The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  “You’re a very talented man, Mr. Aaron.”

  “Simon.”

  Jake grinned, wide-open and engaging. “I read where you got married awhile back. Pretty girl, nice picture in the paper and all.”

  A week after Dora’s reappearance, they’d gone to city hall, found a justice of the peace, and that was that. Simon had no intention of ever losing her again. Dora felt the same way, or so she said; but when he bemoaned their endless and dreary four year separation, her expression wobbled, first startled then bewildered. For her, time away amounted to an hour or two at most. The event itself had the splintered, faded quality of a dream. She remembered being pulled into the painting…

  …and a city,

  an empty place, tall buildings with fires in the broken widows. “Like New York,” she said. “…but no people—almost none, anyway—and everything was burning.” Dora had seen two men at the entrance to a tunnel that seemed to be…“Now you’re really gonna think I’m crazy, it seemed to be the Lincoln tunnel. Is that nuts, or what?”

  She described Benjamin; told how he’d appeared practically dead one minute and was struggling to his feet the next, shouting at the other, younger guy…”who I swear-to-God looked like Elvis—I mean, the whole thing’s totally psychotic—and this Elvis guy, you know, backed off—named Snatch or something, I think; I dunno, it’s starting to get real vague—, but I do remember what the older guy shouted at him. ‘Release her, or all of this is done’, that’s what he said. And Simon, you could tell he meant it. Seriously, the goddamn ground shook. I’d never heard a person yell so loud…well, maybe my father.”

  But do you have faith?

  I want you to have faith in me.

  “…Phoebe still has the picture you drew for her.” Jake was talking, watching as a tractor raked the vacant track.

  Dora’s words scattered to silence as Simon glanced at him. “I’m sorry…what?”

  “Phoebe. She still has that picture you drew.”

  “Oh, sure, Mickey Mouse,” he said, recalling the little girl with frizzy, rust-colored hair. “How old is she now?”

  “Eleven, almost twelve.”

  “Amazing.”

  Jake stood and stretched, an audible popping noise. “Time to place a bet. Just thought I’d introduce myself.”

  Simon shook hands; felt a delicate current go through his fingers and up his arm. A series of images jolted him.

  Jake, going into the clubhouse, that serene face changing abruptly: fearful, lost. The man in the navy blue suit pointed the Colt .38 at the cashier. At least twenty people laid on the floor—alive, though, they were alive—a child sobbing, a woman screamed. Another man cupped her mouth; whispering, “Hush, damn it.” The navy blue suit turned to Jake, scared at this new glitch in the equation, and fired two shots, the bullets slamming into Jake’s chest, reeling him backward and to the floor.

  Simon realized the senator’s uncle was trying to disengage from the handshake.

  “…skip this race, Jake.”

  “You okay?”

  “Forget the clubhouse.” Simon heard the anxiety in his own voice. “Trust me. Sit down and skip the race.”

  Jake pulled his hand away. “Hey, relax. I’ll be a minute, that’s all.”

  “There’s a guy. Navy blue suit. He…” Simon decided to simply tell him. Why not, you’ve already made a fool of yourself. “…he’s got a gun, and he’ll kill you. Won’t want to, but he’ll do it.”

  “You psychic or something?”

  “…yes.”

  “You’re a nice fella, Simon. I gotta be honest, though. I don’t believe in that lookin’ into the future shit.”

  II

  Artist. Jesus. Gimme a fuckin’ break, Jake thought. He walked along the narrow concrete path, away from the bleachers and toward the clubhouse, a two story rambling structure of dark brick and wood, the top floor mostly tinted glass, an observation area, where you could watch the race and drink yourself into oblivion, not a bad idea on a person’s day off. At ten in the morning, the sun glaring down and baking him, the cold beer and air conditioning idea seemed the right way to go.

