The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

“It can wait.”

  “Please…now. I need to hear your voice, Simon.”

  He told her: Morris at the bar, the visions, breaking into BioChem—everything—even the two men and the gas.

  Dora’s eyes opened wide. “You were seen?”

  “Hodge said they won’t remember.”

  “And you’re sure.”

  “Don’t worry.” He studied her for a moment, the concern obvious. “…what about you?”

  “I’m…not pregnant, anymore.”

  “I heard.”

  “Don’t hate me.”

  “Never.” He kissed her fingertips.

  “I screwed up big time. Simon. Maybe I can’t get pregnant again.”

  “Think of the fun we’ll have trying.”

  Her hand cupped the back of his neck and brought him to her mouth for a kiss. “I love you so much,” she murmured; then, “…God, my breath must stink.”

  “Your breath’s fine.”

  Her turn now, feeling her throat grow tight, asking him not to interrupt until things were finished: the words jumbled and choppy, digging them out along with the shame. She started from her capture, the years away, Eddy’s obsession with the Dora of the painting, confessing even the visits and the rapes. Finally, she said, “He knows about BioChem, what you and Hodge did. I don’t know how, but he does—”

  “Listen, Dora—”

  “Wait. Please.” Her hand circled his wrist; she took a breath. “This isn’t easy for me, either of us. Eddy said you’ve caused enough trouble. He said, if you continue, I’d be with him for good.”

  Simon sat on the edge of the bed, arms on knees, staring down at the gray tile floor. Morning sunlight came through the open window; glistened the walls yellow.

  “I won’t lose you,” he muttered. “I couldn’t bear it.”

  She tugged at his shirt. “Look at me.” Simon did, his narrow face pale, darkness beneath his eyes. Dora had never seen him so lost and worn. “I’m scared—I can’t say I’m not—and I feel…I dunno…helpless, like I don’t have control of my life. But I don’t think it’s about just us. Understand? Can’t you stop this asshole?”

  “How do you stop someone who doesn’t die?”

  “Killing him isn’t the point.”

  “Yeah, Benjamin said that.” He gazed at the sunlight against the wall.

  She stared at his back, his shoulders hunched and tense. “What’re you thinking?”

  “…nothing.”

  “Huh-uh, I know you.”

  “Benjamin once told me about a dreaming field for the dead—where Eddy lives, but underground, below the subways. He said the souls in the abyss dream. And in those dreams, they become mortal for awhile.”

  “You mean alive?”

  “Huh, that’s what I mean. Alive.”

  “—But why?”

  “To be tortured. To die, again.”

  Dora put an arm about Simon’s waist, the side of her face against his back. “Let me hear the plan,” she whispered.

  “Anyone entering the dream becomes mortal. Benjamin used the word ‘vulnerable’, but I believe he meant ‘mortal’.”

  “Including Eddy.”

  “Yes, even Eddy.”

  “And whose dream will you be leaping into, Simon?” She heard her own anxiety, wincing at the sound, and tried to steady her voice. “What sort of dreams are they? Do you know?…Simon? Answer me.” She pulled on his arm. “You don’t have a clue. What’re you going to do, lure Eddy into some nightmare and kill him? And probably yourself? No, no, that’s a stupid plan.”

  When Dora saw his eyes, the fear and anger she felt crumbled, leaving only dread. Those eyes: dark cold stones. My God. How can you convince Gary Cooper to leave town? If Grace Kelly couldn’t do it, what did Dora Aaron have to offer? Pretty Grace, so pretty, pleading, begging Gary to leave with her, and he had tipped a finger to the brim of his hat, a polite, hard-ass thank you for the concern, and strapped on the guns.

  Do not forsake me, oh my darlin’.

  That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it, Sy dear?

  You’re strapping on those goddamn guns.

  II

  Simon needed sleep, a minute, two, a half-hour at most, but when he woke, the luminous digital numbers of the clock on the bedstand read…

  …8:16.

  The day had come and gone: out for eleven straight hours, more comatose than restful. He showered, grabbed a clean pair of jeans and his faded gray Temple University sweatshirt, heading for the Market East Station and the train to Merion.

