Incredible Dreams

by Sandra Edwards

  A curious thought crossed her mind and she let the words spill out. “Do you remember what happened?” As quick as a flash she had the urge to help the flyer. Obviously, he was dead and for some reason his soul was bound to his earthly existence.

  “Clear as a bell.”

  “Want to talk about it?” A soothing quality entered her voice and she hoped it would calm his soul. “Maybe you have some unfinished business. Perhaps that’s why you’re still here.”

  “Indeed I do.” He folded his arms across his chest and nodded. “I’ve been sent here to tell you my story.”

  The suggestion intrigued her. “Why?”

  “I’m just supposed to tell you my story.” His heavy shrug seemed to bear the weight of obscure anonymity. “That’s all I know.”

  “Okay.” Nervous anxiety crept up her throat. “So what’s the deal? What’s your story?”

  “It was a simple patrol mission gone wrong.” His tone had started out even and calm, but she sensed the urgency creeping in and intensifying with every additional word. Recalling the last details of his final moments, his chest heaved. “The damned dinghy blew on me. Son-of-a-bitch wedged right between me and the controls. I tried to get to the stick but I couldn’t. It was out of my reach.” Disgust curled a frown on his lips, despair slatted his eyes, and denial shook his head in a thick, sluggish motion. “I couldn’t get to it.” He breathed the words again, barely above a whisper this time. His voice cooled and his heavy breathing settled. The phantom tilted his head and glimpsed at her, his once cool and collected demeanor—the trademark of the flyer, at least it was with Jack—had been overshadowed and overrun with vulnerability.

  “There was nothing you could do.” Realizing his fate, regret filled her solemn voice. “That must have been awful.”

  He nodded before speaking. “To say the least.” He inhaled, as if drawing in a deep breath and slapped his hands against his thighs. Izzy heard the echo of transparent body parts slamming together. “But, you know what the irony is?” he asked, but didn’t wait for a response. “If I’d just had a damn blade, I could’ve easily carried a hunting knife in my flying boot, and I would’ve been able to save myself.”

  “Huh?” Why did that sound so familiar? Her interest swelled, beefing up her curiosity. She didn’t know why but she had a desire to know more. “How exactly would a knife have helped you?”

  “If I’d just had an LL Bean in my flying boot, I could’ve stabbed the dinghy. There’s always the chance that I could’ve regained control of the plane. At the very least I could’ve climbed out of the cockpit and parachuted to safety.”

  She saw it in his eyes. He fancied the idea that he would’ve pulled off the hero’s piece, thereby saving his plane right along with himself.

  The full impact of his fate returned to the forefront of her mind. “That’s awful.” She choked back the lump in her throat.

  “An LL Bean hunting knife,” he repeated the solution as if it would help. “That’s all I needed.”

  “So little...yet, so much.” Izzy closed her eyes, afraid she might cry, as if the obstruction would help. When she opened her eyes again and turned to face the flyer—he was gone.

  She surveyed the area around her, awed by the vacancy of the street. Not a soul wandered the empty sidewalk, especially not the ghostly flyer. His disappearance was sudden and shrouded in mystery.

  The bus turned the corner and relief washed over Izzy, calming her anxiety. She stood, eager to escape the remnants of the bizarre incident. “That was so weird,” she whispered, smoothing the sides of her dress.

  Brakes squealed and a mechanical smell surfaced. The bus slowed to a stop in front of Izzy and the doors folded open. She reached for the railing, determined to push the episode out of her mind, and climbed aboard. Besides, she had more important things to worry about—like remembering to wind her watch.

  She tapped the empty seats as she passed them by. Her gaze traveled over the other riders. She made her way to an empty seat mid-way down the aisle and slid in next to the window. The bus rolled into the street, jerking before it shifted into a smooth glide.

  Izzy looked out the window at the scenery rolling past. She didn’t deny or dispute the fact that she was in 1940s America. What she didn’t understand was why it seemed so foreign and outdated.

  For the most part the ride to the Cool Cat was uneventful. Had it not been for Izzy’s private ramblings, she might’ve enjoyed a short nap.