  A day off. Un-huh. Jonathan had ordered Jake out of the house, essentially. “Take a break from Phoebe,” he’d said. Like you could stop being concerned, stop the worrying and the vigilance. Like the girl was a cheap piece of lawn furniture. And that nana, whatever her name was—Gillman or whoever—that nana must be sixty years old and nighty-eight pounds. You couldn’t exactly call her a fuckin’ tiger. Lots of protection there. Maybe this had been why he’d lost his patience with Simon. The guy really seemed nice, but he didn’t need any more bizarre stuff in his life, period.

  It’s gone, though. Gone for two years: no orange light in the woods, no weird owls, nobody disappearing into nowhere. Christ, talk about the Twilight Zone.

  He recalled the night Jonathan called the police. Jake and his nephew had watched them from the kitchen window, two dark shapes in the backyard. The officers entered the woods. Flashlights beamed white between the trees.

  Then zilch.

  Both cops vanished, along with the red-orange glow.

  A half-hour later, every cop in the universe descended on the woods. They found noting, absolutely zero.

  Then, to top this strangeness, two years ago—1997—Jake’s staring out the kitchen window again, maybe nine, ten o’clock at night, and tells Jonathan to come take a look. The white glare of flashlights prowled among the tree branches as two cops wandered the back lawn. They’d been gone for four years—four years, mind you—but when Jonathan brought them into the kitchen, explaining the length of their absences, both men swore the search lasted no more than three hours.

  What those cops had discovered was equally peculiar: after walking through the dull orange light, they found themselves in a city, something akin to New York, they guessed, but not a soul around. One of the men did believe he’d seen a young woman running across Washington Square—skinny, short black hair, totally freaked—the other cop shaking his head; saying, “No, Charlie, you just thought you saw her. Nobody was there, man,” only the fires and the darkness and a faint orange hue against the skyline.

  Thank God the past two years had been quiet; Jake liked that, a regular goddamn life. Let Simon keep the psychic stuff. Enough’s enough. Everyone’s had enough. Though the two years were uneventful, Jake didn’t feel what you’d call normal: always on his guard, always checking on Phoebe, particularly at night. Sometimes he’d get a mattress and put it on the floor and sleep in her room. He even bought a pistol, a Smith & Wesson .32, convincing his reluctant nephew how a person needed to prepare for possible shit. Phoebe still talked about the owl—the ahul—the damn thing even had a name, Mr. Eddy. She’d say, “Mr. Eddy thinks I’m pretty.” The owl never showed itself to Jake. Well…perhaps one night, the time he heard the flapping of wings on the window screen, or imagined it.

  Get real.

  You got a day off, enjoy.

  The morning sun sent long golden bars amid the trees that edged the path to the clubhouse; the leaves, moving to a mild breeze, rippled light on the concrete. He was a yard or two from the glass double doors when a woman screamed, the sound halting in mid-screech.

  III

  He’ll kill you. Won’t want to, but he’ll do it.

  Jake remembered Simon’s words, stopping as his hand reached for one of the doors. He saw a tall man in a navy blue suit, the man’s back to him; but the cashier’s anxious face and the twenty or so people who laid on the floor left no doubt, either folks had decided to take a nap, or the guy had a gun.

  …damn, Simon.

  How the hell did you know?

  Jake stepped away, leaning against the brick wall, blowing out a little breath as he withdrew the Smith & Wesson .32 from the holster beneath his sportcoat —you better be right—and turning to the glass doors, the pistol steadied with both hands, feet spread the width of his shoulders, he fired a shot just above the tall man’s head—the explosi
on jabbing pain into his ears—the glass door spraying an enormous cobweb around the bullet hole. A young blond woman on the floor screamed, maybe the same one he’d heard, curling her legs to her chest. The guy in the navy blue suit whirled around, his gun in view, and Jake fired another two shots before the robber could aim; this, sending the tall man flying backward against the brass bars of the cashier’s cage.

  Thank you, Simon.

  …thank you.

  Two or three of the men who’d been on the floor began to stir, one standing, the others joining him, but most of the small crowd didn’t move. The young blond was crying. A girl squatted next to her, five, perhaps six, and she stroked the woman’s hair.

