The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  When Jake had left, the old man started drinking with his Ole Bud Jack; saying, “What you tryin’ to do, be smarter than me? Think I’m a fuckin’ dummy?”

  “You oughta be proud of him,” Tamara mumbled, an attempt to intervene. Her weary tone seemed to gain strength, “He’s your son, a dad oughta be proud of his son.”

  Randolph had nodded, smiled; then got up from his chair in the living room and threw Tamara against the wall, calling her a bitch that was always protecting her faggot, smart-ass boy.

  “Ain’t my goddamn son,” Randy said. “You probably got pregnant by some college guy and suckered me into gettin’ married.”

  He grabbed Johnny, too; held them both to the wall—not without a few slaps first, just making sure everybody was clear on the subject—and Randolph whispered in his intense, whiskey breath voice, “If either of you tell Jake about this, I’ll fuckin’ kill the two of you. Hear me? I’ll kill me one goddamn whore and one bastard son.”

  So, no…

  …no…

  This wasn’t a good time for Jonathan to show Daddy his acceptance letter from Penn State, all expenses paid, not with daddy’s Ole Bud Jack and a Smith & Wesson .40 on the dining room table.

  Jonathan had thought, maybe, he’d pack a suitcase, catch the Trailways, and leave Fairless Hills. You know, sneak away; forget the goodbyes. A Dead-of-Night number. But he pictured Randolph’s anger in overdrive and looking for a target, his mother the most likely recipient. You could walk that to the nearest bank. The horrible thing was, even if he told the old man, even if they pounded one another senseless ‘til they settled it, one drunken night the jerk would think about his smart-ass faggot son at college—six months, perhaps a year from now—and he’d probably beat his mother to death. Randolph enjoyed opening their marital wound when he drank, crap that happened between them before they were married, or last week, or ten years ago, stupid crap that didn’t bother sane people.

  The boy looked at his mother, curled on the sofa, muttering the Jeopardy answers to herself, wearing the same pink terry cloth robe she’d had on this morning, her skin pale, gaunt in the cheeks, a darkness beneath the eyes: Fairless Hills High’s primo cheerleader, circa 1963, gone sad and fearful.

  Jonathan wished he could take her with him. He had mentioned it, half-joking, half-serious.

  “Why do you stay, Momma?”

  A shrug; the right corner of her mouth pressing for a smile but giving up on it; and she said, “What am I supposed to do? This is my home.” Maybe Randolph had scared the life from her, all the arguing, a smack here and push there, draining her confidence, her desire.

  Sticks and stones break your bones,

  and words can steal your spirit.

  How happy she had been reading his acceptance letter, little squeals and jumps, hugging his neck, a glimpse of the cheerleader, as if she’d found her escape through him.

  “You can stay with my sister,” his Momma said. “You remember Joan? Taller ‘n me and pretty? Joan has a place in Philly.”

  In less than an hour, Tamara Clayman had withdrawn to the sofa, knees to chest, the expression far-off and dreamy. Though she never mentioned it, Jonathan imagined her thoughts. What am I gonna do when your daddy’s drunk and angry? He’ll hurt me, Johnny. He won’t want to, but he will…

  II

  “This was a cemetery,” Eddy said to Jonathan. They were making their way under the northside arch of Washington Square; Eddy, giving the twenty-five cent tour. “Before anyone could build this park, the city fathers had to exhume ten thousand skeletons; not personally, of course.” Jonathan felt the young man’s arm circle his shoulders. “Duels were fought here, and people were hung here.” Eddy pointed to a massive tree at the northwest corner. “That one, the hanging elm.”

  “But this isn’t New York. The real town, I mean.”

  “The only thing that isn’t real is time, kid.”

  Jonathan glanced about the park, the constant smoking night, the dim orange blush of the skyline and the silhouetted buildings with distant flames. The place had a certain odor, burning oil and gasoline. When he used to complain of the stink—years ago—Eddy would always take a deeep breath, shouting to the dark sky:

  Ahhh! I love the smell of napalm in the morning!

