Dreamthorp

by Williamson, Chet

  his mother coming into his bedroom and saying come into my bed, and he thinks that it would be fun, that it used to be fun, warm and cuddly, when he slept with his mother before, when his father was out on a road trip playing his sax, and he goes into her room and into her bed

  his mother touching him where she used to touch him when she gave him his bath, but where she hasn't touched him for a long time, and it feels better now, funny but good, and it seems like his mother likes it too, and she takes his hand and puts it on her, and he is surprised by what he touches, by the softness and the wetness of it, and he wonders at first if she is sick and bleeding

  his mother whispers in his ear, like his father the night he went away, just do whatever I tell you, it's all right, all boys do this with their mothers, but you must never never tell, never tell anyone

  all boys do this

  all mothers do this

  boys love their mothers

  mothers love their boys

  his mother's hand on him, touching, rubbing, pulling him closer to her, opening herself like one of those coin purses that's like a mouth with teeth, but painted teeth, not hard and sharp, but soft and wet

  and the part of him getting bigger than he thought it would ever be, and his thing going into her

  all boys do it

  and they'll tell you they don't, but they lie

  so don't ask them about it, don't tell them, because they'll lie, they will

  all boys who love their mothers

  do it

  and he loves his mother, and his father said do whatever she says, and this is what she wants and this is what he wants too, yes, because it feels so warm, so close, and something inside him feels as though it is going to break, but he wants it to break, even though he knows that when it does that nothing will be the same as it was before, that when it breaks it cannot be fixed again

  but it doesn't matter, because if feels so hot, so good

  and he falls, and it happens

  It is broken forever.

  Mother

  "Mother . . ."

  He awoke slowly, swimming up from the thick fluid of his dream, and in the darkness he could feel a hand on his knee.

  "Listen to him," someone said. "Callin' for his momma . . ."

  Cool air brushed over him, the hand rubbed his thigh. "I'll be his momma, that what he wants."

  The hand moved up toward his groin, and he remembered Cherry and Hod then, and remembered the Great Bitch and the bitch Laura in the tent and how everything gets broken, and he reached down into his boot and brought out the knife and slipped it gently into Cherry's round stomach.

  She gasped, and Hod said, "Cherry?" and Gilbert cleared the sleep from his throat.

  "Pull over," he told Hod. "She's sick, I think she's sick. . . ."

  Cherry's eyes got so wide Gilbert could see their whiteness by the dim light of the instrument panel as he turned the knife round and round inside her, like a diner spooning out a melon. The truck lurched, then steadied, and drifted toward the side of the road. "Jesus," Hod muttered, "aw Jesus, Cherry baby, take it easy now. . . ." He brought the truck to a stop, pulled the brake, and leaned over. Gilbert slid the knife out of Cherry and cut Hod's throat with it.

  The blood started to pour out, and he pushed the man back against the door so that he wouldn't get any on his clothes. Hod gaped for a moment, then died. Gilbert looked at Cherry, whose mouth was opening and closing, her eyes nearly popping from their sockets.

  "You're not dead," Gilbert whispered. "Not yet. You won't die for some time yet." He held the point of the knife to her left eye. "And we'll have lots of time for fun before that happens, Laura."

  The clock on the dash read 2:38. Only an occasional truck whizzed by on the road. Gilbert took the keys from the ignition, opened the passenger door, grasped Cherry under her armpits, and dragged her out and back to the doors of the van. They were unlocked, and when Gilbert opened them, a wave of cold air and the smell of chilled meat rushed out. He lifted Cherry up into the darkness, then went back to the cab, hauled out Hod's body, and rolled it over the shoulder of the road into some weeds below. He quickly wiped up the blood and tossed the rags under the truck. Then he climbed into the van, closed the door behind him, and turned on the interior lights.

  Cherry was lying between stacks of wooden crates, her eyes still wide, her breath white puffs in the chilly air of the reefer. Her hands were pressed to her stomach, as if she was trying to hold the blood in. The first thing Gilbert did was to cut out her tongue so that she could not scream.

