The Opening

by Ron Savarese

  I float into the kitchen of Paul’s house and hover close to the ceiling. Can anyone see me? I don’t know. The oak cabinets and the cream colored walls are brighter and more defined than I had ever seen them.

  And what’s this? Jessica’s sitting at the old kitchen table in the middle of the room that I remember so well. Paul and Nancy are there, too. With one finger, Nancy is tracing the squares of the red and white check tablecloth that I know Paul’s mother gave her. Jessica is tense and folded into herself, in her white bathrobe and pink nightgown. That’s the nightgown I bought for her when she was so depressed and down about the cancer. Silky and form-fitting, feminine but not provocative, it was the right thing at the right moment. She’s not wearing her wig, of course. Her close-cropped, light brown hair covers the top of her head. The absence of make-up and the lingering effects of the chemotherapy reveal purple discoloring beneath her eyes.

  Coffee cups are strewn across the table, but only Paul has a filled cup. A drip coffeemaker sits half-full on the cream-tiled kitchen counter just behind him.

  “Don’t worry Jesse,” Nancy says. “I’m sure he’s fine.” She turns to her husband. “Paul, why don’t you call Fred and see if he knows where Joe is?”

  “I’ll bet he slept at the pub last night,” she says. She watches Jessica.

  “Why would he do that?” Jessica asks, as she turns toward Paul. “I tried his cell phone. But I keep getting his voice mail.”

  Nancy’s hair is pulled into a ponytail. She watches Jessica and waits for Paul to respond. Paul puts his coffee cup down and pushes his chair from the table.

  Paul ignores Jessica’s comment. “That’s a good idea. I’ll call Fred.” He says.

  Nancy watches Jessica and pours coffee into a green mug on the kitchen table. “Fred has an office at the pub with a bed and a shower and a sleeper sofa in it. Sometimes guys crash there if they drink too much. Right, Paul?”

  Paul nods.

  “He practically lives there,” Nancy says. “Especially when he’s had too much to drink—and that happens a lot these days.” Nancy bends to open a lower cabinet door and pulls out a frying pan. “How about some eggs? I think we should eat.”

  Jessica frowns and looks at them. She cups her hands over her face and lets her fingers slide down her cheeks to just slightly below her eyes. She takes a deep breath through her nose and slowly lets it out through her mouth as she folds her hands to make a table for her chin.

  “Where could he be?” Jessica says, as she looks out the window. “Look at that snow. It’s really bad out there. He should have left with you Paul.”

  Something strikes me at this moment. Something in my awareness shifts. I don’t know what I am or what I’m doing or where I’m going. If only I could reach out and touch them and let them know I’m here somehow. But I cannot.

  Paul looks at the clock above the kitchen window. He tells Jessica and Nancy what happened at the pub. He moves his lips, but I don’t hear the words. I don’t hear as one hears sounds, but I hear, or should I say, I sense, in a new and different way.

  He tells them that he tried to get me to come home with him, but I refused. He hated to say it, he says, but I got pretty belligerent about it. He figured Fred would call him if I needed a ride

  Paul picks up the phone and dials. He’s talking with Fred. Then I see him end the call and turn toward the two women.

  “Fred said Joe left the bar around three. He left by himself. He said Joe was one of the last ones to leave.”

  Paul looks at Nancy and then at Jessica. He raises his eyebrows.

  “Is he sure about that?” Nancy asks.

  Paul nods his head, yes, and frowns. “I think so. He said he would check the parking lot to see if there are any cars out there—might give him a clue.”

  Paul takes another sip from his mug and sets it back down on the table. He seems rooted in place, as if he doesn’t want to take the next step. And I know what he’s thinking: He doesn’t yet want to admit the possibility, growing stronger every moment, that something bad has happened to me. Or that I am safe somewhere, but don’t especially want to be found.

  “You’d better call the police, Paul,” Nancy says.

  Jessica sits up straight in her chair. “I agree, it’s time,” she says.

