The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  “I haven’t even stepped inside the congress.” Jonathan felt the blood pulsing his temples. Being with the mayor was always a trip.

  “Stay clean,” said Frank, doing a dainty tap on his cigar, watching the ash fall into the amber tinted glass ashtray. “You know what I’m saying here? You stay clean. No goddamn strippers, no office blow jobs, no driving secretaries off bridges, none of that shit. I want you pristine. And active. I want you thinking your district. Understand?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “You got the talent, Johnny.” The mayor leaned his elbows on the desk, holding up both of his big, thick hands as though ready to model an example out of air. “You know what people need, like you’ve got a sixth sense, a what-cha-call-it, ESP. You can feel a mood, feel them change.” Pallo grinned; and when he did, his whole face grinned, the lines about the eyes and cheeks, the lines on his forehead. “And you love the applause.”

  “Suck-up-itis.”

  “What?”

  “Something Wendy used to say.” Jonathan knew Frank hadn’t summoned him just to discuss his moral conduct. A seat in the US Senate had a price. “How can I help, Mr. Mayor? What would you like me to do?”

  Pallo nodded; a faint smile appeared and vanished. He removed a manila folder from his desk drawer, handing it to Jonathan.

  “Ever heard of BioChem?”

  “No.”

  “An R&D company, mostly. But huge, part of a much larger corporation—plastics, pharmaceuticals, robotics, that sort of thing—the details are in the folder.” Pallo re-lighted his cigar, a smoky cloud blooming in front of his face. He waved it aside. “Recently, the company has been put on track for a substantial government contract, and your district will be knee-deep in jobs—lots of jobs, lots of money, and lots of happy voters. I can get you on the committee that reviews the bids. After that, you got the ballgame.”

  “—And a senate seat.”

  “If you get into the co-chair position, yeah.”

  Jonathan watched Frank Pallo absently tumble the cigar lighter across the tops of his fingers, catching it in the first knuckle joint, flipping it over to the next and the next and back again. Usually, he did the trick with thin gold lighter, a present from his wife, but this one was silver. A Zippo. An image appeared to Jonathan, nebulous but there: Eddy sitting on a bench in Washington Square; heard the snap of his Zippo and saw the cigarette glow red.

  …that’s crazy…

  …a million goddamn people have—

  The mayor interrupted his thought. “So what do you say, Johnny? You gonna bring BioChem into the fold?”

  “Get me on the committee.”

  “It’ll be done,” he said, another dainty tap of the cigar, an ember landing in the glass ashtray.

  “Didn’t you used to have a gold lighter?”

  Pallo glanced down at the silver Zippo sitting up-right on his desk. “Yeah, lost it…a couple of days ago.” He seemed unsure, or maybe Jonathan imagined it.

  “Pretty special lighter to lose.”

  “Uh-huh, a gift.”

  “—From who?”

  “…what?”

  The congressman tried to sound casual, but he felt his fingertips trembling and rested his hands on his lap. “You said it was a gift, the lighter. From who?”

  “I…can’t recall. Been awhile ago. I guess the old memory isn’t what it used to be.”

  No, not awhile ago. Last year. Estelle gave the lighter to him for his birthday. How do you forget that? Jonathan could feel his stomach begin to cramp. And since when did Frank Pallo develop a memory problem? The guy prided himself on remembering names and faces, people he hadn’t seen in ten, fifteen years. How the hell does a person like that forget a birthday present his wife gave him?

  Staring at the Zippo blankly now, the mayor had an odd half-smile at the left corner of thin, almost undefined lips. Then Jonathan saw a tint of blue behind the man’s brown irises, as if someone else was looking through Frank Pallo’s eyes.

  Don’t go paranoid.

  Please, don’t let him see that.

  “Who’s…” Jonathan cleared his throat. “…who’s sponsoring the contract?”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Just tired. Recovering from the campaign, I guess.”

  “Get some rest, Johnny. You need your health.”

  “I will, yes. Who’s the sponsor?”

  “Department of Defense.”

  “What’s the research?”

  “It’s all there in the report.”