  . . . Just as, gazing on the surface of a stream, admiring the ripples and eddies, and the widening rings made by the butterfly falling into it, you begin to be conscious that there is something at the bottom, and gradually a dead face wavers upwards from the oozy weeds, becoming every moment more clearly defined….

  —Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp

  Tom Brewer always felt an ache when he found himself beside Karen. Often when he woke in the middle of the night and reached out, he thought at first that it was Susan he was touching. But as his fingers explored further, he noticed dreamily that there was a difference, that if this was Susan, it was Susan as she had been years before, that time had moved backward, that Susan's skin was as soft as it had been when they had first slept together in college, that the extra pounds that had come with her pregnancy and the years had vanished, that her breasts, which had always been larger than she liked, had decreased in size to little more than comfortable handfuls.

  Usually by this time in his exploration, he knew that it was Karen, and not Susan, who lay beside him, and the novelty of it, of being in bed with this girl literally young enough to be his daughter, aroused him even as it saddened him. He would press against her, and she would wake in that immediate way that the young have, turn toward him, and kiss him, regardless of the dark night taste in their mouths, ready for sex again, and he would willingly oblige.

  Her readiness had surprised him at first and still frightened him a little, and he tried to remember if he and Susan had been like that, and thought he remembered that they had, that every incident of making love had seemed new and electric, every shared spasm like some exciting and alien landscape, before familiarity and the day-to-day routine of married life had leveled the peaks, slowed the rivers.

  But now the freshness and the novelty had returned, and he was asked to feel the first passions of youth all over again, and was not certain if he could. It was not a question of performance, for he was sufficiently priapic in Karen's presence. But afterward, when he lay in her arms, he felt as though something more than semen had flowed out of him, as if what little youth he had was being drained away by this silly, futile, male-menopausal affair that could have no happy ending. He felt as though he was making a fool of himself but was powerless not to.

  Karen held him, and he found it easy to admit to himself that he was obsessed with her. That it was ultimately self-destructive he knew. Marriage was out of the question, as was any long-term relationship. She would graduate the following May, and then what? Her degree would be in performance, not teaching, so there could be no idyllic marriage and life in Dreamthorp, him teaching art at Harris Valley College, and her teaching music at one of the local high schools. Instead she would take her flute and go to graduate school in New York or Philadelphia, trying to squeeze a career out of a decent technique, a less than inspired artistic sense, and a not altogether accurate ear.

  Karen was not, in Tom's opinion, an especially good flutist. That she played only second chair in Harris Valley's orchestra made that clear enough. Yet, despite her shortcomings, she had immense self-confidence in her gifts and was convinced that she would someday play with a major orchestra.

  "I just haven't had the kind of training that I need," she had told Tom on their first date together. "But I've got a kind of raw talent that a really good teacher would pick up on."

  Tom didn't suggest to her that her raw talent might be greatly aided by pr
acticing more than the token hour a day she put in. He had gone that route when Josh had taken piano lessons for a year, and it had been a big enough pain to drive his son to practice, let alone start all over again with his young lover.

  Whatever the reason, any future together was impractical as long as the dream of playing under Zubin Mehta came first in Karen's mind. In a way, Tom was relieved. It would be difficult for him to make a commitment to a woman again, especially after having lived so long with as strong a woman as Susan.

  But now, as he lay in the motel room bed beside her, and the first traces of daylight added a more natural tint to the yellow light that leaked in around the curtain from outside, he did not want to leave her nor have her leave him, and he thought that perhaps he did love her, that what had begun as infatuation and flattery that a girl so young and attractive would find him appealing had become something deeper. He wasn't sure. He only knew that if he could not be with her again, laugh with her, and make love to her, he would feel far more empty than he had before he had met her.

  She stirred softly, and turned toward him. He could see that her eyes were open. "Hi," she said.

