The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  Simon sat in front of the large canvas, its background completed, laboring on the face of Deborah VanHull, her standing image sketched in faintly with pencil. She’d posed wearing a strapless, red sequined gown; and at fifty-five, her figure was slim and elegant.

  Relaxing the brush, he looked at the skylight, the starry summer evening, the half-moon bright enough to see its cratered shadows.

  He laid the paint brush on the small table beside him, taking the senator’s card from the pocket of his white T-shirt.

  Is it inevitable?

  Simon rubbed the sooty edge of card between his thumb and index finger, interested more in what Jake had said about the woods than the card itself.

  What can you show me?

  …and shut his eyes.

  C’mon. Something. Anything. What am I stepping into, senator?

  Dazzling specks of light flared behind his eyes. C’mon, show me. The lights fused abruptly, a consuming radiance, and shattered, rocking him onto the floor, his right shoulder battering hard wood. Simon groaned, but his eyes stayed closed. Who’re you playing with now, Eddy? I know it’s you. C’mon, let’s see what you’ve done.

  Darkness.

  Heat.

  He smelled hair burning—wasn’t it hair?—then felt fire at the back of his neck.

  And screamed.

  Simon, racing into a darkness tinged by an orange luminescence, feeling the heat subside as he ran: no idea where he was going, just away, away from the goddamn heat. He saw the moon moving above him, keeping pace, flickering between the branches and leaves that seemed to contain—or maybe reflect—that red-orange glow.

  A sudden rush of cool air cascaded over him. Beyond the trees, a clearing. No, a lawn, an acre or two easy, neatly mowed and wet; moonlight glittered the grass.

  When Simon looked at the house, he recognized it at once from both TV and the Sunday magazine section of the Bulletin. You didn’t forget Jonathan Clayman’s place: three stories, gray stone, and forty or more windows across, blasé for the Merion Station crowd, but truly impressive for everybody else.

  Simon turned, gazing at the red-orange haze that covered the woods and ended at the lawn’s end. It reminded him of his dreams, the glow that colored the New York night. He touched his neck, no burning sensation, no singed hair.

  “I know you’re here, Eddy.”

  “…oh, yes,” said a whispered voice; not outside himself, but within. “I’m definitely here.”

  Correction: he had entered Eddy, watching this through Eddy’s eyes, the way Simon had done with Matthew. And the voice appeared as a thought, hallucinatory and distinct.

  Then he heard another voice, remote, belonging to a child. She was calling to him, to them, her silhouette at the third floor window. He felt his arms being forced upward. Eddy waved to the girl.

  “Ready for some fun, Simon? What you say, mu’man?”

  “—Leave her alone.”

  “Bitch, bitch, bitch. Try not to be a party pooper. Besides, you’ll like this shit. Trust me.”

  Simon watched the flesh on his fingers dissolve, the skin flowering into soft white and umber feathers; listened to the crackle of shrinking, changing bones—Eddy’s body forming a new shape, effortlessly, painlessly—arms mutating into wings, and falling, they were falling, as legs and feet disappeared.

  The direction shifted in a single swift thrust; Simon, now feeling himself soaring up, over the lawn, through the night sky, toward the girl’s window.

  He felt powerful wings slice the air, catching the current and lofting him higher, the air a substance, textured, a thing to be manipulated. Wings stretched full, sailing down at an angle. Talons spread and grabbed the window sill.

  Simon stared at the child through Eddy’s eyes.

  “Ahul,” she said, tapping the screen with the tip of her finger, chipped red polish on the nail.

  “Hooow pretty yooou are,” murmured Eddy.

  The girl giggled; brushed away a rust-colored curl from her forehead, perhaps so he might have a better view.

  “And what’s yooour name?”

  “Phoebe.”

  “I’m Mr. Eddy.”

  “You’re pretty, too. I like your feather face.”

  “We’re going to be friends, yooou and me. Is that okay?”

  “O.K.,” making an “O” with her thumb and finger.

  “I can show you my home in the woods.”

  “Shut the window!” Simon yelling at the child: “Shut it now, Phoebe!”