  An hour and forty minutes had passed by the time he arrived at Jonathan’s, the June night warm with a clear sky.

  “We have a situation,” the senator said, as they walked down the hallway toward the study, wall lamps casting white circles on the wood floor. “Jake’s spending the weekend in Washington. Just me and Phoebe here now.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “Asleep. I’ve been checking on her every fifteen minutes.” Entering the study, Clayman nodded toward the glass double doors leading to the deck. “That’s the situation. Take a look.”

  The backyard spotlights sent brilliant beams over the lawn. But to the rear, along its periphery, the illumination faded into darkness. Beyond this, the woods and the night had a light of their own, an orange-red haze.

  Jonathan stepped onto the deck. “You know that sky.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “God, how I hated those dreams.”

  “Me, too.” Simon stared at the woods. Leaves and branches appeared cocooned in a fire without smoke or motion. “So he’s here?”

  “He never left.”

  “Didn’t he threaten to take Phoebe on her birthday? I mean, that’s what? Eight days?”

  “Eddy said you’ve done some damage.”

  Simon felt pain bite into the right hip, his hands holding the deck rail for support. “…You talk to him?”

  “We’re regular buddies, though I wouldn’t describe what we do as conversation. He talks while I have a heart attack.” Jonathan glanced at Simon. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything about BioChem. I’m relieved, actually. I keep having these save-the-world fantasies, but they always end with Phoebe being the victim.”

  “We still have eight days, right?”

  “You see the woods, Simon. Does that seem like eight days to you?” Jonathan leaned against the railing, arms folded to his chest, the moonlight sculpting shadows beneath the eyes accentuating the lines of his face. “…I want to help her,” he breathed out the words. “But my job is to do what he says when he says it. If I don’t, my buddy has promised to hurt her, and he was fairly graphic on the consequences. She’s the only person I care more about than myself.”

  “He’ll hurt her, anyway, Johnny.”

  “And if Phoebe was your daughter, what would you do? Provoke him?”

  “Has Eddy ever kept his promise?”

  “I don’t like feeling helpless, Simon.”

  “The asshole murdered my best friend. And my parents. We’re talking years ago, but it’s never left me. With my friend, I let him go into a place I knew was dangerous, and I’ve always wondered: would it have been different if I’d gone in there sooner. Maybe I could’ve done something. I’ll never know.”

  Jonathan gazed toward the ember-tinted glow in the forest. His hands gripped the wood rail. “I lose either way. If I defy Eddy, my daughter will lose a lot more—more than I care to imagine—that was made very clear. I’ll have to live with my choice, too, Simon. You can’t expect me to stir up the bastard.”

  “He’s been raping my wife.”

  “What?”

  “Frequently, I understand.”

  “…Jesus.”

  “We were going to have a child, but Dora didn’t know who the father was.” Simon thought he’d said it too matter-of-factly. “…so she dug the fetus out…” Feelings suddenly unfolded hot in his eyes and throat. “…with a knitting needle.”

  Jonathan started to s
peak, then seemed to sink inside himself, the old scar on his cheek visible in the moonlight.

  “I told my wife I could end the situation,” said Simon. “Give the guy what he wanted. Perhaps that would change things. He might not need us any longer.”

  “What does he want?”

  “You don’t know?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I hadn’t thought—”

  “He wants to go home. And for him to get home, all we have to do is what you’re doing now.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s it?”

  “No…something else.” Simon tried to remember what he had seen the day he’d grabbed Benjamin’s hands on the train. Clever. He remembered Benjamin whispering this the night he sat in front of Dora’s computer. Clever. The images had become vague, gaping blank regions in memory, but he understood the gist of it; and quietly, “…a new world. Without us. And all we have to do is…nothing.”