  Jonathan opened the manila folder. The title read:

  BIOLOGICAL RESTRAINT: AN ANTI-TERRORIST APPROACH

  “A response to this anthrax business,” the mayor said. “Hussein and that crowd, I suspect.”

  “Biological warfare is against the Geneva Convention.”

  “Counter-offensive measures.”

  “But germ warfare.”

  “…in a manner of speaking.”

  That someone or something behind the mayor’s eyes had gone. Maybe it had never been there: an illusion brought on by a quirky glint of the light, or by plain old campaign fatigue. Stop thinking about Eddy, stop seeing the asshole on every goddamn street corner. Enough with the paranoia, already. But a feeling was emerging over these last few weeks, an out-of-control feeling—not a postal worker whacking the breakfast crowd at McDonald’s feeling—more on the order of his life being manipulated, as if Eddy had directed each bend and twist. Worse: he’d begun to see Eddy in the people he trusted. The mayor, for instance. Hadn’t Pallo walked him into Congress? Instructed him to tell his secrets before the opposition could use them to their advantage? Jonathan had talked to the media about the deaths of Wendy and Randolph, the rejection of the clan at age twelve, how he’d managed to rise above these tragedies and cultural prejudices, the way the events had made him a stronger person. Who should respect family values and racial equality better than a man who’s suffered such a history?

  Frank Pallo’s friendship ought to be unquestionable, yet Jonathan couldn’t seem to ignore that perennial T-shirt maxim:

  You’re not paranoid. They really ARE after you.

  The mayor was speaking now, “…let me know your thoughts on the report.”

  “I’ll read it tonight.”

  “Good luck in Congress, Johnny. We’re proud of you.”

  III

  Phoebe looked out the bay window in the kitchen, staring beyond the spacious, neatly mowed rear lawn, all two acres of it, toward the wooded area. A sprinkler system pelted the grass with a high gushing spray that came from rows of brass nozzles buried ground level, and the sunlight turned the mist to gold.

  Jake put his hand on the girl’s small shoulder. He’d been watching her doing this for awhile. “What you looking at, honey?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “You’ve been looking at ‘nothin’ for a half-hour. Must be an important nothing.”

  “Un’k Jake?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Where Daddy?”

  “Taking a nap.”

  “Is he pooped?”

  “Yeah, pretty pooped.”

  “I hate naps.” Phoebe made her I-Hate-Naps face, nose scrunched, mouth in an “ugh” shape, as though naps were akin to spiders and worms.

  “I know.”

  “Un’k Jake?”

  “What, honey?”

  “Where’s the man?”

  “You mean Daddy?”

  Phoebe shook her head, a vigorous “no”, her rust colored ringlets bouncing back and forth on her forehead. She was wearing her glasses today—the frame clear plastic with a pinkish tint, an item ceremoniously disowned for public appearances—and she pushed them to the bridge of her nose.

  “No, Un’k Jake, the man I saw last night.”

  He’d dealt with Phoebe’s imagination before, the fantasies seemingly unlimited, even for a five-year-old. For two months after the kid had rented the video E.T., she was positive the thing was keeping house in her clos
et.

  “Maybe you dreamed him,” Jake said, deciding not to jump into the deep end, but curious nonetheless.

  “Huh-uh, I didn’t dream nothin’.”

  “Where were you, honey? You know, when you saw the man; where, exactly?”

  “In my room.”

  “He was in your room?”

  “No,” Phoebe said, obviously becoming frustrated. “I saw him out my window.”

  “In the backyard?”

  “Uh-huh, by the woods. There.” She pointed past the lawn to a cluster of large oak trees. “He was a funny man.”

  “Weird funny, or ha-ha funny?”

  “Ha-ha funny. He waved to me; then he did a dance.” Phoebe looked up at Jake, eyes wide with excitement and magnified by the glasses. “And you know what, Un’k Jake?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He changed ‘n all.”

  “—To what?”

  “An ahul.”

  “A what?”

  “An ahul.”

  For second or two, Jake had no idea what an “ahul” was; finally, though, it occurred to him. “Do you mean an owl?”

  “That’s what I said. An ahul.”

