by Ron Savarese
“I know that smell. That’s…”
Her eyes open wide. “Remember now?”
And then memories come rushing in and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
She smiles. “I told you I would see you again.”
1954
I think the fire dreams started when I was five. I didn’t remember them at first. I just woke up crying. They happened only occasionally in the beginning, every couple of months. But by the time I was six, I was having them once a month or more, and remembering them all. It was almost always the same, something like this:
I’m standing in the basement of my house.
I’m small, smaller than the furniture in the room. There’s a brown box on the floor by a table. A lady with long black hair and a black dress lights the lantern on the table. She looks like an angel but she’s scary. She opens the box and pulls out a package.
I ask her, what is it? It’s a secret, she says, don’t tell anyone. She tries to give me the package. I don’t want it. I run away. I run up the stairs and through a room I’ve never seen before. I run out the front door. I think I’m safe but she follows me down the steps to the lawn and stands next to me. She has a sad look on her face. She holds my hand. I can see inside the house even though the door is closed. Then I see the lantern explode and the house catches fire. I see smoke and flames.
And then I wake up crying and screaming.
The episodes became progressively worse until one morning after a particularly troubling night, Mother had enough. She was worried about me and her answer to the worry—to most worries actually—was to go see the priest, in the parish building a few blocks away.
I didn’t like the priest at first. I don’t know why. He was a nice man. Maybe I didn’t like his black clothes and the white collar he wore around his neck. Or maybe it was because he always seemed so serious whenever I saw him in Mass. He was an older man, short and round with a red face and a pink bulb nose. He smelled a little funny, like smoke and the whiskey my father drank, mixed together.
We sat in his office in the building next to the church. The room was small and dark with a big wooden desk. Thick red curtains hung around the windows. The priest asked me to sit down in one of the two high-back chairs in front of his desk. He sat next to me in the other. It was just me and him in the room. He had asked Mother to wait outside.
He asked me about my dreams. I made things up. I didn’t want to tell him about the fire dream. I wanted to keep the secret just like the woman in the dream said. I didn’t want to tell anyone about the dream. I told him my scary dreams were about a wolf chasing me through the woods. I think he knew I was making up a story. I could tell by the way he looked at me: the way his eyes darted back and forth real fast looking at each one of my eyes separately when I talked to him.
Some people look at me that way when I talk to them and it makes me scared. Some people look right into both my eyes when I talk to them. But it only seems that way. They really look into one eye for a while and then they look in the other—but they do it slowly and it seems like they’re looking directly into my eyes. They don’t scare me, and I usually tell them the truth. Mother looks at me that way. I always tell her the truth—well, most of the time anyway. But even she doesn’t know my secret.
The priest and I talked for maybe a long time. Besides the questions about the dreams, he asked me about school, my friends, and my favorite sports. When we finished talking, the priest stood up. I think he expected me to stand up too, but I waited. This might be my last chance to ask him, I thought, so I just sat there and looked up at him.
“What is it, Joey?” he asked. I stared at the floor.
I didn’t know if I should ask him or not. But I had to know. “Are angels real, Father Tom?”
Father Tom furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me real hard. It was the kind of look that said: I wasn’t expecting that question. “Oh, yes, of course they’re real,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
I looked away.
“Joey, did an angel come to you in your dream?”
I didn’t know why I asked him. Now I had to tell him the truth. I turned my head away and looked out the window. I was almost crying. I tapped my heel on the ground like I was stomping for a bug. “But she told me not to tell anyone, Father.”
Father Tom knelt on one knee in front of my chair and looked into my eyes. “Don’t worry Joey. I won’t tell anyone,” he said as he folded his hands on his knee. “Why don’t you tell me about the angel in your dream?”
So I told him. I told him about the woman with the black dress. I told him about how she wanted to give me a package but I wouldn’t take it. I told him about some other things, and we talked for a little while, but I didn’t tell him about the fire dream.
