Restless Dreams

by Pullen, Karen;

  He floated in the light, aglow, beaming joyfully at me. “Money’s easy. It’s the saint part that’s hard.”

  “I have total faith in you, sir.” I threw out some ideas for achieving sainthood. “What do poor kids need? A neighborhood library. Smaller classes. You could lobby for revised drug laws.”

  He shook his head. “Good ideas, dearie, but not up my alley. I’m in real estate.”

  I was silent, because I knew he’d get there.

  “The words ‘New York real estate’ and ‘help the needy’ don’t belong in the same sentence.” He poked a finger at me for emphasis.

  “The poor live somewhere, don’t they?”

  “The city puts them in hotels.” He nodded at Curtis who trotted over. “Bring a dessert menu. She’s a growing girl.” He jabbed his finger at me again. “There’s a bunch of abandoned apartments in the South Bronx and East Harlem. I look at them and smell failure. Rats. Broken elevators and falling down ceilings.”

  Time to seal the deal. I reached out and took hold of his hairy white arm just above his gold chain bracelet. A soprano sighed delicately, and silver specks floated through the air. “You should remodel them. It’s your philanthropic duty as a New York real estate developer.”

  He jumped up. “You’re right, by God. It’s what I was put on earth for!”

  Curtis brought me apple pie with vanilla ice cream and I ate it, content, listening to Buddy on the phone, to his bank, to the mayor, to his broker. He even called his senator and asked if there were Federal grants or tax credits for what he planned to do. He dictated a press release to his PR firm.

  I thanked him for the pie.

  “No, it’s you I should be thanking. Who are you? I didn’t even catch your name.”

  Curtis gave me a to-go cup of water for Sydney.

  MY NEXT TARGET lived in Connecticut. Leigh Brackett was a self-promoting rightwingnut. The media loved her long blonde hair, cigar-smoking ways, and quotable rants. She was addicted to power but needed my help to jump to a new platform.

  I lay down with Sydney in a juniper hedge behind a daffodil border. It was seven a.m., the hour that Leigh Brackett walked her dogs. When her two waddling corgis noticed Sydney, they dragged Leigh to the junipers. I stood up and said hello but she ignored me in a way that felt familiar. I noticed that she wasn’t so horse-faced in person and she looked older than my mom. I needed to touch her but she kept backing away so I held out a felt-tip pen and the menu from the Miracle Towers Grill. “Miss Brackett, can I have your autograph? I’m such a fan.”

  She eyed the menu suspiciously. “What’s that?”

  “See, Buddy Palleson signed it too.”

  As she took the pen, my fingers brushed her hand. A ghostly soprano warmed up with minor arpeggios. The corgis stopped sniffing Sydney’s butt and looked up at me through the glittering air for instructions.

  “Sit,” I told them. To Leigh, I said, “Your father loves you, you know.”

  Her face crumpled. “He—he—he’s never said it!”

  “Forgive him. He’s a product of our misogynistic culture.”

  “How’s that?” She took the tissue I offered and wiped her eyes.

  “The Madonna-whore dichotomy. Where does a daughter fit in? He had no choice but to ignore you.”

  “He likes my books!”

  “My point. You’re trying to please him. What about Leigh?”

  “I’m happy! Goddam happy!”

  I let it lie there as she sobbed from the depths. Finally she caught her breath. “Everyone hates me except the weird ones who glom on.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “It’s a form of attention.”

  “Punishing, isn’t it? You can stop, today. Work on your golf swing. Go to Mexico for a few months. Adopt a baby.”

  “You’re right. Being toxic poisons me.” She laughed at her little joke. “Excuse me.” She pulled out her cell phone and placed a call. “Matt. Can you get me on tomorrow? Exclusive. I want to tell everyone I’ve just been kidding.”

  I broke off a daffodil bloom and tucked it behind her ear. The soprano was joined by two others, and they harmonized like identical triplets.

  ONLY A DAY left before I had to go back to school, not nearly enough time for all the people I wanted to influence. Bank of America’s CEO. The chairman of Exxon Mobil. The NRA’s president. All would have to wait. Heading home, intoxicated by my gift, I flew along the humming interstate.

