The Flicker of Old Dreams

by Susan Henderson

  “Don’t feel uncomfortable, dear,” she says.

  She looks into my eyes and I sense her trusting me to see her at her most exposed. We acknowledge this silently and then look away. I cross my legs and clasp my fingers together in my lap.

  “Look what I found under the workbench,” Robert announces as he walks in carrying two bottles with a third tucked under his arm. “Vintage by now.”

  “But I don’t have a corkscrew,” Doris says.

  “I have a ballpoint pen,” I say.

  And Robert, laughing, says, “I have a house key.”

  “Do you have a coat hanger?” I ask.

  “I have a fork,” Doris says.

  Robert reaches into his pocket and smiles as he pulls out a jackknife.

  “I’ll have it open in two minutes,” he says.

  But Doris has passed me a pair of scissors, and we are already working on the other bottle. It’s become a race with cork crumbling into our laps and onto the carpet.

  “You’re going to beat him,” Doris says to me.

  It feels good—carving, gouging, pounding. I hold up the bottle I’ve been working on and call out, “First!”

  Robert laughs at the crumbled cork in my lap. He collects three wineglasses from a china cabinet, blows dust out of them, and pours for each of us.

  “A toast,” he says.

  He raises his glass, stuck for words.

  “To good company,” Doris says.

  The room fills with relieved smiles as glasses clink. Mine has a good bit of cork in it.

  “Well now,” Robert says. “I didn’t have high hopes for this wine but it’s quite good.”

  “A man reveals his heart,” Doris says, “by where he spends his money.”

  Robert, hearing the lack of strength in her voice, steps beside her and attaches the oxygen. This time she doesn’t fight.

  The fire has faded to an orange glow and Doris stares into it, gloomy, hypnotized.

  “I wish,” she says and stops, oxygen buzzing.

  “What do you wish?” I ask.

  She takes a long sip and shakes her head.

  “Tell us, Ma.”

  “It’s not possible,” she says. “It’s just . . . I’d like to be with both of my boys one last time.”

  She covers her face with her thin hand, the veins blue and raised.

  I think of Doris posing with her dead child and her living child. I wonder now if the story was true and there was actually a photo taken. My fingers pick at the painted fabric.

  “I’m just babbling,” she says. “Don’t pay any attention to me.”

  She finishes her glass and holds it out for a refill. Robert opens the bottle he’d been working on with his jackknife and pours another round for each of us.

  “It’s snowing,” I say, pointing my glass to the window.

  My tongue feels thick, relaxed. Doris spits some cork into a napkin, and we both laugh.

  “Want me to get the fire going again?” Robert says softly to his mother.

  “That would be nice, Robbie,” she says.

  I smile at the name.

  “I think I better use the ladies’ room,” Doris says, removing the nose piece. She takes her time standing, takes slow steps.

  Robert goes outside to get more wood, and I rise to watch snow settle on the cottonwoods planted close to the house, and farther out, on machinery, barbed wire, and the grain elevator.

  When Robert returns, he stands in the doorway, cheeks red and wet, snow clinging to his curls.

  I turn toward him. “I know the West Coast has the ocean,” I say, “but I’ll bet not many places do snow better than Petroleum.”

  Robert puts another log on the fire and sorts out the kindling until the flames catch.

  “There’s a lot I missed about this place,” he says. “The big sky, nighttime dark enough for stars, wild animals grazing right outside your door, only the sound of wind at night.” He pauses, gives a sad smile. “Wind and oxygen machines.”

  He finds a pillow from a nearby chair and makes a seat for himself on the floor.

  “When I was away,” he says. “I could see how much of the town was in me. I like to eat in quiet. I like to take long walks and not know where I’m going. I’m forever searching the ground for fossils and plants. Forever searching the horizon for movement.”

