CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ENTER MY DREAM
Events were moving as planned. Jim was in jail. Teresa soon gone. Brent and Brenda Hewitt headed for destruction. I hadn't heard from Rollins.
Now, finally, home.
And there it was, sitting like all the rest on the block, a quiet, safe, nondescript house which neither brought nor gave undue attention. Tina's car in the driveway, the lawn in front cut neatly. No sign of blood anywhere.
"I'm here," I yelled, stepping inside. “I’m home.”
I heard sounds from above and took the stairs two at a time to find Tina folding clothes on her bed--our bed--and Tyler in the bathroom playing in the tub. Toys of all types floated on the surface while Tyler scooped them up with a plastic green bucket, only to dump them into the water again.
"I'm coming to eat you," he said, the bucket mouth surfacing from one end to swim slowly toward those just vomited out a second before. It moved forward like a giant whale, water pouring from within as it reached the surface, then diving to scoop up its prey.
"Aaaaah!" he yelled.
I smiled from the doorway as I watched his recreation of Jonah en masse.
"Mom!" he yelled. "I'm cold."
"I'll be there in a minute," said Tina’s voice faintly from the bedroom.
Tyler continued the assault. "Mom! I’m cold."
"In a minute!"
"We need to get out," Tyler said with a different voice, addressing his toys. "Quick, into the water slide." He swallowed up more toys into the bucket and balanced it on the side of the tub. "Here we go!" And he poured the contents slowly out as plastic fish and cats and cows scattered with soldiers onto the bathroom tile.
"Tyler!"
Tina's voice startled us both, and she walked angrily over to her son as the water touched her toes. "What are you doing? I told you to keep the water in the tub. Now get out here and wipe it up. And pick up these toys."
Tyler huddled in the water. "But it's cold."
"I don't care," she said, grabbing his arm and pulling him to his feet. She drew him forward and slapped his bottom twice. He flinched and began crying. "Now pick those up." She pulled him so he had to step onto the floor. "Here's a towel. Wipe all this dry. And put everything back into the bucket."
He bent over, crying. "I'm cold," he cried.
She threw the towel on the floor. "Do it. Now!"
My son knelt down crying, shivering, and began wiping the floor and gathering the toys as he did, then slowly began dropping them one by one in the bucket as my wife stormed out of the room.
I watched him as he whimpered, wishing I could help put it all back in order and heal the hurt he felt. But a minute later he was making his plastic animals walk in line back into the bucket, which was now a barn, the cold forgotten along with the slap on the rear. There were many types of healing, I knew, and this one didn’t require a heavenly touch, just a child living every moment that’s given.
I left him playing and followed Tina back to the bedroom, wondering if she had that same attribute. She was good at having things ordered but lousy at surprises, especially messy ones. I found her sitting on the bed, crying, and the anger I felt toward her disappeared. She couldn't change who she was, no matter how hard I'd tried. I sat down and put my arm around her, but it fell through and hung limply at my side.
I almost wished her anger and tears were for me; at least it would be some type of emotional acknowledgment. I wanted to hold her face against mine and touch of the wetness of her on my cheeks, but reaching out to touch them I found her tears were as dry as the air. As close as she was to me now, the memories I had of her were much more real.
She took a tissue from the night stand and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She looked and sounded just like a little girl with the sniffles. My little baby.
She crumpled the tissue and threw it in the trash. Then she opened the drawer of the night stand. No Gideon. There was a book on How to Make Your Marriage Work she'd been trying to get me to read for years. Some papers, receipts, pen, pencil stubs, my gun.
I moved closer as she took it out, popped the clip, popped it back and pointed it right at my head, dead-eyed, safety off. Then she put it back.
My little baby.
And closed the drawer.
"Mom," came a soft wail. "I'm done."
"All right," she yelled back, sniffling, then stood and walked out.
I tried telling her after dinner. It was a painfully silent meal of spaghetti and meatballs. Tyler was trying as best he could, he really was, but the spaghetti simply wouldn't stay on his fork. Or when they did they whipped sauce around his mouth and hands and shirt. And Tina knew better, she really did, but she couldn't help but be upset.
"Tyler, use your napkin, not your shirt! Don't get so much on your fork. Do you want me to cut it for you? Chew with your mouth closed. Don't wipe your hands on your pants."
And when he knocked over his glass of chocolate milk it was too much and she exploded.
"Damn it, Tyler! How many times have I told you to keep your drink away from the side of the table when you're not drinking it? Now look at this mess," she went on, holding a napkin to the stream which was trickling over the table's edge. "Run and get me the dishcloth from the sink. Hurry!"
The rest of the night was quick and quiet. She sped the meal along, rushed Tyler through brushing teeth and tucking in, made a half-hearted attempt at the kitchen before escaping to the bedroom after a few minutes. Tyler was sound asleep in seconds, exhausted from the emotion of the night and back in the safe world of dreams.
Tina and I sat on the bed as she went over the bills. I touched her mind, trying to bring reassurance that the threat was gone and she and Tyler were safe.
But her mind was a mass of confusion. The cold logic of numbers and balances was no protection from the hot touch of fear and anxiety. I tried to order them, group them, divide and conquer, pushing back emotions while directing other thoughts away. But the pressure was too much and they flowed together like streams touching a lake.