  “SHE’S MUCH BETTER,” my mom said. “Straight As on her last report card.”

  Dr. Klein raised his caterpillar eyebrows.

  “It’s true,” I said. “I’m running for student council president.”

  “Amazing.”

  “I’m promising an organic salad bar in the cafeteria. Of course, I have to shake a lot of hands.” I decided not to tell him about my spring break trip. He was skeptical of my rapid improvement, and the miracles might seem unscientific.

  He said the drug trial was ending and the blind would be broken.

  “What do you mean?” my mom asked.

  “We’ll find out whether she’s been taking the drug or a placebo.”

  I thought about this broken blind. If I found out the pills were nothing but sugar and filler, would the miracles cease? “Well, I don’t want to know,” I said. “Just give me a lifetime supply.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry, dear. It’ll be at least a year before the FDA approves it.”

  I held up my bottle and rattle the lonely pill that was left. “What’s it called?”

  He leafed through a folder. “Um, looks like the name will be Chorus.”

  Wow. Suspicious, I asked about side effects.

  “I don’t know who’s taking the drug versus the placebo. A couple of patients have reported constipation. Any problems like that?” He studied me over his glasses.

  “No, no. What else?”

  “One patient dropped out of the study. He had auditory and visual hallucinations. They went away when he quit taking the pills.”

  On the surface I was calm, reflecting Dr. Klein’s twinkle right back at him. On the inside, my stomach had turned to concrete and my thoughts swirled in confusion. Aaron, my parents, Buddy Palleson, and Leigh Brackett—hadn’t my touch simply freed them to do the right thing? Made my fellow students notice me and vote for my good ideas?

  Or was I fooling myself?

  After a sleepless night I knew what I must do. Google and the Psylex website gave me a name: Dr. Garth Slate, Chief Scientist. I swallowed the final pill, waited until he’d be home from work then drove to his house, two towns over. He lived in an immaculate Victorian, three stories high, pale gray with red and black trim. All around it, flowers were a-bloom—tulips, violets, and dandelion dots in the bright green lawn. A driveway curved around to a garage, and there was Dr. Slate, a garbage bag in one hand and an armful of newspapers in the other, walking towards his trash bins. I was glad to see that he recycled.

  My strategy was shaky. The drug—if that was what I’d been taking and not a placebo—worked well. If Psylex didn’t market it, some other company would eventually come up with a similar formulation. Well, he was the genius. He’d think of something.

  Dr. Slate dropped newspapers into the blue bin. As he lifted the garbage bag toward the gray bin, it split and spilled Slate family trash all over the ground. “Fuck,” he said.

  I popped the trunk of Aaron’s car, where he kept trash bags, blankets, a first-aid kit, a flashlight, energy bars, and water, in case he had a breakdown. I whipped out a couple of bags and trotted down the driveway toward the mess. “Let me help you, Dr. Slate!”

  “Have we met?” He was a skinny guy, a fat-free runner. He smelled like beer. “Are you a new neighbor?”

  Why not? “Yes, I am. Let me give you a hand.” I started shoving crap into a bag. He tried to stop me but I pushed his hand away. Sparkles filled the air and a woman’s voice, a rich alto, began to hum minor scales. “Got a scoop?”

>   He went into his garage and came out with a shovel. Together we cleaned up the trash. “Nice of you,” he said. “Neighborly.”

  I held out my hand and he had no choice but to take it. The humming alto was joined by a mezzo counterpoint. A glowing pink light flowed over us. “Can I have a glass of water?” I asked.

  Except for a vase of red tulips, the kitchen was hard and permanent: granite, stainless steel, marble. The oven gave off an herby chicken smell. He popped a Guinness, said his wife would be back soon, she’d gone to pick up their son. I refused the beer he offered but took a Pepsi. I didn’t have much time and got right to the point.

  “I’m in the Chorus drug trial and experiencing some unusual side effects.”

  “Lights, singing? Harmless. Hence the name.”

  “Has anyone mentioned a certain, um, ability?”

  “Very rare. Why, you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “You have a certain genetic variation that enhances your response to the drug.” He took the lid off a pot and poked inside with a spoon.

