The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  Simon tried picturing the man’s hunger. The feeling eluded him. He enjoyed the popularity of his work—and the money, let’s not forget the money—yet dealing with the public always had been a chore, something to be avoided. That part of Jonathan was disturbing, the wish for love-blind admirers, esteem rising and falling with the opinion polls. But didn’t most politicians do this? Only their effectiveness ought to matter, their good works. He’d followed Jonathan’s tenure in the House and Senate. Media sources, mostly, TV, newspapers, magazines: federal funding for education, welfare reform, the beginning of another national health care package that looked promising. On the darker side, rumors on meaty financial contributions by BioChem showed up among the grocery store tabloids, specifically Exposure One, along with photos of deformed babies displaying webbed hands and huge skulls; the caption reading, BIOCHEM: WHAT THE NEW WARFARE AND JONATHAN CLAYMAN HAVE IN COMMON. And another: WILL THE VICTIMS OF A FUTURE CHEMICAL HOLOCAUST HAVE SENATOR CLAYMAN TO THANK? All stories were the same, BioChem’s R&D contracts with the Department of Defense, a relationship initiated by increased terrorist activity and the anthrax scare a few years ago. Just enough facts to be convincing, minus the web-handed babies, of course.

  III

  Simon felt exhausted. His talk with the senator had lasted close to four hours. He agreed to work out a schedule, a yet unspecified amount of consult time, not as political advisor but as someone who had a mutual interest in putting the skids to Eddy. He wanted to do it for himself and Dora, and for the girl he now saw sitting under an oak at the entrance drive to the senator’s home. Phoebe looked up from her book and waved, the smile loaded with metal braces, that thick rust-colored hair pulled into a ponytail, her long skinny legs crossed at the ankles.

  “You’re Mr. Aaron, right?”

  “Simon,” he said, moving under the shade of the tree and squatting next to her, feeling a mild pain in his hip.

  “I’m Phoebe.”

  “I know. What’re you reading?”

  “Ivanhoe.” She rolled her eyes. “I still have the Mickey Mouse you drew for me. Remember?”

  He did: the night at the Walnut Street Gallery, soothing a five-year-old’s fear of his paintings. “How old are you?”

  “Almost twelve.” Phoebe gave another grin, braces flashing. A beauty hid behind all that metal and frizzed out hair, a child’s awkwardness used as a disguise. He also sensed her anxiety. Her shoulders had a faintly perceptible quiver. “It’s next month,” she muttered. “My birthday, I mean.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You can talk to me, you know.”

  The girl wrapped her arms around her bare, thin legs, chin resting on knees. “Did my father tell you about Mr. Eddy?”

  “Mentioned it, yes.” He chose not to share the recent trance experience. What would he say? Not only do I know Mr. Eddy, but a few nights back I was perched on your window still. Of course, you were five then. Probably a bad idea. “You’re dad and uncle seem to think Eddy hasn’t been here for awhile. But that’s not true, is it?”

  Phoebe stared down at her tan sandals, the same cherry red nail polish he’d seen in the trance painted on her toes. She shook her head. “I…I didn’t want to worry everybody. They’re, you know, so paranoid and all.”

  “—And you?”

  “Me, too, I guess.”

  “Eddy’s still visiting,” he said, a statement not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “The owl.”

  “Un-huh.”

  When she finally looked up, he saw the fear in her eyes, the shine just before tears. No doubt the kid was terrified, and Simon guessed she’d been keeping a lot of things to herself for a long time.

  Sunlight filtered through the branches and leaves, dappling the grass with brightness and shadow.

  “Talk to me,” Simon whispered. “You don’t have to be alone, anymore.”

  Tears suddenly appeared, trailing her cheeks. “He’d say stuff, how…how beautiful I was, nice stuff. And I said I wanted to visit his ‘firehouse’. I used to call his place the ‘firehouse’ ‘cause that part of the woods looked like it was burning and all. He told me I had to be twelve before I could visit.”

  Simon remembered.

  I always keep my promise to a pretty girl.

  “What’s your birthday?”

  “July second,” she mumbled, scratching the edge of a dime-sized scab on her knee. “I’ll be twelve in fifteen days.”

