The First Principles of Dreaming

by Beth Goobie

  I did not flinch. Sneaking past my mother, who was sitting on the living room couch, engrossed in First Corinthians, I spent a good fifteen minutes stalking a neighborhood cat with a bread knife hidden behind my back before I was noticed. That was the end of The Chosen Ones. My window blind was snapped firmly up, the sharp knives locked away, my sacrificed doll thrown into the garbage. And The Chosen Ones blamed me. No matter that none of this had come of my volition—nothing I could do or say enticed them to return, and my room resonated with their absence as completely as Christ’s Easter-morning tomb.

  A kind of desperation seized me then, and I began walking down the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle’s central aisle once a month to be saved. I would have gone forward weekly, but Pastor Playle put out the call for salvation solely on the last Sunday of the month, not wanting to wear out his flock. After my second trip down the aisle, my mother carefully explained that I could only be saved once, I had offered my spirit to the Lord when I was four and nothing could undo this, and, most importantly, God did not want me repeatedly traipsing down the aisle and wasting His Very Godly Time. But deep inside I knew I was lacking—I might be officially saved, but it did not feel as if it had been a thorough job. Every month, Pastor Playle put out the call, and every month, I heard the secret baby voices wailing; nothing seemed able to shut them out—not the depth or breadth of the congregation’s singing, not my mother’s warning whisper “Mary-Eve, you’re already saved,” not her hand reaching to grab me as I slipped into the aisle, not the look of alarm on Pastor Playle’s face as I came forward yet again to fall, sobbing, to my knees. I put on a good show; if I could not speak in tongues, still I had a tongue and I was my mother’s daughter. One Sunday I cried, “God, oh Jesus, listen to me, I’m a sinner, I need to be saved, I want to be saved good like my mother, I want to be filled with glory-talk, save me, please give me white holy blood, crucify me and let it pour out of me like Jesus, except I’ll be better, I’ll have pure white blood, it’ll run down my arms and legs and drip onto everyone wailing at my feet, they’ll be covered in my pure white blood and that’ll save them, I’ll be pure and holy like my mother, maybe I’ll get into Heaven’s gates and be one of The Chosen Ones, the 144,000—”

  At this point, Pastor Playle clapped his hand over my mouth, which put an end to my ecstatic outburst but annoyed me—no one ever clapped a hand over my mother’s mouth, probably because they couldn’t figure out what she was saying. So I put up a struggle so intense, it took two deacons to carry me into the lobby; there they pinned me, grunting and spitting, to the floor until my mother came out to tell me that I had shamed her, and my father would be dealing with me. This, predictably enough, meant a spanking, but first my father took the unusual detour of making me repeat three times that I was saved and a child of God before bending me over his knee.

  In spite of their efforts, however, the following month, the frenzy seized me anew. As Pastor Playle put out the salvation call, I was once again overcome by the secret wailing-baby voices; raising my hands, I poured imaginary ashes over my head, tore open the front of my dress, and began to crawl down the central aisle, intent on kissing the pastor’s shiny black shoes. But before I could get to them, my father darted out of our pew, grabbed me by the arms, and dragged me to the lobby, then out through the church’s front doors to the car. I answered the call once more after that, danced down the aisle and fell rigid at Pastor Playle’s feet, even foamed at the mouth, but all that emerged from my lips was the same boring English—everyone understood what I was saying, so no one was impressed. This time Pastor Playle dealt with me, alone in his office. “You come walking down that aisle again, I’ll knock your teeth in,” he hissed, and I never did.

  Perhaps it was the mundaneness of the architecture that led to the congregation’s excesses. The Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle was an unimpressive stucco building in a suburb of apartment blocks. The plain front doors could have led into a dentist’s office, the lobby was lined with coatracks, and small utilitarian tables displayed the collection plates in full view. Several opaque puke-amber windows divided the lobby from the sanctuary, and the sanctuary itself had no windows, no stained glass that resonated the wondrous mind of God. Ceiling fans whirred constantly, the walls’ only decoration was a single large cross, and the stage had no pulpit—simply a podium on wheels that could be shoved to one side when the choir came up to perform. Stage left, a trapdoor opened onto a baptismal tank that did not seal properly; sometimes it leaked, and there was always the odor of chlorine. What could such a setting do for God’s thoughts, much less mine? At the Waiting for the Rapture End Times Tabernacle, there were no wings, no silent, widening ripples of the mind. Hands searched for these, they lifted ceaselessly upward; ceiling fans spun; baby voices wailed unheard; and the glory of the Lord spilled incomprehensible rivers of sound out of my martyr mother’s holy throat.