  This night sleep hadn’t come easily to the boy. He wanted to see Eddy too badly, feeling safer in the city than his own home, tension leaving his neck and back the moment he crossed over into the dream, or whatever it was. “Bending time,” his friend liked to say, one side of the upper lip forming a sly Elvis grin. “Just bending a little time on the ole homestead.”

  Eddy had gotten him through school; through his successes and the inevitable fights with Randolph Clayman. Most importantly, Eddy had listened. You could tell the guy anything, your best and worse thoughts, who you hated and who you had the hots for: nothing was too weird.

  Elvis never left the building.

  His asshole father was totally the reverse—day and night there—Randolph didn’t do discussions. The old movies and TV shows where sons would present their concerns to a sympathetic father seemed an inconceivable event to Jonathan. Judge Hardy and Andy, Ward and the Beaver, Ozzie and Ricky and David at the fuckin’ Malt Shop: who were these people? He watched them longingly, pretended to be Ricky or Andy or the Beav; imagined talking to that strange older male who’d nod, bestowing his wise reassurance: Now don’t you worry, Andy. I’m sure little What’s-Her-Butt will go to the senior prom with you. And if she doesn’t, why, the girl’s missing the brains God gave her, that’s all. There’ll be other girls. Lots of them.

  Don’t you worry.

  Trust me.

  Believe in me.

  Have faith in me.

  Sometimes, Jonathan thought of Eddy as…well…not Ward, exactly, but maybe Wally, and he was the Beav, except Eddy had a way of looking at you, right into you, as though he saw every hideout. Jonathan didn’t care whether this New York was real or fake or made from cream cheese. Compared to home and Randolph Clayman, this New York felt like heaven; and Eddy, his guardian angel.

  Yeah, all things are relative, mu’man.” Eddy gave Johnny boy’s arm a squeeze, then sunk his hands into the pockets of his jeans, glancing up at the hazy skyline. “…New York, New York, it’s a wonderful town.”

  “You bet your ass.”

  “Oh, more than that,” Eddy said, and did his Elvis grin.

  Jonathan stared toward the opposite end of Washington Square. A kid his own age was walking across the park—or limping—weight supported by a cane, the right foot dragging slightly, a thin, fragile-looking boy, perhaps five-five or six, his brown hair tied in a ponytail. Jonathan recognized him from the tavern, that time Eddy thought it would be a riot to freak the kid with his roach trick.

  Eddy was always up for a little fun.

  “Can’t he see us?”

  Another Elvis grin. “When I want him to, yeah.”

  “Why the cane?”

  “An accident,” muttered Eddy, seemingly elsewhere.

  “Wanna say hello, or whatever?”

  “Soon.”

  “I never see anyone. You know? It’s usually just you and me. That’s okay—you and me, I mean—but are there other people?”

  “…yes.” Eddy was watching the boy with the cane.

  “How come—”

  “What will you do about your father?”

  “Do? I…I dunno.”

  A typical Eddy question: the left-field tough ones, the ones you’d sooner avoid; he, relentlessly pushing you to think, causing a guy brain-strain, for Christ’s sake. But Jonathan spent days thinking about it. He’d go crazy staying in Fairless Hills. Yet how could he just run away, leaving his mother alone? The old man would kill her, or torture her to the point of suicide. She didn’t seem too far from that now. And this is where the thinking ended, at this unsolvable, frustrating place: he had to go; she had to stay, and the old man had to be the old man.

  Eddy unrolled a folded
Lucky’s pack from the pocket of his leather jacket, continuing to watch the crippled kid as he exited the park, limping toward NYU.

  “Shoot him,” Eddy said, and lighted a cigarette with a silver Zippo.

  “Sure, I’d like that.”

  “Then do it.”

  “He’s my father.”

  “Then stay home.”

  “…I can’t.”

  “Then leave.”

  “Not with Momma by herself.”

  “Then shoot him.”

  “C’mon, get serious,” Jonathan said.

  Eddy’s laugh mixed with the cigarette smoke, something soft and raspy, and he sat on a wooden bench, stretching his arms along its back rim, legs crossed at the calves, staring down at his boots. Except for the Elvis hair, he reminded Jonathan of, maybe, James Dean in that movie Rebel Without a Cause.

