“I like the walk. I only stopped in . . . I was just wondering if your boarder was here? I was thinking I might speak with him about . . . something.”
Upstairs in his room, Robert twisted his head toward the crack of the just-open door. He stopped breathing in the golden stillness, so he would not really be there. If he was not there, she could not draw him to her. His hands clenched in the lap of nothing. The more he itched to see her face again, to study that lost familiar gaze, the more he resisted. He held on to the bedpost, and he thought of Odysseus lashing himself to the mast of his ship.
Violet hesitated. Then she spoke unnaturally loudly.
“I’m sorry to tell you he’s not in. I do expect him for supper, but I don’t imagine you’d want to wait that long.”
Evie turned slightly toward the road she would be taking to her home fields. The softening sun was beginning to pick out the blades of grass and gild them fleetingly.
“No, no, I can’t wait. I have to be getting supper for George as well.”
For one second, Violet thought of herself and Evie as two wives, busied with the daily tasks that having husbands demanded.
“Maybe you’ll run into him one of these times,” she said. “He enjoys wandering about, too. Never in much of a hurry to get anywhere.”
Evie smiled without much confidence at that.
“I guess I might. Would you please let him know I would like to speak with him? I don’t expect him to come out to the farm or anything, but maybe if he knows . . . I imagine he’s a little afraid of me. Because of what happened. But I think maybe . . . maybe he came here because I need him.”
She pulled a loose curl of hair and tucked it back into the dark knot at the nape of her neck while Violet stared at her. It slid forward again anyway. “That sounds strange, now that I’ve said it out loud.”
Violet thought Evie was talking a bit like her mother.
“But I do want to see him. Tell him . . . well, tell him he’ll have bad luck if he denies an audience to the woman who lost her son.”
Violet nodded gravely instead of smiling at Evie’s humor.
“I will tell him. When he comes in for supper. I hope . . . he can give you what you want.”
“Thank you for that.”
Evie turned and left, blue dress blowing back behind her, winking in and out of the long evening rails of shadow. When she was far enough away, thought Violet, you could still make out the blue, but you could no longer see just how much she had changed.
Violet turned back to the stairs and glowered at Robert, who had come down silently as a cat when he was sure she was closing the door. “Shame on you,” she spit, but he only shrugged at her.
* * *
* * *
When George came in that evening from the milking, he leaned, and Evie brought him supper without speaking much. Whenever George was tired, his voice seemed to leave him. Words became heavy like thick metal chain, the links of sentences rusted. He didn’t seem to take in how much smaller she and her dress had become. He did not ask about her visit to the Jones house.
After supper she washed the dishes and made the pot of tea, and they sat looking out the window in the front room. There was a rise in the land off in the distance, and behind it the sun was going down, letting its weight take it below the horizon as if it could understand their exhaustion. The sky was a bleed of seeping pink, and all along the ridge stood a strange row of single cloud puffs darkening gray against the light, like a row of the sheep you were supposed to count to send yourself to sleep.
Chapter 13
If one did not attend church regularly, one was not to be trusted. So every Sunday Robert Owens would put on his cleanest shirt, brush his coat and pants, and head down the street like everyone else. His first Sunday there, the Reverend Arnold had made a point to welcome him and shake his hand, but while he pumped, Robert had had the distinct impression he was being sized up. As if a dream peddler’s wares, being intangible, were just a bit too much like his own.
Robert walked alone because Violet went over early to warm up her organ. As he joined the crowd outside, the organ’s heavy breath would blanket them, and it seemed to bend their bodies toward their worship as the wind would bow the tall grass. Sometimes he would fall in with a family on the steps. The father would ask him how business went, his daughter giggling and his wife digging him hard in the ribs.
“Can’t complain, can’t complain,” Robert would always say, and compliment the ladies on their attire.
This week, though, he entered alone, and there, not steps away from him in the vestibule, was Evelyn Dawson. He stood aside, hoping she might not notice, and watched her back as it went up the aisle beside her husband’s. He continued to stare at her as he made his way into the sanctuary, and he walked right into the side of a pew and stumbled, hat tumbling onto the floor. As he picked it up and tried to sneak quietly into the pew he had assaulted, the heads turned anyway, lighter faces after darker hair like the undersides of leaves. He fumbled with the hat still in his hand as he tried to open his hymnal to the first hymn. He could not find the page and keep hold of the hat at the same time. Finally he set the hat down on the pew beside him. He tried to still his fluster.
All around, the church was dotted with his customers, their dreams of the night before unfolding silently and secretly inside them. Young Jenna Coldbrook had finally won the blue ribbon for quilting at the county fair, and Ansen Smith had worked up the courage to ask if he might see her home. Arthur Jones had climbed to the peak of Mount Everest and looked out over the blue-white world. And Elsbeth Maynard had spent one more perfect golden childhood day with her long dead grandmother. Pastor Arnold, looking gravely down at this flock, had the distinct impression their hearts were not beating entirely in rhythm with the solemnity of his church service. And some of them, he suspected, might not even have been listening to him at all.
