The Dreaming Field

by Ron Savage

  IV

  Morris Hodge sipped a tumbler of Scotch. His third, if Simon had counted right. He’d been watching the old fellow drinking double for two hours and decided Morris might be loose enough for conversation in another five minutes.

  The chief researcher at BioChem was a man of habit, so said Dora; the same bar, the same time, the same Scotch. But for God’s sake, Simon, don’t confuse his vagueness with stupidity. He’ll have your number in a heartbeat. She had also given him directions to the Casco Bar in Camden. Sure enough, at exactly seven, in walked Mr. Hodge; and now, close to nine and three Scotches later, Simon was ready to make a move, become the guy’s buddy.

  He planned to find a way to get inside BioChem and raise the vat temperatures of the anthrax. This Dora poo-pooed immediately. Doesn’t take much to mix another batch, darling. I’d be more interested in their delivery system. Life is never smooth. Even with her own research and contacts, Dora had no idea how the system worked, but she did know it would be demonstrated twice, once for the Budget Committee and once for the Department of Defense. If things went less than perfect, Defense could put the project on hold for a couple of years. When Simon asked if she had any information on Hodge to make his day a little easier, Dora said: We talked about the movies. He really likes movies.

  Wonderful.

  The presentation to Defense was in three days, a Monday.

  Simon sat himself down, one barstool away from Morris, ordered a Scotch and turned to the old man; asking, “Any good?”

  The man looked bewildered. This maybe difficult.

  “The Scotch.”

  “J&B,” said Hodge. It came out, Geenbee, his speech slurred slightly. “Good for the money.”

  “Does the job, I guess.”

  “Duzz that, bud.”

  Casco didn’t have much of a crowd for a neighborhood bar, fifteen, twenty people, a tad lame for Friday night. Two men in jeans and black T-shirts were playing pool, another two or three gathered at the video games—mostly first person shooters—a middle-aged man with a chest-length, scraggily gray beard and a stomach that hid his belt buckle kept telling his friend to “Shoot the fucker, Elwood.” The rest were scattered around booths and tables, nursing beers and talking. A blue-collar bar, no ferns, no brass, no stained glass—meat and potatoes stuff—low lights, dark wood floors and walls, a red and blue Budweiser sign above the bar: just a bunch of boys laying back on a Friday and getting wasted.

  Okay, here goes the game. “Did you catch Kubrick’s last movie? What the name of that thing?”

  “Eyes Wide Shut,” muttered Hodge, and took another sip of his Scotch. “…the woman’s got the most beautiful ass in the universe.”

  “To Nicole,” said Simon, a brief hike of the glass. He felt the Scotch burn, then warm his throat.

  “You got that right.”

  Simon introduced himself; Hodge didn’t reciprocate. The old man had a wild, disheveled appearance, bald except for the wisps of gray hair that furled outward above his ears, a day’s worth of beard covered his jaw and chin, but what demanded interest were the fingers, pale, thin, a tremor at the tips. His fingers revealed him—no, betrayed him, opening the fellow up for public display—making his sensitivity and cryptic stress beyond his talent to conceal.

  “Didn’t mean to bother you,” said Simon, knowing he’d simply shut down Hodge if he seemed intrusive. “I understand how annoying it can be to have someone interrupt your thoughts.”

  Silence.

  Terrific. Nothing like shooting my own foot. But what can you do? Finish the goddamn drink and go home.

  “Morris,” the man muttered, staring into his tumbler of Scotch.

  Now it was Simon’s turn to look bewildered.

  “My name. Morris.”

  “Of course. Nice to meet you, Morris.” And thank you, Jesus.

  “Let me ask you a question…Simon, is it?” The last words bunched together: izzit.

  “Right. Simon.”

  Please, don’t pass out.

  Please…

  …stay a little longer.

  “This is strictly hypothetical, mind you. A dilemma, a hypothetical dilemma.”

  “I can deal with hypothetical.”

  “Suppose—just suppose—you…invented something. Something truly elegant, truly marvelous. And suppose you got so enamored, so lost in the process of inventing that…well…you forgot its purpose. Know what I mean?” Whatahmeen. Morris didn’t wait for a response; probably didn’t want one. “Then, after you’re done, after everything’s completed, it dawns on you…that this…this lovely, elegant thing isn’t gonna be used for…a lovely, elegant purpose.” Hodge turned to Simon, the old man’s eyes a watery, faded blue. “What does the inventor do? Tell me. Answer my dilemma.”