  “So the guy changed into an owl, huh?” This had to be her imagination. “People don’t usually become animals, honey. I’m not saying it isn’t true, okay? I’m just saying it’s not the usual stuff people do.”

  Phoebe stared down at her bright red Keds, fingers toying with the metal buttons of her overalls. “This man did,” she said, pouting, her lower lip in full bloom.

  “I’m sorry. Tell Jake what happened next.”

  “You don’t believe me.”

  “No, no. I’ve just never seen anybody do that. Change into an owl, I mean.” Great, you’ve hurt the kid’s feelings. Give her a break, for Christ’s sake. “…I’m fascinated. Honest.”

  “Is ‘fascinated’ good?”

  “Very good. Tell Uncle Jake about the owl guy.”

  Her wide-eyed look returned. “Then you know what happened?”

  “I’m asking, honey. What?”

  “The ahul went up in the sky and flew and flew”—her arms stretching outward, flapping them to demonstrate—“and then he sat on the edge of my window!”

  “Wow.”

  “Uh-huh, and you know what?”

  “What?”

  “He had a white, feathery face and brown wings, and he said ‘Whooo, whooo.”

  “Yep, that’s what owls say, alright.”

  Maybe she did see an owl. There were certainly enough of them in the woods. Jake figured that part might be real, but the guy waving at her and doing a dance had to be an invention. A funny kid, occasionally. Like when he wanted to read her a story before bed, she’d say, “No, Un’k Jake, let me tell you a story,” and for five, she was pretty good, very expressive, you know? Stories about fairies and witches and things in the forest: yeah, a very expressive kid.

  “Then you know what?” Phoebe wasn’t finished.

  “I don’t have a clue, honey.”

  “The ahul said, ‘What’s yoooour name, little girl’.”

  “The owl guy talked?”

  “Uh-huh. And I said, ‘My name’s Phoebe.’ And the ahul said, ‘You’re a pretty girl, Phoebe’.”

  “The owl said that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Jake was sitting at the kitchen table across from the child, and he stared out the bay window, trying to see through the mist of the sprinklers and into the beginning of the woods, actually wondering, half-seriously, if that particular owl on that particular evening had spoken to his niece.

  IV

  An hour after his daughter had gone to bed for the night, eight-thirty or nine, Jonathan Clayman also gazed over the moonlit lawn toward the woods, listening to his uncle go on and on about the owl who’d talked to Phoebe.

  “You’re acting as though it happened,” Jonathan said, not turning from the window.

  “I’m a crazy old man. Shoot me.”

  “The guy danced, huh?”

  “Waved to her and danced, yeah.”

  “Terrific imagination.”

  “But she believed it, I think.”

  Jonathan never mentioned Eddy to his uncle. More than a decade had passed since those dreams, and though the congressman wouldn’t put it past Eddy to cause him and the people he loved additional suffering, he’d no intention of allowing himself to panic. Phoebe did have a rich fantasy life, probably due to her being an only child and his involvement in an occupation that consumed most of his time.

  “…may have been a man,” Jake was saying as he dealt another game of solitaire at the kitchen table. “You want I should call the police, Johnny?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Really?”

  “No rush; just to be safe. Tomorrow would be alright.”

  Eddy had stayed away since Wendy’s death. Guilt by absence, Jonathan thought. Out of sight, but maybe not out of my life. He still felt the guy’s presence, like yesterday with the mayor, that creepy look behind Frank Pallo’s eyes. There were times he suspected Eddy had switched from dreams to working in the world, working his wife’s death, working his business associates, his friends, as if guiding him down a particular road—part of some unknown, or yet to be discovered, strategy—always in the background, altering this, tweaking that, directing…what? What the hell does the asshole want? Jonathan felt anxious about Jake and Phoebe, too. Hated to admit it, but true. He certainly didn’t need another Wendy tragedy happening to them.

  Jesus, don’t go getting crazy.

  Don’t even think it.

  “You okay, Johnny?”

  He glanced at his uncle, the full, round face, the tiny blue veins on his nose leftover from the drinking days, and his eyes, those clear, kind eyes, the blue irises pale with flecks of white.

