It was a running joke, because Mr. Hammoty weighed in at close to two-fifty, and he wasn’t much taller than her five-foot-four.
“You’re right. Maybe you’ll hit it big.” She tipped her chin toward the new scratcher, and he beamed.
Must be nice to have hope.
Arkie was right. The store got busy with the daylight, but she didn’t mind. It made the time pass. At the stroke of eleven, Beatrice, her relief, arrived. They were already out of milk and eggs, but Darby had managed to put some away before they ran out.
“Mine to three, forty-seven.” She handed Bea the money and picked up her bag. “And I put some under the counter for you, just in case.”
“Thanks, Darby. The kids probably won’t have school tomorrow, so I’ll need it.”
“Have a good afternoon.”
“You, too.”
Darby pushed out onto the street. The snow was already falling, a half-inch crunching under her boots. She took a second to look around. It was pretty. The white blanket took the edge off the seedy streetscape and made it look almost cheerful.
She hurried the few blocks to the nearest Minneapolis satellite library, hoping her books were in. The small, inner-city facility didn’t have much to offer, but it allowed patrons to peruse the catalogue on-line and have books from the larger library sent in. Reading was one of the few pleasures Darby enjoyed, and with the snow, it was the perfect afternoon to indulge. She never bothered with television. Cable and streaming services were a useless expense.
When she first started her job, working four to eleven in the morning, she thought she’d have lots of free time, and be bored. Turns out, having to go to bed at six every night didn’t give her any more liberty than a person working nine to five.
The bells on the library door tinkled cheerfully, and sweet Mrs. Leroy looked up. “Darby!” she called out happily. “I thought I’d see you today. I have your books. And it’s a good thing you came in when you did. All municipal buildings are closing at one because of the snow.”
Darby pulled off a mitten and fished her library card from her purse. “My lucky day,” she smiled back. There were few people these days with whom she let down her guard, but Mrs. Leroy was one of them. Early on, they’d discovered a mutual passion for historical fiction, and recommended books to each other all the time.
The librarian pulled her stack out from under the desk and tapped the one on top. “When you finish, let me know if this one’s any good.”
“I have high hopes,” Darby replied with a smile as the four books got scanned and checked out. On Monday mornings, before she tossed the unsold copies of the Sunday paper in the recycling dumpster behind the store, she searched the book review section and wrote down any that looked interesting.
Heading out into the snow, she pulled her collar up. It was really coming down, and traffic had slowed to a crawl. Fine with her. Less slush flung onto her jeans as she traversed the sidewalk toward home.
Her stomach growled as she entered her apartment, and after draping her coat on the oversized radiator by the door, she plucked two packages of ramen from the cupboard. Filling the kettle, she turned on the flame and used the bathroom while the water heated.
“Oui, madame.” She used her best French accent upon emerging. “The chicken soup today is a fine choice. Tres bien.”
After crunching the noodles into handleable bits and adding water, she dumped in a can of green beans. “Voila, ton dîner.”
Her French was high-school-basic from so long ago it seemed like another life, but it amused her.
She curled up in her one, comfortable chair, then balancing book and soup she was soon caught up in a world of knights and shield walls.
Hours later, after topping her soup off with a peanut butter sandwich, she ended her chapter and yawned. The clock ticked away. She could put it off no longer.
It was time for bed.
CHAPTER FOUR
A dream. Hutch heaved a sighed. Finally, stimulation. But…
…why am I aware? Aware in a way that had him conscious of his own body and his aloofness from the action unfolding before him.
In a normal dream, he was always part of the scene, not watching from a distance. Could this be part of his new reality? And why, minutes into sleep, was he thinking abstractly, critically?
Like that.
How did he know how long he’d been asleep?
Suspending questions for the moment, he gazed…across, he supposed, the empty expanse around him, into a colorful vista. He wasn’t involved in the tableau, but noticed everything.
A shadowy figure of a woman cavorted there. He watched in awe, a silent dream-film unfolding.
She flitted down a busy street, which, after no more than twenty steps, morphed into endless green tarmac. She approached the landing gear of a plane, a disembodied nose wheel if he wasn’t mistaken. Reaching it, she shrunk to the size of an ant, scrambling up and over the rubber to climb as high as possible on the metal to which it was attached. Once high enough, she flung herself from the top, spreading her…wings. She’d sprouted them at the last second and maneuvered gently down, alighting in a field of yellow daisies.
He willed his feet to move closer, and found he could almost enter the setting, unrebuffed until hitting a barrier where his darkness ended and her colors began.
He watched again.
The flower meadow cracked, and in a spill of brilliance, broke into thousands of sharp, triangular fractals. The woman rode one away, and it turned into a surfboard, skating across a silvery pond of ice. She tripped lightly from her conveyance when it reached a far shore, and, wings disappearing, she trudged up a steep embankment.
As the action moved, so did Hutch’s proximity to it. But although closer, he was still unable to become part of the picture.
He pondered. This has to be a dream. He glanced away from the compelling action before him and analyzed his position. Still blackness as far as he could see, to the right, the left, above and below.
