The Law of Dreams

by Peter Behrens

  Once, very early in the morning, he had another vision of Luke’s body.

  Small soft breasts. Her patch of sexual hair.

  How they used to bang each other alive.

  Testing.

  The way you let her plunge, and you plunged.

  It shook him as hard as anything; it hurt from his toenails to his teeth. Unable to withstand the pressure he screamed, but no one came running. He was too weak.

  A scream like a kitten yawning.

  Forget. Forget them all. Time goes up not down. Money in your fist, boots on your feet. Get strong and hard.

  Then you wouldn’t be so vulnerable to the dead.

  ARTHUR CAME hobbling up the attic stairs and lay next to him, puffing his pipe and blowing smoke rings at the ceiling.

  “Are you going tramping soon, Arthur?”

  “Perhaps I am.”

  “When?”

  “Soon as I’m ready. Stay here a little while, I suppose. Put a pound or two by.” He drew on his pipe. “Fellow don’t like to tramp with no brass in his pocket.”

  Fergus suddenly felt the blood stinging in his veins. Thin, bitter, pungent; like gun browning. The itchy heat it caused in his muscles was intense, and he started writhing on the bed, flailing, punching Arthur’s shoulder, kicking at his legs.

  Arthur struggled to hold him down. “There, old Fergus, what’s got into you?”

  He could hear himself making animal sounds. He felt curiously detached from his body. Unbuckled, floating.

  The strange fury passed gradually. He looked up at Arthur, sitting on his chest.

  “Are you better now, old fellow?“

  He didn’t mind so much being under the navvy’s weight. He felt safe.

  “It’s your old fever, I expect. The last of your fever kicking.”

  “Don’t leave me here, Arthur.”

  “Mike says the Scotchmen are lurking. They’ve a price on my head.”

  “Don’t you go without me.”

  “Never fear.”

  “I saved you — they’d have finished you. Don’t go without me.”

  Arthur sucked his pipe and blew a mouthful of smoke at Fergus. “All right then — I won’t.”

  * * *

  HE SAT smoking a Kentucky cheroot while a black whore called Betsy cut his hair.

  “Side-whiskers is what is wanted for effect,” she said. “They’re elegant.”

  The Dragon was scrubbed every morning by an army of barefoot, Irishspeaking maids, supervised by Mary. Fleeing the wet mops and steaming laundry tubs, the whores came trooping up to the attic, carrying their breakfast things: jugs of milk and tea, plates of bread and butter, bacon, a basket of oranges. They came yawning, with scraps of oily paper twisted in their hair, wearing print gowns over petticoats, lisle stockings, and soft sheepskin boots. Aromas of carbolic and beeswax drifted up the stairs after them, mixing with the scent of buttered toast, tea, and fruit.

  He was passionate for the oranges; he had never tasted more satisfying food.

  “He’s too small for side-whiskers,” said a tall skinny whore called Jenny, watching Betsy cut his hair.

  Barbering was a fad with them. Every morning after breakfast, Fergus and Arthur were washed, clipped, and greased with various pomades. The whores oiled their feet and hands, cut their nails square, dabbed on varnish. They were convinced that skill at barbering would win them husbands, and spent their pocket money on cigars, ribbons, and fat little books with pictures of gentlemen’s mustachios, side-whiskers, and waxed beards.

  “A proper-run house needs a pearl boy,” said Betsy. “I’d make him a velvet coat.”

  “Would you like to stay with us, Fergus?” Jenny asked.

  He nodded.

  Betsy smiled and kissed his nose. “A man with nowt to say is a gift of God.”

  The whores lounged on his bed or pillows on the floor, smoking little clay pipes, drinking tea.

  “With side-whiskers, he would look like a cavalryman,” Betsy said.

  Her dark cheeks were rough in sunlight — rough as a road, he thought — but she was beautiful, they all were.

  “Shall you stay at the Dragon, Fergus, and be our pearl boy?” Jenny asked.

  “Down the railway line I’m going, along with Arthur McBride.”

  “Down the line, down the line!” Betsy said sharply. “Don’t you know there’s nothing down there but broken heads and broken backs?”

  “Arthur says it’s the life.”

  “You oughtn’t listen.”