  “You think Eddy’s coming back?”

  “I know he’s coming.” Her tone seemed far away and defeated. Phoebe stared up at him, eyes searching his face. “Do I have to go, Simon?”

  “No, honey.”

  “…I’m afraid.”

  “And your dad and Jake aren’t aware?”

  “Eddy said not to tell.”

  He remembered that, too.

  You can’t tell him, though, not Daddy, not Uncle Jake. It’ll be our secret. Everybody’s coming to the firehouse.

  “Maybe you should say something,” he said.

  “Don’t tell them, Simon. Please, don’t.”

  He saw the panic in Phoebe, and taking her hand in his, unclear how to convey what needed to be stated without increasing her fear: “Listen, I won’t say anything if you don’t want me to, okay? But you’re a big girl and you have to think about this. Eddy isn’t like us. He doesn’t keep his promises. Understand? He could hurt your dad and uncle. If they knew—and I won’t tell them, I really won’t—but if they knew, they might figure a way to protect themselves and you. We can stop him—”

  oh?

  do you really believe that?

  try not to bullshit the kid

  “—or have more of a chance—”

  better

  “—if people knew what’s going on here. Doesn’t that make sense?”

  She nodded, reluctantly.

  “Think about it, alright? That’s all I’m asking. Will you do that?”

  Another nod, then she asked, “Do you have children?”

  He smiled, recalling Dora’s news. “Pretty soon.”

  “Would you want your child to tell you?”

  “Absolutely. And I’d do everything in my power to protect her…or him.”

  Phoebe seemed to reflect on his words, her chin resting on her knees again, arms hugging legs, as though holding herself together.

  Simon sat with the girl for awhile. She stayed quiet. They watched the sunlight on the lawn fade and clouds gather in the late afternoon sky, perhaps the start of a summer storm. He felt his hip start to throb, the pain negligible, but enough to notice; and somewhere in that time, he also felt her fingers touch his hand.

  IV

  The SEPTA train at Merion Station arrived ten minutes late. Except for an elderly couple seated near the opposite end of the car, Simon was practically alone for the trip back to Center City. The easy rocking motion and the rain now drumming the window had lulled him to the rim of sleep, a pleasant on and off dozing.

  “You like her?”

  “What?” When he heard the voice, his eyes partly opened, the lids heavy. “What’re you say—”

  “The little girl. Phoebe. Do you like her?”

  “Yes…I guess, sure.”

  Benjamin sat directly across from him. Another change in his appearance: he still wore khakis and a sweatshirt, but his once long white hair had been trimmed above the ear, and he looked no different than anyone else riding a train on a late Saturday afternoon.

  “Nice hair cut,” Simon muttered.

  “How much.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ve lost me.”

  “A simple question. How much do you like the girl?”

  “She’s so afraid, so vulnerable.”

  “And you?”

  “The same, sometimes the same.” Simon gazed out the window, summer green against the gray day, trees and houses passing quickly. He knew Benjamin’s question hadn’t been answered. What he’d tho
ught of was Mary Kathleen on the subway with those two boys. I just wanted them to let me be, that’s all. I didn’t care about her. Maybe age changes you, maybe love. Whatever the reason, it’s different now. He had liked Phoebe from the start. How much he liked her was a bullshit question. One thing for sure, the kid shouldn’t have to endure assholes, and Eddy in particular, on her birthday. Or ever. “I…I don’t know what to do,” said Simon, more to himself than Benjamin. “Fifteen days isn’t a lot of time.”

  “I agree.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to give advice? I mean, at this point, a suggestion would be helpful.”

  Benjamin smiled, the lines in his cheeks and the corners of his eyes deepening. The guy looked older, though guessing his age would be difficult, forty-five, perhaps fifty. You couldn’t pin it down, just older than the time they’d met at the studio.

  “Your struggle isn’t with…” hesitating, then…‘Eddy.’ Let me ask the question again, Simon. How much do you like the girl?”

  “If you’re asking, do I like her enough to protect her, the answer’s yes.”

  “Good. Focus on that.”

  Simon turned to the window, looking at the rain streaking the glass. “Are you telling me Eddy can’t be stopped?”

  “You mean killed?”