  Simon glanced down at his own drink now; hoped that Hodge had missed the excitement he was feeling. Hypothetical, huh? Stay calm, boy. This guy has dumped the entire number into your lap.

  “I don’t think…” Relax; make it casual. “I don’t—I wouldn’t allow that to happen, Morris. I’d follow my conscience. Hypothetically, I mean.”

  “Yes, hypothetically.”

  “If I invented something—like you said, ‘elegant’—and I discovered it was going to be used in a less than…desirable way—whatever, a bad way—I couldn’t let that…occur.”

  “—Couldn’t let it occur.”

  “I might go so far as to…”

  “—Couldn’t let it occur.” Morris said again.

  “…destroy it.”

  “That’s the ticket, precisely.”

  “We’re being hypothetical, of course.”

  “Yes. Of course.” Morris got up slowly. Simon saw his knees buckle, watching as the man clutched the bar and swallowed the last of his drink. “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “You’ve been an enormous help.” Enormuhelp.

  “Whoa, at least let me buy you another drink, Morris.”

  “I think…I’ve…had—”

  Hodge’s legs wobbled. The old man seemed to melt, knees striking the wood floor, and he collapsed forward, face first.

  Shit.

  Simon knelt, turning him over. Two men at the bar laughed. The one with a baseball cap that read, “I’m retired” said, “Morris been doin’ that a lot lately.” Simon leaned his ear to Hodge’s mouth; heard a wheezing exhale and a groan, smelling the stench of Scotch. How can you pass out on me, you son of a bitch? He was about to get up when he felt a tingling sensation on his cheek, where he’d caught the old man’s breath. The feeling spread swiftly to his neck and chest. Then it became a stab of lightning.

  V

  Alone: 2:33 in the morning, and Jonathan didn’t want to sleep away this time, so precious, so absolutely rare: to be alone. Who would’ve thought such moments had value? Not the junior senator from Pennsylvania. He was relieved to be out of Washington, the questionable attention, the compliments of strangers; and, pardon, do you mind helping me with a little favor?

  Be careful what you wish for…

  …oh, yes…

  …be careful.

  He sat on the sofa in his study, gazing at Simon’s painting, the desk lamp casting a small yellow spotlight into the shadows. A damp breeze came through the open glass doors leading to the deck. He wore a T-shirt and Jockeys; felt the cool air touch his skin.

  What sort of father has his daughter ride home with him just to grab an hour or two? Is that a life for a child?

  “…you were always a wimp, boy.” The voice had a rough edge, a southern voice, familiar, something leftover from Fairless Hills, Arkansas. His throat had gone dry. He did a head-jerk look toward the open glass doors. There in the dim yellow light, the shape of a man: five-two or three, muscular, half-hidden in the darkness. Randolph Clayman smiling at him; whispering, “You don’t know how to stop being a chicken-shit, that’s your problem. Once a chicken-shit, always a chicken-shit.”

  “Daddy?”

  “
Must’ve raised you all wrong. Or maybe it’s your momma’s genes, those God-Owes-Me-A-Livin’ genes. The woman thought she had the golden goddamn pussy.”

  Jonathan pushed himself up from the sofa. He peered into the haze, the shadow and lamp light.

  The dead don’t come back.

  “What the hell do you know about the dead, Johnny boy?”

  “…enough.”

  “No, not nearly enough.”

  Randolph stepped from the darkness to the pale yellow light. The knife wound a black slit in his chest, blood crusted on the summer undershirt he’d wore the night of his death. “You did this, huh, Johnny? Watched me die. My Johnny boy, the daddy killer, Mommy’s hero.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Ooo, naughty, naughty.” Randolph’s face began to change, the illusion of flesh dissipating, first to gray then to bone. “Come on, boy, give Daddy a big kiss. That’s what you want, right? Daddy’s love? Want me to tell you what a good kid you are? A blessing from the asshole you murdered?”

  “No, nothing doing. Nothing. Nothing.”

  “Don’t fool yourself, boy. There are some things we can’t give up. Ever.”

  “Give up what?” Jonathan felt anger hot on his skin and in his stomach. “My wife Wendy, you wouldn’t have liked Wendy—not a person easily intimidated—she used to say how I’d look for you in every person I met. But it turned out to be a joke, you know? A joke on me. You can’t get love from a man who had no love to give.”

  The image of his father seemed to blur for a moment, quivering slightly, a candle flame bending to a brief draft. “I’ll tell you the truth here, Johnny boy. You’ve been offered the world, and you don’t have the balls to take it. That’s the truth. You’re ready to toss all of it away. And for what?”

  “…Phoebe.”