  Jonathan nodded; managed a smile he hoped conveyed a reasonably intact mind and sat at the kitchen table, asking Jake to play a hand or two of poker.

  “Anything wild?” Jake shuffled the cards, then dealt them five apiece. “…besides your attitude.”

  “Aces. And I’m fine.”

  “I know ‘fine’. You ain’t fine.”

  “There might be an actual guy,” Jonathan muttered, arranging his cards. He didn’t have shit.

  His uncle stared at him, a blank expression. “Someone who can turn into an owl?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nobody changes into a fuckin’ owl.”

  “This guy’s…different.” Jonathan tried to keep the tension out of his voice, just a poker chat, a couple of Good Ole Boys passing time, a little yada yada yada. He felt the sweat on his fingertips as he put a pair of deuces together.

  “Different? Johnny, ordering a hamburger with mayonnaise is different. This guy—if there is a guy—this guy’s from another world.”

  “That, too.”

  Jake folded his hand; placed the cards on the cream-colored Formica table.

  “Pick’em up.”

  “Listen, I—”

  “Pick up the goddamn cards,” Jonathan said quietly.

  Jake did, and fanned the cards out, glancing over the top of them. “‘Different’ isn’t what I’d call—”

  “Please, Jake, all I’m saying is, if you see a fellow walking around our property—a person who doesn’t belong—I’d like you to do two things: call me, then call the cops. That’s all. You got my cell phone number, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good.” Jonathan reached across the table, resting the palm of his hand on his uncle’s arm. “Humor me. You and Phoebe are family; I love you both, and I want you safe. Hey, I don’t know how the guy does what he does—illusion, a magician’s trick—who knows— but save the hero shit. I need you around, understand?”

  “Whatever you say, Johnny.”

  His uncle was staring out the window.

  Jonathan followed his gaze. “Turn off the lights.”

  “…what?”

  “The lights.”r />
  Jake flipped the switch. The two men stood, looking at the moonlight on the silvery lawn; and beyond its periphery, the beginning of the woods.

  “Jesus,” Jake said under his breath.

  “Call the police.”

  “And say what? What do I say?”

  “Tell them to get their asses over here.”

  “Yeah, I know, but—”

  Jonathan interrupted. “Do it, please,” he said softly.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “I dunno.”

  “They’re going to ask.”

  “Bring me the phone.”

  Jake made his way through the dark kitchen leaving Jonathan alone.

  Got a plan, do you, Eddy?

  Something in mind?

  He’d seen this before, night after night, for how many years?

  Stay away from my family. You hear me, you son-of-a-bitch? I swear I’ll kill you. Don’t try me.

  …I swear it.

  The congressman continued to watch the woods; and there, five or six yards back in the brush and trees, a radius of maybe fifty feet, he saw a deep orange glow: no flames, no smoke, only an illumination, embers brightening the night, what he’d seen in his dreams, what had lighted the skyline of New York.

  EIGHT

  Benjamin stood at the edge of the Lincoln Tunnel—midtown Manhattan side—calling Snatch’s name, his voice echoing off the walls and the tall shadowy buildings above him.

  He couldn’t enter the city. With each attempt, a sickness had overtaken his spirit, feeling a surge of melancholy so profound he thought his chest might burst.

  “I know you’re there!” Yelling this, hands cupped about the mouth, the last words reverberating.

  …you’re there…

  …there…

  That constant night wrapped in heat and the stench of oil and gasoline, the black towers and the vague orange tease of a sunrise. But Benjamin knew the sun would never appear, knew the darkness would never allow it. He’d pictured himself here, the failed shepherd and his flock, lost to this oppressive sadness, their home for the final millennium of the abyss, and he felt the sickness dig into him, again. I can’t even enter the city, let alone stay. How do I help these people? The little shepherd and the flock: they’d all be cast down, shrieking and pleading with the One-Who-Is. His sickness was suddenly replaced with an overwhelming shame. I’ve given up on them. And my faith. No…not just faith…no, that’s easily cured. The possibility of punishment has robbed me. I’m too scared to have any room for faith.