"We can't dillydally, Daddy. OK?" he said, very sincere and serious.
"OK," I said. "We won't dillydally. I promise." I was serious, too. Who dillydallies? Nobody in the modern world dillydallied. That's slang straight out of a 1930s slapstick comedy.
"We have to get to PeePaw as soon as possible. He needs us."
"Are you sure about this?" I said, skeptical. "He's never needed us before."
"He does this time. I promise!"
Like I said before, we didn't eat any dinner but that didn't mean I didn't feed my kids at all. I mean, sometimes my parenting skills can leave little to be desired but I didn't want them to go to bed without any food. So, I gave Sammie a fistful of coins that I had scooped out of the ashtray in the Volvo S70 (European cars have lots of ashtrays) and instructed him and little Jessie to run down the hall to the vending machine and buy themselves a snack. Anything. Sammie looked at me with some trepidation, as if I was setting a trap for him.
"Anything?!" he said.
"Yes, anything," I said.
Sammie grabbed his little sister by the hand and led her out the hotel door and down the hall. I stepped out into the hall to watch them run for their evening snack, holding hands the entire length of the floor, and stopping at the vending machine to peruse their choices. Sammie loaded the machine with coins, all of them clunking loud enough for me to hear, and they each made their choice. As their snacks descended to the holding tray, they cheered and cheered--their arms raised triumphantly, jumping up and down, their fists clinched high--as if they had won the lottery. They ran back holding hands, back into the room, then jumped into their bed, ripping the wrappers off their snacks and devouring them.
At this point, to be able to wake up early required an early bedtime. So, I informed Nat and the kids that it was time to brush their teeth and go to bed, otherwise, there wouldn't be any getting up early. And they all did. In our bathroom, Sammie and Jessie brushed and flossed their teeth, washed their little faces, and put on their pajamas. I assumed Nat had a similar routine since we could hear her in our room; the sound of water flowing freely--in the sink and in the toilet--camouflaging whatever routine she had. When Sammie and Jessie were done, they both ran into Nat's room to hug her. They caught her off-guard and she squealed delightfully then chased them to their double bed in our room to tuck them in. She really was good with the kids: attentive, loving, and kind. She pulled the covers up to their little faces and tucked them in like little burritos.
"Time for bed," she said, pinching their cheeks and pushing their hair from their faces, so they could see her. "We have a long day tomorrow."
"Do you think PeePaw is OK?" Jessie said, her voice cracking a bit from the stress of the unknown.
"Hard to say. We'll see," Nat said, smiling at her, then looking at Sammie. "What do you think?"
Sammie stared back at her, a look of apprehension on his face. His eyes turned to mine, trembling, attempting to hold back tears. Then he said, "It's not good."
"Well," Nat said, kissing them both on the cheek once more. "We'll see in the morning. Good night. Try to, like, get some sleep."
"Good night!" they both said, then Jessie pulled the covers over both their heads. They giggled but otherwise, stayed still.
Nat smiled at me, stepped closer, then said, "Good night to you, too." She threw her arms around my neck and hugged me, which caught me off guard, her tall, lanky frame bending down to embrace me. I wasn't expecting that at all. "Hopefully we can get through tomorrow in one piece."
"I hope so," I said, placing my arms on her back. She smelled of lavender and cocoa butter. "Thank you."
"I'll see you in the morning," she said and went into her room. She turned off the light in there but didn't close the adjoining door. In our room, I turned the light off in the bathroom and got into my bed. For a good 30 or 40 seconds, I couldn't see a thing. The room was dark--pitch black like the night in the countryside where there aren't any city lights or buildings or cars or anything except wide open spaces--so dark you can't even see your hand in front of your face. The only sound in the room was the hum of the air conditioner and an occasional honk from a passing car outside. Every sixty seconds or so, the air conditioner's compressor would switch on, increasing the pitch of the hum almost to a squeal. I noticed, too, when my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the contours of the room becoming clearer, the fixtures in the ceiling and on the walls delineating. The flashing green LED light of a smoke detector assured me that it was in compliance, ready for action.