There were Billy and Mary Thomson taking turns jiggling their new baby, who appeared to have arrived in the world in the form of a big bundle of crocheted yarn. Every so often the voice of the bundle would shudder out, that goatlike bleating of the uncomfortable newborn. Evie Dawson stared ahead as if she took no notice, but George Dawson watched them intently. He watched the couple whisper an argument during the hymn over whether the blanket was necessary in the warmer air of the church, and he watched while the baby was worked out of it and the bobbling head appeared over her mother’s shoulder. He was remembering the feel of that strange spot on a baby’s skull, where the bones did not quite meet and the pulse showed through.
Christina Blackwell sat with her parents, and Cora Jenkins across the aisle from them. Toby sat next to Cora with an unwitting grin on his face, staring up at the front of the church. He was so light of step he had almost developed a swagger. Several pews behind Christina was the freckle-faced Rolf, watching how the coils of her dark hair ribboned the light, how they rolled it back and forth when she moved her head. He was wishing he could put his finger on the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw. While he watched, a darkness of flush moved up her skin, because Jackson Banks had just snuck in late to join his family. Christina made an effort not to look at him—let his winks waste themselves on someone else, she thought.
Robert followed along, standing when everyone stood to sing and then sitting back down again and standing once more. As if they could not make up their minds. Evelyn Dawson was not far enough from him for his comfort, and he felt her turning toward him every so often as the service went on. He kept his eyes on his hymnal. He tried hard not to see her there, and because of that she was the only thing he could see, inside his mind.
The entire service he was only wondering when he might slip out unnoticed. If he didn’t get away before the others, he risked being cornered by her, so when they took up the offering, he did it. He dropped his coins into the brass plate and passed it to the man next to him, excused himsel
f under his breath, and squeezed out to the aisle. No one paid any attention to him, as they were all occupied finding their money in pockets and purses, and he escaped into the street and the buzzing spring air.
He wandered down the road to wait for Violet, leaning against a cherry tree about to bloom. He remembered standing just like this when the funeral darkness had washed across the road, and still it felt like the right place to be, away from grieving eyes and out where he could breathe. As Vi went past his tree, Robert came out and stepped into stride beside her, and she gasped at him, then laughed. She pulled up the hat he’d left behind and slanted it over his head.
“I thought you’d gone home,” she said.
“Didn’t go home yet. You know I walk you back every week. I just decided to leave early.”
“I see,” said Violet, and pressed her lips together. She’d noticed Evie Dawson back beside George today, but she wouldn’t comment. “You missed the community announcements,” she told him.
“Really? Anything important?”
“Not much. There’s to be a dance next weekend. The young people are quite excited. They’ll have it in the schoolhouse on Saturday night. We have some first-rate fiddlers in this town, you know, and I am to play piano for them, too.”
“Splendid.” Robert tucked his free hand into his pocket.
“Do you enjoy dancing?”
“I’ve done my bit of dancing, I guess, in my day.”
“Well, you must come, too, then. With the summer work beginning, this might be our last for a while. The men will all be too tired of an evening.”
Robert smiled. “Come now. There’s never a young man too tired to come out and dance with the pretty ladies, is there? And you have some beauties in this town. The boys must show them the good times they deserve.”
“Or what? They’ll depart for lands unknown?”
“You never know. I may squirrel one away with me yet, when I leave.”
Violet looked down at her shoes. “When will that be, do you think?”
“I’m just teasing.”
“But when do you think you’ll be leaving? For good?”
Robert lifted his chin to the idea. “I can’t really say. I’ve only just begun to sell here. It was unusual circumstances when I arrived. Some places never really take off for me, and I’m only there a few weeks. Other places I’ll spend as long as a year. So I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”
“But you are coming to the dance.”
“Of course I’m coming.”
“And how do you plan to keep your distance from Evelyn Dawson the whole evening?”
“I hardly think Mrs. Dawson is in the mood to go to a dance, do you?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Violet.
* * *
* * *
“You really want to go?” George blew on his tea and put his mouth to it even though it was still too hot. He slurped, and Evie frowned at him.
“Yes, I think I will. Not for the dancing, just to help put out the food. Or serve lemonade. I can bring some of my raisin squares.”
George smiled at her. “Well, I must go, too, if your raisin squares will be there.”
“Of course you’ll go, too. It will be a nice time. I like to see all the young people, all the little love affairs breaking out.”
“It’s nice you can still enjoy their fun in your old age.”
Evie snapped her napkin at him. They drank their tea while a silence rolled itself between them like a lazy cat. It was startled away by a knock at the door. Without waiting to be let in, Rose Whiting opened it for herself and stepped into the hall. Evie stood and went to be embraced by way of welcome.
“Hello! I see I’m just in time for tea, perfect.”
“Yes, you are. Let me get your coat. We have a huge tin of cookies from Mrs. Blackwell. And a cake from Irma Jones. And scones from Mrs. Bachmeier.”
“My goodness, such a feast,” said Rose, rubbing her hands together as she came into the kitchen. George stood to hug her, too, and pulled out a chair. Its feet scraped the floor between them.