  “Things’ll be alright,” Eddy said, and blew gently on the lit tip of his cigarette, the red ash sparking in the night. “Aren’t things always alright? Eventually?”

  “I-I guess.”

  “Shoot the fucker.”

  “You’re really in a weird mood, you know?”

  “Can’t do it for you, mu’man.” Flicking the cigarette into the darkness, Eddy wrapped his arms around his left leg, chin on knee. “How bad you want this college shit?”

  “Bad, pretty bad.”

  “And how bad you wanna leave home?”

  “Same, bad. You know, pretty bad.”

  “Fine. Now how often does ole What’s-His-Ass beat up on your mom?”

  “Its gotten worse. Once a week, at least. She wears all this powder and stuff on her face, but you can see the bruises.”

  Eddy stared at Jonathan, those heavy-duty eyes seemed to climb inside his head. “When he beats on her, what’dya want to do?”

  “Kill him,” the boy whispered.

  “Well?”

  III

  Jonathan woke, a startled cry, his heart thudding fast and wild. He tried to relax; took a breath.

  “—Jesus.”

  His dream began to dissolve immediately, pieces missing, but the sense of it remained, the flavor, some dialog.

  How often does ole What’s-His-Ass beat up on your mom?

  …once a week…

  …you want to…

  …kill him…

  Angry muffled voices drifted into his dark room from the hallway. He sat on the edge of the bed; listened to his father’s voice, another argument, the dream and Randolph’s words jumbled together. Johnny looked at the clock on the nightstand, digital numbers glowing green. It’s two-thirty in the goddamn morning. What’re they saying? He stood, waiting for his balance to get steady, then he peered into the dimly lighted hall, the closed door of his parents room. Jonathan heard the old man clearly now.

  “You’d like him to leave, huh? Not even a good southern school, but a prissy little northern—

  “Penn State isn’t prissy,” Tamara said, her tone dull, without feeling. She seemed exhausted. “And you won’t have to pay anything, so don’t worry about your precious money.”

  Oh, God, Momma, you didn’t have to tell. Just put a sign around your neck: ‘beat me, beat me’.

  What’s wrong with you?

  What’s wrong with both of you?

  “Uh-huh, I see, alright.” Father on a roll: “Nobody wants the money of a workin’ man. My goddamn money ain’t good enough. Dirty money. That it? But you got that big-ass sonuvabitch TV in the living room, huh? And a goddamn Mercedes in the driveway, and enough ensembles to cloth the fuckin’ world, but my money ain’t no good.”

  “…will you stop?” Her empty little voice creeping into the middle of his rage: “…you’ll have a stroke, or something.”

  “Right, right. You’d like that, huh? Then you could go out and buy more shit, and you wouldn’t have to fuck me—fuck free shit—that’s what you want, huh, Tammy Ray? It’s been so long, I forgot what your pussy looks like. Does it remember me? Does your—”

  ”Randy, let the boy go to school. He can stay with sister. This ain’t the end of the world as we know it.”

  “I don’t need a snot nose kid correctin’ my grammar, or talkin’ about shit I never heard of, or showin’ off at my expense and doing everything he can to let people know what a fool I am. You understand? I didn’t go to college and I did okay. Christ, I’m giving the boy my business. What the hell else does he want?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want the business. Have you thought of that? Maybe he’s got different plans, not better plans—I’m not talking better plans—just different: his plans. People need to find their own way.”

  Jonathan heard the slap, an abrupt cracking noise, then a body-to-wall thud. Tamara’s scream lasted less that a second, perhaps muted by Randolph’s hand. The next sound was his father yelping in pain.

  “You bitch!”

  “Nobody’s hittin’ me, anymore, Randy. Try it again and I’ll cut your thing off.”

  “You fuckin’ bit me,” he said disbelievingly.

  “Better sleep light.”

  “—Bit me.”

  “Our son’s going to school, period.”

  “Over my dead goddamn body.”

  “—Easy enough.”

  The bedroom door flew open. Jonathan stepped back, away from the hall, listening to Tamara thumping barefoot down the stairs.

