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The Dreaming Field

Page 6

by Ron Savage


  Stay frosty, Sarge.

  Virgil poked him in the arm. “Cheer-up, birthday boy. You like the car, or what?”

  “It’s okay, really.”

  They’d been driving his birthday present for an hour or so, a ‘65 cherry red Olds, Simon hunched close to the large ivory steering wheel, the windshield wipers sweeping across the icy glass. Fourth day in a row now; the snow hadn’t quit. No rain, no sleet, just a slow-motion downpour of fine crystals tapping against the car, the sound of wrinkling plastic wrap, layering roads already swollen and packed. The Olds chugged through the storm at ten miles an hour, fifteen on the decline, and that was alright with Simon, who’d been doing a white knuckle cruise, anyway.

  A minute’s worth of silence passed before Virgil said, “I wrote these new lyrics”—taking a folded yellow paper from the breast pocket of his red and black checked, flannel jacket—“You wanna hear?”

  “Later, I got to concentrate.”

  “You need to lighten-up.”

  Simon and Virgil had been in the same classes since kindergarten, lived next door to one another; had done the blood brother thing, knife to palm; jerked-off to the same issues of Playboy, traded comics and baseball cards, got sick drinking beer together; and except for the last three years, if you saw Simon on the street, his blood brother wasn’t far behind him.

  But—

  Virgil wrote the worst goddamn lyrics in the entire goddamn universe. Like Country shit, or whatever: somebody’s dog dying, or a guy’s truck stolen, or somebody’s girl humping your best buddy: Virgil knew nothing about this stuff. He never had a truck in his life, or a girlfriend; or a dog, for that matter. And every line rhymed, not two or three lines down the road—every line.

  Moon, June

  Dying, Crying

  Truck, Fuck

  Every line.

  You couldn’t tell him, either. Simon tried once, and the boy’s overweight, unbelievably hairy body seemed to melt into the ground. Virgil even had hair on his shoulders; and not fuzz, but brown kinks of hair. When two girls at school started calling him “Buddha Bear”—Lula Dorfson and her asshole sister Marie—right in the middle of the cafeteria—The Bear refused to leave his bedroom for three days.

  No, you didn’t go critical with Virg.

  “It’s getting dark.” Virgil stared out the windshield, an ever-diminishing view cleared by the ice-crusted wipers, watching the snow fall. “I think we’re in Media.”

  Simon hadn’t realized how long he’d been driving. On a good day, the small town of Media, Pennsylvania was, maybe, an hour away from his home. On this evening—with this gas-guzzler of a boat— well, add an hour…probably more.

  “You’re not lost, right?” Virgil sounded apprehensive.

  “We’re in Media,” Simon mumbled irritably, knowing that wasn’t the point. The questions were, 1) Can you get us back? And 2) Are you gonna turn around soon?

  Yes.

  And no.

  He knew how to get back, but high banks of snow had narrowed the road on both sides, and he couldn’t turn around. With a VW, no sweat.

  The Queen Mary was a different story.

  Simon glanced up at the trees so heavy with ice they tilted inward, forming a white sparkling tunnel under the moon. “We’ll be fine.” Who needed a bunch of extra anxiety and a lame situation? “Listen, Virgil, why don’t you settle back and read me…” was he actually asking him? “…read me your new lyrics or something.”

  “I’m not in the mood.”

  Thank you, Jesus.

  Then Virgil said, “That Jonathan guy, the one in your dream, you know him? I mean, school, the neighborhood?”

  “…no.”

  “Never seen him?”

  “No.”

  No, he hadn’t; and no, he didn’t want to talk about it. Jonathan was like the scrape on his leg from the glass shard, a part of the dream able to cross-over, to enter his world—okay, maybe not his world, but the world, the awake world, the one everybody lived in—a real, living, breathing kid, and Simon hadn’t a clue as to how he knew that. Perhaps it was the purple scar on the boy’s cheek, the edge pink with a tiny ridge up the center, the specifics of the thing. He couldn’t remember ever having a dream done in such detail. He also had zero trouble imagining what The Buddha Bear might say.

  You’re losing it, Sy.

  You know THAT, don’t you?

  Virgil would shit a brick.