  She’s can’t hear you, mu’man, Eddy’s words no more than a thought.

  “Uh-oh, look,” said Phoebe, pointing to the orange glow in the woods. “Fire”—this coming out as fiwe—, “a big fiwe. Your house on fiwe, Mistew Eddy.”

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Uh-huh.” The she giggled again: “Mistew Eddy has a fiwehouse.”

  “Want to visit my firehouse?”

  Her eyes became wide. “When? When can I visit your fiwehouse?”

  “One day soon.”

  “But when.” None of this “soon” stuff for Phoebe Clayman.

  “How old are you?”

  She held up five fingers.

  The owl blinked; his head rotated to the left, then the right, as though considering the information. “When yooou’re…twelve,” Eddy said.

  Phoebe frowned, apparently trying to figure if twelve was a long time or a short time; then asking, “…how many fingers?”

  “All of them,” Eddy said. “And, TWO toes.”

  She looked down at her bare feet, wiggled her toes—chipped red polish also on those nails—perhaps to get a sense of the owl’s offer. “…you promise?”

  “Totally.”

  “Swear.”

  “I always keep my promise to a pretty girl.”

  “Can Daddy come with me to the fiwehouse?”

  “…oh, yes,” whispered Mr. Eddy. “You can’t tell him, though, not Daddy, not Uncle Jake. It’ll be our secret. Everybody’s coming to the firehouse.”

  PART III: THE DREAMING FIELD

  Buddha? A notorious metabolic junkie…Makes his own you dig. In India, where they got no sense of time, The Man is often a month late.

  —William S. Burroughs

  Through me is the way to Desolation City,

  Through me is the way into eternal pain,

  Through me is the way to lost souls fit for pity.

  Before me what was made would persevere,

  And that’s how I am made. Eternal I endure.

  Abandon hope, all you who enter here.

  —Inferno

  ELEVEN

  I

  Dora arrived home to find her husband laid out on the studio floor, this a few minutes after ten; and at first, feeling her face turn hot, she thought Simon was dead. The anxiety brought both hands to her mouth in a muffled cry. Keeling beside him, Dora put a cheek to his nostrils.

  Thank God, he’s breathing.

  She relaxed, feeling the tension leave her neck and stomach. “Simon?” Holding his shoulders, a gentle shake: “Wake up, honey.”

  Simon’s eyes blinked open. He seemed to recognize her and smiled.

  “Hi,” his voice groggy.

  “Hi, yourself,” she said, taking the business card from his closed fingers, seeing the name “Jonathan Clayman” printed on it. “Been on a little trip, have we?”

  “What…what time is it?”

  “Ten-ish. How long have you—”

  “Two hours,” muttered Simon. He sat up slowly, Dora helping him. “It didn’t feel that long.”

  “Never does,” she said, rubbing his back. “You know, Sy, most men watch sports when their wives are away, or dirty pictures on the internet.”

  “I could try the picture thing.”

  “Over your dead body.”

  During their time together, Dora had seen him do a few of these trance states. Once she woke and he was standing on the bed, taking to someone she couldn’t see; another, when he leaped off
the subway platform at Broad and Olney. She had climbed down into the tunnel, guiding him back as he mumbled something about…what?…a field.

  …yes, a…dreaming field.

  Under the subway, he said…

  …a dreaming field.

  Simon propped himself up on his right elbow, using his thumb to brush a loose strand of Dora’s hair away from her eyebrows. Over the last two years, her black hair had grown past the shoulders, and curly, not too different from the Dora in his painting, the one assigned to the furnace.

  “The senator’s daughter may be in trouble,” he said. “You remember Phoebe?”

  “Yes. Thin. Big green eyes. Pretty.” She helped him to his feet, arm around his waist for support. “You, on the other hand, look ghastly, Sy.”

  “Easy. Flattery gets me horny. How was the show?”

  “Tedious.”

  They walked into the dark bedroom; Simon, sitting on the edge of the mattress; Dora, removing his khaki pants, resting his legs on the cool sheets. Moonlight and a soft breeze drifted through the open window. She laid beside him, asking, “So what happened?” and snuggled in the crook of his arm.