  I see a movement at the door that leads from the dining room, just a bit of color that for a second seems to have no form. But I know who it is even before my daughter, Caryn,—thank god she made it—walks into the kitchen rubbing her eyes.

  “What’s going on in here,” she asks. “Call the police about what?”

  Paul looks down. He stares at the floor as if he’s studying a pattern there. Then he looks up, at Caryn.

  “It’s your dad. He’s not back from the pub yet.”

  My daughter tilts her head to one side and her eyes go blank for a moment, as if she’s suddenly miles away. I recognize the puzzled look on her face from when she was a child. But after a moment, she snaps her attention back to Paul.

  “Not back from the pub!” she says. “He must have really tied one on.”

  Jessica makes what I know is an almost involuntary gesture of denial: one quick shake of her lowered head, and a hand partially lifted to push the thought away. I can see the tears forming in her eyes, and so can Caryn. She pulls a chair from the table and sits next to Jesse, reaches out and takes her mother’s hand.

  “What happened?” she asks. She looks at everyone in the kitchen, searching for the one who has the answer. “Where is he?” She doesn’t know that the person with the answer is floating above her, loving her with all his heart.

  Paul runs his hand over the remaining grayish brown hair on the front of his head. He tugs at his drooping blue jeans. “We don’t know where he is.” Paul says. “But I’m sure he’s fine. Maybe he went…”

  Nancy springs forward like a coiled snake attacking its prey. “Call the police Paul! It’s a damn blizzard out there! Who knows what happened to him? Maybe he’s stuck in the snow somewhere!”

  Paul doesn’t look at her, or anyone else at the table. He addresses his comment to the wall. “Let’s wait until we hear back from Fred.”

  Caryn tugs and strokes the long strands of her straight, light-brown hair—just like her mother does when she’s anxious. “If he’s stuck in his car, he could be hurt or freezing.” she says.

  “He doesn’t have a car, sweetie.” Nancy says, as she looks at Paul.

  The phone rings. Paul walks around the kitchen table to answer it. He mumbles a few words, shakes his head a few times, then looks at the women. “Fred said there’s only one other car in the lot besides his and he doesn’t know who it belongs to, but there’s no sign of Joe.”

  “Paul, why on earth did you…” Nancy begins, but then thinks better of it. “This is crazy! Where could he be?”

  Jessica puts her head in her hands. I can see her trembling. Oh, baby, I’ll be all right, I want to tell her. I want to float down to Jessica and wrap my arms around her and say, I’m here, right here in the room with you. But I’m not there. I’m floating above them. But that isn’t true either. I’m not sure where I am.

  No, rather, I’ll tell them, I’m buried in the ice and snow in the middle of the old railroad yard. Or no, I’m sleeping on a soft fluffy bed in a strange place that makes no sense to me. I want to tell them what happened, but I can’t. Even if I could, what would I say?

  Paul tries hard to be calm and reassuring, I can see that. He sits on the edge of a kitchen chair and bounces his leg against the table like an antsy teenager.

  “Maybe he tried to walk back here last night. It’s not that far.” Paul says.

  He gets up from the table and walks to the front room— the living room we call it nowadays. He squeezes his bulk around the Christmas tree to look out the bay window there. The sky outside has begun to lighten. Mounds of snow, blown by the wind, have piled up in uneven layers across the lawn and onto the place where the sidewalk used to be.

 
; “Why would he try to walk back here in this blizzard?” Jessica asks. “And if he did, where is he? Passed out in a snow bank?”

  Paul turns from the window. He walks back to the kitchen, picks up the coffee pot and pours the remnants of the pot into his cup. He pauses for a moment, raises a finger to his lips, and nods his head.

  “I’m going to go look for him,” he says. He slams the cup down.

  Caryn stands, biting one of her fingernails. “I’m going with you.” she says.

  Nancy wipes her nose on some torn, crumpled tissues she pulls from the pocket of her robe. She urges Paul and Caryn not to be foolish, not to venture out in the storm. Once again, she tells Paul to call the police.