I cried. “It’s okay, it’s okay, he said. “Don’t be afraid. The angel won’t hurt you. I think she wants to help you. If she comes again, maybe you can take the package and see what’s inside.” Father Tom took a clean, white handkerchief from his pocket and put it in my hand. I wiped my face and eyes. I sat in the chair for a little while and Father Tom squatted beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “All right, I think we talked enough today, don’t you?” He told me again not to be afraid. He didn’t ask me anymore questions. He stood and took my hand and together we walked into the room where Mother sat.
“Well Carmela, Joey and I had a nice talk. He’s a good boy and he’s going to be just fine,” Father Tom said. Then he looked at me again. His eyes were red and watery. “We all have scary dreams and they’re nothing to be afraid of.”
I watched his mouth move, barely hearing his words. My thoughts were on the sunshine and the leaves of the trees bouncing in the cool spring breeze. In this room, the drapes were pulled back all the way and the window was opened a little. The sun streamed through the window and I saw tiny specks of dust floating in the sunbeams.
I was thinking about playing with Paul and Albert. I was thinking about the other day when my friend Maria kissed me and said she wanted to be my girlfriend. I wondered what Paul and Albert were doing. Had they started building the fort yet? I told them I would be there to help them. How much longer did we have to stay here?
“Joey, listen! Father is talking.” Mother said.
Her voice startled me and snapped me back into the room. “Okay!”
Father Tom looked at my mother as he ushered me over to where she was sitting. My mother pressed him. “But it’s been going on for a long time, Father. He wakes up terrified!”
Mother glanced at me. She looked at my hands fiddling around in my pockets. I wondered if she knew I had the pocket knife she told me not to bring.
Father Tom rubbed his hand over his head and looked out the window. Then he glanced at Mother. “He’s going to be okay. Children go through phases as they grow. And when worries and concerns come along we must give them to the Lord. Can he recite the ‘Guardian Angel Prayer’ yet?”
Mother bit her lip. Sometimes she did this when she thought really hard about something. It looked like she was thinking real hard and I expected her to ask the priest another question, but instead she nodded and looked at me. “We say it together sometimes in the morning, don’t we Joey? Can you say it for Father Tom?”
Mother smiled. Then she began, “Angel of God my guardian dear…”
I joined in, “To whom God’s love commits thee here…”
Father Tom leaned against a bookcase that took up one wall of the room. He closed his eyes and listened as we continued slowly.
“Ever this day, be at my side. To light. To guard. To rule. To guide.”
Father Tom joined Mother and me as we said, “Amen.” Then he opened his eyes and looked at me. “Ah, that’s always been one of my favorite prayers,” he said. “Joey, do you ever pray on your own?”
I was tired of being in this room and I wanted to leave. “Yes Father.” I answered.
I squeezed the knife in my pocket so hard it hurt my hand.
&nb
sp; “Who do you pray to?” He asked.
I was getting mad. “I don’t know.”
Mother glared at me. She made her neck tight, and opened her eyes real wide like she wanted to give me a thump.
“Jesus.” I said. I said that because I knew that’s what she wanted me to say.
Father Tom winked at me.
“Oh, that’s a good boy. Then ask Jesus to help you have good dreams and say the ‘Hail Mary’ with your mother before you go to sleep at night.” He looked at my mother again. “Why don’t you try this and let me know how things go, okay?” He stepped toward the door. “Oh, and say hello to Jack for me, Carmela. Tell him I really appreciate his help with the new building.”
Mother nodded and smiled. “Oh sure, he’s usually so busy seeing patients, but he loves a chance to pull out his tool-kit when he has the time.” she said.
Father Tom looked at me sideways and gave me another wink. Mother and I walked toward the door. She reached for the handle but then took some steps back toward the priest. Father Tom mumbled something to her that I didn’t understand. Mother looked at me like she felt sorry for me. We walked out together holding hands.