  Randolph was slamming bureau drawers, looking for something, then he ran from the room. He paused at the edge of the stairs; yelling, “Hey! I’m not finished with you. Hey! C’mere, bitch. Think you can bite my goddamn hand and just waltz off? Hey!”

  Jonathan saw the hunting knife, an eight inch serrated blade catching the soft yellow glow from their bedroom.

  No, this has gone too far.

  We’re not gonna be doing any killing tonight.

  “Forget it!” Johnny boy rushing toward him; shouting, “Are you crazy? You asshole, are you crazy?” Randolph turning now, bewildered, those blank wide eyes, and Jonathan swinging his arms at him before he even got there; still shouting, “Are you fuckin’ crazy? Are you—”

  His father’s hands reached up suddenly, making quick tight circles—Johnny wondering if he was about to fly, a drunken old bird—then Randolph’s feet left the carpeted floor, the man suspended in midair, that infinite moment, eyes filled with cartoon surprise, and

  he tumbled

  down

  the stairway

  as Jonathan watched blood spray a descending line along the white wall.

  His mother stood in the foyer, shrieking, tight fists against her chest. She, too, watched Randolph falling, and the speckled red wall.

  Once downstairs, Jonathan knelt next to the sprawled body. He pressed three fingers to the old man’s neck, the pulse weak, and the boy turned him over, staring at the hunting knife buried to the handle in his father’s chest.

  Randolph Clayman blinked.

  “—Shit,” the boy said to himself.

  “He’s not dead,” Tamara whispered.

  “Almost.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wh-What?”

  “…just…wait.”

  Tamara stared at her son; then, slowly, she sat down beside him, legs crossed Indian-style, both of them looking at the old man.

  “This isn’t right, Johnny.”

  “Is it right when he’s abusive?”

  “…no.”

  “One day he’ll kill you.”

  Tamara stayed quiet.

  His father’s mouth was moving, perhaps an attempt to talk—his eyes frantic now—but Jonathan heard nothing except the blood bubbling up from the throat. Blood: soaking the old man’s undershirt, the carpet, blood splattered on the steps and the wall, a pool of it gathered about his body, inching outward. Randolph’s face had become a gray mask.

  “I can’t do this,” his mother said.

  “You haven’t done anything.”

  “I can’t sit here and watch a p
erson die, even your father.”

  “Then go in the other room.” Jonathan was still considering the old man’s moving lips. A little fish. That’s it, exactly: a guppy or something, a hungry little guppy.

  What did Eddy say?

  How bad do you want this college?

  Bad…

  How bad you wanna leave home?

  Bad…

  Tamara nudged him; the boy glanced at her. “I don’t know you, do I?” She asked, no anger, only the question. “I keep thinkin’ you’re my baby. Remember? I taught you to ride your two-wheeler; cleaned your skinned knees with Bactine.” His mother gazed down at her lap, thin pale legs, pretty legs. “Now look at us. What’re we doin’, Johnny?” She let her gaze meet his, maybe wondering if she could find her baby in there. “You gonna let him die?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I…can’t.”

  “We’re going to do this together,” he said.

  “I’m calling 911.”

  Jonathan held both of his mother’s hands; felt her cold damp skin. “Listen, suppose the ambulance gets here in time—which it won’t—and suppose he lives—which I doubt he will, really—what’s goin’ to happen then? I’m leaving, Momma. I’m goin’ to school, and you’ll be left alone with him. What’s gonna happen then? You honestly believe Daddy will be different? That he won’t ever drink, again? Or beat you? Or worse?”

  “I…I don’t need to hear this.”

  “Or worse? What makes you think he won’t put that knife in you? Maybe not right away—he’ll swear off the drinking, I’m sure—and that should last a month or two—but he is who he is. People don’t change all that much. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, about how you two would be after I’m in school and you’re here alone with him.”

  “I can leave, too,” she said, glancing at the dying man, his half-closed eyes looking back at her. “I don’t need to stay, Johnny.”

  “Good. Then call 911 and go upstairs and pack your things, and we’ll leave together. You’ll have done what you can do.” Jonathan saw the tears appear. Her fingers quivered in his hands. “…but you won’t leave. Has he worn you down that much? Do you think so little of yourself?”