I moved closer and whispered words of comfort, but they went unheard. Nothing had changed in our bed. Tina remained impenetrable.
Later, much later, sleeping, I lay cautiously beside her and listened to her breaths become louder and heavier. That had brought me such contentment in days past, coming in late from a job or other and quietly easing my body next to hers. Then simply listening, knowing she was safe and had possibly even found contentment. Toward the end there had rarely been such peace between us during the daylight, but during that silent nighttime we could at least share the dark and hope the calm would last until morning.
I wondered, as fools do, if she was dreaming of me. I reached over and put my hand on her head, pushing softly, and for the last time became the man of her dreams.
She was sitting in a restaurant I'd never been to, across from a man I couldn't see. It was like being in a movie theater and seeing from the camera’s perspective. A long shot from the side, then panning toward the back of the man and over his shoulder, focusing on Tina's face. She was smiling, eyes wide and glued to the face in front of her. She giggled and dropped her gaze, like a shy little girl or someone in love. Happier than I'd seen her in a long time.
The shot dissolved and reappeared over Tina's shoulder, the opposite perspective, the man in plain view, wearing a black suit and red tie over blinding white shirt, but the face was formless and unfocused. Maybe it was simple editing on my part, but I could tell the man was handsome in some respect. Even with no face he was charming, witty and interested, listening to Tina intently between his many questions.
Just a dream.
The shot moved to the side again and out, as they held hands across the table. She couldn’t take her eyes from him as he spoke his smooth words of life and likes and loves and how she took precedence over all.
“You make me feel so...so important,” she said. “As if I’m all that matters to you. It’s been a long time since I’
ve felt that way.”
An interruption by the waiter, bringing the artistic entrees and expensive wine. A close-up on the man filling her glass, then his own, the camera circling as they began to eat. Another interruption for the presentation of the dessert tray, bringing amazement and joy as they celebrated the simple things, the important things, and basked in each other’s company.
Then it was over and they were on the sidewalk, his arm around her shoulder as she snuggled close in the coolness. They reached his car and he held the door as she entered--a red Viper, her dream car--and they drove off with me hanging onto the back bumper.
Suddenly standing at his front door, opening the lock, turning to embrace, then kiss, his hands holding her body tight against his and worse, Tina holding him just as tight.
A commotion from the road made them pull apart. Tina pointed surprised, confused, concerned. The man pulled something from his pocket, a gun, and pointed it at…
…me, as I walked to my car parked across the street from Brenda Hewitt’s house. I moved with a saunter, full of sex and oblivious to the people behind, moving with a carefree bounce in my step as if there were a million seconds ahead and not none.
I yelled to me as loud as I could. Hey! You! Me! Trace, look out! But no sound came with the words I mouthed.
I turned and grabbed for the gun, flailing at air, turning to Tina for help. Her face was calm as she watched the street.
I walked closer to the car, bending down, standing as the gun fired, then again, and once more. Tina screamed as if laughing as my body jerked in the air, then fell face forward onto the pavement.
I stumbled a few steps toward my body, lying on the street, then back with greater shock as they were locked in a passionate embrace. They broke, and Tina turned and pointed behind me. I looked to see myself crossing the street again. A gun appeared by my right ear and fired three times, causing the man in the road to jump in the air, then fall to the ground.
I turned to find them kissing by the door...
As the scene replayed…
And she pointed and he drew and I fell.
They kissed, she pointed, he drew, I fell.
Kissed…pointed…shot….fell.
Kissed…shot…fell…died.
It was brutally magnetic as I watched my death repeated, and each time I strained to see the shooter’s face. But he stayed in the darkness, his deep laugh the only clue to his identity.
It replayed again, then something changed. A light went on in a second floor window just up the street. A figure was illuminated from within. It was a young boy. Squinting in the dim light I could tell he was terrified at what he was witnessing below. I took a few steps closer he came in focus.
It was Tyler.
I suddenly ran, breaking from the dream and waving my hands wildly. “Tyler, it’s me, I’m okay.”
"Dad, dad!" he cried.
"Don't worry." I jumped, hands over my head. "I'm okay. See? I'm right here. It's not real. Don't worry."
The fear on his face disappeared as I ran to him.
Then I slipped. My feet lost traction and I began sliding backwards. My arms flailed as I skidded, almost falling, stooping to stop my momentum but succeeding only in scraping my palms. Losing balance briefly, I looked back to see myself on the sidewalk and begin to cross. I slid faster as he—as I-- bent down to look under the car, and as he straightened our bodies met, becoming the same.
Something sharp and hot hit my shoulder. I saw the spark of a bullet off the trunk, then more heat in my back as I yelled wordlessly, Tyler, don’t worry, I’m okay, I’m okay.
...and fell toward the ground…
I was lying facedown in bed next to Tina.
I turned over quickly and sat up, pushing hard against the headboard. I was shaking and brought my knees up to my chest and held them until it stopped. I looked over to find Tina breathing heavily, with nothing to show for the dream we'd both experienced except a slight wrinkle of the brow, a furrow on her forehead.
I rolled off the bed and went to check on Tyler. I found him sound asleep as well, no worry on his brow. After wandering the halls, I gathered the nerve to reenter Tina’s bedroom, where I took the same position and listened to her sleep. It was enough. I no longer wished to be part of her dreams. I just wanted things back the way they used to be.
Trace the Dead Eye Page 18