The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  …come here…

  …we don’t have much time.

  “Mr. Aaron?” Another voice.

  “Hey, you okay?” And another.

  Simon shut his eyes, then opened them. Two blurred faces stared down at him. He blinked again and the faces of Katz and the congressman appeared in detail.

  “Aren’t you feeling well?” Jonathan looked genuinely concerned. He took a cell phone from the inside pocket of his suitcoat. “Let me call my doctor.”

  “No…please…I’m…I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  “We thought you had a seizure or something,” Katz said.

  Simon turned to the girl in the indigo dress; managed a half-decent smile. “What’s your name?”

  “Phoebe,” she said, her tone shaky, as if ready to cry.

  “Hi, Phoebe. I’m Simon. Don’t worry, okay? I do this stuff a lot. It’s like a nap. You take naps, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You enjoy naps?”

  “Huh-uh.” She scrunched her nose.

  “I’m not that thrilled with mine, either.”

  “Un’k Jake makes me,” she whispered loudly, hands about her mouth megaphone style. Phoebe gazed down at her black and white saddle shoes. “Your pictures are scary, Mr. Aaron.” The name came out, A-won.

  “How ‘bout if I draw you a funny picture?”

  The girl brushed away a rust-colored ringlet from her forehead and glanced up at her father.

  “As long as he signs it,” Jonathan said.

  “You gotta sign it,” announced Phoebe.

  Simon retrieved a spiral notepad and a black felt-tip pen from his shirt pocket. He sketched three circles—the two small ones connected to the larger one—and started filling them in. The girl stretched her neck outward, attempting to see. When Simon had finished, he signed his name and gave Phoebe the drawing.

  She looked at it, a glimmer of a smile, yelling, “Mickey!” And to her father, “Look, it’s Mickey!” The she turned to Simon. “The letters don’t say ‘A-won’.”

  “No, they say ‘Simon.’ That’s my first name.”

  “…Simon,” she said, trying out the name. Look, Daddy, Simon signed his name.”

  “What do you say?” Jonathan asked.

  “Thank you…Simon.”

  “Now you have a genuine Simon Aaron,” her father said.

  “Gin-u-in,” Phoebe repeated, not all that sure what “gin-u-in” was, but seemed glad she had one.

  “You’ve made a friend for life,” Jonathan said to Simon.

  “I hope so.”

  “Positive you’re okay?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Katz beamed at this exchange. Nothing like a potential client to brighten the spirits, Simon thought.

  “Have we met before, Mr. Aaron?” The congressman considering him, eyes narrowing a little: “You’re…familiar. Usually my memory’s pretty good.”

  He really can’t remember.

  “I’ve done a few lectures at Penn,” said Simon. “Fine arts, though.”

  “No, that’s not it. Your paintings affect me the same way, as if I’ve been there.”

  “New York, perhaps.”

  “Yes…maybe.”

  How can he NOT remember. I do…every goddamn nuance.

  They said their goodbyes, Simon wincing as Jonathan Clayman shook his hand—not enough to be noticed, hopefully—but nothing happened, no shock radiating up his arm, no images of dead friends.

  IV

  Come here, Simon.

  We don’t have much time.

  Time for what?

  In life, Virgil had been a straight-forward sort of kid; in death, though, the boy had become cryptic. Simon missed his friend. During the evening, he’d begun to feel a sadness that weighted his shoulders and legs, an undeniable depression bearing down on him, commanding reflection.

  He’d told Nathan Katz to head on alone, that he needed relief from the last three overwhelming hours—not altogether untrue, the gallery had grown increasingly crowded throughout the night, the show a success—and now Simon sat on his metal folding chair, by himself, the gallery’s main room dark except for small ceiling lights aimed at his paintings.

  Money had been made this evening, lots of it according to Katz, eighteen of the twenty pieces sold. Jonathan Clayman bought one, the Tavern on the Green; telling the agent, “I’m irresistibly drawn to the thing. Haunting. Absolutely haunting.”