I laid there in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my arms across my chest like an Egyptian mummy, my heart beating inside my chest. A lifetime of images flipped through my mind like a Rolodex filled with grainy Polaroid photos, images of my father from the little kid perspective of a 10-year-old Simon Burchwood, peering up at him from down low, the sadness I felt from being ignored strangling my heart, still present. Little Jessie sniffled a bit (probably from seasonal allergies), which soon turned into the low cadence of night breathing, which eventually turned into the low rumble of adolescent snoring. I turned my head in the direction of the kids' bed and noticed good ol' Sammie Boy, the top half of his little face peeking out from under the covers, staring up at the ceiling, too; not able to sleep because he was nervous about tomorrow or from eating too much goddamn candy before bed or something. He didn't notice me looking at him. Abruptly, he'd cover his face again, as if discovered by some imaginary night monster, then slowly peeked out again to see if the monster was gone. He repeated this routine quite a few times without noticing me before--out of the blue--jumping out of bed and onto his feet. He tiptoed quietly, like a mouse, across the room to the door that joined our room to Nat's room, then disappeared into the darkness.
'What the hell is he doing?' I thought to myself. I tell you, kids do the most unexpected things. They really are unpredictable little creatures that do unpredictable little things like eat their own boogers in front of others or put their fingers where they shouldn't like in electrical sockets or pee in the bath tub when their siblings are in there, too, or go into someone's hotel room without asking first. It was borderline creepy what he was doing. It's true.
So, I decided right then and there to spy on him, like any good parent would. I made sure I had my shorts and a t-shirt on and tiptoed to the door as quietly as I could so not to disturb little Jessie from her sound sleep. As I got closer to the door, I noticed a glow emitting from Nat's room, which became brighter as I reached the door frame. I slowly peeked in, trying to be as quiet as possible, when I noticed a Looney Tunes cartoon on the TV--Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird--with the black and white cartoon cat debating with the tiny yellow bird, declaring 'Sufferin' succotash!' while raining saliva onto Tweety. Sammie and Nat giggled together as they watched the classic cartoon in the dark under the covers of Nat's bed. Knowing that I wasn't going to disturb anyone's sleep or privacy, I decided to intercede.
"What's going on in here?" I said, standing next to the bed, looking at the TV then back at Sammie and Nat, trying to be quiet about it. I didn't want to wake up little Jessie.
"Come watch with us, Daddy," Sammie said, patting a spot next to him. "It's Looney Tunes!"
"I see that. Was Nat OK with you invading her space?"
"It's fine," she said. "I don't mind at all. I couldn't sleep anyway."
"Me neither," I said, sitting next to Sammie on the bed. My little boy patted the pillow next to his, inviting me to lie down, with me on one side of the bed, Sammie in the middle, and Nat on the other side. The part came in the cartoon where Granny discovered Sylvester attempting to consume Tweety only to be swatted by her broom. The three of us laughed even though we knew what was coming from Granny. Who doesn't know that part is coming? It's a classic.
Sammie placed his hand on my stomach and said, "Daddy, can we adopt Nat into our family?" I was a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice. He sounded as serious as serious can be.
"She has her own family, son," I
said, whispering, patting his hand.
"But they aren't nice to her," he said.
We laid in the bed, watching a succession of other Looney Tunes characters--Bugs Bunny, Elmer Fudd, Foghorn Leghorn, the Road Runner, the Coyote, Daffy Duck--like three enchiladas in a bed wrapped in sheets and a comforter and a blanket, until the darkness crept into my eyes and the night fell over my consciousness and my sleep consumed me.
***
***
I am walking through a desert vista, the sky and ground painted in the pastel palette of Van Gogh: bright, vibrant, disturbed--the color of things like when you squint your eyes tightly then open them wide. I walk with the confidence that I know where I am going, although I have no idea where I am located or where I am going. I walk. I walk into the desert vista, the darkness of night behind me, getting smaller as I go forward, falling away like a black rock tossed off the top of a building. The baby blue clouds in the effervescent pink and yellow sky drift then lunge then drift, like a school of fish swimming in tandem with the current of the wind. I see a cliff up ahead. I walk to the cliff.