  “I never meet a railway navvy with any gentleness,” Jenny said. “I suppose whatever they have gets knocked out of them.”

  “Worse than sailors,” Betsy said.

  “For all the great wages, the navvies are always poor. Never with a penny left, after a spree. Whoever heard of a rich navvy?”

  “This house needs a pearl boy,” Betsy said. “Look at you, you’ll be a handsome fellow when you fill out. The wags would like him, don’t you think, Jenny?”

  “Very strong they would. Eat him alive.”

  “He’s too small for the railway. They’d drop him in a hole. Stay with us, Fergus. I’ll make you a green coat and waistcoat. There, now you are trim.” Betsy stepped back to examine her work. “Very beau.” She kissed him on the cheek.

  He loved his sunny attic room, the smoke from their pipes and cheroots drifting and winding in the light. Were all women as generous? Around them the air was always warm.

  He thought of Luke in the scalpeen, breathing the smell of cold ground and dry leaves and her —

  Drop the past. Drop it.

  You can’t eat it can you.

  The old world’s crushed.

  Life burns hot.

  ON ST. STEPHEN’S day the whores were going out driving in the country in a hired coach, with bottles of champagne, their dinner packed in baskets.

  Fergus wished to go along, and the whores begged Shea to let him.

  “No. You aren’t strong enough yet. Not for English air.”

  “I feel much better.” He was better, though he still suffered from screams and sweats at night, often awakening near dawn in a bed sour with piss. Mary left extra sets of linens folded neatly on his chair and he would change the sheets himself, with the Dragon safely asleep, and no other sounds but claws scratching wood as the house cats roamed the hallways, stalking mice. He usually went back to sleep, and always awoke feeling hopeful, daylight streaming in his room.

  He was hungry now for the taste of the outside, but Shea shook her head. “Soon. Not yet. Arthur won’t be coming out neither — there are men watching the house. I don’t want him seen. You can keep him company.”

  HIS ROOM seemed bleak with all the girls away except Mary. In the middle of the afternoon Arthur came upstairs to smoke a pipe and began pacing restlessly, smoke streaming.

  “Iron Mike says they have sluggers from Glasgow who’ll murder anyone for half a crown.”

  “We’ll be going on the tramp quite soon, won’t we?”

  “Why? Don’t you like the Dragon?” Stopping at the window, Arthur peered down at the street. “I can’t live this way much longer, bundled up like a precious.”

  He sat down on the bed, puffing his pipe in great fumes. The cuts on his face were healing black and small.

  “I like it here. But it isn’t the railway line, is it?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “When are we going, Arthur?”

  “Navvy work would kill you.”

  “It wouldn’t.”

  “You don’t know what a rough business it is.”

  “I’m stronger every day.”

  “They don’t care on the contracts. If you break your back or burst your heart, why, there’s always another fellow to pick up the shovel.”

  “I could do it, Arthur.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth, Fergus. You’d be better off staying right here at the Dragon and becoming a pearl boy for the wags.”

  Fergus stared at him.
<
br />   “Don’t look at me so,” Arthur laughed. “It’s easy money. Wags like the young Irish navvies, but they’re frightened of us too. They’ll pay extras like mad — I had a fellow once buy me a suit of clothes. It don’t hurt much. You get used to it.”

  Others were never who you wanted them to be. Never so brave, loyal, intelligent. They hardly looked at you. They couldn’t see you clearly; they didn’t care to.

  “Where do you think I got these boots? Pearl boy’s not so bad. Not much chance of getting hurt — not like navvying. You can always do a wag pretty easy. It’s good money.”

  “It’s good money down the railway line, you said.”

  “Pearl boy is better money than railway wage. Come, come, don’t get all peevish with me. You don’t own boots. Not even a hat. You owe her everything you have. Who’s kept you alive, after all? You can give it a try, can’t you?”

  Fergus stared at the wall, trying to hide his tears.

  “What you think I did when first I came over? I was green as you. Pearl boy won’t bust you, you aren’t made of glass! Look at the girls. If they can, why can’t you? It ain’t so different as on the contracts, Fergus. A railway contractor hires your skin, same as a wag — only the wag pays better. Come now, we’re your friends here, are we not?”

  “You said we’d go down the line together, Arthur.”