  And he’d truly shit a brick if Simon told him the whole truth. Not only did he think the kid was real, but—and here’s where ole Virgil shits the brick—he and Jonathan had business together. Simon wasn’t exactly swift on the finer points, like what business, or how they’d meet, but he’d fill in the blanks later. OR—how ‘bout a theory? Wanna hear my theory, Big Buddha? Your best buddy is beginning to see into the future. A gift from another friend. And for the past four years, nothing happened. You know? Zip, nothin’. Well, surprise, surprise: I think it’s starting to work—not perfect, not all the time—but it’s kicking-in, and I’ll tell you a secret, Virgil, my stupid gifts are scaring the hell out of me.

  “—Gum?”

  “Pardon?”

  “—Fuckin’ gum, man.”

  What’s he saying?

  Simon let his mind clear; glanced at Virgil’s hand now and the pack of Juicy Fruit. He shook his head. “Thanks, no.”

  The Bear seemed to consider him for a moment; and grinned. “You’re turning into a very freaky individual.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You don’t believe it was a dream.” Virgil, still looking at him; still grinning: “Not your normal dream, anyway. C’mon, I know you. You’re always tryin’ to hide stuff. Tell me, c’mon. I hate it when you do the John Wayne thing.”

  “No, too weird.”

  “Forget that, I already think you’re crazy.” Virgil paused; then softly, “…I miss us doing school together.” The boy blew a foggy breath into his cupped hands. “Hey, man, the heater’s not working.”

  “It’s on.” Simon put a palm to the small grill; felt the cold air. “…terrific.”

  “We’ll freeze to death.”

  “At least you got insulation,” he said, nudging Virgil with an elbow, his eyes not leaving the road.

  “Bite me.”

  “Only if you die first. Gotta keep up my strength and all.”

  “You ever going back? You know, to school?”

  Simon didn’t answer, another embarrassing subject.

  Home study wasn’t a bad deal, but he missed Bear, too. He’d spent a lot of time alone, drawing, painting, the one thing that interested him. His parents had actually talked about correspondence art classes.

  “Whoa, look.” Virgil pointed to a mill on the left side of the road, fifteen or so yards ahead, set off in a wooded area. Dull yellow light filtered through the windows. “Let’s stop there, okay? Alright, Sy? We can get warm.”

  When they reached the mill, Simon cut the Queen Mary’s engine, staring at the gray stone building. Beside it, a large millwheel and frozen stream, and the yellow glow coming from the windows illuminated the icy trees. Above the door, he saw a black sign with white letters; this also lighted: Hedgerow Theater.

  Images appeared to Simon, but far too ambiguous, and not soon enough.

  That was the terrible thing:…not soon enough.

  IV

  Virgil had left the car, wading through knee-deep snow toward the theater, hands pushed into the pockets of his black and red checked, flannel jacket, his shoulders raised, the wind whirling the snow about him in the moonlight. He turned once and waved impatiently, then he continued on with pioneer determination.

  The images wouldn’t quit, Simon shaking from them, pictures not altogether focused.

  —Eddy?

  Is that you?

  Are you in there?

  The birthday boy couldn’t move; and when finally able, he tried rolling down the window to warn Virgil, but the damn thing refused to budge.

  He
banged his fist on the glass.

  Virgil didn’t turn around.

  Damnit, Bear, LOOK at me!

  The driver’s door was also frozen, welded shut by ice. Simon rammed his shoulder against it; and after the third unsuccessful try, he slid across the worn cloth seat, opening the passenger’s door. He looked over the top of the car, hand above eyes to block the snow, but Virgil wasn’t there.

  Simon felt heat spread through his chest and neck, a slow rising panic, his body suddenly heavy and seeming to sink into itself.

  He yelled the boy’s name.

  Silence.

  Wind rattled the ice in the trees.

  But no Virgil; definitely, no Virgil.

  Relax, Bear’s inside. He wanted to get warm, that’s all. Just drag his fat ass out. This is NOT a big deal.

  Uh-huh. Sell me a bridge.