  He removes his boots, then his socks, placing them near the heat to dry. Once the fire’s burning bright again, he stretches his legs. There are dark hairs on the tops of his toes, and I think, What a terribly intimate thing that I know how they look. I’ve seen a lot of bare feet but, lately, not many with blood running through them.

  “You’re smiling,” he says. “Why?”

  “I’m not smiling.”

  Now he smiles, too. Fire glows against the dark walls.

  “Hey, do you think I should check on your mom?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “If you don’t mind.”

  32

  I run my hand along the wall of the dark hallway. At the end is a dim light and a mostly closed door. I’m nervous as I peek inside, not sure what it is I’m hearing. The room is lit with just a single lamp beside the bed. And I smile when I spy Doris dancing in a long red scarf. She watches herself in the mirror and hums something like a two-step.

  She is tethered by a long tube attached to a much bigger oxygen machine than what she uses in the living room. It bubbles and vibrates against the floor.

  In the dark, she can pretend the tubes aren’t there. The dark hides her sharp shoulder blades and collarbone. Hides the clumsiness of her steps, how each sway is nearly a stumble.

  She hums quick-quick, slow-slow.

  I imagine the scene Doris might see in her mind—a smoky room at the old VFW before it closed down, the dance hall decorated with streamers, men leaning against the wall. Maybe Mr. Golden when he was still someone she could love. Maybe someone she overlooked.

  I find I am swaying to her song in the hallway. My body feels good, loose. For a moment, Doris interrupts the rhythm to gasp for breath. I am about to intervene when she begins to hum again, flirting with the mirror. She grabs a strand of beads and pulls them over her head, still dancing. Quick-quick, slow-slow.

  I step just inside the door. The room smells sour.

  “You’re a beautiful dancer,” I say softly.

  The humming stops, and I wish I hadn’t spoken.

  “Too much wine,” she says, removing the scarf and letting it fall to her dresser.

  “Maybe we should drink wine more often,” I say.

  She rests on the unmade bed.

  “Will you sit for a moment?” she asks.

  I balance clumsily next to her. The cord that crosses from her nose to the machine is cold where it touches my skin. Her neck pulses, the two-step still moving through her.

  “You’ll make me look pretty, I hope,” she says.

  She touches the plastic beads on her necklace.

  “I will,” I say.

  “My hair used to look better than this,” she says and feels the frayed bangs sticking out the front of her knit cap. “It grew back as someone else’s hair. Dark and wavy. It was never dark or wavy.”

  She removes the hat, which falls to her lap.

  “I have curlers,” I say. “Blow-dryers, hair spray. A regular beauty salon.”

  “You’ll see my scar,” she says. “I’ve always been ashamed of it.”

  I hold her knotted hand.

  “I should have danced more,” she says. “I should have worn my good jewelry. I kept waiting for a special occasion.”

  She coughs, so little wind moving in or out. She touches her chest as if to find air.

  “I should have stood up more for Robert,” Doris says, turning to me. “He was such a bright boy. He could have finished high school in Petroleum.”

  “Except he ran away,” I say but regret sharing the gossip I knew.

  “No,” Doris says. “I didn’t know how to protect him so I bought a ticke
t to the West Coast and drove him to Agate to board the bus. At the time it made sense.”

  We sit, holding hands in the dark.

  “I’m afraid,” she whispers.

  I don’t tell her that I am, too.

  The machine rumbles through my socks to my knees. I watch Doris work the fingers of her other hand into the green knitted cap. The wine has turned tart in the back of my throat.

  “Ma? Mary?”

  Doris places her other hand on top of ours and taps softly. Then she takes the oxygen from her nose and sets the end of it on the bed, where it wheezes against the covers.

  Robert’s voice comes closer, down the hallway. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  I help Doris stand and replace the warm cap, adjust it a little. I leave the beads around her neck.

  “I wonder if it will be like sleep,” she says.

  We take slow steps through the hallway, back to the living room, my hand on her ridged spine. Out the window, snow falls like we’re inside one of those toy globes.