  Maybe the guy’s only faking innocence, you know? Maybe he doesn’t want anyone else to see the picture. But Simon hadn’t added detail to the images of Jonathan and Eddy—their faces, at least—the two figures in the painting lost to the smoky room and oppressive orange night. Some part of him must have sensed—

  “…no,” a familiar voice.

  Simon felt his body tense. He scanned the room, his eyes darting about the shadows.

  “The dreams are forgotten; vague, at best.” The voice seemed closer. “When he returns to the abyss, he’ll remember you, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “Then why don’t I forget?”

  “One of your gifts, isn’t it? Recalling the past?”

  Simon put a hand on his cane, pushing himself up from the chair, peering into the darkness. “…Benjamin?”

  “Yes.”

  The man stepped into the light. White hair an inch above the shoulders of his cloak.

  “I didn’t mean to leave you, Simon. It wasn’t…intentional. Time deceives us.”

  “But you did leave me.” He heard the anger in his own words. “And these so called ‘gifts’ of yours have made my life practically unlivable.”

  “You’ve handled them better than I expected.”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be bombarded by other people’s thoughts? To shake someone’s hand and see things you don’t want to see?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I have no friends. I’m afraid to leave my house.” Simon stopped; took a breath, deciding to say the one feeling beneath it all. “…afraid of going crazy.”

  “You won’t go crazy.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You haven’t yet,” Benjamin said, calm and even. “And you’re here, so you do leave the house.”

  “Not without a bunch of drugs, I don’t.”

  “You’ve never had many friends. This man Katz, though, isn’t he a friend?”

  “If he gets his fifteen percent, yeah.”

  “What about the woman? What’s her name? Dora?”

  “She’s a reporter.”

  “C’mon, Simon, you sense the woman’s interest.”

  He watched Benjamin drift across the room, light to shadow to light, his legs and feet not moving, the illusion of a floating motion.

  Or maybe he was floating.

  No illusion here, Simon thought. Whatever he’s doing, it’s NOT walking. Definitely an out-of-towner.

  “You have a wonderful talent,” Benjamin said, gliding silently from one picture to another. “You’ve captured the abyss.”

  “The what?”

  Benjamin hesitated; seemed contemplative, then said: “…Hell. You’ve captured Hell.”

  Definitely an out-of-towner.

  “Is that where I’ve been going in my dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “What…do you want with me?”

  “You know more than you think, Simon.”

  What did he know? He suspected Jonathan had been woven into his life, their relationship only beginning—in this world anyway, the real world—though the differences between waking and dreaming had become increasingly porous—and he also knew Eddy’s hold on Jonathan was strong and…evil. That was the word, clearly the word: evil. So he figured Benjamin must be one of the good guys. But it didn’t feel like it. He wondered if Benjamin and Eddy even thought in those terms—good and evil, right and wrong—perhaps those were his own terms. Simon felt he’d been thrown into a Greek play, complete with manipulat
ions by the gods.

  “I’ll tell you what I’ve got,” he said. “I’ve got information with no answers.”

  “And what makes your life the exception?” Benjamin appeared to be more occupied by the paintings than the artist’s frustrations. “Isn’t life—anyone’s life—filled with tasks and situations whose reasons seem unfathomable?”

  “Not good enough.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Benjamin stared at him. Then he did something extraordinary. But before doing this, he said to Simon: “There are events that cannot be altered. Events, once put into motion, that cannot be undone. Where is your faith?”

  “I don’t think like that.”

  “Never?”

  “No.”

  “You need encouragement.”

  Then this extraordinary thing occurred. Simon watched him unhook the cloak, watched it sink to the ground; and there, in the shadows and light, Benjamin unfolded his wings, a sheer luminous membrane that ran the length of him. He stretched them fully until the radiance blinded his shape.

  Simon’s cane fell away, a sharp cracking sound on the pine floor. For a moment, a second or two, maybe longer, he couldn’t find breath, the air finally releasing in a gasp; and feeling his legs disappear, he did what many had done before that night, Simon Aaron dropped to his knees.

