The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  Perhaps a couple of vampires.

  They laid on the carpeted floor; Simon going in and out of a doze when he heard Dora’s quiet voice, “…forgive me.”

  “You’re forgiven.”

  That was the beginning of their relationship. He couldn’t believe the fullness and peace he felt, or maybe how empty his life had been until Dora, probably both. Simon had ignored his hunger for human contact, for closeness—an island unto himself, as his mother often said—and he gladly relinquished his imposed exile to be with this skinny, beautiful, nervous and—thank you, Jesus—horny woman. Dora, too, seemed blissful, commenting on more than one occasion how well he “understood” her; but easy to do when her thoughts and feelings continued to enter his mind involuntarily.

  She scared him, too—only once in awhile, just enough—especially when she began to pose for the painting, her white nightgown rippling to the breeze of a nearby electric fan.

  “What wrong?”

  “Nothing,” he’d said, sketching her form onto the canvas, hurried strokes, as though ridding himself of the image.

  “Something’s wrong.”

  What could he say? You and the woman who killed my best friend could be twins. And, by the way, she wasn’t really a woman.

  “You’re afraid,” Dora said, lips barely moving, holding the pose.

  “Pardon? I don’t know what—”

  “It’s my face, isn’t it? Do I look like her?”

  Too perceptive, another thing that scared him. Had he mentioned the murder? How she and the woman in the theater not only resembled each other but shared the same name? Perhaps he’d spoken about it at the gallery. And the pose bothered him, arms outstretched, palms up…beckoning. Relax. The faces are similar, yes—more than similar—yet the bodies are different. She’s thinner, a completely opposite body type.

  And this ISN’T Eddy.

  …get a grip…

  …please.

  “She might be a relation,” Dora said, seeming to know his concern, or maybe just a hunch. “My family’s been here awhile.”

  “How long?”

  “Us and William Penn.”

  She had told him that in the gallery. Didn’t she? The words were familiar. He couldn’t swear to it, though.

  “You have any old jewelry, or photos?” Simon asked, trying to be casual. How the hell can you be casual with that question? “You know, a family heirloom.”

  “What’re you? Psychic?”

  “When I have to be, yes.”

  “Forget the jewelry, Simon.” And she wiggled her fingers. “Just hold my hands.”

  “I’ve held you.”

  “Uh-huh, but not in this outfit.”

  Simon grasped her hands, gently squeezing them.

  III

  They must have been running in the woods for an hour or more. He’d seen the baby in her arms—a boy, three or four years old—and then he was inside the child, looking up at the woman through the boy’s eyes, sensing now what the boy knew: this was his mother, and they were being chased.

  Dora’s face.

  Eddy’s Dora.

  He felt the child’s hot fear, heard his pressing doubts, these alien feelings and thoughts seemed part of Simon, as if he’d been wired into the boy’s mind.

  “You be quiet now,” the woman murmured, short-winded from running and carrying him. “Be quiet like a stone, Matthew. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “You’re my good boy.”

  “They’re gonna hurt us, the angry men.”

  “Yes. So we must be very quiet.”

  Matthew tried to think. What had he done to make the bad men angry? He’d been sitting on the porch steps, staring at his red wagon, the one with the broken wheel. He stared at it for so long that it began to rise up in the air.

  Not nice, no, no.

  His mother had told him never do to his tricks outside where people could see them. People wouldn’t understand, she said. Then Mrs. Pickering walked by their house—the “Busybitty,” Ma called her—and Mrs. Pickering made a scared face with big, big eyes. And screamed. Then she lifted her skirt and you could see her shoes as she hurried away.

  Picky picky Pickering.

  Picky picky.

  Matthew giggled. Ma put a finger to his lips to shush him.

  “I want to run,” he said, squirming in her arms.

  “Stop, Matthew,” she whispered. “You can’t run fast enough.”

  “Can, too.”

  “Hush, please.”

  Simon watched the woods and the woman through the child’s eyes. His mother had fresh cuts on her face from sharp branches, that beautiful face. He heard the men coming closer. They called to her, Miz Dora! Miz Dora, give us the boy!