  Arriving at her destination, a warm breeze whipped past Izzy as she descended off the bottom step of the bus. Her hand went up like a magnet, smoothing her hair in place and she strode toward the side entrance of the Cool Cat. She liked entering from that angle even though Charlie had no qualms about employees coming in through the front door.

  The side entrance opened up into a hallway that led into the entertainment area. Tables to the left had been freshly adorned in anticipation of the evening’s patrons. The band usually waited backstage, off to the right, because back there they didn’t have to exercise the same behavior they did out in the lounge. Izzy could stand in the hallway, virtually unnoticed, and scan the clientele, although she didn’t bother much anymore. Jack hadn’t been into the club in such a long time.

  Idle curiosity led Izzy to the edge of the hallway where she glanced inside and saw Jeannie, Paul and George at a table near the stage.

  What are they doing here? She pressed her back against the wall. Was this another one of her sister’s blatant attempts to push her into George’s arms? But why? Why was she so determined to see Izzy commit adultery with George, but it wasn’t okay with Jack?

  Izzy pushed off the wall and headed down the corridor, away from Jeannie and the boys. The door to her dressing room creaked as she guided it open. Damn it. She didn’t know why but the sound annoyed her. She slipped inside and shut the door. Taking quick, even steps, she made it to the other side of the poorly-lit room and settled down in front of the vanity.

  She clicked on the desk lamp. Worry reflected on her face in the mirror. What the hell was her sister was up to? Her sister. While their kinship was apparently true, it didn’t feel right.

  “Stop it, Izzy.” Her own demand seethed through agitated lips and gritted teeth.

  Questioning Jeannie was Izzy’s mind playing tricks to justify her desire to be with Jack. But her doubts weren’t real. How could they be? If Jeannie wasn’t her sister, who was she? And why would she claim it if it weren’t true? As much as Izzy didn’t like it, her life was what it was—her life.

  Standing, she straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat, hoping to ward off any remaining insecurities.

  Deep breaths seemed to calm her fears and recharge her energy. She crossed the room, coaching herself that she could get through this seemingly never-ending turmoil, and sashayed out into the hallway.

  Familiarity, or maybe it was etiquette that guided her toward Jeannie, although she couldn’t help but scan the crowd in hopes of seeing Jack in some remote corner.

  Again, no such luck.

  She forced a practiced smile, settling her sights on Jeannie. George leapt to his feet when he saw her, reminding Izzy of a pop tart. Jeannie had made the suggestion, and Izzy could see George was all for it. Her lips stiffened into a hardened, forged smile, she fought the urge to run in the other direction. A pairing with George, more than anyone else, would infuriate Jack.

  But neither George nor Jack was the issue. She was married, and not to either of them. She’d told her sister time and again she wasn’t interested in any more extra-marital affairs. Why wasn’t Jeannie listening?

  She nodded at George, her greeting polite yet distant. There was no verbal “hello” as she sat down. After a second or two she reclaimed her gaze, guided her attention toward her sister and let it settle there. “Jeannie, what brings you all to the Cool Cat?” She didn’t try to disguise her annoyance with her sibling in front of the others.

  Jeannie squirmed in her chair. Probably a react
ion to Izzy’s tone freezing a glacial shell around her—and Izzy hoped it was making her uncomfortable.

  “Well, I’ve been telling George and Paul about your beautiful voice and they expressed a wish to hear you sing.” Jeannie delivered her statement, her confidence flourishing. With her convincing powers of persuasion, she weaved her excuses into reasoning that was hard for anyone to reject.

  Izzy’s stoic expression gave away none of the thoughts running through her head. Whether Jeannie knew it or not, George had already been introduced to Izzy’s voice.

  “Actually,” George said, his eyes glued to Izzy, “I have had the pleasure. Pure heaven, I tell you.” His flirtatious grin almost succeeded in drawing her in but somehow she managed to repel its allure.

  Going from one extreme to the other, now turned off by it, she laughed at his momentary seductive appeal and glanced away. Disapproval grumbled up her throat. She tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress it. Izzy pushed herself up from the table, wanting to get away from George and his unwanted gestures.

  “Well, duty calls.” She lingered at the table for a moment, acknowledged each of them with a polite smile, then turned and walked away.