  SEVEN

  1993

  Philadelphia

  I

  Jonathan Clayman sat in the back of the limousine, his daughter Phoebe asleep, her head resting in his lap, and he gazed down, the lights of street lamps rolling across her peaceful face as the car drove through Center City and toward their home in Merion Station.

  “I shouldn’t have kept you up so late,” he whispered, feeling a mild twinge of guilt.

  She’d taken her afternoon nap—instructions to Uncle Jake had been very clear on that point—and, after all, how many evenings did they get to spend together?

  Not many; not nowadays.

  But the nagging question remained, always: was he being The Good Father? He waited for Randolph’s ghost to rearrange his conduct, waited for violence to take the heart, to rage at Phoebe the way his father had raged at him.

  It hadn’t happened; this due to his vigilance, and he tortured Jake with the obsession continually. “Do you think I did the right thing? Do you think she’s upset?” And Jake, forever tolerant, telling him: “You worry too much, Johnny boy. You’re a great dad, believe me. Got my sister’s temperament.”

  Tamara stayed in Fairless Hills; found she had a knack for running the business, expanding Clayman Feed and Grain to four additional stores in adjacent counties. A regular goddamn Donald Trump, as Jake liked to say. Tamara also married again. Jonathan met him at the wedding—a hundred and fifty guests milling about the spacious backyard—tents with white canopies, waiters, the works. Her new husband seemed decent enough, churchgoing, even had money of his own. “He so incredibly perfect,” his mother said, when they had a minute alone. Then she kissed his cheek; whispering, “…probably a serial killer.” The former cheerleader actually looked happy. Gone was the darkness under her eyes, the gaunt face empty of emotion, all of it gone, finally gone.

  His Uncle seemed pretty content himself, Jonathan thought. Jake had traveled to Philly during the campaign and decided to nest there. “You need a person to keep your appointments straight, right? Get you where you gotta be. I can help Phoebe, too. Who better? I’m family.” And as an added enticement, “You know, I can still break legs, Johnny. You’re an important man. God forbid you should have trouble. I mean, the world’s filled with nut cases. I could, well, protect you.” He did. Several times. At fifty-one, Uncle Jake was able to toss an average man through an average window.

  You worry too much, Johnny boy.

  You’re a great dad, believe me.

  In the back of the limo now—staring at Phoebe as she slept on his lap, a frown flickering across her forehead and retreating, a brief mumbled sound followed by a sigh—Jonathan hoped he’d be a better father than he had been a husband. Though Jake was able to calm him down, altering the past eluded his repertoire. No, not even the magnificent Uncle Jake could raise the dead, breathe life into Wendy’s broken body.

  Just a little thing, Jake, a magic wink of your eye.

  …Wendy.

  Randolph’s ghost had won out on that night.

  Her final month: startlingly pregnant but dressed to the nines, gold lamé top, black linen slacks; she, seated, leaning toward the vanity mirror to fix a final stroke of eyeliner. And complaining; telling him, “It’s embarrassing the way you suck up to them. You know? I mean, they’re teachers, for God’s sake.”

  “Law professors…who can get me a job,” Jonathan said, placing a Scotch on the vanity for her.

  “How many drinks have you had?”

  “Three.”

  “You drink a lot.”

  “Pre-game jitters,” he said, knowing she was right. Those were his drinking days, four to six before a party like this one.

  “I’ll drive.”

  “I can drive.”

  “I’ll drive,” Wendy said.

  “Okay, okay, so drive.”

  “It’s only a goddamn party, Johnny.” She took a small sip of Scotch, trying not to disturb the moist look of her lipstick. “I simply hate seeing you grovel.”

  “I don’t grovel.”

  “You laugh too hard at their dumb jokes.”

  “What exactly are you saying here?”

  “It’s nothing to do with getting a job.”

  Wendy had been a psych major, a different problem, not that he didn’t appreciate her intelligence. He just hated having every gesture analyzed every fucking second of his life.

  “Alright.” Jonathan swallowed the last gulp of his fourth Scotch, forget that third business. “How do you see my…problem?”