  “Don’t let the men hurt me, Ma.”

  “I won’t, my baby.”

  The trees and brush were thick, and Simon felt thorns scraping Matthew’s bare legs. The child’s vision went watery then cleared. Simon could also feel the boy’s heart hitting his chest with all the intensity of a panicked bird.

  A young man stepped around a tree to block them, his black knee britches soiled, his white stocking torn by briars.

  “Stop this, Dora. We must take the boy.”

  “Stand away, Michael.”

  “No more running now.”

  Three other men appeared, breathing heavily, the oldest leaning his hand against the trunk of an oak, gray, shoulder-length hair in tangles.

  “Tis’ the devil’s child,” the old one muttered. He pulled a twig from the buttonhole of his coat.

  “You won’t be takin’ my child,” Dora said, holding Matthew tightly.

  “We’d hoped for a little cooperation.” The old man’s voice had a condescending gentleness to it. “The boy’s a danger.”

  “He’s harmed no one.”

  The man motioned to the two beside him, and they approached Dora and her son cautiously, perhaps not altogether sure what the boy might do.

  Matthew sensed their hesitation—Simon could tell—and not just sensed it, but enjoyed it. Both men were big, over six feet, buckskin shirts rolled to the bicep: farmers, probably, or men who did physical work. The types you didn’t want to piss off, Simon thought. Afraid of the boy, though, no question about that.

  “Philip, you stand back,” the woman said. And facing the other one, “You, too, Joshua.”

  “We got to take him, Miz Dora.”

  “I…I won’t be responsible.” Her tone sounded fearful and ominous.

  The two men did a dead stop. Joshua glanced at the older man, who was waving them on irritably.

  “Mr. Pickering, maybe we should just go,” said Philip, nodding to the woman. “…like Miz Dora wants. You don’t know what the boy—”

  “Infants,” Mr. Pickering mumbled. “I got me two grown infants. I’ll take the boy.”

  The old man walked toward the mother and her son. Simon began feeling a pleasant sensation emanating from the child, something between satisfaction and excitement, as if Pickering was doing exactly what Matthew wished. A growing heat filled the boy, his concentration so powerful that Simon wondered if he might not unravel inside this four-year-old, losing himself there forever.

  Bony hands reached for Matthew, the skin translucent and showing blue veins, his long fingernails rimmed with brown grit.

  A single shaft of straw sprouted from the man’s small wrist.

  Then another,

  and another.

  Straw crept along the tops of Pickering’s red knuckles, in the Vs of his fingers.

  The young man who had first stopped the woman saw this and turned, darting into the woods. Joshua and Philip saw it, too. They looked at one another, a second, maybe two, and raced after him, disappearing amid the trees.

  Matthew giggled.

  His mother tried to keep her smile hidden, but Simon could see it at the corners of her mouth, the glittering eyes.

  Pickering stared down at what was left of his hands, disbel
ieving, awed, straw woven into snug blond mittens, straw now tearing through the seams of his britches, ripping grimy white stockings, his blouse, curling up his neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but the straw poured out from deep within his throat, gagging him, coloring his face crimson then blue, the lips gray.

  All the while, Matthew gazed at Pickering, giggling, whispering, “…strawman…strawman.”

  Simon could no longer see the old man’s flesh, limbs now firmly woven straw, and Pickering fell to the brown leafy ground in a heap, his arms and legs twisted, his blank straw face pointing up to the afternoon sun.

  “We…we have to leave,” said Dora, staring at him.

  “No, please.”

  “But they’ll take you, for sure.”

  “No, no.” The child shook his head adamantly, clinging to his mother’s neck. “They won’t hurt us.”

  IV

  Simon ate dinner alone, Dora still occupying his thoughts, and he took the last glass of red wine from the bottle and returned to the upstairs studio. Sitting atop the wooden stool, he steadied himself, feeling a little drunk…okay, a lot drunk…and far too lonely, probably the wine.

  “I miss you,” saying it out loud; saying it to the canvas on the back wall.