  •••

  The room Dee had above the garage sat apart from the rest of the world. Situated at the far end of her parents’ backyard, and enclosed on three sides by aspen and birch, the garage’s upper floor had a single south-facing window that opened onto an alley and a row of neighborly fences. The afternoon Jez first came into that place whirled russet-golden with leaves, a dense wine scent layering the air as several nearby apple trees dropped overripe fruit to the ground in quiet thuds. Two endless days had passed since she had offered Dee the flame from her Bic. When they had passed in the halls, the other girl hadn’t glanced her way, and for the first time, as Jez had pressed against classroom windows, waiting for a glimpse of the smoking-crowd goddess, no sirens had pulsed her nerves and the air had swallowed her like dead breath. Then, without warning—no signs, no omens, not even the slightest change in the weather—she had come out of Eleusis Collegiate through her usual exit, en route to her IGA sanctuary on Wimple Street, and there had been the powder-blue Bug idling at the curb, with Dee sitting cross-legged on its roof.

  “Jez,” she had grinned. “Still wanna play Barbies?”

  Sticky Fingers was playing on the tape deck. After Jez lit cigarettes for them both, they traveled with their windows down, bright leaves gusting the hood. Dee headed for one of the newer suburbs and parked in front of a colonial-style house, saying the garage was reserved for her father’s Ford. Then, crossing a manicured front lawn, she opened a gate in a freshly painted white fence, and the two girls entered a long backyard that hadn’t been mowed in weeks. Rose petals drifted through tall grass; a fairy-tale fountain gave out the sound of running water; an enormous maple scattered gold across an endless blue sky. With a sigh, Dee pulled her Pink Floyd T-shirt over her head, dropped it to the ground, and stretched. Eyes wide, Jez watched the other girl’s back bra strap shift to reveal an unbroken tan. Along the left side of her spine, three blue butterflies rose in tattooed flight.

  “Warm out, eh?” said Dee, breathing deeply, hands in her back pockets, breasts taut against the black lace of her bra. It was an open invitation for scrutiny, Jez realized, her throat tightening. Too open. Uneasily, her eyes skittered away.

  “Come on,” said Dee, striding toward the back of the yard.

  “Where to?” asked Jez. Hesitantly, she followed, a kaleidoscopic headache in her green paisley midi dress and blue-and-white oxfords.

  “Where I live,” said Dee, pointing to a small run-down garage surrounded by a cluster of trees. Close up, the white clapboard building looked sturdy enough, though badly in need of paint. A steep wooden staircase ascended the west side, taking the two girls out of the scent of warm grass and grounded apples to a landing perched high among rustling trees. As Dee unlocked the narrow door, a birch leaf spiraled onto her naked shoulder; letting it rest, she crossed to the room’s only window and propped it open with a wine bottle covered in candle wax. Then, turning to face the open door, she called “Don’t be shy,” and Jez stepped out of the high tug of wind, the shift and sigh of trees, into the mind of
that place, the thoughts of Dee Eccles; the adult world lost all claim on them.

  Coming through the door, she was hit with a solid wave of odor: stale cigarette smoke, musty throwaway furniture, the muted stench of oil and car exhaust from the garage below. On the wall opposite sagged a Union Jack, torn in the bottom right corner. Beneath it stood a brown plaid couch, obviously in survival mode. Magazine pictures of the Rolling Stones were taped to the walls, and Rod Stewart leered from a poster, satin shirt unbuttoned to his navel. Directly under that navel hunched an unsteady-looking burgundy love seat piled with laundry. Over by the window, a stereo and a small fridge competed for space, and a kicked-around coffee table sat in the middle of the room, covered with ashtrays, Playgirl, People magazine, and TV Guide. Behind Jez something crinkled, and she whirled, nerves rattled, to see a gust of wind bell out a poster of Farrah Fawcett that had been tacked to the inside of the door. Turning back to the room, she watched Dee cross to the love seat and stand in front of it, where she regarded Rod Stewart thoughtfully.