  But Paul doesn’t call the police. Instead he says, “Maybe Joe left the bar with someone and he didn’t want Fred or anyone else to know about it.” He looks straight ahead— doesn’t meet Jesse’s eyes.

  He’s going out to look for me on his own, he tells them. “You guys call the police, if you think that’s necessary,” he says. He goes into the living room, opens the coat closet. He pulls out a heavy gray coat and buttons it up.

  “What are you saying Paul?” Jessica fires. She stands up. “What? You think he left with someone? Is that what you’re saying?”

  She grips the edge of the table for a few seconds. Then she turns and walks out of the room.

  “Jesse!” Nancy calls after her. She shoots Paul a look, scowling. “Paul didn’t mean that. I’ll call the police. Don’t do anything foolish, Paul. The weather’s getting worse. Just go find him.”

  Nancy follows Jessica out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

  I try to move closer to Jessica but something holds me back. I’m pulled across the kitchen and through the ceiling and above the roof. I drift upward into the white sky, above the house, above the town, above the clouds. I drift upward until I see the first fleck of sunlight basking the horizon with streams of orange and peach.

  Then I’m back on the bed. I open my eyes and look up. Blue and white light pours through the windows. The woman in the rose dress stands near the bed and looks at me.

  1955

  The dreams persisted and became more vivid. And when the things—the premonitions—started happening about a year later, Mother didn’t know what to do. She waited until she couldn’t take it anymore. That was her way: suffer the pain as long as possible. It was her motto actually, her way of living. Suffering is God’s way of making you a better person, she used to say when we were sick or if something didn’t turn out quite right: especially if that something affected one of her children.

  Mother said it was noble to suffer. It was good for the soul. But I didn’t believe it. Why would God want us to suffer? But Mother suffered with me until she reached her limit with my bad dreams and nightmares. Then it was back to the priest.

  Mother and I walked to the church again on a gray, autumn day. My dog, Paddy, ran along behind us, though Mother warned me I would have to leave him outside once we got there. Dusky red leaves, interspersed with orange and yellow, drifted from the trees that lined the street, urged from their branches by the cool afternoon breeze. I kicked at the piles of color along the sidewalk, admiring the carpet they formed across the neighborhood lawns. And it took my mind off what was about to happen. Mother seemed a little nervous, too. She’d changed out of one of her plaid zip-up-the-front housedresses that were her at-home attire, into a “Sunday” dress, even though it was the middle of the week.

  If I’ve given the impression that I didn’t like the priest, that’s not entirely true. I was afraid of him at first. But as time passed, and I began to know him a little better, I started to like him.

  Father Tom greeted us that day in his usual attire: black shirt and pants, and the ever-present white collar. A fat, unlit cigar dangled from the corner of his mouth. We sat in the big room outside his office. Mother was teary-eyed by the time we sat down. My last dream had scared her because I thrashed about for almost five minutes before she could wake me.

  She placed her black purse on the floor next to her chair. “Father,” she said, “We have to do something. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. It happens almost once a week now, he wakes his brothers up with his crying, and it’s getting worse. He’s had two dreams in the past few months that have come true. He dreams about something and a few days later it happens! It’s scaring me, Father.”

  Mother grabbed her purse and pulled a tissue from it and wiped her eyes. “Oh,” she sighed, “I don’t know why I get so emotional.”

  The phone rang on the square wooden table next to Father. He looked at Mother. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said. Then he leaned across the table, and answered it.

  “Yes, this is he,” Father said. He shifted the phone to his other ear. “Oh yes, we should respond to them by the end of the week.” He looked at me and winked. “Did you take it to the grounds committee? Well, that’s fine.” He straightened a stack of Catholic Living magazines with his free hand. “We better talk about this later though. I have someone in my office.” He looked at his watch. “Okay, thanks for calling.”