  He told her about his day, meeting Jake, the vision of the robber and Jake’s shootout; told her about Eddy and Phoebe and the owl.

  Dora didn’t say anything. She listened, gazing at the shadows the moon had put on the ceiling, letting Simon finish. There were things to tell him, too. But that could wait. She didn’t like to see him upset.

  “It’s been two years,” Dora said, when he seemed done. “Jake mentioned their lives were relatively normal, right?”

  “I know.”

  “Nothing else has happened. I mean, in the trance you had tonight, Phoebe was what? Five?”

  “Uh-huh, five.”

  “The girl’s almost twelve now. You saw the past.”

  “I think so, yeah, the past.”

  “I wouldn’t worry.”

  “Time’s different there,” he said, taking her hand. “You were gone for four years. How long did it seem? And hour? Less? And the same for the missing cops. Remember them?”

  “But two years of peace and quiet should count for something.”

  “It’s not finished.”

  “You forget, Eddy let me and those cops go. The fight I saw between him and the other one—”

  “Benjamin.”

  “Yes, Benjamin. I think that might have changed him.”

  “He doesn’t change.”

  “Are you so positive?”

  “Just a feeling.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Help them,” he said, and kissed the palm of her hand.

  Thank God, Dora thought. Yes, help them, darling, and help me, too, if you can.

  Could she tell him tonight; here, in the best of all worlds, lying beside him with the moonlight ghosting the walls and giving her a hideout?

  I’m pregnant…

  …no, too abrupt.

  We’re going to have a baby, Simon.

  Better…

  …but…

  …yes?

  I’m not sure whose baby it is right now.

  Splendid. Can’t you see the divorce lawyers lining up in the hallway? Armani cologne wafting through the gloom of your guilt? Please, sweetheart, you keep the sofa, I’ll take the boar’s head over the fireplace. Yada yada yada. Is there ever a good time to discuss betrayal? Even if participation was less than accommodating, that wouldn’t dismiss the pain.

  Dora remembered more about her stay with Eddy than she had cared to share. When she concentrated on the city, on the abduction, time stretched like warm dough. He’d caressed her: hands on breasts, thighs, between her legs.

  The voice was a soft breath. Look at you, my Dora. Sweet Dora. How much you remind me of her.

  She had screamed.

  Turned.

  But no one was there.

  Only the park, the empty park, the skyline of the city with its constant night, its orange glow, and the little fires: only that.

  She remembered the first time he entered her, the hot, slick, stab of him. Dora had awakened to it, seeing nothing, but feeling everything. Twisting, fighting, clawing the air. Where are you? Stop! Please, stop! Her panties torn away; and all the while, this horrible blazing stone of a cock was pumping into her, invisible fingers tearing at her cotton camisole, mouth biting and sucking at the nipples.

  No place to hide.

  After leaving that nightmare city, thinking she’d been freed from his assaults, the dreams, or whatever they were, began: she, waking in the night beside a sleeping husband, muffling cries in a pillow, staring down at her spread naked legs and feeling a wetness deep within her. The rapes became fewer, though. Weeks went by and not a single dream—if it was a dream—but then the rapes would start, again. Once Dora thought she’d seen Eddy near the window, a thin dark shape, his cock erect, watching her and stroking himself.

  How could she tell Simon any of this?

  Maybe your baby, darling.

  Maybe the devil’s baby.

  Just call me Rosemary.

  Now, resting next to her husband on the bed—through a moment of safety—Dora whispered, “…kill him. Can you do that? Can you kill him?”

  “I…I don’t know.”

  “We’re going to have a baby, Simon,” she said, taking the chance. “Keep the asshole away from us.”

  She saw his eyes search her face; saw the smile. His arms circle tightly around her.