  Jake holstered his pistol. “Everybody okay? Anybody hurt?” He opened the shattered glass door. “Call the police,” he said to the cashier, a frail, balding man with a thin gray mustache. And staring at blood pooling about the navy blue suit: “Get an ambulance for Billy the Kid here.”

  His stomach had started to cramp, as if squeezed by a fist. Jake ran outside, grabbing a tree trunk near the path, and vomited. Jesus, you just killed a man. But he knew: a slight hesitation on his part and the guy would’ve killed him. Jonathan had always been uneasy with guns—Randolph’s legacy, probably—and except for weekly trips to the firing range, Jake hadn’t used it…until now.

  The stomach cramps and nausea were subsiding. He used a handkerchief to wipe his mouth, glancing to see if people had noticed him throwing up. Fifteen or so on-lookers gathered about the glass double doors, folks running toward the clubhouse. They seemed too preoccupied with the drama of the shoot-out to watch some old dude tossing his cookies.

  Talk to the cops later.

  …find Simon.

  …got to…find Simon.

  Jake straightened his shoulders, listening to a familiar sound.

  whooo

  whooo

  As he looked at the tree branch above him, he saw the fluffed white face of an owl among the dark green leaves. Its head rotated mechanically, first to the right and then the left, feathers puffing outward followed by a little shiver and a ruffle of the tail. A thick brown and beige blob dropped from its ass and landed on the cement path next to Jake. I’d like to take out my gun right about now and make you another asshole, bud. But I’m betting you want me to do that. I could be the crazed killer, shooting bandits and birds. The cops would cart me away for sure. Well, buddy-boy, fuck you. No birdbrain’s gonna get rid of this old fart. The owl let loose a second beige bomb. That blob hit the toe of Jake’s shiny black boot.

  whooo

  whooo

  His fingers disappeared beneath the green and white checked sportcoat, resting on the stock of the Smith & Wesson. Forget it, Jake thought, don’t be a fool, and withdrew his hand.

  Maybe it’s a different owl. But they only come out at night, don’t they? They’re…what you call it…nocturnal? Yeah, nocturnal. Not you, though, bud, right? You come out any damn time you want.

  Wings unfolded, the bird lifting off the branch in one full stroke, rising above the trees, gliding, letting the air take it to the open sky.

  The damn thing’s just harassing me.

  Jake heard the ambulance, distant but drawing closer, and he needed to find Simon.

  Time enough to talk to the cops.

  IV

  “I bet you clean up around here,” Jake said.

  Simon stared up from his racing form. The bleachers over-looking the track were still relatively empty, maybe seventy people, all of them seemed to be studying forms and discussing favorites.

  “You’re okay?”

  Jake parted his sportcoat briefly, revealing the holstered Smith & Wesson. “A lot better than the shit who tried to shoot me.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Probably.”

  “Shouldn’t you be talking to the police?”

  “In a minute.” Jake eased himself onto the bleachers—his weight creaking the wood slats—releasing a sigh. “I’m a little weak-kneed. I don’t usually shoot people.”

  “Glad to hear that.”

  The big man grinned, but considered Simon for a moment. “Was it a put-on? I mean, did you already know the guy would be there? Or are you the genuine article?”

  “Did he have a navy blue suit?”

  “You got what my grandma called The Eye. Kids don’t pay much attention to old folks—I didn’t; even when I was older, I didn’t—who does, huh?” Jake gazed at the dried beige stain on the tip of his boot. “You got to get old yourself before you understand how the world has secrets.”

  “It’s nothing I do.” Simon glanced down at the racing form. “I have learned something. Things aren’t necessarily meant to be.” He turned to Jake. “We can change the direction of our lives. Maybe not in every instance, every situation, but enough to make a difference.”

  “I think the senator would like to meet you.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Listen, I’ve known Johnny since he was a baby,” said Jake. “My sister’s kid, and a fairly decent sort, as politicians go, a little hungry, but they’re all a little hungry.”

  “I got a job.”

  “Is it money?”

  “Got that, too.”

  “How ‘bout public service, doin’ for your country.”