  “I said I wouldn’t go without you, and I won’t. If you don’t like the business, Fergus, why you can always give it up. Only give it a try. It wouldn’t be fair, after all she’s done for you, just to up and quit the Dragon, would it? We are your friends here. I tell you, Fergus, you won’t find life so sweet down the line. You won’t have the girls grooming you there. Come along, it’s only sporting. I’ll tell Shea to fix you a nice mild old gent. It’s not the end of the world. Some of them only want you ten minutes. Nice quick money. Will you do it so? What do you say? Look at me.”

  He tried but could not look Arthur in the face; had to look away.

  “She can’t afford to keep you much longer, without you paying your way. She’d have to turn you out. And where will you be? Without so much as a shirt of your own? Don’t be angry.”

  It wasn’t anger, and it cut deeper than disappointment.

  “Listen, Fergus, there’s many fellows do the same. The Dragon gave me good boots, put the meat on my bones and brass in my pocket. Come, Fergus, say you will try. For the love of your old friends.”

  He remembered the Night Asylum — the emigrant men roaming the aisles, looking for a box to lay their bones in.

  “Say you will try it. That’s all she asks. Christ, Fergus, everyone needs a stake. You can’t get into England with empty pockets and nothing on your feet. England’s a killer — don’t you know that yet? Come, man, say you will try the business. For the love of your old friends. Who else is there, after all, that cares for you? Say you will try.”

  Who are you, alone?

  Fergus nodded.

  “There it is,” Arthur said, taking out a clean handkerchief and gently wiping Fergus’s face. “I knew it. I told her you was game.”

  “Only until I get what I need. Only until I pay her back.”

  “Yes, yes, then we’ll go down the line together.”

  Standing up and returning to the window, Arthur peered out again.

  “Do you see them?” Fergus asked.

  “See who?”

  “Sluggers. From Glasgow.”

  “I see no one tonight. Will you come downstairs and drink your tea in the kitchen with Mary and Iron Mike?”

  “I’m tired. I’d best stay here.”

  Looking out the window again, Arthur said, “I tell you, man, sometimes I’m wishing I’d never stabbed their fucking drum. It has brought me more trouble than honor.”

  “It was bold.”

  “Bold? Yes. Bold it was. And what else is there, eh?” Arthur said, with some of his old cheerfulness. “I gave them all a glory show, didn’t I? Never mind that Shea — she’s got me down. She’s changed too much. She’s too careful now. No one ever made his mark, being careful.”

  AFTER ARTHUR had gone downstairs, he got out of bed and crossed to the window.

  It was getting dark outside, and looked cold as iron. Everything quiet. Winter was set now.

  Somewhere through Liverpool’s passagework of brick and stone was the estuary smelling of the sea. The great stone docks hectic with steamers. Cattle and emigrants pouring out of Ireland, clawing their way.

  Using his fingernail, he peeled curls of frost from the glass and thought of Luke. How softly they lay, their bodies connected.

  Scent of peat. Crispness of the old, dry bracken. Deep old scent of her, a fire burned down to black.

  Could you ever feel so complete again?

  No. It didn’t seem possible.

  Not here, not in this world of stone.

  HE WAS to come down to the piano room, for tea. This was where gentlemen peering through peepholes would make their selections.

  Shea sent up his pearl boy clothes. Trousers that strapped taut under the arches of his feet. A nankeen waistcoat and a ruffled shirt.

  He sat grimly on the stool as Betsy powdered his face and painted his lips maroon. Hating the look and feel of the thin, glossy slippers Shea insisted that he wear.

  “You’re frightened ain’t you?” Betsy said. “Hold still a moment. I know it. I was younger than you when I started in. Still am frightened. Just a little. Just enough.”

  He looked at her and couldn’t speak. Couldn’t open his mouth.

  “The business won’t kill you, Fergus. You can put some money by. She won’t use you badly if you play her fair. If you don’t cause trouble. Listen, we must all make our way, mustn’t we?”

  “I’ll go on the tramp. With Arthur.”

  “Is that so.”

  Betsy was silent for a while, applying waxy red lacquer from a silver pot, daubing it on his lips. The stuff tasted pitchy, like tree gum.

  “I’m out of St. Vincent, Fergus — do you know what it is?”

  He shook his head.