At the edge, I look down. The desert vista continues below, thousands of feet below, miles below my feet. I impetuously step out into the air, expecting to fall to my death; it's so far down. The fall will be long and torturous and excruciatingly slow. My foot leads my descent, down, then instantly touches dusty ground. I continue to walk, barely missing a step, just a slight stumble then steady again. I walk and walk. The clouds swim. I see birds, flying in a formation of a V, then a W, then a Y. I sense that the sky is where I'm supposed to be. I am a bird. I need to fly. I walk still. I see a cliff up ahead. I walk to the cliff. I walk off the cliff and continue to walk, again. It continues, on and on and on, the clouds drifting, the birds flying, the cliffs keep coming. I am a bird. Why am I walking? This is bullshit. I need to fly.
I look down. My feet are bird's feet, scaly and grey and lanky, the claws at the end of my toes scraping the ground as I walk. My arms are wings. My vision is long and deep and clear as a bell. I can see forever. I still walk. I want to fly but I cannot fly. I see a cliff up ahead. I walk to the cliff. I want to fly off the cliff. I walk off the cliff hoping to fly but I walk, on and on.
Am I dreaming?
I walk.
Am I dreaming?
I like to walk. I like to dream. But I want to fly.
I walk some more, goddamn it. I see a cliff up ahead. I walk to the cliff.
At the edge, stands a flag pole. A flag waves at the top of the pole. The flag is grey and frayed at the edges and long and proud as can be. It dances with the clouds, waving in tandem with them as they swim through the pastel, baby blue sky. I walk to the flag pole then look up. It is tall and stretches above me to the clouds. I can reach it if I try, I just know it. I raise my arms. My arms are wings, remember? The feathers of my wings are grey with blue and white and yellow, splotchy and scattered throughout. Can I fly? I know I can fly. If I flap my wings hard enough, I will fly to the sky. I want to touch the flag. It waves at me. It taunts me. It beckons me to fly.
'Come to me,' it says. 'Fly, goddamn it.'
I know I can fly.
I have wings.
I can fly.
Am I dreaming?
No, I am flying.
Goddamn it, I can fly to the sky and grab that flag. I am flying. The flag trembles because it didn't think I could really do it. I fly at the speed of sound, up the flag pole, to the sky. I grab the flag. It wraps around my wings, around my body, around my mind.
It wraps around all of me until the darkness creeps back. I have the flag and the flag has me. It is dark.
***
I woke up in the enchilada bed, alone. Nat was gone and Sammie was gone, too. I was wrapped up in the sheets and the comforter and the blanket as if I had barreled down a hill and entangled myself in the bed linen, rolling up into a big, fat burrito. The TV watched over me, some morning show I was not familiar with on the screen, a man and a woman speaking gibberish to each other, laughing at each other's lame jokes. In the glow of the TV, I unwrapped myself from the bedding, noticing that my arms were not wings at all, they were in fact my chubby, hairy, original arms. I was dreaming. Again. About what? I didn't know. Can I fly? Not in this lifetime. Was I glad to be awake? Hell, yes.
Next to me, laying on the comforter, was a sheet of paper ripped from good ol' Sammie Boy's sketchbook, a cartoon of my son sleeping next to his snoozing, avian friend: Budgie. I examined the black lines of the cartoon and the shape and form of the two characters, giant Z's floating next to them, indicating that they were sound asleep. Sammie must have drawn it after I fell asleep or early this morning before I woke up. I didn't remember him drawing in his sketchbook the night before. The last thing I remembered before the bizarre dream I had was watching Looney Tunes, Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird arguing about something ridiculous as they were prone to do, like how Sammie and Jessie argue with each other about trivial things like who gets to open the door first. My kids could be cartoon characters in their own right. It's true.