  Father placed the phone back on the receiver and turned toward Mother. He sat back, crossed his legs and chomped on the cigar a few times before he balanced it on the edge of a black plastic ash tray. He tried to comfort her. “Now Carmela, Joey is going to be fine. Nightmares are quite normal at his age.”

  Father Tom picked up a Bible that sat near him on the table. He opened it and rifled through the pages as if he were looking for a specific passage. “You know, the Lord has answers for everything, Carmela.”

  Mother clutched her purse tight against her body. “But father, you don’t understand. These are more than just nightmares. Things are happening.”

  “Here, I want to read something to you.” Father Tom stopped skimming and moved his finger to a place on a page. He started to read, but then he paused as if he had changed his mind. “Okay, okay, I know…” He rested his chin in his hand and looked at Mother. “I’m not sure there’s much more I can do, Carmela. Have you been praying with him before he goes to sleep?”

  “Yes, Father, every night. It’s not helping.” Tears trickled down her cheeks and she wiped them away as fast as they came. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t stop crying. I’m sorry, Father.” She pushed her hair away from her eyes. It was a nervous habit. She tugged and twisted the ends of a strand, then tried to quiet her hands by clasping them on her lap.

  Father Tom looked at Mother for a long time. Outside, the nearly barren branches tapped against the window. The priest closed the Bible and pushed it back to the place on the table where it had been.

  Mother began twisting her hair again. I’d seen her do this before. I’d seen her with this nervousness and anxiety. Like when my brother James had his accident, the day he raced his bike on the street with our cousin. Mother had told us, over and over again, never to race in the street. But James didn’t listen.

  As they raced through the street, a car careened around the corner. My cousin grabbed my brother’s handle bars to try to wrench him out of the way. But James lost control. His bike slid underneath the moving car. The driver slammed his brakes, and the squealing sound carried all the way up the street to our house. My brother’s head ended up only inches from the car’s tire. Just a few inches more and his head would have looked like a watermelon dropped from a ten story building.

  As it was, he had nasty cuts and scrapes on his head and shoulders, and a bruised kidney. Mother said it was an angel that intervened, held out her hand she said, and stopped the car from crushing my brother’s head. Was it the same angel that I knew, I wondered?

  I remembered how Mother tugged at her hair as we sat in the hospital waiting room outside the emergency room while my father attended to James. That’s what she did as we waited for the priest to respond.

  Father Tom looked out the window and seemed to study the branch still tapping against the glass. He picked u
p the cigar from the ashtray, put it in his mouth, struck a match and pulled at it to get the ember going. When the smoke was flowing, he lifted his head toward the ceiling and exhaled, slowly, deliberately. He turned toward us.

  “Something’s not right,” Mother said. “It’s not just the nightmares anymore. He’s having dreams about things before they happen now. I didn’t tell you this before, but you remember the accident with the little girl and the pot of boiling water on the stove? He dreamt about it the night before it happened. I’m frightened for him Father. He sees things in his dreams before they happen.”

  Mother stopped tugging on her hair and looked at me. She patted my hand.

  Father Tom picked up the box of matches on his desk and looked at it. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then he shook his head before he opened his eyes and looked at Mother.

  “Okay, I have something I want to tell you,” he said. “I’ve been praying about this since you called last week to schedule the appointment. Now I know—I’m sure the Lord has guided me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Mother slid her hands over her skirt and let them come to rest on her legs. She leaned forward. “Who is it?” Mother asked. She glanced at me to see if I was listening. I pretended to look out the window.

  Father Tom leaned back in his chair. “There’s a woman I met a while ago. I think she would be a good person for you to know. She’s wise and insightful. It might be good for you and Joey to go see her.

  “Does she live around here?” Mother asked.

  “Yes,” Father Tom said.

  “Can you tell me more about her?”

  “Well, I met her when she first came to this area about three years ago. She stopped by one day to introduce herself to me at the prompting of an old friend, a priest I met in the seminary, who’s a pastor now in a parish in New Mexico.

  “She used to live near the river. You know that big white house with the black shutters on River Birch Road?”