“You know this is a dream?” I asked.
“Of course, my dear,” she said as she returned and sat down across from me, moving the basket of apples away from her slightly.
I laughed. “I suppose that makes sense. It’s my dream, so someone in my dream would know it’s a dream.”
Rosie laughed too. “You may be right.” She expertly sliced the fresh apple pie, sending a warm, wonderful odor filling the air. “But it’s my dream too.”
I sat back staring at her as she dished up the pie and slid a piece in front of me. I knew this was a dream, yet it felt somehow different. Different in a way that made me want to wake up. Yet the smell of the pie in front of me kept me from pushing myself back to the reality of my small room.
I picked up the fork and took a golden bite of pie.
The taste was even more heavenly than the smell and I felt myself relax into the dream. What could it hurt? It was certainly a better place to be than the small nursing home room that smelled of death.
FOUR
THE NEXT MORNING my memory told me that in my dream Rosie and I had sat around and talked for hours about all sorts of things we’d done. It seems that up until a stroke knocked her down ten years ago, Rosie had lived a full life as mother and then grandmother. Her husband had been on the city council at times and had died of a heart attack on their third trip to Hawaii.
She had continued to travel until the stroke forced her children to put her in the Home. And the memory of all this conversation in my dream felt real, as if I had actually spent the hours talking to her.
And what really bothered me was that normally I never remembered my dreams.
After breakfast, I went back to my room and to my newly installed phone. It had been the one thing I had insisted my son add into my room. At least this way I could still have a small touch with the outside world. I hadn’t expected to want to use it this soon.
One phone call to Emmie, the daughter of my old neighbor, told me what I wanted to know. Emmie worked in records at the county and her mother always told me that Emmie and her computer could find out more about a person than another person had the right to know.
It only took Emmie a minute to tell me that Rosie Manning had indeed been married to Harold Manning, who at one time had served on the city council and later on the planning and zoning commission. He had died fourteen years ago while in Hawaii.
I hung up the phone shocked.
And very much in denial.
Somehow, some way, I must have known Rosie from before her stroke, maybe I had even been in a kitchen like the one in my dream. There was no other explanation.
I made myself focus on the game shows on television until lunch and took a nap until dinner. It felt like a routine I was going to be doing for a very long time to come.
But after dinner, I again found myself walking past Rosie’s room. And again I could smell the wonderful odor of cooking around where she sat, her almost dead body hunched over in her chair, the stains of her dinner on her bib.
I stood over her for a moment, my hand resting on the back of her chair. Her thinning white hair barely covered the red, flaky surface of her scalp.
I was almost afraid to go back to my room.
Afraid to lie down and sleep.
Afraid of the pleasant dream I might have. Afraid because I didn’t understand what was happening.
FIVE
THE SECOND DREAM started the same as the first.
I walked down the hall and stood in front of Rosie’s door, watching her work at her counter inside a kitchen five times larger than her nursing home room.
This time the smell that filled the air around me was rich with chocolate and vanilla. From where I stood I could see she was mixing up an icing while two halves of a chocolate-layered cake cooled on racks.
She turned and saw me and motioned me to come in. Then she went back to working in the bowl with a small electric hand mixer.
Hesitantly, I moved inside and stood near the wooden table, enjoying the smell and the warmth and watching until she’d finished.
Finally she turned off the mixer, pulled out the beaters, turned and held one up for me. “Just in time to lick off the icing.”
I took the one offered and watched as she licked the other, obviously enjoying the task like a kid would have done.
I followed her example and a few moments later found myself working at getting every lick of the sweet-tasting frosting.
I finished and handed her back the beater. She smiled at me, a fleck of white frosting on her chin. “Glad you came,” she said. “I wasn’t sure that you would.”
“It’s just a dream,” I said, my voice sounding in my ears a little more insistent than I wanted it to sound. “I didn’t have a choice.”
She laughed and moved back to put the beaters in the sink. “Of course you do,” she said.
I shook my head slowly from side to side as she moved to the cake on the racks. What she had said made no sense to me. “How can you control your dreams?”
She shrugged while testing to see if the cakes were still too hot to frost. They obviously were, so she turned back to me. “I don’t know how, but I know I do, ever since I had my stroke.” She laughed. “Actually, I did before the stroke, too. Much of my life was like a wonderful dream.”
She turned and indicated the full kitchen. “I live in here, now. I really never go out there much at all.” She pointed to the door that led into the hall of the nursing home.
I glanced at the darkened hall and then back at her. She was smiling. “Tea?” she asked.
I nodded and she went to work getting out a kettle and filling it with water, then placing it on the stove.
The next morning I remembered when I woke up that we had spent three wonderful hours talking about our lives, our dead husbands, and our children. I remembered I told her what my son had done to me and she shook her head in sadness. “You deserve so much better,” she had said.
In the morning I agreed with her even more than I had in the dream. I did deserve better. And so did she.