“We don’t need to worry about going hungry, do we?” said George.
“Kindness needs an outlet, doesn’t it? All wishing they could help you in some way.”
“Oh, yes. I hope they don’t mind letting out my pants for me as well, when the time comes.”
Rose studied her daughter. “Evie, my dear, you don’t look as if you are suffering from too many sweets.”
Evie raised her eyes. “Well, Mother, I haven’t really had a big appetite lately.”
“But you must still keep up your strength.”
“I have plenty of strength. Plenty of it. I never was a big one for sweets, you remember.”
“Well, I’m going to stay and make you my fried chicken for supper. You never could say no to it.”
“What about Father? Where has he got to?”
Her mother waved an arm. “He has so many cases right now I hardly see him. Flu’s coming and going everywhere, making a circle through town and starting over again, seems like. Poor Jenny Simms has come down with it, and half the Jones and Cartwright children—it’s just that time of year.” She plunked herself down in a chair. “There’s nothing much to be done for them except lots of rest and fluids, but your father wants to lay eyes on each and every one of them once a day, listening for pneumonia, you know how it is. He’s a good doctor.”
“Yes, he is.”
“So I’ve come here to check on you.”
“All right.”
Evie poured her mother’s tea and refilled her own and George’s cups.
The silence returned, curling at their feet and bedding down.
“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a fried-chicken dinner, that’s what,” said George.
As Rose cut up the chicken and Evie peeled potatoes, Rose watched her daughter. The chicken skin was slippery bumps under her fingers, and the knife was sharp. She peeked sidelong at Evie while trying not to butterfly her own hand. Evie seemed to be having a good day, going about her business and even humming to herself here and there. They stood side by side and listened to the crunch of stubborn bird bones separating.
“It’s a strange feeling, you know,” Evie said.
“What is?”
“These days . . . there are these days when it loses its hold on me. When he seems to lose his hold. It’s as if he is the one who has to let me go and not the other way around. Like I don’t get any say in it myself.”
Her mother stared down at the chicken. “I guess that’s how it feels to grieve, isn’t it? The mind, well, it just doesn’t want to wallow, not forever. Sadness is like an ocean. It must move in and out.”
Evie nodded.
“And you don’t have to let him go.”
“You know what I mean. I have to let go the wanting to see him. I was lucky to have him, yes. But I wanted to see him grow up.”
“Are you sleeping?”
Evie’s look was quick both ways. “When I do, I . . . have dreams.”
“It’s normal for sadness to make us tired. It will pass.”
They worked in silence for a while.
“I don’t suppose you’ve run into that man, that . . . dream peddler.”
Evie looked up. “No, not really. I’ve seen him at a distance, that’s all. I think George knows him, but I’ve never spoken to him.”
“Good. I can’t imagine what Violet Burnley thinks she’s doing, letting a man like that live in her house, cooking for him, doing his washing.”
“What kind of a man?”
“A charlatan. The kind who comes to small towns thinking the size of our brains is in direct proportion to our population and tries to take advantage. Takes money from people who work hard for it and don’t know any better.”
“I do
n’t know about that, but I haven’t heard of anyone being disappointed. There might be something to it.”
Her mother snorted. “There is no such thing as giving someone a dream. The only thing with the power to do that is your own mind.”
Evie shrugged. “I guess there’s no harm in it. If whatever he gives people affects their minds, they’re still getting what they want, what they didn’t have without him, so he’s not really cheating them.”
“Yes, it is cheating,” her mother said sharply. “It most certainly is. I don’t like his business. And I hope you never get so desperate as to try and buy a dream from the likes of him. He should let people’s minds alone.”
Evie hunched over her potatoes. She was slicing them now and setting the damp, milky rounds into a pot of cold water to take out the starch.
“No, I’d never do that,” she said.
* * *
* * *
Christina Blackwell was sitting in Cora Jenkins’s bedroom, letting her friend test a series of limp ribbons next to her hair, one at a time.
“Honestly, Cora, do you really think it will make a difference?”
“We should not take any chances,” insisted Cora, already wearing in her own hair the green she had chosen to match her dress. “This is all up to us, remember. We need to change the course of a dream. We are altering fate. Very hard to guess what small details may end up being of vital importance.”
“Like a hair ribbon,” said Christina sarcastically.
“Exactly like a hair ribbon. Let’s see this one.”
She held up a twist of periwinkle blue next to Christina’s head. They looked in the glass together, through its pale spores of age. The ovals of their faces blurred out of its silver like surfacing mermaids.
“I approve,” Christina said, because as long as Cora liked it, she was happy they could stop looking. She was no longer really seeing the colors of the ribbons. She was seeing in grays like a photograph of themselves. Worrying about Jackson was having the opposite effect on her than she thought it would. She had expected everything to be heightened. As her pulse bounced through her wrists and her temperature rose, she thought she would find herself in a confusion of sounds and lights, like a carousel. Instead the world was fading and the color of things bleeding outward, away from her. Her senses had all been muffled, like they were wintering under a gray fall of snow.
The Dream Peddler Page 11