  “I wonder if I’ll see the blizzard,” she says settling back into the chair.

  Robert helps to connect her tubes. I put a pillow behind her. We do this without speaking. Only the sound of our breath together, the fire crackling, snow patting the window.

  Robert settles back on his pillow in front of the fire. His leather jacket is thrown over the couch, and I lay my head against it. Inhale. It smells pungent, like mink oil. I pretend the jacket is his chest I’m lying against, that I’m sliding my fingers gently against him, feeling for the scar.

  One by one, we fall asleep, me last of all as I blink about the room filled with burnt logs, wine, wet clothes, and the dark sweet smell of a life near its end.

  33

  I awaken to a mess of empty bottles and wineglasses, trails of cracker crumbs and cork. Doris on the couch and Robert on the floor in front of the fireplace stir just a bit and then settle back to sleep. I quietly gather my shoes and coat until I’m in the hallway, where I dress in a hurry.

  I slip out the side door and into the white wind, trudging along the darkened street. I don’t know what time it is, but it’s late enough for the Pipeline to be closed for the night. I stand in the middle of the road as my town sleeps and smile at the memory of Doris dancing, of Robert’s bare feet.

  The wind stings but I want to feel every nerve ending. I open my mouth to the sky and laugh out loud. Laugh for the beauty of this night and the drumming I feel inside. The stars spin overhead, and I would dance but I don’t know how.

  I’m still smiling when I get home. I open the door and hear the TV.

  “Pop?”

  He’s left a note on the stairs: Made you dessert. Up for a movie?

  “Sorry I’m late,” I call.

  Nothing. Passed out, probably. I remove my coat, my hat, my gloves, and then slowly pull a handful of hair under my nose. It still smells of our time by the fire.

  “Just getting in?” Pop asks, and I hear his slippers on the stairs.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I should have warned you,” he says. “If Doris invites you in, you’re staying awhile.”

  I laugh.

  “Did she show you the paintings?” he asks.

  “Can’t miss ’em.”

  “Are you hungry by any chance?”

  “Depends if we’re talking about pumpkin pie,” I say.

  “You’ll have to come and see for yourself,” he says, leading the way to the kitchen.

  At the table, we sit with mismatched plates. Our slices are so large, if you put them together, it’s half the pie. We laugh at the jagged cutting, the pie’s lopsided crust, the burnt edges, the watery top.

  I wish I could tell him about my time at Robert’s. I want him to know something about my heart. How good it feels tonight.

  “I added too much nutmeg,” he says.

  “I think I like it better this way.”

  “You know,” he says. “I think I do, too.”

  Pop, I want to tell you something true.

  This is what I really want to say.

  I feel alive.

  I want to laugh and cry and stay up all night remembering how this feels.

  I watch him take his last bite. I wish we’d eaten more slowly. If we could talk to each other the way we talk about pie. If we could embrace change this easily, laugh so heartily at our mistakes, salute our appetites. I dab at crumbs so we might sit together a little longer.

  34

  I knock at the opening of my father’s office. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the spread of bills.

  “I wanted to let you know the Goldens are making other arrangements for Doris’s service,” I say. “They’re planning it together, so the original plans you worked out won’t be needed.”

  I practiced all morning how I’d say this, how I could get it out of my mouth without starting an argument or chickening out.

  “If you want to cancel the arrangements,” he says, “then you’ll have to do it.”

  “I figured,” I say. “Can you give me a list of the people I need to talk to?”

  He writes on a piece of paper.

  “Wouldn’t you rather try changing Robert’s mind one more time?” he asks as he hands it to me.

  “No, Pop. This is the right thing to do. It’s just no fun to do it.”

  “Who else is he going to choose to help with the service?” Pop asks. “And does he think any of those people will say yes?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I haven’t seen his plans yet.”

  He sighs, annoyed. “Well, go get it done, then.”