  “An island off in the Caribee, it is. Come to Liverpool aboard the sugar ship Angel Clare with a gentleman, a planter’s son, who made promises he didn’t keep, and turned me off the moment he smelled England.

  “Before Shea found me, I was living along the docks, if you call it living. Ship riggers, sailors, and barrow men was my trade. I worked for pennies, or for a cup of gin. Sometimes they wouldn’t pay me even that. Many mornings, I’d go down to Woodside landing stage, stand there for hours as it rose and fell on the tide. Watch the butchers’ boys rushing cattle on the barges, and think of throwing myself in the river.

  “After she found me, she bathed me herself, fed me, and gave me a clean bed, and I didn’t do no business at first, but only helped in the scullery. Then she said I could turn to, if I wanted a little pocket money to spend. Otherwise she might not be able to afford my keep. Said she’d never let any man hurt me, and more or less, it’s true. I have been going strong almost six years. I have had the jumps, had raging womb twice, and I shouldn’t expect as I ever should have a baby of my own since I’m all peculiar down there now — since that last surgeon, who weren’t nothing but a butcher.

  “All I’m saying, Fergus, is, the Dragon will keep you alive, and it’s not so bad here. Only don’t stay too long. Not like me or like Arthur.”

  “Arthur and I are going on the tramp.”

  “No. Arthur isn’t going navvying anytime soon. He prefers life here at the Dragon. And when he leaves, he doesn’t go navvying. Hasn’t tramped for years. He crosses back to Ireland, cursing Shea, cursing England, saying he never shall return. But he always does, and never gets past the Dragon.

  “Never put your time in another’s hands, Fergus, or you’ll always be disappointed. When you’re ready to leave us, don’t wait for Arthur. Here, take this.” Betsy took something from a pocket of her gown and held it out — a small, pearl-handled clasp knife, no bigger than
his thumb. “Carry this. Go on, it’s for you. Don’t tell Shea.”

  Opening the little knife, he tried the bright, brittle blade on his thumbnail.

  “If a fellow gets too rough, you prick him where he knows you mean business. Come, slip that beezer in your pocket, and let’s go downstairs.”

  SHEA, ARTHUR, and the girls were in the piano room, drinking tea, eating butter toast and apples, ham sandwiches, kippers, and little yellow cakes the girls called lemon drops.

  Arthur winked at him from across the tea table.

  Shea was staring at him. “You’ve too much powder on him, Betsy. He looks half dead.”

  “I’ll take him upstairs and do him over if you like.”

  “No, no, there ain’t time. Try not to look such a sad dog, Fergus!” Shea pinched his cheeks. “It’s not a hanging! You’re here to make money, the key of happiness, so brighten up!”

  The girls were noisy, giddy, dipping toast into teacups, slapping one another’s hands as they grabbed for cakes, and he could sense they were all frightened.

  THE COAL fire sizzled in the grate. Fragrance of butter, toast, blackberry jam, and tea with sugar clouded the room.

  What would the Bog Boys have done for such food, which was beyond their imaginations?

  Arthur had been selected almost immediately. Shea touched his shoulder, and he stood up and left the room, smirking.

  Luke had been a whore in Limerick to feed herself, to put food in the little boys’ gawping mouths.

  Shea poured the tea and Mary, in a crisp white cap and apron, handed the cups around. He had grown fond of the whores’ drink of tea, its smoky flavor. They never had tasted tea on the mountain. Water or whiskey. Milk he’d tasted from Phoebe’s pail, or stolen, squeezed from her father’s cows in the field. Men drank porter in the beer shops on market day, after selling the pig.

  “Here, Fergus, help yourself, take as much as you want.” Mary was passing around delicacies on china plates: cakes, herrings, jam on toast, cold fried oysters with salt. He was surprised that he had an appetite.

  The whores were wearing their best gowns fluffed with starched petticoats, their hair dressed in ringlets. They blew on their tea to cool it, poured it into saucers and slurped noisily. They lit straws at the fire, then lit cheroots from the straws. They blew streams of smoke at one another, told one another riddles he didn’t understand. They took up their needlework for a few minutes then put it down. They screamed whenever they spilled a drop of tea or dab of jam on their dresses, and didn’t seem to be the same girls as they were in his attic room in the mornings, daylight spilling in the windows.