At breakfast, lunch and dinner I sat with her while the aide fed her a sloppy mush that served as her food. More of it ended up on her bib than in her mouth.
SIX
THE THIRD DREAM, she had just finished a steaming hot bowl of popcorn and the smell was so wonderful I almost walked into her kitchen before she invited me in. But luckily she saw me standing there and waved me to the table before I had barged rudely in.
“I already have the water on for tea,” she said as I sat down and took a handful of popcorn. In the real world, outside this dream, I would have been hesitant to eat popcorn due to my dentures. But this was a dream and I knew it. And if a person couldn’t eat popcorn in a dream, what was the point of dreaming?
She sat down across from me and took a handful of popcorn. Then between bites she said, “I’m going to be moving on tomorrow.”
“What?”
“My old body will finally give up tomorrow and I will move on.” She shrugged. “Not much I can do about it.”
“How do you know?” I managed to ask. For some reason the thought of her not being here in my dreams scared me in a very selfish way.
She shrugged. “I just know. And when your time comes, you’ll know, too.”
“Since this is my dream, can’t I change it?”
She smiled a sad smile at me. “I want to move on. If you were stuck with a body like mine, you would too. Now, let’s talk about more pleasant subjects.”
At that point, the kettle started to boil and she stood to retrieve it.
For the next three hours we talked and laughed and I forced myself to not talk about what she had told me. And a huge part of me didn’t believe her.
The next morning at breakfast I looked for her, but she wasn’t there. The head nurse told me that she had died before breakfast.
That night, for the first time since moving into the Home, I didn’t dream.
And the ne
xt day the smell of death and antiseptic closed in around me like a heavy, smothering blanket.
SEVEN
IT TOOK ME two days of feeling trapped and smothered before Rosie’s words finally sunk all the way in. I did deserve better and unlike her, I might still be able to get it.
With one phone call I reached John, an old friend of my husband.
An old attorney friend.
It took me a good half hour, with him asking pointed questions about my affairs, before I had fully explained everything my son had done and what I hoped John could do for me.
That night I dreamed of a different kitchen. The walls were blank and the counters empty. And there were no smells, but it was a start, because somehow I knew it was my kitchen.
And the wonderful smells would come.
John called me back the next morning and told me he could, with very little work, get my money from the sale of my house out from under my son’s name, as well as the rest of my savings. He also told me he’d found a wonderful little cottage with a great kitchen he thought I should see.
That afternoon a real estate agent named Sherry came by and took me to see the house. I should have known it would have the kitchen from my dream, but it still surprised me that it was.
The next day John came by and had me sign papers, including the papers for buying my little house.
By the time my son learned of what I had done, it was finished and he had nothing to say about it. I had a new home.
That night, my last night in the Home, I dreamed of Rosie again. I dreamed I was standing in her kitchen door and she was smiling at me. Her kitchen smelled of butterscotch pudding and felt warm and welcoming as always. But this time I didn’t go in and she didn’t invite me. We both knew it wasn’t yet my time.
“Come visit me any time,” I said to her through the door.
“I just might,” she said.
Without me telling her she knew I now had my own home and kitchen, again. And my own life again, something Rosie could never get back for herself after her stroke.
So instead she had built a world and a wonderful kitchen inside her head and lived there.
“You have a wonderful dream,” she said, smiling.
I laughed, remembering my own words from days before. “So do you,” I said. “Thanks for inviting me in.”
She shrugged, the smile never leaving her face. “No need to thank me. It was your dream, too.”
I laughed, waved good-bye to her and turned away.
In my dream I walked back to my room, letting the smell of warm butterscotch fade slowly behind me down the dark hall of Shady Hills Nursing Home.
USA Today bestselling author, Dean Wesley Smith, delves into one of his favorite topics: Music. People always say that music can fix just about anything. Maybe it can.
Titantic Dougherty, one of the biggest and strangests characters to ever walk into a bar clearly believes it can.
Sage, the bartender, isn’t so sure.
But in one neighborhood bar, with just regular people, unexplained things can happen when Titanic Dougherty ducks in through the door.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY
ONE
MARY JUDE WAS runnin’ the drinks and I was makin’ them that first night Titanic Dougherty ducked through the door and slid his black leather briefcase up on the bar.
It was a normal early November night at Sandy’s, with about twelve regulars scattered around the six wooden tables in the middle and eight booths with lit beer signs over them that ringed the place. The Coors sign over the second booth on the right flickered, so none of the regulars ever sat in that booth.
The evening was still young and even a few of the day-crowd regulars were at the long polished wooden bar.
The place now smelled more of wood polish and spilled beer than it did of smoke, but if you really paid attention, the decades of smoke that clouded in the place still left a faint background hint. I kind of liked it. Reminded me of simpler times.
Sandy’s was tucked off to the side of Portland, Oregon, near the river and the shipping docks. From the outside, it was hard to spot because of the big pine trees on both sides and the gravel parking lot that made the cinderblock building tucked back in the trees seem like a long ways from the road.