  The snow was loose on the steep embankment, thigh-level and wet, Simon feeling rocks moving beneath his feet; twice, he almost fell, grabbing a tree trunk for balance. At least Virgil left him a path, deep, broken cylinders where his legs had plowed the drifts, and Simon saw the boy’s footprints leading up the steps and ending in front of the gray wood double doors.

  He hesitated. Go on, Bear’s your best friend. Find him and leave. You don’t have to set-up house, for God’s sake. Simon did think about the alternative a second, maybe two, how he’d get in the car and drive away. Goodbye, Bear. For a second, maybe two, Bear didn’t matter, the years with him didn’t matter, or the stuff they had done together, all the blood brother shit. Hey, fuck you, Bear, I’m outta here. Friendship always puts you into these situations. Then his mother’s number did a re-run.

  He’s got no friends, Max. Who’s he got? That fat one, Virgil What’s-His-Name?

  And he let him DIE.

  The boy’s NOT well-rounded.

  Simon let out an audible breath.

  A shadowed lobby; warm, though, taking the chill immediately from his red, numb hands, his damp hair and jeans. Photographs hung on walls of stretched burlap. On the ceiling, track lights sent down luminous yellow circles. The photos showed actors in various poses, scenes from a play called, v. At opposite ends of the wall, two additional sets of double doors had been propped open.

  A greenish light split the darkness.

  You here, too, Eddy?

  Bear and you becoming pals?

  He walked into the theater, no more than a half-dozen steps, and stopped. The woman stood center stage, her profile bathed in the delicate green haze, perhaps the most beautiful woman Simon had ever seen—no, positively the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen—tall, close to six feet, black hair draping her shoulders and arms in long glistening ringlets. She wore a white silk nightgown, sleeves wide at the wrists, her breasts filling the low bodice. Simon could still see only her profile, an outline of a nipple pressed against the material, and he felt himself getting a boner just watching her.

  It took awhile to notice Virgil was also there; the boy, facing her, a sheet of crumpled yellow paper in his hands. Then Simon heard Bear; realized he’d been reading his lyrics to her, the voice flat, a murmur.

  Where are you, Eddy?

  I know you’re here.

  He remembered the dream, Eddy and Jonathan eating pizza at Tavern on the Green, that bug-infested pizza, and Simon’s boner deflated.

  …her?

  …not this woman…

  Is that you, Eddy?

  She turned, full view now, gazing into the blackness of the theater, as if she’d heard his thoughts.

  “Hello, Simon.” Her voice smooth, breathy. “We’ve been waiting for you. Haven’t we, Virgil?”

  Simon stared at the front of the nightgown. Blood drenched the woman, clinging to the stomach, thighs, her crotch.

  “I’m Dora,” she whispered, lips parting in a smile, the teeth red, trails of blood on her chin and the length of her neck. “Virgil was reading a poem about his dog. It died, you know.”

  “…Bear?” Simon, looking him: “…hey…Bear.”

  “I’m Sorry,” she said solemnly. “Virgil died, too. We can’t have bad poetry, can we?

  Show us how you died, Virgil.”

  The boy swivelled around, something mechanical, facing the empty rows of seats, facing his friend. Except for a blank, doll-like expression, Simon didn’t see much wrong with Bear. But the more he studied him, the more he realized nothing was going on behind those eyes, no hint of his humor, his gentleness. Maybe Virgil had been hypnotized. Sure, that’s it. He’s in a trance. This didn’t explain the ashy color of the skin, though, or the terrible stench drifting toward the back rows, the penetrating odor of shit and…

  …blood…

  …God, I can smell his blood.

  Didn’t people lose control of their bladder and bowels when they died? He read that, perhaps seen it on TV. The muscles became flaccid, and what was on the inside fell away to the outside, your piss, your shit, all the fluids and stuff people kept tucked within themselves, all that embarrassing private stuff just fell away wherever you happened to be: in the middle of the school cafeteria, the bus, on your way to work, or shooting a few hoops…

  …all of it just fell away.

  Virgil spread his red and black checked jacket, a slow, graceful motion, burnt-out eyes never blinking. His Philadelphia Eagles sweatshirt had been torn, the thick brown hair on his chest matted with blood; and there, at the center, a hole, a wide bleeding hole, the size of a fist.

