten—what time did Frannie say they’re serving dinner?”

  “Three thirty, I believe.” A lie—the dinner was set for five o’clock.

  “Then I’ll walk you over at three and pick you up at six.”

  “Thank you, Father. That’s very kind of you.”

  He retreated from the kitchen, and my mouth hissed a gust of white steam—my snuffed-out arguments.

  AT THREE O’CLOCK SHARP, FATHER DELIVERED ME TO Harrison’s Books, which was closed for Sunday.

  “I’ll fetch you at six, Olivia,” he said with a peek at his pocket watch, as if he were already counting down the minutes.

  “Can you make it seven o’clock, Dr. Mead?” asked Frannie from the bookshop’s doorway. “Martha and I baked a cake. We’ll need time for dessert.”

  “Well . . . I suppose.” Father crinkled his brow. “If you think the festivities will last that long.”

  “At least that long. Eight might even be better. Papa will likely play his fiddle.”

  Father frowned. “Eight at the latest.”

  I patted his arm. “Thank you, Father.”

  Frannie shut the glass door behind me with a jingle of the bell, and Father retreated down the street with his gray derby bobbing up and down on his thick hair.

  I grasped Frannie by the shoulders. “I’m here early because of a plan.”

  “A plan?”

  “I need to go to the theater and speak to Henry.”

  “But—”

  “Wait before you try to talk me out of it. Gerda quit yesterday. Father won’t let me go to school anymore.”

  “What?” She reached up and gripped my elbows.

  “Father hired Henry for a second treatment that was even worse than the first, but Henry is helping to alter the effects. Father got himself invited to an election-night party hosted by the Oregon Association Opposed to the Extension of Suffrage—” I involuntarily covered my mouth and belched a horrid, gagging sound.

  Frannie grimaced. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” I let my hand flop down to my leg. “Anyway, at this party, in order to receive Father’s payment for the hypnosis, Henry is supposed to hypnotize me in front of everyone and prove there’s a cure for suffragists.” Again, I smacked my hand over my mouth, and I hacked like a cat.

  “Why are you gagging?”

  I rolled my eyes. “It’s all a part of the hypnosis.”

  “Livie! This is terrible. Are you still seeing terrifying sights, too?”

  “Oddly enough, that’s the least of my troubles.” I clutched her hands. “But never mind that. Here’s where I need your help. First, please let me borrow your cloak.”

  “But—”

  “Second, talk to Kate on Monday at school. Let her know that the antis are congregating for some election-night hoopla at the Portland Hotel at seven o’clock. It would be splendid to have a team of suff”—my right hand
slapped my mouth again—“ragists, ack”—I spat up another foul sound— “standing out front, singing anthems, wearing yellow ribbons. But tell them they must leave the hotel grounds no later than seven fifteen. That part is vital.”

  She stared at me with unblinking eyes.

  “Please, Frannie.” I pulled her against me and squeezed my arms around her.

  “Livie, what’s going to happen to you when the party is over?” she asked into my hair. “How in the world can you keep living with your father?”

  I closed my eyes and pulled her so close, her shoulder dug into my throat. “I’ll likely leave for New York Tuesday night.”

  “What?”

  “My mother lives there. Near Barnard.”

  “Your mother has been an absent fool all these years.”

  “But she doesn’t want to transform me into a creature who doesn’t even resemble me.” I pulled free of our hug. “Please, Frannie. Help me. I need you. Genevieve needs you, too. I’ve seen her in her room in the Hotel Vernon. She’s fading. The cancer will kill her if it’s not removed soon.”

  Frannie’s nose turned red and sniffly, and her chin shook. “I don’t want to see you escape clear across the country.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “But . . . if you genuinely believe you need to endure all of this rubbish to save this person’s life, then, my goodness”—she heaved a heavy sigh—“let’s help that girl.”

  he stage door was locked. At first all I could think to do was grumble and pace about the sidewalk while holding the brown hood of Frannie’s cloak over my head. Just as I was about to run to the theater lobby and spin a story about needing to deliver an urgent item to Henry, fate intervened in the form of a few small beasts.

  The side door opened. The middle-aged dog trainers and their half-dozen curly-haired poodles burst from the theater in a gust of high-pitched barks.

  “Let me hold open the door for you,” I said over all the yipping, and I sprinted up the stairs, nearly tripping over my skirt.

  “Thank you, dear,” said the man of the group with a tip of his hat.

  The flurry of fur and leather leashes and pitter-pattering feet traveled down the stairs, and I slipped inside the theater.