Plus Jacob hadn’t bothered to fix the sign since it got knocked sideways in a windstorm two winters ago, so other than some spotlights on the front of the building, the place was a dark building. At night, no one with a sane mind would come in that front door, yet we seemed to keep a steady stream of customers up, mostly regulars from around the older neighborhood and dock workers.
The sight of Titanic, someone brand new to the bar, stopped everyone in the bar cold, and I figured the shock of seeing someone that big might’ve even stopped the old juke if Benny, a drunk regular from the day shift, hadn’t just plugged it and punched up She Ain’t Pretty But She Don’t Snore, the most obnoxious song to ever blare out a speaker.
My name’s George Armstrong Sage. Everyone calls me Sage. I’ve been the bartender here at Sandy’s Lounge since Jacob, the owner, got shot by a wild-eyed kid trying to get enough money for his next fix.
Jacob survived, but hasn’t done much bartending since. That was three years ago and I’ve seen some strange happenings in all those nights, but nothing comes close to Titanic Dougherty and that black briefcase of his.
Describing Titanic ain’t no easy chore. Let me put it this way, I’m no short drift at six-four, and most don’t give me shit since I weigh in at over two-eighty.
I got a face that spent its time being hit by football players and baseball players and shoulders that hint at my days of playing ball. But standing next to Titanic, I’d look like that damn doughboy they show bouncing around on those commercials.
Titanic was one big son of a bitch.
That first time Titanic ducked through the front door, he was decked out completely in black, right up to one of the only black baseball caps I’ve ever seen. The black, tent-sized sweatshirt he wore had the number two on both shoulders and the huge muscles in his legs stretched his jeans.
I figured he might have played for a team somewhere, but I didn’t recognize him. That didn’t mean much since I spent my time at first base for a few years for a few teams and no one recognizes me.
“Double scotch,” he said, carefully pushing the business-looking briefcase to one side. “Rocks, splash soda.”
His deep-voiced request finally jolted me enough to get me to close my mouth and quit staring.
He swiveled around on his stool and glared at the other dozen or so who were silently gaping at him.
I don’t know who would have won that stand-off, him or the regular customers, if the words of the song hadn’t broke the tension.
...with sharp-edged curlers and flannel to the floor,
thank God, Mother, at least she don’t snore.
Slowly, Titanic turned, looked at the jukebox, and then smiled.
The smile grew until he started to laugh a deep, glass-shaking laugh. That got everyone else laughing and talking.
I scrambled to the well and fixed him a solid double scotch, like he ordered, and slid it in front of him as he turned back to face the bar.
He pulled out his black leather wallet, fumbled in it with huge fingers and then pulled out a twenty and shoved it toward me. “Thanks,” he said. “Hold on to that and let me know when you need more.”
By the time I had rang up his drink and fixed a few for Mary Jude to take out to the lovebirds in the back booth, Mary Jude was looking at Titanic sort of glassy-eyed.
And Titanic was ready for another.
I slid the second one up beside the first. “This one’s on me,” I said and stuck out my hand. “Sage is what they call me.”
“Thanks, Mr. Sage,” he said, gripping my hand with a solid grasp that made me feel like a child shaking hands with an adult. No one had ever really done that to me before.
“They call me Titanic. Titanic Dougherty.�
�
Much to my relief, he let go of my hand and picked up his drink. The glass looked like a child’s cup in his hand. “Nice place you got here,” he said. “Yours?”
“Nope. I’m just the regular hired help.”
He nodded kind of slow and sipped on his drink. “You pick the songs?” He motioned toward the jukebox.
I laughed. “Are you kidding? Some curly headed kid from Bently’s Music services the thing. He comes in during the afternoons about once every two weeks. Worst songs I’ve ever heard.”
Titanic laughed his rumbling laugh. “I’ll agree with you on that. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to fix that.”
He patted the briefcase and then downed the rest of his drink and slid it toward me for a refill.
At that point I figured he was some sort of music salesman.
Mary Jude come up right about then with a long list of drinks. Seems Titanic had made a few people nervous to down their drinks.
I didn’t have time to ask him what he actually did after I refilled his drink.
When I finally did have the time, he started asking me questions instead and I found myself telling him all about my ex-wife, Rita, and how she, without meaning to, had pushed me to try to become rich to the point where I no longer could stand the pressure.
I told him about how I once had played pro baseball and loved it more than anything.
I even ended up telling him why I was bartending instead of working as an electrical engineer like I had trained for in college.
He also asked Mary Jude a bunch about herself and I found myself listening and learning more about her than I had known after six months of working with her.
Hell, I didn’t even realize that she had been married and had two kids living with her ex-husband and his new wife in Alaska. She said she hadn’t seen them in half a year and probably wouldn’t until summer.
Smith's Monthly #8 Page 2