  "Good morning," he whispered, conscious of the terrible taste in his mouth and wishing that he had sneaked into the bathroom to brush his teeth before she awoke.

  "Is it morning? With that dopey light I can't tell." She rolled over on her back and stretched. "Why is it that you can never get those damn motel room curtains all the way closed? A little light always comes around the edge."

  He opened his mouth to ask her how much experience she had with motel rooms but decided not to, thinking that she might not take it as a joke, and wondering if he meant it as one. The first time they slept together, it had been obvious from her behavior that she was not a virgin. Tom had expected it but did not relish the thought, even when he remembered the rather indiscriminate couplings he and his friends had engaged in while in college, one of which had led to Susan's pregnancy and their marriage, which, odds stacked against it, had hung together right up to the day of her death. Susan had had two lovers before they started dating, and that had bothered him in the first year of their marriage; but he grew used to the knowledge, and in time, assured by the years of the exclusivity of Susan's love, forgot about it.

  But he could not as easily forget about Karen's previous affairs. One of her ex-lovers was a senior in his summer intro to sculpture class, a tall boy who was on the basketball team's first squad. Tom was certain the boy knew about Karen and him. There was a condescending note in his voice when he answered Tom's questions in class or when he discussed his latest piece with Tom. The boy was not very good at sculpting, wasn't even an art major, and said that he was taking the course just to pick up a few extra credits and that sculpture had always interested him. Tom thought that was bullshit, and suspected the boy had taken his class to be around Tom and try to drive him crazy with his knowledge of his and Karen's relationship.

  The situation was uncomfortable, but not impossible. After all, the affair was common knowledge, and Tom felt relieved that Dr. Martin, the chairperson of the art department, had not called him in and talked to him about it. He wondered if it was because it embarrassed her. Still, as far as he knew, there were no regulations about teachers dating students as long as those teachers and students were both unmarried. It was, after all, a liberal arts college, unrelated to Church or state, and had to prove its liberalism in some way.

  "What time is it anyway?" Karen asked him.

  He looked at his watch. "Six-fifteen. You want to sleep some more?"

  She moved toward him and rubbed her hand on his chest. "I don't know. What else is there to do?"

  What he really wanted to do was take a shower and brush his teeth, and have her do the same. He was as fastidious in matters of personal hygiene as Karen was enthusiastic about oralism, and the thoughts of her fellating him and his reciprocal performance upon her without washing away the dried remains of the previous night made him uneasy.

  "Want to get a shower together?"

  "Ohhh," she moaned in disagreement, "we ought to have a reason to take a shower first, huh?"

  To continue to protest would have been rude and, worst of all, unromantic. He did what she wanted, and, in a few minutes, was relaxed enough to almost enjoy it. Still, it was with a sigh of relief that he moved into the traditional position and entered her. Afterward, her hand massaging his testicles, she asked him, "How come you're so uptight?" It amazed him that people her age continued to use the word. At least something that his generation had contributed would live on.

  "I'm not uptight," he said. He thought that a woman with more experience with men would have let it go, but Karen had the tactlessness of youth.

  "You are," she told him. "You're all stiff."

  "Don't you want me stiff?" he joked, and she giggled. "Okay," he said. "I know what you mean, and yeah, maybe

  I am a little tense."

  "Why?"

  "I just . . ." What was he going to tell her—that he felt self-conscious as hell because he was afraid he smelled bad? What a tight-assed, old fart admission that would be. Christ, he had to come up with something else. "I . . . I don't know what direction things are going, that's all."

  "Is it your work?"

  "Partially." That much was true. And since she had suggested it, he decided to amplify it, although he had no idea how much she might understand. "Everything seems so stilted. It's like there's nothing fluid about it at all anymore. And when I started, I thought it would be." He put his hands behind his head and exhaled deeply. "It's living material, you know? So why shouldn't I be able to make it live again?"