  The moon gleamed through the skylight and windows, glossy silver mixed in shadow, bringing the images of the painting into an eerie harmony. Who are you, Dora? She’d never given him an answer; didn’t have one to give. “A distant relation, perhaps,” her words seemed defensive and pouty. What did he expect? “You can’t change a person’s history, Simon. And you can’t ask Matthew or his mother, a lady you’re obviously obsessed with. Just leave it be, they’re dead, and I’m here.”

  Who are you, Dora?

  Asking this of the woman in the painting, too.

  Eddy’s Dora?

  That always had been his assumption. Wouldn’t it explain Eddy choosing to take her form and the cause of Matthew’s talents? If true, maybe the guy had crossed the line; became enamored of someone very different than himself, an incredibly beautiful woman,

  and more…

  …someone human.

  Is that what happened, Eddy? Were you punished? Did they tell you to pack a bag and go to New York, or whatEVER you call the place? There has to be a taboo. You can’t consort with the help and not expect a reprimand.

  Is that the rule? No humping the help?

  His own Dora was truly disturbing to Simon; her history, mostly. He’d lived with the woman for close to a year, a person who had marched him away from his isolation and left him hanging in the world. Wasn’t she also part of Eddy? Related to the boy, to Matthew, his son? How far back it all went hadn’t been clear. The late seventeen hundreds, they’d thought.

  Simon didn’t mention Virgil’s murder. Realizing such a confession would open a multitude of unanswerable questions, he claimed the painting to be an invention. He’d watched her, though. Since she had knocked on his door only a couple of days after his encounter with Benjamin—the image of his spreading wings still fresh in the mind—Simon felt all things were possible, but his living room furniture didn’t hover in the air, and she hadn’t turned him into a strawman, or devoured his heart—well, maybe figuratively—none of the old tricks. There were incidents: she’d finish his sentences, seemed to know what troubled him before he had a clue, and a few times he could’ve sworn Dora read his thoughts. Yet that wasn’t so unusual, was it? Didn’t lovers do these things constantly with one another? Her probable relation to Eddy didn’t appear significant until her absence, until she vanished into the canvas.

  That’s what he believed. Simon called the police, reported her missing, certain she couldn’t be found. He saw these events as a kidnapping, perhaps Eddy wanted a new Dora, a reasonable facsimile—yet Eddy in love was too bizarre to imagine—or maybe the asshole just liked to drive him crazy, to occupy his thoughts, to stop the progress of whatever task Benjamin needed done.

  “Burn the picture, Simon.”

  The voice snapped his concentration. He glanced about the studio. Moonlight cut wide, glittering bars across the darkness.

  “It’s time to burn the picture,” the voice said.

  “No, I-I can’t.”

  “Do it now.”

  “—Benjamin?”

  “She helped us, brought you out of this solitude. Accept her generosity, and burn the painting. We have work.”

  “Show yourself.”

  Benjamin stepped from the shadows, the left corner of the narrow room. He looked older, more weathered, his hair pulled back in a ponytail, his wings gone—or Simon wasn’t able to see them—his cloak replaced by a pair of khaki pants and a gray sweatshirt.

  “Jesus, what’s happen to you?” He hadn’t seen Benjamin since the night at the Walnut Street Gallery.

  “Takes me awhile to catch up.”

  “Four years.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “What exactly am I doing fine in, Benjamin?”

  “Do you still feel uncomfortable with your gifts?”

  Simon hadn’t thought much about that. “I don’t notice what people are thinking unless…”

  “—Unless it’s important to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you as reclusive?”

  “I guess not.”

  “So you’re doing fine.” Benjamin walked over to the painting. No floating over; no gliding. Walked. He had changed. “Beautiful piece, Simon. Tell me, are you a religious person?”

  “I don’t go to synagogue, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But do you have faith?” Benjamin continued to examine the canvas. “I want you to have faith in me.”

  “You burn the damn thing.”

  “That wouldn’t require faith.”

  “You’re asking me to destroy my work without a reason?”

  “Exactly, I’m saying that.”