  “Please sit down, Dr. Slate. This is vitally important.”

  “Call me Garth.” He turned a chair backwards and sat astride. “You know that Chorus works. The company needs a money-maker. We owe it to our shareholders.”

  “Your shareholders are mutual funds. You owe them nothing.”

  He looked glum and picked at his nails.

  “Think back. Has Psylex ever not gone to market with a drug, after trials?” I asked.

  “Of course. After the Vioxx scare, we stopped the development of our own COX-2 inhibitor. And there was a gout drug that also opened arteries. Looked good, until thromboses killed a few.” He sipped his beer. “If the hazards outweigh the benefits, we stop development. In the case of Chorus, I can’t define the hazards. Not in so many words. How can I say it . . . Delusional? Intensified grandiosity? Narcissistic?” He laughed. “Describes our board of directors. It doesn’t seem like a big deal to me. What’s your name, anyway?”

  He didn’t get it. I had to touch him, make him understand. I took my glass to the sink behind him, then twirled quickly and grabbed him around his middle. He sagged against me. A tenor voice began a smooth ooo-ooo-ooo and the air pulsated purpley. It was so beautiful that I got goose bumps.

  “Chorus must never go to market,” I told him, stroking his forehead. “It’s prescribed for the mentally ill. It could go to someone who deciphers secret messages in the dictionary. Someone who’s chewed through his leather straps. You cannot give a crazy person the power to manipulate people.” I ran my finger along the rim of his ear, intensifying the tenor’s flawless falsetto.

  “Of course. There’s too much potential for harm.” He sighed. “I’ll have to report some deaths. Is there a word for this? Falsifying results to keep a drug off the market?”

  “It’s ironic, Garth.”

  “Hey, thanks. For being my conscience.” He slapped the floor, disturbing the glow, which shifted into the red spectrum. “Feels good. It’s the right thing to do.”

  THAT NIGHT I dreamed about Mary Bee, her silky white-blonde hair and plump little mouth. I didn’t know why we broke up—we’d been perfect together, and would be again. I needed just one more chance.

  It was time. I pulled up in front of her house, strode to the front door, and rang the bell.

  Mary Bee opened the door and I reached out and took her hand. Her precious face creased in a smile.

  “I’ve missed you, Mary Bee.” I didn’t ask her for anything, at least not out loud. She knew.

  “Same here.” She pressed against me and I felt her heart beating. Her damp hair smelled like apples. I listened hard for a musical voice, but heard only the tinkle of a wind chime, a wren’s shrill warble, a distant barking dog, the whisper of her breath as she kissed me with her salty-sweet, delicate mouth.

  #grenadegranny

  IT’S NOT DIFFICULT to rob a bank. The hard part is—cue drum roll—getting away with it.

  How’d I get to this point in my life? I admit to a colorful past, but felonies weren’t part of it. A few misdemeanors in my youth, a DUI last year, but overall Martha Sue Bly obeys the law. I even declare every penny of income from my laundromat, the Wishy Washy, to the IRS. You’ll agree that’s the very definition of honesty. Of course, since my quarters are deposited in the bank, which then reports them to the IRS, I don’t have much choice.

  Quite a racket, this coziness between banks and the US Government. When a bank can’t pay what it owes, it’s too big to fail and the US Government steps in with a bailout. When you or I run into financial misfortune, we get slapped with overdraft fees, repossession, foreclosure, and bankruptcy. Recently I was headed in that direction, with good reason to ponder the unfairness of this cozy relationship.

  A few months ago I got a death sentence. Oh, not those words exactly. The doctor used terms like rare, difficult to treat, aggressive. We can try this, Martha. Or that. No guarantees.

  It’s not easy to obtain this or that when you’ve got no health insurance. Yup, I’m one of the unlucky North Carolina residents who earns too much for Medicaid, not enough for government subsidies. (Read that sentence twice. Because it doesn’t make sense.)

  I went through the Kübler-Ross stages in about three minutes flat: the lab musta made a mistake. But if they didn’t—the doc’s old, pushing sixty, so why not him instead? But since I got it—there’s a chance, isn’t there, with chemo and stem cells? Aw, there’s no hope and I’m just gonna lie on the floor and cry for the rest of my short life.