  "Wait a minute," she said, frowning and putting a finger to his mouth. "What are you talking about, your classes or what?"

  Now he was confused. "My . . . my work. My carving."

  "Oh." She nodded. "Oh, oh. I thought you meant your classes."

  "My classes?"

  "You said your work, and I thought . . ." She shrugged.

  "I consider my carving my work," he said, with more annoyance than he liked.

  "Well, you don't make most of your money doing that," Karen said, and for a moment Tom imagined that he was in bed next to his mother.

  "It's not money that defines what somebody does." And a damn good thing too, he thought bitterly. On last April's tax return he had declared a salary of $23,000 from his teaching, $22,000 from Susan's job, and only $2500 from selling his carvings.

  "Maybe not," Karen said. "But it should be what you spend most of your time doing, and that's teaching, isn't it?" She tugged up the sheet to cover her breasts, a childishly petty gesture, Tom thought, like someone taking their toys and running home.

  "For now it is."

  "What's that supposed to mean?" She sounded younger than her twenty-one years, and Tom wondered what the hell he was doing in this bed with her, how this whole fucking thing had ever started. He was angry at her and angry with himself.

  "It means that maybe I won't be teaching all my life, okay?"

  "What, you're going to be a professional bird carver?"

  "Why are you busting my balls?"

  "Oh, am I?"

  He lay there seething, trying to keep from lashing out at her with words.

  "I don't know what's the matter with you," she said. "I mean, I just misunderstood, that's all." A moment later she said, "I'm sorry."

  He should have said that's okay, and forgotten it, kissed her, made love to her again, but he didn't want to. What he wanted to do, although he knew he was incapable of the act, was slap her or roll her over on her stomach and spank her, not with any sexual aim in mind or even because he thought she needed it, but to make him feel better, as if hurting someone else would ease his own pain.

  "I'm going to get a shower," she said. "You, uh, want to come along?"

  He shook his head. "No. No thanks."

  She got up and padded across the shag carpet into the bathroom. He didn't watch her as she left him.
In a few seconds he heard the bathroom fan running, and then the sound of the shower. He was tempted to join her, but didn't. Instead he lay there thinking about his life and what, to himself alone, he patronizingly referred to as his art. Both had the same flaws, stiffness and lack of fluidity. His life, perhaps, with its puzzling neuroses, he couldn't help, but his art he could.

  For God's sake, his art was formed of wood, living and breathing wood. It could be as smooth as the finest marble, hacked and rough as steel shards, whatever he wanted it to be, whatever he was capable of drawing from it. It wasn't the wood's fault that he had not yet realized his capabilities, it was his. Wonderful things, awesome or beautiful or terrifying, lay within those chunks of tree for the man skillful enough to bring them forth, to excise them like the living tissues they had been, to make new life from what had once lived. He could do it, and he would. Someday, even though he had not yet come close to what he knew was possible, he would. He would leave behind these damned birds and ducks and doctors and make the wood come to life.

  He had read somewhere that you had to be a little bit insane to be creative, and that was all right too. Maybe he would go insane, just a little bit, just enough.

  "Tommy?"

  Karen stood in the doorway, a towel draped around her hips, her breasts bare. Her hair was wet, and her skin, freshly scrubbed, glowed pink.

  "See anything you like?"

  There was a petulant, mocking smile on her face, as if in an attempt to make herself look even younger than she was, and suddenly Tom felt guilt and grief sweep through him and wished, so desperately that he would have given his soul for it to be true, that Susan were still alive.

  "Well?" Karen said, a hand on her hip.

  Tom dropped his head back onto the pillow. "I think I want to sleep for a while. It's early."

  Karen gave a little snort in which Tom read a great many things, but mostly contempt for his age, for his pretensions, for his lack of desire. Then she dropped her towel on the floor and climbed back into bed. She turned her back to him, and in a few minutes he heard the deep, regular breathing that told him she had gone back to sleep.