  “Who,” Dee asked, tapping her upper lip, “do you think would look better if Farrah and Rod traded hair?”

  Charlie’s Angels wasn’t on the Women’s Auxiliary Prayer Group’s approved TV list, but Jez had caught sight of Farrah and her red swimsuit taped to the inside of many an Eleusis Collegiate male student’s locker. Now, narrowing her eyes, she gave the poster a thorough going-over. “You know,” she said, keeping her voice as cool and even as Dee’s, “Jehu would’ve tossed this one out the window without a second thought.”

  “Jehu?” asked Dee, glancing at her with a frown.

  “The guy that splattered Jezebel,” Jez reminded her.

  One beat passed, then comprehension entered Dee’s face and she nodded. “Jehu would be really pissed with this window,” she said, leaning through it to survey the alley. “Couldn’t even break your leg from here. No wild dogs to lick up blood, either.”

  “Farrah’s safe then,” said Jez, scanning the wardrobe, dresser, and queen-size bed that engulfed the other end of the room. Dismay hit full force as she recognized the pouting features of Marilyn Monroe splayed across the cherry-red quilt. “You sleep under a dead person,” she said slowly.

  An amber leaf drifted through the open window and floated on the pause. “Nice of you to notice,” said Dee.

  No one usually noticed Jez’s casual comments; she felt the danger. “The Women’s Auxiliary Prayer Group does not allow Marilyn,” she explained rapidly. “Or Farrah. Or any of those”—she pointed at the Stones—“guys. They wouldn’t allow me to live up here alone, either. How did you talk your mother into it?”

  “I doubt she’s noticed,” said Dee. Languidly, she dropped onto the couch, and another butterfly was revealed, fluttering out of the crease between her breasts. “Last Easter,” she continued in deliberately bored tones, “Mom threw the bread knife at Dad, so he moved out here until two weeks ago, when they started fucking again. He insulated this place over the summer, just in case he had to live here all winter, so they couldn’t really complain when I decided to move in.” Angling her head to catch Jez’s eye, she mouthed the word “fucking” several times. “My parents’ favorite hobby,” she added. “You like that hobby, Jez?”

  Carefully, Jez shifted foot to foot. Though she had sized up every inch of the room, she still had to take more than one step into it; here she stood awkward in Dee’s space, on Dee’s terms, and they both knew it. Even the vocabulary belonged to Dee.

  “Do you know what fucking means, Jezzie-Jesus-girl?” Dee asked, her voice prowling.

  Jez took a quick breath. “D’you think I’m stupid?” she asked hoarsely. “It means getting carnal.”

  Softly, softly, Dee laughed. “You ever get carnal?” she sing-songed.

  For one brief, piercing moment, Jez wanted to fly out of that place to her mother’s high bright realm—the world of Billy Graham and My Answer. Even Armageddon had rules; this conversation was like climbing a hillside of loose shale. Still, she had come here looking for something. There was no point in hiding her light under a bushel.

  “At an Easter church retreat,” she said slowly. “And…summer camp.”

  “Bible camp?” asked Dee, one eyebrow lifting.

  Jez shrugged. “Sorry you missed out,” she said.

  Dee grinned, and both girls won. “So, what’s your favorite position?” she asked.

  “Come on,” Jez scoffed. This one was easy. “Missionary.”

  Now they were both grinning.

  “How many different guys you been with?” asked Dee.

  Jez shrugged again. “The adults went to bed,” she said. “We snuck out. Sometimes there was a group.”

  They assessed each other, Dee half-naked and sprawled on the couch, Jez one step up from a Hutterite, waiting just inside the door. This was Dee’s sanctuary, and Jez could feel it—the fiery heartbeats that guarded it close, a kingdom of burning hearts, burning bridges. Quickly she reviewed everything she had learned watching the girl across from her—the way, for instance, Dee used small gestures to set up rules in conversations then abruptly changed them with a tilt of her head. No one held her for long; she was a radio constantly switching stations, tuning people in and out. Jez had seen Dee make and destroy guys with small movements of her body, and nothing lost her more decisively than backing down…or accepting a conversation on her terms.