Not long after our meeting with the priest I had a dream about a little girl and a pot of boiling water. The little girl pulled the pot off the stove and the water spilled all over her and she melted. After I had that dream, the fire dreams stopped for a while. But soon I was having them again.
One night, after another fire dream, I woke up crying but I didn’t scream. My pillow was wet. Mother didn’t hear me that night. She didn’t come to my room. So I crept across the hallway to where my mother and father were asleep.
The hallway was dark but there was enough light for me to feel my way along. My brothers were asleep in their rooms. My oldest brother Jake was in the room next to mine, and my other two older brothers, James and Michael shared a room further down the hall.
I knocked on the door. I heard my father’s voice. It was muffled-sounding, and tired, but he told me to come in. Mother was still sleeping. I could see the moon through the window by their bed. I walked past the dresser and the chair where my daddy had draped his pants. When I got to the bed my mother woke up.
“What’s wrong, Joey? Another bad dream?” she asked, as she sat up and looked at me.
My nose was running and I wiped it on my pajama sleeve.
“Want to get in here with us for a while?” she asked. “Crawl up over me.” She pulled the bedspread aside, and reached toward me.
Mother did the same thing she did after my other bad dreams. She hugged me and pulled me close to her and wiped my tears with her nightgown. But that night she didn’t ask me about the dream and I didn’t tell her anything. I just lay there between her and my father and thought about the angel prayer.
My father rolled over, and patted my arm. “It’s okay,” he whispered, “Remember, we’re going to go out and find that little bunny tomorrow.” He put his arms around me and I snuggled next to him. He kissed my head and my whole body warmed. I was safe again.
I fell asleep and the lady I used to call the angel came to me. She raised her finger to her lips.
“Shh… whisper,” she says. “We don’t want to wake them.”
She looks like the lady in the fire dream but she’s younger and friendlier. She smiles a lot. I lie still and look up at her.
“Watch this,” she says.
She shows me a little box.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A surprise!”
She floats above the bed. Then she peeks at my mother and father to make sure they’re sleeping.
“A surprise?”
“Yes. Watch. But remember, this is our secret,” she whispers. She puts her finger up to her lips. Shh…
I nod my head. “I won’t tell.”
She floats right in front of me and her dress tickles my nose. She opens the box and throws something high into the air. But it doesn’t fall down. It floats. It’s a big fluffy ring of smoke like the kind Uncle Lou blows from his cigar when he tries to be funny, and there’s something like a “steely” marble in the middle of it.
I giggle. It’s silly.
Shh…don’t wake up mommy and daddy.
The smoke ring floats to the ceiling and disappears.
The lady waves good-bye and I wake up.
I like this dream better than the other one.
As I fell asleep again, I watched the Christmas lights outside the window. Green and red and yellow bulbs shining dim through the curtains. They clattered against the window when the wind blew. I smelled the smell of fresh cut pine from the Christmas tree down the hall.
THE LIGHT PLACE
The woman in the rose dress holds the cottage door open and guides me into the dim room. A picture of a striped cat curled on a couch hangs above the fireplace. A black-iron gate opens to an outdoor patio with a flower garden, a water fountain, and lush green plants.
How can it be springtime out there? It was snowing before I came in.
She asks me to sit in a leather chair with a green paisley seat cushion. Four chairs surround an oval dining table made of dark, shiny wood. On the table rests a white pot with a curved spout and two white cups. She sits next to me at the table, picks up the pot, and pours something into one of the cups. Steam rises from the cup and spout.
“Be careful, it’s hot.” She says.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A special brew to help you sleep,” she says. She smiles. “Try it.”
I know this woman, damn it. I just can’t quite figure out who she is. I think I know what’s going on here. Maybe. But I’m not dead—yet. Am I? Maybe I’m just visiting.
Just at the edge of my vision I see three candles sitting atop a buffet of cherry-brown wood, a few feet away from a green and red striped sofa.