  “There’s a buyer willing to pay a hundred and seventy-five thousand for that picture.”

  “But you aren’t interested in selling.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Burn it, get on with your life.”

  “Why? Just tell me why.”

  Benjamin didn’t answer; instead, he again retreated to the corner of the studio; and, abrupt as his intrusion, he vanished.

  “Hey!” Simon swigged down the last of the wine, absently setting the glass beside him on a small table cluttered with brushes and rolled paint tubes. “Hey, goddamn it!” Yelling at the dark corner: “Don’t you dare leave like that!”

  Fine, alright, he thought. I’m tired of looking at the goddamn thing, and tired of the goddamn torture. You WANT faith? Hey, fine, seriously, fuckin’ fine with this boy. Dora’s not coming back, anyway. Simon rummaged about the brushes and paints on the small table until he found a utility knife. He hesitated, gaining his balance, then did a half walk-and-stagger over to the picture, took a breath—feeling woozy—and began cutting into the canvas. You’re totally correct, Benjamin. I need to get on with my life. He felt hot tears on his face as he tore through the images, the woman in the nightgown, his dead friend sprawled on the stage.

  Simon made four trips to the basement, stuffing canvas and pieces of the wooden frame inside the furnace, dousing the pile with kerosene; and at last, tossing in a lighted match. He watched the dried oils crinkle and go black, flames and smoke twisting upward, caught by the draft.

  A restless sleep followed the fire: waking at one-thirty to piss, waking at two-fifteen for ice water, the effects of the wine still present. When he woke the third time—around 3:35—he knew something was in the dark room with him.

  “…Simon?” The voice sounded timid, barely audible. Its shape moved past the open window, sitting on the edge of the bed. A pale thin hand touched his cheek. “Thank you, Simon.”

  Groggy from sleep, he thought this might be a dream, but remembered Benjamin’s words: I want you to have faith in me. So he said the name out loud, more to himself than to
anyone else.

  “…Dora?”

  TEN

  1999

  Philadelphia

  I

  Before Dora, a good decade before her, Simon had another passion: harness racing. Every Saturday morning he traveled to Bensalem, the Bluebell Harness Raceway just off Mechanicsville. In his poverty days, he’d pop a couple of Valium, head for the track, and use Benjamin’s gifts to win living expenses for that week.

  On this early June morning, the air already warm, the sky brilliant blue and cloudless, Simon seated himself on the bleachers a few minutes before the second race. People were scattered about, seventy-five or eighty, not much of a crowd, the way he liked it. No Valium, though; not since those first two or three years, yet the amber bottle remained in the pocket of his jeans, more a talisman than a necessity. As he studied the racing form, an image came to him, indistinct at first, then with a saturated clarity.

  A man: tall, over six feet, and thin to the point of skeletal, wearing a dark suit—navy blue, double-breasted—and under his coat was a Colt .38 Special. The man’s thoughts and feelings had a brooding quality; that, and the sheer rage of a victim.

  Bad combination.

  “Aren’t you Mr. Aaron?”

  Simon looked up; saw another man, a damn large one, graying hair in a crew cut, his plump face friendly with tiny purplish veins on the cheeks and nose. He also saw a bulge under the flamboyant green and white checked sportcoat.

  “Yes?” God, it’s a gun. Is EVERYone armed?

  “I’m Jake, Jonathan Clayman’s uncle.” The big guy shook his hand, the grasp vigorous and firm. “We’ve got one of your paintings at the house.”

  “Yeah, Tavern on the Green, I remember. How’s the senator doing?”

  Jake sat next to him, using a rumpled white handkerchief to dab the sweat from his forehead. “Getting ready for the main event.”

  “I heard.”

  Sunday’s Bulletin had a spread on Clayman, an Eye on the Whitehouse number. Apparently, there’s no stopping the senator, except for the matter of his party’s vote. And that might be a problem. The competition was Robert McBaen, five times Jonathan’s years in the senate and almost twice his age, well respected and married to Patty McBaen née Thorngood, who in her day rivaled Meryl Streep for films roles depicting terribly pale wives dying of cancer.