  “I’ve spent four years watching you,” she said finally.

  “I know you have,” drawled Dee.

  “So I know you four years better than you know me,” said Jez.

  Dee’s face came alive with interest. Opening a purse that lay beside her, she extracted her cigarettes, then swore softly. Without comment, Jez tossed her the orange Bic. Also without comment, Dee lit up and tossed it back.

  “Okay,” she said, inhaling. “You’ve watched me for four years. So what did you learn?”

  Jez’s skin sang with stark realization; she pushed it away.

  “Careful,” Dee said harshly. “I’m watching for the way you lie.”

  “I want to know what you know,” Jez whispered, her voice hoarse with the effort of half-truths. “Whatever it is, I want to know it too.”

  Dee’s eyes narrowed. “All right,” she said after a moment. “But this time I’m watching you. Take off your clothes.”

  In the long pause that followed, Jez almost admitted defeat, turned, and fled. For the miserable, unmentionable, agonizing truth was that, under the safety of her voluminous paisley midi dress, obvious tan lines divided her body into good and evil: at the neck, just above the elbow, and two inches below the knee. Over the years, the Women’s Auxiliary Prayer Group had seen no reason to vary anything except the sleeve length in their seasonal sewing projects; as a result, from neck to knee, Jez’s skin retained the exact shade of pale she had been born with—a color she was certain she shared with bloated underwater corpses. None of the dreamy predictions that she had been engaging in for the last two days had prepared her for a scene like this; she had assumed that the clothing Dee planned to lend her would miraculously cover any defects, and there would be a washroom for changing purposes. In this small, shadowy room, there was nowhere to go except Dee’s eyes, and they were predatory.

  “I can’t,” she stammered.

  “You can’t?” echoed Dee, her head lifting, nostrils flared. “You can’t?” she repeated ominously.

  “All right,” mumbled Jez, suddenly sweaty. “But I’m warning you, it gets ugly. I’m not allowed to suntan, and I have to wear these ugly midis all the time, even in the summer. Why would you want to see—”

  “Jez,” Dee said intensely, sitting up, her entire body focused into her thought. “Everyone wants to know what’s underneath. You can’t tell me that you’ve watched me for four whole years with my clothes on. Not if you really want to know what I know.” Getting to her feet, she cro
ssed the room, placed her cigarette between Jez’s lips, and began to undo the buttons on the front of Jez’s dress. “Jesus!” she muttered derisively. “Paisley is sperm, y’know. You’re walking around in a sperm midi. Christ, you’re a sperm whale.”

  Jez’s mother had a penchant for keeping things closed; this particular midi had forty-three buttons, and Dee swore her way through each one. Casually, her hands glided over the give of Jez’s breasts, the bodice parting gently under her touch, Jez’s heart another layer sighing open underneath. Together, the girls’ breathing fell into the same quick tobacco-scented rhythm as Dee’s hands pressed against Jez’s belly and the dress slid from her hips.

  “Could you shut the door?” Jez whispered. Instead, Dee crossed to the stereo and turned it on—Rod Stewart, perfect backup for a strip, Jez realized—so she shut the door herself, then allowed Dee to inch the cotton slip up her body, exposing the bargain panty hose, the extra-large underwear, and the stained, stretched bra. (Jez’s mother saw no reason to own more than one.) Slowly, languorously, the slip lifted over her head, and fingers fumbled with the hooks of her bra. A small sound happened in Jez’s throat. “Shh,” soothed Dee, bending to work off the panties and nylons. Finally, they were gone, and Jez stood free of it all and terrified in her skin, the all-consuming fullness of it, as if she had been reborn or newborn, as if Dee had removed some invisible numbness, an unspoken citizen’s agreement to a taming, and now her skin was rising from within itself to reclaim everything—body, mind, fire, air, the first principles of dreaming. With a whimper, Jez stepped toward the bed, intending to dive headlong into Marilyn Monroe’s gleaming smile, but the thought came to her: She’s dead and I’m alive. Taking one long breath of the living, she turned directly into Dee’s gaze, the single breath that shuddered open-mouthed through them both.