  “…or the senator.”

  Jake shook his head, smiling. “You’re a tough man.”

  “Part of my charm.”

  Simon felt the sun on his back, the white T-shirt damp with sweat; felt good, though, better than the Philly winters.

  He liked Jonathan, what he’d seen of him, the meeting at the gallery, the interviews on TV. Very personable, very charismatic. His only weakness appeared to be his desire to please everyone. But Jake was right, most politicians were hungry, self-serving, and Simon didn’t care for them. Could the senator remain effective in all that hunger, seemed more to the point. Jonathan’s record showed him as a liberal Democrat concerned with popular issues, heath care, Social Security, education, an overhaul of the criminal justice system. Yet his position on these issues had a way of shifting with the polls and the group he was speaking to at any given evening. One MSNBC interviewer—a blond bespectacled fellow who obviously enjoyed conflict—read five opposing quotes the senator made on national health care and then asked how a person might have such diverse ideas. Jonathan didn’t even blink. “I’m always refining my thoughts,” he said, that big toothy grin in full brilliance. “I suspect the American people would rather elect a thinking president than a dogmatic one.”

  Uh-huh. Who could argue?

  He was bright, fast on his feet, and the women and minorities—blacks, Hispanics, Jews, gays, the blue collar folks—they loved him. No, Adored him.

  Simon believed the senator’s hunger had a light and dark side: his need for approval brought an uncanny sensitivity to what troubled voters, sensing public anxiety before it became an opinion, but the darker Jonathan was another matter, and Simon occasionally experienced the guy as a raging love junkie who’d sell dear old mom for a momentary cheer of the crowd.

  Why would he want me? Clayman’s perceptive enough. A man in public life doesn’t need a stranger looking in his closets.

  Still…

  …I’m…curious.

  “Tell the senator I’ll meet with him,” said Simon, tapping the rolled racing form on his palm. “Though I’m not sure what I’d do. He’s fairly psychic to public mood.”

  “To be honest, I was leaning more toward that stuff with Jack Kennedy.” The big man gazed out at the freshly raked track. “Kennedy might’ve stayed away from Dallas if you had been on his staff, a person he trusted, a person with your gift. Or suppose there was, I dunno, some weird shit going on—for instance, threats to a family—you could help, right?”

  “Is there weird stuff going on, Jake?”

  “Discuss that with the senator.”

  “Okay, I won’t push you.”

  What occurred to Simon was the dream
he’d had, years ago now, the one with Eddy and a young Jonathan sitting at a table in Tavern on the Green. It hadn’t been just my dream. Clayman and I shared it. And he remembers the dream. He must…subconsciously remember. That’s why he bought the painting.

  Simon had dismissed the senator’s purchase of the picture as perhaps a tug at some remote, undefinable feeling, nothing known, no true awareness; but if Eddy was appearing equally in their lives—if that was the “weird shit” Jake had in mind—then Jonathan did know, and bought Tavern with full knowledge of the dreams.

  And why not?

  Have I been that blind to the obvious?

  How can you pick up the most obtuse thoughts and feelings of others and not see what’s looking you squarely in the face?

  “Let me give you the senator’s card.” Jake handed the card to Simon, the left edge had a sooty film. “Don’t have a clean one,” he said apologetically. “I dropped my wallet in the yard yesterday, the woods near our house. I hope you’ll call us.”

  “Certain things are inevitable.”

  “…what?”

  “Nothing.”

  V

  A little after eight that evening, Simon had gone to his studio to work on a portrait of Deborah VanHull, a Philadelphia matriarch—the Philadelphia matriarch—a woman who was far too rich and had a fetish for collecting paintings of herself. The piece seemed negligibly inspired, though it did pay the bills. Simon hadn’t been inspired since his marriage.

  Happy, yes; inspired, no.

  He suspected contentment and art would always have a rough relationship, but the portrait passed the time while Dora was away and working, another gallery show, the Bulletin thrilled with her return, hiring her back on the spot. Both of them were glad she had the job. Love or not, he valued his time alone.