I noticed some movement coming from the bathroom and assumed it was Nat. Hopefully, she was brushing her teeth or washing her face or something like that. I decided to let her know that I was awake. I didn't want her coming out of there assuming that I was still asleep or wasn't there, particularly if she wasn't dressed. That would be weird--very weird.
"Good morning," I said, out loud. No response. The commotion in the bathroom continued. "Hello?" I said, louder this time.
"Daddy!" I heard from the bathroom. Then, little Jessie came running out and leapt on top of me, like a preying mountain cat--quick, fast, and ruthless. She knocked me down, back into the enchilada bed. "I didn't know where you were when I woke up. Everybody was in this room. Why didn't you tell me you were going to sleep in Nat's room with Sammie?"
I sat up and placed her next to me in one swift movement. My head hurt, a lot, on the back of it where my neck met the bottom of my skull. It throbbed the more I thought about how much it hurt.
"I didn't know we were going to sleep in here. It was a surprise."
"Surprise?" she said, annoyed. "Not to me, it wasn't."
"I'm sorry. Where are the others?"
"Sammie is brushing his teeth in the other room. Nat went down to see if they are still serving breakfast. It's kinda late, you know?"
"What time is it?" I said, rubbing my forehead.
"Nine o'clock, I think." She kissed me on the cheek then jumped out of bed. "I have to finish brushing my teeth!" she said, then ran back into the bathroom. "You should get ready, too! Maybe they'll have waffles!"
"You're right." I stood up, tossing the comforter and sheets onto the bed, and went into the other room, taking Sammie's cartoon drawing with me. In the bathroom, good ol' Sammie Boy diligently brushed his teeth, leaning over the counter to get a better look in the mirror.
"Good morning, son," I said. I dreaded the guilt trip I would receive for sleeping so late and not waking Sammie up early, as I promised.
"Good morning, Daddy," he said, his words jumbled in a mouth full of toothpaste suds. After a few more strokes of his brush, he stopped then turned to me, a look of bewilderment on his little face. "You were making weird noises in your sleep last night." He giggled.
"I was? What kind of noises?"
"Weird noises. You must have been dreaming!"
"Yeah, maybe."
"Do you remember what you were dreaming about?" he said, then spitting into the sink and brushing his tongue before rinsing his mouth with water from the faucet.
"No, I don't remember," I said. I lied. I remembered all of it. How could I forget it?
"I love dreaming!" he said, running out of the bathroom to the bed. His clothes were laid out neatly for him. Nat must have laid them out; my boy would not have done that all by himself. "That's when I get to have adventures with Budgie." He stripped off his night clothes then dressed himself in athletic shorts and a striped t-shirt--hi
s favorite outfit. "Cool, huh?"
"Yeah, pretty cool," I said, going into the bathroom to brush my teeth. In the mirror, my reflection looked back at me. Boy, did I look like shit. I looked like I was hung over or, worse, a middle-aged loser. I examined my gut--round and hairy and white as Styrofoam--my hairy arms, my balding head, at least I had pajama pants on. I still had Sammie's cartoon drawing in my hand. I could see it in the reflection of the mirror. "I like the cartoon you drew of you and Budgie."
"Thanks, Daddy," he said, putting his shoes and socks on.
As I searched for my tooth brush in the bathroom, I heard the door to the room open. I closed the door to the bathroom most of the way so Nat couldn't see my dilapidated, middle-aged body.
"They're serving breakfast for, like, thirty more minutes," she said, the room door slamming behind her. "Everybody ready?"
"Yeah," I said, not finding my toothbrush. I grabbed Sammie's soggy toothbrush and applied some toothpaste to the bristles. "I'll be out in a minute."
I closed the bathroom door all the way to ensure that Nat wouldn't see me without a shirt on. When I turned back around to face the mirror, I noticed my clothes--clean, fresh clothes--hanging on a hook on the back of the door. Pleased, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, applied some deodorant and a tad of cologne, and got dressed as fast as possible. We didn't have much time to eat before leaving for Autumn Grove.
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