  Jeannie watched Izzy disappear into the hallway. She let her attention linger on the corridor long after the girl was gone. Her little sister was not going to be as easy a mark as Jeannie had once thought. Assuring success would call for drastic measures.

  She needed to get rid of Paul, her date, at least for a minute or two. A mysterious darkness clouded her vision. Her persuasive powers reached out and touched his mind. Once she knew she had him, she offered him a graceful smile.

  Paul leaned toward her and caressed her shoulder. His fingertips trailed a sensuous path down her bare arm. “I’ll be back,” he whispered against her ear.

  Jeannie’s gaze, both probing and precautious, followed him as he left. When Paul disappeared around the corner, she pushed him to the back of her mind and shifted in George’s direction to focus her attention on him. She had to do damage control, thanks to Izzy’s surliness. Jeannie didn’t understand it. Usually her suggestions worked so well.

  But Isabelle Miller seemed to have a natural aversion to Jeannie and her persuasion. Oh, well. This may turn into a contest of wills, which Jeannie was certain she’d win easily. In the meantime, she’d keep issuing her suggestions, never relenting. Her persistence would pay off. Sooner or later, Izzy would crumble and succumb to her persuasion.

  Steadfast persistence. That’s the main reason Jeannie had never failed. She didn’t know how to fail. And this time when she delivered the goods—Isabelle Miller’s soul right alongside Jack Baker’s—Satan would reward her handsomely.

  Maybe he’d let her train her own recruits. Besides, nobody was better at “snatching”. She could write a book on the art of the steal. Given her own command, Jeannie’s troops would be unprecedented. Hers trainees would turn out to be the most successful snatchers ever, which could land her a seat on the throne beside Satan.

  The possible scenario sent excitement charging through Jeannie. That kind of recognition was as good as an otherworldly orgasm—something far too intense for mere mortals.

  She turned to George, folding her arms across the table. “Doesn’t my sister look pretty?” She batted her eyes at him, still marveling at how easily that always worked.

  He shrugged a minor response of agreement. His lack of enthusiasm alarmed Jeannie. She studied him, seeking answers without saying a word.

  George willingly gave them. “She doesn’t appear to be interested in me.”

  “Of course she’s interested in you.” Jeannie slipped her hand underneath the table, resting it on George’s knee. “She’s just worried about being discreet. That’s all.” She dared to inch her way up his thigh.

  A haughty chuckle poured from George’s mouth. He wrapped his hand over hers, leading the way. “Convince me.” His determination bore into her calm demeanor, but it didn’t get the best of her.

  If he wanted convincing, Jeannie was prepared to do just that. Right here. Right now. But first, she had to get rid of Paul. And after that, she had to slip the incident past Izzy. Asking her to share might be pushing her luck.

  Upon Paul’s return, Jeannie easily and silently persuaded him of an ensuing headache. As his pain increased, Paul excused himself, importuning George to see Jeannie home. Getting rid of him had taken little effort.

  Hours later, after ensuring that George stayed on the line, Jeannie made her way home. She treaded quietly up the stairs. Careful not to make too much noise, she eased the door open. The knob felt cold and clammy against her hand, sending a chill shuddering up her arm. She tiptoed across the room, slipped her shoes off and crept toward Izzy’s small, twin-sized bed.

  “Izzy?” she murmured, holding her shoes at her side.

  Nothing.

  She hesitated, hunched over and glimpsed into Izzy’s face. Should she call her name again? Relenting, she spoke just above a whisper, “Izzy.”

  Still nothing.

  Good. Chances were she was sleeping soundly. Jeannie couldn’t decide if she wanted Izzy awake or asleep. Although she had use for both. Since she appeared to be crashed, Jeannie decided to replant suggestions, promoting a sexual relationship between Izzy and George, into Izzy’s mind again.

  Deciding to use telepathy as her means of communication, Jeannie smoothed her dress and sat down on the bed next to Izzy.

  George. She closed her eyes to gather the immense power she needed for projection. Her mind turned into a sponge, sucking energy from every possible outlet. Once her soul was consumed with the power, she fluttered her eyes open, wanting to look at Izzy now. You want George. You want to flaunt him in Jack Baker’s face.