  “Alright, yeah. Killed.”

  “I know the souls in the abyss dream. I’ve never been to the dreaming field, but I’ve been told each dream is…specific…and unpleasant.”

  He looked back at Benjamin. “They’re tortured.”

  “That’s what I understand.”

  “What else.”

  “Ordinarily, a soul doesn’t feel pain. But in these dreams, they become mortal…for awhile—this is only a rumor, something we hear—and anyone entering the dream also becomes vulnerable.”

  “So these souls, they die over and over. If Eddy were caught in a dream, he would be mortal?”

  Benjamin shrugged. “If the rumors are true.”

  “You age, though.” Simon pointed to his own face. “I see lines like mine. And your hair’s gray. Won’t you die, eventually?”

  “Don’t know. I’ve been accused of being too empathic.”

  “Benjamin, who are you?” The elderly couple at the opposite end of the car stared in his direction. Simon’s voice softened. “One minute you’ve got wings, for God’s sake, and the next minute you’re looking like Clint Eastwood. Do you know how unnerving that is? I feel as if—” lowering his tone to a whisper—“as if I’ve been thrown in some nightmare, no idea what, no clue how to fight it, and I’m getting pissed.”

  “Have faith in me, Simon.”

  “That’s it? That’s your answer?” He heard his whisper intensify, stopped, took a breath; then with a controlled calmness, “My friend dies, my parents die, my wife disappears for—God, what?—four years?—and all I hear from you is, ‘Have faith in me, Simon’? I need you to do better than that, Benjamin. I’m about to risk my life—get it, my life—so I’m gonna need you to do a lot better than this ‘have faith in me’ shit.”

  “Suppose Eddy wasn’t the one stalking the child,” Benjamin said gently. He seemed oblivious to Simon’s anger. “Suppose a—what do you call them?—a…deranged person? Yes, suppose a deranged person had decided to harm her. What would you do?”

  Simon blinked; gazed at him. “You want me to tell the police that a guy changed into an owl? And the owl—who talks, by the way—and the owl is going to kidnap a child?” He glanced at the old man and woman; both smiled and nodded to him. Simon leaned in toward his far-too-relaxed companion; his whisper close to pantomime. “They’d commit me, Benjamin. I’d end up in a hospital with an enormous amount of other deranged people. That’s if the cops would set foot in Clayman’s house—which they won’t, not since two of them were found wandering around the senator’s backyard after being missing for four years. Thanks to your little buddy, I might add.”

  “What else, then?”

  “Benjamin, why do I get the feeling you think this is a game? No, pardon me. I feel I’m in the middle of a game.”

  “Please, try to concentrate.” His voice remained even and undisturbed. “I know you’d like to take a poke at me right now. I don’t blame you. But we’re here with a problem, and it won’t go away. And believe it or not, I’m doing my part. So think, okay? If you can’t go to the police—and they couldn’t help, really—what else?”

  Simon looked out the window again; saw his reflection in the glass, a narrow, gaunt face, dark brown hair pulled into a ponytail; felt the rhythmic clatter of the train.

  “You should leave,” he said, glancing back at Benjamin. “I’d leave. Take the girl and hide out somewhere. Whether the senator would do that, I don’t know. The guy doesn’t strike me as the sort who’d give up his public life. Besides, Eddy won’t quit.”

  “You don’t believe Mr. Clayman would sacrifice his career for his daughter?”

  “My impression is no,” said Simon, shaking his head. “He loves his daughter. Very much. But I suspect he might rationalize his choices. We’re talking about a man who wants to be president. And he has a decent chance. You don’t simply toss aside an obsession.”

  “Even for someone he loves?”

  “You asked my opinion. I’m telling you: the senator won’t fully realize the reasons for his choice, but he’ll probably stay.”

  “Persuade himself.”

  “Yes, and maybe that’s the right choice. If Eddy will find them anyway, what’s the point?”

  “You know the point, Simon.”

  “No, I don’t. You’ve put me in a situation without clues, without a single discernable detail.”

  “The situation isn’t as important as your response.”

  “Which means, you’re not going to tell me.”

  “I just did. Listen to what I’m saying, please. The situation isn’t as important as your response.”