  II

  “I’m glad you’re here.” The senator walked into the study where his uncle had asked Simon to wait; that, twenty minutes ago. Jonathan’s arm was already extended for the handshake, big smile, teeth porcelain perfect. “And I see Jake picked the room with your painting.” He wore pressed jeans and a red velour pullover. In one graceful motion, he clasped Simon’s hand warmly, leading him to the sofa. “Many a night I’ve sat alone in this study—where we’re sitting now—just staring at it. Terrific piece, you know.”

  Simon studied his work, the canvas filling the length of one pine paneled wall, sunlight gleaming across its surface through the glass doors that lead to the outside deck. Tavern on the Green, the main room thick with an orange haze; and slightly left of center, two figures behind a table covered in white cloth, Eddy and a young Jonathan Clayman.

  “…what are your thoughts?” Simon asked, eyes not leaving the painting. “When you’re alone, watching the Tavern, what comes to mind?”

  “Bad times.”

  “Dreams?”

  “Vague ones, parts of dreams.”

  “Does my face seem familiar?” Simon turned to meet the senator’s gaze. “Don’t you remember me?”

  “You mean the gallery?”

  “Way before that, senator.”

  “Jonathan.”

  “Alright, Jonathan. Are you being honest?”

  Clayman seemed to consider Simon’s face; then shook his head. “We met at the gallery.”

  Maybe he was telling the truth; maybe not, but he would know that truth soon enough.

  “What about the painting then?” Simon wasn’t going to end this, “Isn’t the painting familiar?”

  “Yes…always. I’m drawn to the piece.”

  “Get closer. Touch it.”

  “I…have.”

  “Try again.”

  Simon watched as the senator stood, hesitated a beat, moving slowly, dark loafers against an oriental rug of violet and slate; watched as he walked the canvas length, studying its images, the smoke and red-orange haze, the shadows, the empty tables and the one where the two figures sat, the square pizza box on the white cloth. Simon was behind him now, cupping his palm on Jonathan’s neck, his left hand on the picture; and murmuring, Touch it, go on, touch those two figures there. The senator’s fingertips began to trace the shapes at the table. Simon felt a cold shudder spread through his own chest. His grip tightened around the back of Jonathan’s neck, a gentle pressure, and he heard a moan come from
deep inside the man’s throat; saw his body stiffen and also felt this rigidity in himself.

  Rotting fruit.

  Mildew.

  Oil and gasoline.

  These odors brought an immediate feeling of nausea to Simon. Smoke hung low in the large room. At the table, Eddy and a much younger Jonathan were eating pizza. The senator cautiously circled the table, keeping his distance, but they didn’t seem to notice him, even after courage gathered to wave a hand in front of Eddy.

  The older Jonathan looked up. “Is this real?”

  “My memory, I think.”

  “You can do that?”

  “Shit. Apparently.”

  “Wait. Everything is fading.”

  “Here, grab a hold of me.”

  Jonathan locked his fingers about Simon’s arm. “—Whoa.”

  “Better?”

  “The entire room just focused itself.”

  “And the dream, senator. Do you remember?”

  “I do now, yes.” Jonathan pointed to Eddy. “That’s the son of a bitch who killed my wife. Him, I didn’t forget. But he never mentioned you, Simon. I saw you only twice, here and in Washington Square. You had a cane the last time.”

  Simon said nothing of the deaths, Virgil, his parents—or Dora’s abduction—he felt these events as quicksand, sucking him away from what was important at this moment.

  “Senator…” he had to ask the question, “…what did Eddy give you?”

  Jonathan was staring off, watching his younger self at the table, there in the orange smoke and shadows, that boy pantomiming laughter, ravenously shoving a wad of sliced pizza into his mouth.

  “A way to leave Fairless Hills,” Clayman whispered. “He fed me the things I needed. Taught me to feed myself. Have you ever stood in front of twenty thousand people and listened to them chanting your name? Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

  “No, don’t have a clue.”

  “A big goddamn meal, believe me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “Can you?” Jonathan seemed to study him for a second or two, and turned back to the boy. “Then answer me this: how can such a heavy meal leave a person so hungry? I’m a vampire for the new age, my friend. I can’t wait to eat again, to hear them, to listen to the sound of my own name.”