If I’m visiting maybe I can excuse myself after I drink this “special brew” and get back to Paul’s house. I wonder if the kids made it in. Did she say sleep? Oh no, I don’t want to do that.
“But I’m not tired.” I say.
She smiles at me, oh so slightly, and her lips part, exposing the white tips of her upper teeth. “Of course you are. You’ve traveled a long way my dear. Take a sip.”
A long way? What does she mean by that? No, I really don’t want to drink this, especially if it puts me to sleep. But…what? No, she didn’t say anything more, did she? I really don’t want to drink it. I want to go…but…it smells so good. I really have to…I’m sorry, I can’t…
But something compels me to drink. I try to stay in control, but I can’t. Okay, I rationalize, just a sip. I don’t want to be rude. This woman’s obviously gone through some trouble—making me a warm drink and welcoming me into her home. How big is this place anyway? Sure is deceiving. I’ll bet it has more square feet than my house. Wouldn’t know it from the outside.
I lift the steaming cup to my lips. The warm liquid flows over my tongue. Oddly, a stream of something cool flows down my throat and into the middle of me: a spectrum of colors; liquid starlight. Oh, but that is so good.
She stands and reaches for my hand. “Come with me.”
I stand, and nearly stumble. I am so dizzy. “What just happened?” I ask her. “I feel strange. I think I’m going to be sick.”
“You’re okay, just breathe and walk. Slowly.”
She holds my hand, and leads me through a doorway into a room that I’m sure wasn’t there before. Inside the room is an iron-framed canopy bed with primrose-colored covers and white lace pillows. I sit down, but I can’t stay upright. I sink into the bed’s softness. So sleepy. So sleepy. The pillow is as soft as a dream of meadows. I hear the brook drifting by outside. I feel the weight of a blanket dropped over me. The whisper of a voice. “Sleep.”
Lips graze my forehead.
I don’t want to sleep. I remember trying to stay awake in the cave, slapping my cheeks, but now the attempt at movement feels like slow motion. I can’t help myself. I
close my eyes. I begin to dream. But is it a dream? I’m not sure. And what happened to the snow, the ice, the darkness?
First I hear static, like the sound of someone trying to tune in a radio station. Then I hear a voice.
“We’ll be back before midnight.”
That’s Paul’s voice!
Then a deeper, more melodious voice. “It’s going to be a dandy folks, an Alberta Clipper bringing frigid temperatures from the north down over the warmer waters of the southern Great Lakes. We could see impressive snowfalls. Expect two to three feet of fresh…”
Was that the radio broadcast we heard before we got out of the car at the pub?
“Don’t stay out too late…”
Hey! That’s Nancy’s voice!
“A winter storm warning is in effect for the next forty-eight hours. Don’t drive if you don’t have to. It’s a good night to curl up by the fire or maybe wrap some of those last minute gifts. It looks like we’re going to have a white…”
That’s the announcer from the television station!
I drift through soothing bands of colors: purple and green and blue, then into a gray darkness. The darkness turns to white and I’m floating like a flake of snow above the pub: slowly, effortlessly, down and down.
Below, barely visible through the storm, three men scramble across the pub’s slick parking lot, and bolt for the lighted tavern entrance. It looks like…Paul? And is that our cousin Mike with him, just like last night? And? Who’s that other guy? He’s wearing a parka and…is the third man me?
I look around the bar, and I see myself again.
I’m leaving the pub and waving good-bye to Fred. The door hits me on my head. I see myself walk down the street into the field next to the old railroad yard. I throw my gloves to the snowy ground. I watch myself fall through the ice and snow.
I float over treetops and snow covered roofs: over the baseball field where I played as a boy, over the cemetery where my family and my friends are buried, over the river where I used to play sometimes without my parents knowing. I float to Paul’s house over the trees. Snow drops from the sky and piles on the rooftops, trees, and the ground below.