  Simon stared down at his lap; heartbeat rising, feeling its labored rush in his chest and ears. “There is one way to make sense of this,” he said, and grabbed Benjamin’s hands.

  V

  Phoebe, cross-legged on the pale blue sofa in the study, bare legs and feet against the velour—still wearing cut-offs and a white tank top—crying silently now: Jonathan had listened to it all, Mr. Eddy, the seduction, and his daughter’s fear.

  What does she want me to do?

  I knew he was here…

  …son of a bitch.

  “We…we could find a new place,” Phoebe said pleadingly, rubbing her already swollen eyes with the back of her hand. “…go s-somewhere.” And looking at him, “When I was little, I thought it’d be fun. You know, goin’ to the firehouse. But Mr. Eddy’s changed. He’s mean. Can’t we go somewhere else to live?”

  “I’ll get Jake to sleep in your room, baby. Okay? We can set-up a mattress on the floor, like we used to, at least ‘til after your birthday.”

  Phoebe pulled a couple of tissues from a Kleenex box on the glass coffee table, wiping her nose. “That won’t matter,” she said, words caught in an after-cry quiver.

  “Jake can handle Mr. Eddy.” Sitting next to her, Jonathan drew her close; she, resting her head on his chest. “You’ve always trusted your uncle, right?”

  “Can I live with Grandma?”

  “I think you’d be safer here. Grandma’s getting old. And I’d worry, you being so far away. Jake and I aren’t going to let anything happen to you.”

  The desk lamp behind them lighted the study, a small luminous circle that left the room in shadows. Jonathan glanced down at his daughter and kissed her forehead. She was staring at the painting on the wall facing the sofa.

  “Simon thought I ought to tell you about Mr. Eddy.”

  “I’m glad you did,” he said, wondering what was fact and what was fantasy. Eddy wouldn’t excuse himself from their lives. True, there was no hiding place when it came to him. But Phoebe could be very inventive and fearful. He felt this had to do with not having a moth
er’s influence; and, more importantly, the time, or lack of it, he’d given to the child. Did I expect anything less? I’m gone five days a week. She’s got her uncle, and thank God for Jake, but that’s not the same as parents, and her life is too big a responsibility to put on the old guy. Jonathan had hired a housekeeper to give his uncle time off and to bring Phoebe some female companionship. None of that worked. Huge mistake. His daughter had become both competitive and resentful. A pouting little princess, Mrs. Gillman had said, puffing up her five foot two inches, suitcase in hand as she walked out the front door; this, according to Jake, happened last Thursday. Mrs. Gillman’s tenure was two days shy of a month. Jonathan even thought about Phoebe living in Washington with him during the week, yet his hours were so damn crazy. And she had her friends here, didn’t she? At least that was stable.

  Jesus.

  Of course the poor kid has problems.

  “The picture still scares me,” Phoebe said, elbows on knees now, chin supported by her hands, looking at the canvas. “I really like Simon. He’s really neat and all, but he paints some weird stuff. I never understood why you bought it.”

  “I’m probably a little weird myself.” No sense telling her. And what would I say? That’s your dad there with Eddy? Then he took a fresh tissue from the Kleenex box and dabbed her eyes. “I can take the picture down, if you want.”

  “No. It’s okay.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “No. Seriously, it’s fine.”

  “I love you, you know.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I hate to see you feeling this way.”

  “I just wish we’d go somewhere,” she said quietly. “Africa, maybe.”

  “Africa?”

  “A jungle, or whatever. Mr. Eddy couldn’t find us in a jungle.”

  I wouldn’t bet on it, he thought. We take our dreams with us, don’t we? Sooner or later we fall asleep, darling. And if he wanted to walk into a dream, that’s what he’d do. No, “Hi, may I come in?” No, “Excuse me for disturbing you.” Jonathan remembered the night sky lighted by flames on the windows—sooty broken glass—buildings vacant and smoldering, the streets cluttered with debris. He remembered the winds from the subway tunnels blowing garbage like urban tumbleweed…and the isolation, an emptiness that seemed absolute. Not in the tunnels, though. There were sounds in the tunnels: that breathy tease; cries, drifting upward, muffled, a lifetime away. Don’t we take our dreams with us?