  Simon’s throat constricted; the scream, a wheezing noise.

  “Bad poet,” Dora said, arms spreading to an unseen audience. “…but with a good heart.”

  He heard laughter—or thought he did—the way you hear wind through trees before feeling it, that faintly perceptible rustle.

  The woman waved her hand, the gesture indifferent, her attention still fixed on the vacant seats, and Virgil collapsed onto the stage, knees first, upper body wavering then hitting the floor.

  “…or better put, a tasty heart,” she said, and winked.

  Again, the shadowy laughter.

  And applause.

  Dora curtseyed beneath the pale green light, fingertips at the sides of her bloody gown, bowing deeply, throwing kisses to the empty seats with both palms. This, all this, followed by an abrupt vacuumed silence.

  Simon felt paralyzed, the joints in his arms and legs seemed locked, and the theater was so lethally quiet he could hear the subtle patter of snow landing on the roof.

  What had happened?

  Jesus Christ.

  WHAT had happened?

  Fixing it in his mind seemed impossible. An image of Virgil would be there, that awful jagged hole where his heart had been, and Simon felt himself going into overload, everything shutting down.

  Then he saw Dora step off the stage, her bare feet firmly planted in the air—five, perhaps six inches above the red velour seats—walking toward him on some…

  invisible surface…

  …and grinning…

  …blood wet about her lips, the chin, along the curves of her breasts…

  …and her body began to slowly alter itself, the hips becoming narrow, black hair retreating into the skull, arms turning muscular, even her clothes…

  …no, its clothes…

  …even its clothes were changing, a leather jacket, jeans rolled at the cuff…

  …and the hobnail boots…

  …Eddy?

  I knew it was you.

  “Happy birthday,” Eddy muttered, standing in the aisle now, Bear’s blood still on his teeth and tongue.

  Simon did a quick one-eighty, no thought required, running past the lobby and out the double doors, the cold shock of night burning his face, tripping and falling into the snow, scurrying up and running again—not looking back, either—if he was going to die, fine, so he’d die, but not looking back, not now; and Simon ran, jeans soaked to the knee, trees no more than a blur, snow and ice swirling with the wind. He saw the road, the car…

  My do
or’s locked…

  …get to the passenger’s side…

  …let me make it to the passenger’s side…

  And Simon lost his balance, tumbling down the steep embankment, watching the snow spinning from a clouded, dark sky, the trees seeming to tumble with him, his head slamming on hidden rocks, the icy street, sending flashes of white light into his eyes; this, followed by an infinite blackness.

  FIVE

  1983

  Fairless Hills, Arkansas

  I

  Jonathan and his mom were sitting on the living room couch zoned-out on Jeopardy; Randolph, at the dining table drinking Jack Daniel’s—Ole bud Jack, he’d say— and cleaning the Smith & Wesson .40—ole black beauty, he’d say— not the greatest combination in the world, especially this evening.

  An acceptance letter arrived today from Penn State, the undergraduate school. A full scholarship. Johnny boy had just about pissed himself. Now the old man couldn’t give him a bunch of crap, how he didn’t have the money and all, and why the hell do you wanna go to college, anyway. You got a good job. I don’t need no smart-ass kid running the show. You understand? Yada yada. Randolph Clayman had the money. Over the last few years, he’d acquired not one, but two feed and grain stores and was seriously considering a third. Jonathan started working for Daddy after high school. A year had passed, and the smart-ass kid was B.O.R.E.D. to the max. You didn’t talk much, though, not to Randolph Clayman. He tried a couple of times. Hints, mind you, testing the waters. You think I can afford THAT? Randolph getting red-faced, little veins pumping on his forehead: I’m in debt up to my crotch here! But Jonathan kept the books; Jonathan knew. The old man could’ve sent him to Harvard. Christ, he could’ve bought Harvard. Nope, money wasn’t the reason; hadn’t ever been the reason.

  Eddy said it the first time they’d met.

  Beats the shit out of you when you fail…

  …but if you get too smart, he beats the shit out of you for that.

  The day Johnny boy had brought home a straight “A” report card—math, English, gym, the works—Uncle Jake told his father, “Chains won’t hold the kid back, Randy.”

 

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