  “You can’t expect me to believe—”

  “Hey, fuck what you believe.” Simon took hold of the senator’s arm and moved in closer, feeling the anger rise, his voice balanced between a murmur and a hiss. “Pretend I’m a liar. We don’t need the world to end. All we need is to ignore the real possibility that Phoebe will be abused beyond anything we could comprehend; ignore the certainty that Eddy will visit and rape my wife whenever he has the urge, that he murdered my friend—and my parents—and, oh, yes, let’s not forget the reason why Eddy was cast down from the ole homestead: he enjoys us. He’s the bully and we’re the scared kids in the schoolyard. And like most bullies, it excites them when we’re afraid. They get a fuckin’ hard-on. You have to teach bullies to respect you, Johnny. And since they’re a little dense, you can’t be subtle.”

  III

  Phoebe heard the rustle of wings outside her open window and figured if she laid perfectly still, if she kept her eyes shut and head to the pillow, the owl would get bored and leave.

  You said, ON my birthday.

  I’ve got eight days.

  He’d promised, hadn’t he? People shouldn’t forget their promises. But Mr. Eddy wasn’t “people”, not really. People never changed into animals. Nobody she knew did that.

  You let me go once.

  Remember? In the dream?

  I said, ‘It’s not my birthday yet’, and you let me go.

  Phoebe hoped Mr. Eddy could read her thoughts. She certainly had no intention of, like, speaking to him. Then he’d know she hadn’t been asleep.

  Shooo, owl.

  She opened one eye.

  The owl ruffled his feathers and blinked. “Hellooo, pretty girl. Is little Miss Pretty pretending?”

  She shut the eye.

  “Yoo-whooo, Phoebe.”

  Go away.

  “What to see a trick?”

  …no.

  “Sure you doooo.”

  Phoebe opened her eye, again. “We’re trying to sleep in here,” she said, faking her best sleepy voice.

  “We whooo?”

  “Daddy n’ me.”

  “Oooo, liar, liar.”

  Squinting her one eye, she saw the owl give a quick tug at the window screen with its beak. Then the white feathered face swivelled toward the woods; and, just as smoothly, rotated back, staring at her.

  “Peak-a-booo,” said Mr. Eddy. “I spy a tiny eye. Bet you can’t do this, pretty girl.”

  A mirrored ball floated down silently from the shadowed ceiling, the sort she’d seen in movies where people danced under a thousand swirling, twinkling lights.

  And the ball turned.

  Those thousand lights drifted across the walls of the dark bedroom, the mirrored sphere glimmering from within, the sparkles whirling lazily around the girl. Phoebe propped herself up on an elbow, watching the glitter float through her outstretched fingers.

  “So nice,” she murmured.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Is this your trick?”

  “Only the beginning,” said Mr. Eddy.

  “What happens next?”

  “Let me in and I’ll show you.”

  “Promise you won’t do anything bad.”

  “Whooo? Me?”

  “Promise.”

  “Have I ever hurt you, pretty girl?”

  She thought about that; nothing came to mind. And the lights were beautiful, all fireflies and magic.

  “Maybe for a minute or two,” Phoebe said, her long skinny legs appearing from under the white sheet, bare toes touching the cool wood floor.

  “Minute or twoooo,” the owl echoed.

  She unhooked and lifted the window screen. Mr. Eddy fluttered onto the bed.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be there.”

  “And why not?” The owl fluffed himself up; then shivered. “It’s comfortable.”

  “Just don’t poop.”

  The mirrored ball twirled, luminous flecks piercing the shadows of the room. The owl blinked, big golden eyes considering her. Phoebe felt embarrassed, stretching the cotton hem of an undershirt below panty level; she, nothing but bony legs and arms, her thick, rust-colored hair frizzed out, an almost-twelve-year-old in high gear, and the thought occurred to her, This isn’t the swiftest thing I’ve ever done.

  “You’ll have to finish your trick and go,” she said, trying to hit that tenuous mark between firm and friendly.

  “Oooo, an artist can’t be rushed, pretty girl. Are you ready?”

  “What your trick?”

  “I’m going to show you who I really am.”

  Phoebe remembered a person at the edge of the woods—or a shape, something like a person—and how it’d changed into Mr. Eddy.