  It looked like forty-four years might be it for moi. What did I have to show for my too-short moment on this planet? A born-again evangelical daughter who said I was headed straight to hell to burn for eternity. A string of sorry men, evidence of a weakness for looks over brains, money, or character. Tattoos and cellulite.

  Not very much. Somehow, that fact was even worse than my diagnosis.

  THE WISHY WASHY is conveniently located in a strip mall right outside my neighborhood, Evergreen Hills, where the only hills are speed bumps and “green” is furnished by plentiful crabgrass, algae growing on our vinyl siding, and water in last summer’s wading pools. The entrance is marked by a splintery sign that some hoodlum teenager took a mallet to, knocking off letters so that it now says v rg n Hills.

  Three weeks into chemo, I pulled into my driveway with groceries and seven-hundred-dollars’ worth of pills—thank you, AmEx. I was nauseated, tired, bald, and broke. My medical bills resembled a Wall Street bonus but the only hedge fund I knew of was my neighbor Robert’s. Robert had come back from Afghanistan with a limp and a four-square-inch plate in his head. He was big as a fridge and good with tools, but simple. He earned money as a handyman—cutting grass, painting, spreading mulch, any little repair job you could think of. He lived at 312, next door to me, with his mom Annie, who used to be my best friend.

  Robert was edging his sidewalk. “I almost didn’t recognize you, Miss Martha,” he said. “Where did your hair go?” Gotta love him.

  “Don’t know,” I said. “It just fell out one day.”

  “You look real different. I never saw a bald lady before.”

  “There’s a first time for everything. Your momma still working at the bakery?”

  “Um, no. She was laid off. She’s sleeping. Should I wake her up?”

  “Let her sleep. I’ll stop by later.” A big fat lie. Annie and I weren’t speaking. She claimed I stole her fiancé but if you ask me, I did her a favor. Smitty was lousy husband material. When I got sick, he slithered away quicker than a bobcat onto his next prey—a dropout he found at the soft serve ice cream window. My feelings survived that blow, so should Annie’s. I missed her, though, and most days I wished I had a friend like she used to be. I sighed and turned to get my grocery bags.

  Robert laid the edger down. “Let me help you, Miss Martha.”

  “Bless you.” I hadn’t the strength of a newborn those days. He grabbed all five of my ba
gs with one hand and jogged in front of me to get the door. “Lemonade?” I offered, once we were inside.

  “Oh no, thank you, ma’am, I’ve got to get back to work. You need any help with your yard?”

  My heart slipped in a sad direction as I pondered the boy. The man. He was about twenty-five, weighed over two-fifty, so tall he ducked going through doorways as a matter of habit.

  I barely had enough for the phone bill but money was starting to look less and less important. “My beds sure do need weeding,” I said. “And spread some mulch. I know you can make it look nice out front.”

  Too tired to put my groceries away, I lay down on the couch for a rest, until the phone rang. My spirits sagged when I saw it was Isabella with her dutiful-daughter weekly call. Is the average mom pleased to hear from her lovely daughter who lives in Charlotte in a million-dollar mansion with her perfect preacher husband and brilliant infant? Yes, of course she is.

  Me, not so much.

  “Hi, darling,” I said, drumming up a bit of vocal enthusiasm.

  “Mom, how are you?” Isabella meant, Are you sober? I hadn’t told her about my health problems because she would imply they were divine retribution for my lifestyle.

  “Good, I’m very good. How are you?” I braced myself.

  “You got the package, right?”

  Take a moment to imagine what a wealthy daughter might send to her cash-strapped mom. A fruit-and-cheese arrangement, perhaps, with a selection of fancy crackers and soups. A gift card for a dog groomer—my mutt’s appropriately named Scruffy. Or what I really need: a note that says “please send me the roofer’s bill once he’s fixed that leak into your bedroom.”

  But Isabella’s package had contained religious tracts. Flimsy paper booklets, the end of the world (coming soon!!!), the wages of sin, who gets into heaven and who doesn’t. She’s underlined passages and written in the margins: it’s never too late. So important. His love will save you.