But not my dream. Hers. I have no control.
Not that one had control of nighttime illusions, but there generally prevailed a feeling of belonging, of working through things with a modicum of power.
Here, he had no connection to what unfurled before him.
He focused once again, intrigued.
The climbing woman approached an enormous dog and clapping her hands noiselessly, twice, the great beast bent, and she scrambled up onto his back, grabbing hold of his scruff with both hands. The dog took off at a run, galloping across great expanses of squiggly worms…no…noodles.
When the animal stopped, he dropped to his belly, nestling into the haunch-deep pasta, and the woman lay down, also, snuggling into his fur.
Hutch caught his breath when she turned her head, suddenly able to see every detail of her features. She was beautiful…at least in this reality. Long auburn hair cascaded down around her shoulders to blend with the dog’s fur, and lush, dark lashes lowered over forest-green eyes. In contrast to her relaxed position, worry grooves cut deep into her forehead, and frown lines appeared next to her mouth, belying an age he guessed to be older than thirty but younger than forty.
“Hello,” he called out, not wanting to startle her, but eager to have those green eyes focus on him.
Neither she nor the dog looked up, and he was disappointed. Whatever kept her sound from reaching him, apparently worked in reverse, as well.
The great dog shook himself, and the woman went tumbling, but not to the ground. To a different scene entirely. A dark alley where men, a dozen or more of them in gray top-hats and Edwardian era coattails, squatted, writing furiously in books balanced on their knees.
The woman danced down the aisle, touching each on the head with a finger that sparked, absorbing them into her being. With each acquisition, she grew in strength. He knew this because her muscles bulged, her arms and bare legs became thick trunks of twisted sinew. She regarded her new power with a look of satisfaction. Hutch felt
gratified as well, although he didn’t know why.
He didn’t know much, and the incessant questions started again.
Why was he in this woman’s dreams or fantasies? Why did he feel fully sentient and in the moment, rather than drifting like her? Did this have anything to do with the hell…or at least the hellish place he’d spent the last few days?
No answers appeared. He hadn’t thought they would, but being placed here, specifically to regard such wonder, he’d hoped.
His musclebound woman exited the alleyway and turned the corner onto a street with which she seemed very familiar. She gave a curt wave to several, faceless passersby, her feet heading somewhere with a certainty that suddenly belied the feeling in his gut.
“No. Go back,” he whispered.
Like a tunnel, his field of vision narrowed, until all he could see was the woman approaching a door. Not an extraordinary door. One clouded with age and covered with posters for beer and protein bars. The female was sucked toward the portal with a rapidity that defied anything but dream-physics, and though she tried to draw back halfway there, the vortex would not be denied. The exaggerated musculature she’d acquired, disappeared, leaving her almost fragile.
A battle raged.
She fought, but the power pitted against her dragged relentlessly forward. With an abject look of fear on her face, her hand went forth of its own volition to pull the door open, and she was instantly within.
His bubble of darkness relocated to hover above the interior space, a convenience store where the woman seemed to belong. She picked up two stained coffee pots and pulling back a curtain at the rear, she walked into a storage room to fill them from a graying sink.
The gesture seemed automatic, as did her return to the coffee station where she put them into place and pushed buttons. That accomplished, she gave the man behind the counter a nod and relieved him at the register where he disappeared.
Time slowed. The woman moved in fluid, decelerated motions…all but her eyes. They darted frantically in the direction of the door. The feeling of dread he felt before, increased.
She knows what’s going to happen.
Her hands curled into fists, making it impossible to stack the bundled papers at her feet. Though she tried to perform her task, her focus on the portal was unwavering.
He wasn’t surprised when the door burst open and two dark-clad masked men walked in. One stationed himself at the glass, watching the street, while the other approached the woman, whose mouth opened in a silent scream.
The money, he knew the man said, although unable to hear.
He needed to stop this.
Hutch raised his fists and pounded the invisible membrane between his dark prison and the unfolding drama, but was unable to break through. He watched with dread.
The woman bent.
Somehow, he knew she struggled to comply with the thief, to give him the money in the register, but was unable to do anything but follow a script already written. She straightened, a wooden bat in her hands, and swung hard at her antagonist. The man ducked, and it glanced off his shoulder.
He leaped the counter, grabbed the woman by the neck and shook her. Horror suffused her face as he raised his hand, bringing the butt of his weapon down hard on her temple. She crumpled to the floor but continued to struggle as he pistol-whipped and kicked her head, her face, her body.
Hutch yelled. He banged and roared, but the beating went on until the woman lay still and bloodied. Satisfied, her assailant smashed open the register, grabbed its contents, and stuffed it into his jacket.
Giving one final kick to the woman on the floor, he—
Hutch awoke, gasping, his body on familiar, sandy dirt. He shook and was covered in sweat for the first time in his purgatory. He struggled for breath as the fire in front of him burned calmly.
He looked at his watch. Three in the morning.
He blinked.
What had he witnessed? Everything indicated a dream-state. Not his, but the woman’s. It had unfolded normally, as standard as somnolent night-ramblings could be. Until things had turned bad.