  I know Pop doesn’t want me to upset the people on this list, but he probably realizes it will put the argument between us to rest. At least that might be a relief. As I wrap my scarf and zip my parka, Pop leans his head into the hallway.

  “Before I forget,” he says. “Do you know where my suits have gone? I know at least one of them needs cleaning.”

  “I’ll find them when I get back,” I say. “Let me get to this list while I still have the nerve.”

  As I set out for the first house, an ominous cloud hovers so close, Petroleum feels smaller. Darker. At the end of our driveway, just behind my van, I find a cigarette butt. I kick it into the road, wanting it off our property.

  I look at the list. I’ll start with the easiest—those who agreed to be casket bearers—surely they’ll welcome a chance to get out of any heavy lifting.

  “Here it comes,” Fritz calls to me.

  He stands at the edge of his lawn, motioning down the block.

  “That dog’s been barking since dawn,” he says. “Just barking at the sky. Can’t settle himself down. Do you hear it?”

  Now that he’s pointed it out, all I hear is barking.

  “It means a blizzard’s on the way,” he says.

  We both look up to the sky.

  “There’s another sign,” he says. “Right above us. You see?”

  Hawks and a snow bunting glide in circles in the dark, morning sky.

  “Air pressure’s changed,” he says. “See how high they are? We’ve probably got two days, maybe three, before it hits.”

  “My father taught me that one,” I say, crossing the street to him. “When they fly low, it’ll be here.”

  I remove the list from my bag as if I need it.

  “I’m running errands this morning,” I say. “You’re actually my first stop.”

  “I don’t want to buy a plot until I need one,” Fritz says.

  “I’m not selling anything, don’t worry,” I say. “A long while back my father had asked you to be a casket bearer for Doris Golden.”

  “When the time comes,” he says. “Good God, she’s still painting. I can see her right now.”

  “No. I mean, you’re right. This is just . . . Well . . . There’s been a change in plans,” I say. “We won’t need you to. We don’t want you to hurt your hip.”

  “The fellow with
the hair has decided this, hasn’t he?”

  “He made some changes, yes.”

  “He’s been trouble since he came back,” Fritz says. “You could just look at him and know it.”

  “Well, I don’t know if . . .”

  “Go on, get on your way,” he tells me. “I see you’ve got a whole list of people to upset before the storm hits.”

  I figure this is what I’m in for today. On the next street, Mr. Vinter shakes sand on the steps of his grocery while trucks park in front and for almost a block beyond it.

  “Storm’s coming,” he says. “I was up on the rims this morning, looking at the ranches. And all the livestock had their heads turned to the sky. You should go see for yourself.”

  “I wish I had time,” I say.

  All the casket bearers I visit show immediate relief that they might avoid lifting in the cold. But that doesn’t stop their rage at Robert or their pity for Doris.

  The Sweet Adelines are my next stop. I’ve saved the hardest for last.

  One of the singers lives quite a ways out of town, and Pop wasn’t sure which of several women replaced Doris at baritone. But the other two live nearby. I look at my list again, but all I’m really doing is stalling in front of Minnie Dent’s house.

  Until I have an idea. It’s so simple, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I find a hard surface and write a heartfelt note, explaining everything to Minnie, and asking her to relay the message to the others. I don’t sign my name. I sign, Crampton Funeral Home, so they might assume the note is from my father.

  I bend down in front of Minnie’s to prop the note inside the storm door when it opens.

  “Now what is this you’re delivering?” she asks.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news about Doris,” I say, standing.

  “Oh, dear, has she passed?” Minnie asks. “Here, come inside.”

  I stand just in the doorway, holding my note.

  “No. No,” I say. “She’s . . . It’s . . . There’s been a change of plans.”

  “What kind of change?” she asks.

  I offer her the note I’ve written and realize I’d better just say it.

  “Doris’s son has made changes to the service and won’t be needing”—I take a breath, feel hot—“won’t be needing the Sweet—”