  “Suck-up-itis,” she said, and blinked her lashes at the mirror, perhaps testing the staying power of the mascara. “You want them to love you, Johnny. You want everybody to love you. I’m not good enough, no one person’s good enough.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “I’m serious.” Wendy moistened her lips for the nth-time. “We aren’t your father.”

  “…pardon?”

  This is where the evening started to go bad. He realized that now, but then, no. Then, in his early twenties, he merely felt the sting and anger of a truth.

  “Your father,” Wendy said, checking her teeth for lipstick. “You’re forever trying to win the love of a dead man.”

  Jonathan had hit her. Didn’t think about it, either: one hard, open-handed slap.

  She’d looked stunned. He watched her do a quick glance in the mirror, probably to see if her make-up had been smeared. Tears flooded her eyes, tears down her cheeks.

  Shit.

  “Listen, Wendy…”

  The little vanity chair over-turned as she ran from the room. He heard the front door slam shut.

  A witness to the accident told the police that a motorcycle struck her head-on, the entire event visible by the corner street light; the rider, seeming to aim for her, not stopping, the engine revving off into the night.

  Maybe a Honda, the student had said, or a Harley. Yeah, when he thought about it, a Harley: black, with a flame decal on the gas pan.

  You son-of-a-bitch, Jonathan thought. He did remember the motorcycle: something from this world, from the days of Ben Calloway and Randolph.

  —Eddy.

  That was his guess, anyway. Safe bet, no brainer. He’d attempted to dream himself back into New York. Mainly, to kill the fuck. He recalled the place, alright, maybe not particulars, but the place; yet after Wendy’s death, no dreams came to him.

  He never saw Eddy again.

  Suck-up-itis. You want them to love you, Johnny.

  Wendy had been right. That’s what hurt so goddamn much. He’d see the old man in each person who might bestow a favor, each crowd he needed to win, each vote swayed to his side. Heard th
e old man’s voice, He’s a good boy. Always twelve, always parading around in that terrible, over-sized white hood and gown: always the birthday boy.

  Even now in his big-ass limo with precious Phoebe asleep on his lap, Jonathan felt the hunger as a ceaseless ache, enough hunger to get where he wanted to go.

  II

  “Congressman.”

  “Mr. Mayor.”

  Clayman prepared himself for the usual bear-hug, and Frank Pallo didn’t disappoint his friends. The man’s big arms locked about his prodigy, engulfing Johnny in strength, size, flesh, Brooks Brothers, and bay rum cologne.

  “Good’ta see’ya,” he said, that raspy whisper.

  “You, too, Mayor.”

  Pallo’s looks lay somewhere between a professional wrestler and what he was, a fifty-three-year-old ex-cop with a graying crew cut and eyes that collected every nuance and gesture you made. He ran Philadelphia the way Daley had run Chicago in the Sixties: his town, his rules, and beneath the starched white shirt and hot-shot suit was a blue collar formidability that went back four generations.

  The two of them chatted for awhile, playing catch-up—the congressman talking about his daughter; the mayor, his grandchildren—then Pallo lighted a Cuesta Rey, swivelled his leather chair away from Jonathan, gazing out the wide picture window, looking down at Broad Street. The office was on the top floor of City Hall, a huge gothic structure befitting Pallo, the largest municipal building in the world, six hundred rooms, fourteen acres of floor space, topped by a thirty-seven foot bronze stature of William Penn, the most imposing piece of sculpture on any building in the known universe. The mayor enjoyed referring to this monument as, “My little home away from home.”

  “Burgess is retiring in a couple of years,” Pallo said. Jonathan could only see the cigar smoke rising from behind the highback chair. “So a senate seat’s opening up.”

  “The guy must be a hundred and ten.”

  He heard the mayor’s rough laughter break into a fleeting coughing spasm. Frank Pallo rotated the chair to face his friend. “You do something these next two years, yeah? Become a name, do a bill, help your district, and I’ll make you a goddamn senator. How does that strike your ass?”