Then it became a nightmare.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hutch fell back to sleep, a dreamless landscape this time, and when he arose at dawn, he spent the morning pacing the sand, pondering what he’d seen.
The nightmare.
Was it the manifestation of a fear the woman harbored, or was it a reenactment of an actual event?
And what was it to him? Why had he witnessed it?
“I don’t understand,” he griped aloud. “Nothing makes sense.”
Round and round he went, circling the fire, circling possibilities until his brain demanded he stop. He dropped to the ground and attempted to make order from chaos.
He wrote in the sand.
Subject: Name unknown. Female, early thirties.
What else was certain? It had been a long time since he’d used his analytical skills instead of his prescription pad, but he dug deep. He’d taken some Jungian, dream interpretation classes.
Dream: climbing the wheel, turning into an ant. Analysis: feeling small, insignificant. Trying to elevate to a higher place.
That seemed reasonable.
Dream: Landing in a field of flowers, having it break up into shards. Riding the shard across ice as a surfer, getting off to climb a steep hill. Analysis: The subject had something good at one point, lost it, then rode the adversity to find something new, something that required struggle.
The dog sequence proved more difficult to unravel.
Dream: Clapping hands, a ride on a giant dog that ran across a sea of noodles, eventually sinking into them. Thrown from his back. Analysis: Subject has gained some control over her life, finding a few things she enjoys, but her existence is still mired in uncertainty, easily thrown off course.
The alley, with the men…
Dream: Well-dressed men reading books. Touching them leads to absorbed energy. Analysis: Subject associates riches with literature, gains strength and vitality from reading.
That was a bit of a stretch, but he could revisit it once he gained more information. If he gained more information. Who knew if he’d be invited back into the woman’s dreams or be thrown into someone else’s?
Then there was the final sequence.
Dream: Sucked into a vortex leading to a convenience store. Making coffee. Nervousness pervasive with an eye kept on the door. Thieves enter, perpetrate a beating and a robbery. Analysis: This succession of events seems more literal than symbolic. It is clear the subject knows what is coming. This dream is more indicative of PTSD, rather than subconscious symbolism.
He sat back on his heels.
Reasonable assumptions.
If she were a client relating these dreams to him, what would he do? No. Not what would he do, what would he have done before he’d begun phoning it in?
Sitting back, he took a deep breath and examined his notes.
He’d have her keep a dream journal. He’d visit the insecurities it uncovered, helping her examine her life choices to understand what had led her to this point. And in an attempt to bring her to a more satisfying place in life, he’d have her imagine where she’d like to be, and what she imagined herself accomplishing. And if the sequence of events in the convenience store repeated, he’d probe deeper to see if it was an actual trauma, or a fear. Recurring dreams often denoted an urgency that demanded resolution.
He glanced at his watch. Six o’clock. He’d spent the afternoon productively, and it made him feel more himself. At least the self he used to be. He stood up and stretched, strangely pleased. It was time for his pretend meal.
Opening his imaginary refrigerator, he pondered. Leftover roast chicken or the Pad Thai he’d bought last night. The Pad Thai seemed the better choice, but he’d have to eat the chicken tomorrow night, or throw it out. Food should not sit around for more than three days.
He grabbed the invisible carton, pretended to dig out his one pair of chopsticks from
a drawer, then sat to eat. Getting up once, he poured himself a nonexistent glass of Pinot. Might as well celebrate. He’d begun treating—really treating—his first client in ten years.
Seven o’clock came and went until finally, it was time to see if sleep brought a repeat of last night’s dream-visit. He settled on his side and concentrated on the fire until his lids drooped, his breathing evened out, and he slipped from this reality into another.
It’s her. The redhead from last night.
He was as fully aware of himself as he’d been before, and she, immersed in her experience, seemed not to notice him at all.
This time she drove an open-top car down a long dirt road. Scenery was minimal, but the sun shone brightly and a colorful scarf around her neck caught the breeze, streaming out jauntily behind her in a long ribbon that stretched back for miles. There was a smile on her face, and a box of open chocolates on her lap. Occasionally she bent to pick one out, tossing it from the car.
He took notes in his head for later scrutiny.
Again, there was no noise, and he didn’t know if that was a symptom of the way she dreamed, or his seclusion behind the invisible wall that separated them.
A large red pocketbook suddenly appeared in the road, but instead of slowing, the woman sped up and split the purse in two, sending large pennies, dimes, and nickels spinning into the air. She reached for the change, and it turned to rain.
Abruptly the scene changed, and she walked backward on a series of ugly green sofas—four, at quick count—lined up end to end. There was nothing indicating where she was, the area around her was gray, but when she reached the last cushion, she sat. And sat.
Figures, like colorful ghosts, swirled around her head, but she paid them no heed, simply staring straight ahead with a look of stoicism on her face. Water rose up around her, and regardless, she took a deep breath. The sofa dropped away, and she was left floating. Her lips moved. Was she singing?
Hutch Nightmare Men Page 3