  Izzy began to stir. Whoa. Jeannie stiffened, leaning back. This was worse than she thought. She exhaled blowing her frustration out, and Izzy opened her eyes.

  Izzy yawned and cleared her throat. “When’d you get in?” She repositioned her pillow, batted her eyes, and as each second passed, she looked more and more awake.

  “Just now.” Jeannie let her shoes fall from her hands. They hit the floor with a thud. She ignored it, propping her feet up on the bed rails. “I’m going away for the weekend...up the coast.”

  “Really?” Izzy’s gaze, curious and guarded, studied her for a moment. “Where exactly? And with whom?”

  “Paul.” Jeannie’s half-answer was intentional. It helped her contain the erratic smile and hold it inside. She couldn’t celebrate—not at this time—even if this was her most brilliant ploy yet. Izzy would never see it coming. But for now, she had to play the dutiful sister. “You be okay here while I’m gone?” she asked, reinforcing that role.

  Izzy laughed. “I’m a big girl, Jeannie. I think I can take care of myself for a few days.”

  “Well, I wasn’t sure if I should leave you, what with the amnesia and all.” Her false concern for Izzy oozed out with her words.

  “Jeannie...I have amnesia, but I’m not helpless,” Izzy countered, animosity rising in her tone. She exhaled, blowing it out. “Go...have your weekend of illicit fun.” She laughed, easing the tension.

  Well, all right. Jeannie’s expression remained stoic. Mortal sex was a good distraction, but couldn’t compare to sex in the afterlife, or, sitting on the throne next to Satan.

  CHAPTER 19

  FEELING RELIEF over Jeannie’s trip was bad—even if it was for just the weekend—but Izzy didn’t care. She was thrilled for the chance to be alone again. But, why would anybody rather be alone? No matter what, her subconscious seemed to prefer seclusion.

  Watching Jeannie and Paul drive away, something told Izzy she should be concerned about her sister running off on such an open and illicit weekend romp. She pushed her anxiety aside, too happy to see them go, and waved goodbye.

  Screw Jeannie’s reputation.

  The car turned the corner and disappeared. Shivering, Izzy snuggled into the shawl draped around her shoulders. She strode through th
e front gate and on into the yard. A troubled sky with dark and menacing clouds blocked out the sun.

  It looks like rain. She gave the inclement weather nothing more than a second’s notice. A passing thought. She didn’t care. It could rain all day, all weekend for that matter.

  Izzy hurried up the meandering pathway, sprinted up the front steps and made a bee-line for the porch swing. Using gentle foot action, she propelled herself back and forth and plotted her weekend of solitude.

  She envisioned a long, hot bubble bath before going to the Cool Cat later that night. Hm... With a newfound determination, she hurried upstairs and searched the small apartment to see if she could find any bath oils.

  She found nothing. Perhaps she’d buy some while doing a bit of shopping tomorrow, saving the bubble bath for later. For now, she settled on a shower.

  The idea of a bubble bath stayed with Izzy throughout the night and well into the next morning. Deciding not to fight it, she dressed in a midnight-blue silk and wool-blend suit. She pinned her hair back, dusted on some powder and eye shadow and painted on some red lipstick. She grabbed her purse and all but skipped out of the apartment and down the stairs. Izzy breezed past Dottie before the elderly landlady could delay her outing.

  Taking advantage of the fair weather and warm temperatures, she walked the few blocks to Woolworth’s. Izzy was mildly hungry and the store’s lunch counter became the first stop on her unwritten agenda.

  After dining on a burger and fries, she shopped the five and dime for items to make the bubble bath a reality. Izzy found nothing that could remotely be considered a bath oil, much less a satisfactory substitute. Epsom Salts was the only thing that came close, and she didn’t want to go there. Instead, she went in search of a salesperson.

  Or “clerk” as the store’s manager was quick to inform as he pointed in the direction of a chirpy blonde behind the perfume counter.

  Izzy approached her and put on what she intended as a friendly, polite smile. “Good afternoon. I was wondering if the store carries bath oils or any kind of bubble bath products.” She paused, and the girl gave her a wry, baffled look. “I’m in desperate need of a Calgon moment.” She giggled anxiously, unsure of where that came from, and looked to the girl for an answer.