  She wanted to tell the owl that it wasn’t altogether necessary to—

  But the mirrored ball started spinning faster, the lights flashing much brighter now and she had to squint from the terrible glare, barely able to see Mr. Eddy. Radiant specks gathered about the owl until they formed a blazing impenetrable tunnel. Abruptly, the room went dark, the mirrored ball gone. Only dim moonlight coming from the window revealed what laid on the bed.

  Phoebe still noticed traces of the ball’s brilliance, the way a camera flash leaves an imprint. When her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw the shape was a woman wearing a white, silky nightgown with long, wide sleeves. Black hair draped pale shoulders.

  “Who…who are—”

  “You sound like me,” the woman murmured, and giggled. Her teeth were small and even and white as the gown. “I’m Dora, pretty girl.” A hand extended, Phoebe reluctant to shake it, though giving in to politeness, feeling the cold, dry skin, the prick of pointed nails; and the woman said, “Am I scary?”

  “You’re…beautiful.”

  “How sweet.” Dora patted a spot on the bed beside her. “Come, sit here. Let’s talk, girl to girl.”

  “…I dunno.”

  “Don’t be afraid,” she said. Smiling: a glimpse of those small perfect teeth. “I won’t bite.”

  Phoebe sat an inch or so farther away than the spot Dora had patted, crossing her thin legs. She felt chilled and thought a breath had turned smoky like in winter, but just a single breath, just once.

  “I’ve decided not to go,” Phoebe said.

  “Where, dear?”

  “To the firehouse, out there.” She did a hiking motion with her thumb toward the window and the orange haze of woods and sky. “It’s okay to break your promise. Really. I’m, you know, tired and stuff.”

  “Oh, I must keep my promise. No one would trust me if I didn’t.” Dora’s expression shifted: a sad look, Phoebe thought. “That’s why I worry about your daddy. I want to make sure he keeps his promise, too. And if you visit my…” The woman paused, head cocking to the right, perhaps recalling the word, “…my firehouse—just for awhile—we’ll be able to help him with his promise. You want to help your daddy, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want him to be an honest person?”

  “Yes.”

/>   Phoebe felt tears fill her eyes, vision blurring, tears slipping down her cheeks. Cold air enveloped her, gooseflesh appearing on arms and legs, and she couldn’t stop herself from trembling.

  “Poor, pretty girl,” whispered the woman, embracing Phoebe, the wide silk sleeves of the nightgown wrapping about narrow shoulders. “I’m absolutely certain your daddy will do what he promised.”

  Dora’s hold grew tighter, and the girl watched her own hands turn transparent. First skin then flesh then bone: all vanishing. She watched this as though her hands were on TV, observing the show. But when the woman’s face splintered into smoke, Phoebe heard herself screaming.

  IV

  The scream went through the house, followed by silence. Simon had seen Jonathan’s back stiffen, fingers riveted to the railing of the deck. And there, far-off, where the trees met the end of the lawn, a woman appeared, seemingly from air and moonlight, white gown and black hair flapping behind her as she ran. A child laid across flowing sleeves, the skinny legs dangling, the head lolling, rolling slightly to the woman’s rhythm.

  “It’s Eddy,” said Simon, feeling the senator clutch his wrist.

  “Just…stay.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You want her tortured? Is that what you want?”

  “He’ll torture her, anyway.” Simon yanked his arm free. “The last time I saw Eddy in drag, he’d pulled the heart from my friend’s chest. Your buddy’s wired for torture. It’s what he does best.”

  “If you care for my daughter, you won’t—”

  Simon didn’t listen. Palms on the deck rail, he pushed himself up and over, landing hands and knees on the soft, damp lawn.

  SEVENTEEN

  I

  Low branches cut into his arms, his face. Simon couldn’t see the woman, but he heard the brush and twigs snapping—five, maybe ten yards beyond him. Foliage became dense, blazing colors fused the leaves, iridescent red and orange, the peak of a misplaced autumn, an intensity transcending that season. The deeper he traveled into the woods, the more vibrant the hues, the more profound the heat. Smoke threaded the air, wispy, dark lines, and the overpowering odor of oil and gasoline burned his throat and eyes.