  He’d said his daughter’s name and again Randolph’s image fluttered, a broader motion, undulating lazily. Jonathan saw another shape emerging from the fading apparition; saw the jeans, the leather jacket and hobnail boots.

  Eddy grinned, casting a dismissive hand, and Johnny boy gasped, feeling pain slash at his heart, sending him to the floor. He couldn’t move.

  Eddy’s face hovered over him. He stroked the old scar on Clayman’s cheek. “What am I gonna do with you, Senator?” The voice seemed to emerge from a tunnel of churning air, sinister beneath its quiet pleasantness. “I’m about to give you everything, and you decided you don’t want to play. We can’t have that. We simply can’t have this party-pooper attitude.”

  “My…heart.”

  “Oh, yes. And I’m just warming up. If only you were able to ask your friend Senator McBaen how bad it gets. I’ll cut the skin from your body and burn you like a fuckin’ marshmallow. Or how ‘bout if I pull your intestines through your asshole? You’d be surprised how long a Feeb can live in that condition.”

  “I …don’t need…you.”

  “Please, Jonathan, martyrs are so tedious. And there is your daughter, you know. Pretty kid, a bit on the skinny side for my taste, but she’d do. A little sodomy, perhaps? Maybe after her rectum’s been torn away, I could rip out her eyes and fuck her skull.”

  “You…touch her, and I—” Something clawlike and cold wrapped tighter around his heart. A new, thunderous pain swept over him. Jonathan thought he might lose consciousness, even wished for it, but he stayed in the pain.

  “What is it—eight days now?” Eddy tilting his head, maybe getting the time straight, then he said, “…eight, yes. I promised to show the birthday girl my ‘firehouse’. That’s what she’s always called it, ‘Mr. Eddy’s firehouse’. Sweet, huh? Truly sweet. So I told her, ‘Phoebe, darling, on your twelfth birthday, I’ll let you see Mr. Eddy’s firehouse. My present to you’.”

  “I…will…do whatever you…want.”

  “And what do I want, Johnny boy?” Hissing the words, the voice controlled but angry, “All I’ve ever done was make your dreams real. Have I asked for anything in return? No, nothing. I don’t need your soul or your daughter. Nothing from you. Just give the voters what’s desired. And if the voters wish their enemies destroyed…destroy them. You are only a servant of the people. Do you agree?”

  “Huh, yes. Yes, I am.”

  “Say it to me.”

  “I’m a…servant of…the people.”

  Jonathan felt the damp night air fill his lungs; the pain, subsiding, and he heard the voice whisper to him.

  “You’re a good boy, Johnny.”

  FIFTEEN

  I

  The cab driver helped Simon carry Morris Hodge into the house—the old man’s arms circled about their necks—easing him down on the brown leather recliner in the living room. Simon had gotten the address from Hodge’s wallet. And when the cabbie left, the following hour and a half was spent getting Morris to drink coffee. Around the second cup, Simon had created a wired drunk who’d tossed the hypothetical aside for a detailed plan to sabotage ten years worth of research.

  “See, the vats aren’t the problem,” Hodge muttered, talking more to himself than anyone else. “Raise the temperature in the vats and you kill the spores. Our problem is delivery. You’d have to overheat the sensors enough to throw off the guidance system. I mean, you want the stuff to work, you just don’t want it to be accurate. Understand?” The old man was on a roll; he didn’t wait for an answer. “That way—come Monday when we demonstrate this shit—Defense will back down. We’re talking two, three years.”

  “But they’ll eventually ask to see the system.”

  “Lots can happen in two or three years, my friend. Issues and enemies change.”

  Simon had been feeling that familiar ache in his right leg and hip, his long ago injury seemed to come alive under stress, and tonight certainly qualified. The vision he’d seen while bending down to help Morris in the bar was a nightmare to be avoided. But the future could be changed, couldn’t it? An action taken; the enviable side-step, exposed as a sham. Hadn’t he learned this? He’d even discovered God’s secret by grabbing Benjamin’s hands. What other proof did he need? Only the sheer number of unknown situations gave us the illusion of an unalterable destiny.

  That, and death.

  The question was, after seeing the future, after seeing the nightmare vision while tending to Morris at the bar, what did he need to do to change it?

  Simon found himself both listening to Hodge and tidying up the living room, particularly the dishes on the coffee table, two stacks, three plates high, and silverware crusted with dried food. He toted these into an equally cluttered kitchen, two trips. Morris continued to talk, absorbed in his own speculations, noticing none of the domestic work, or maybe choosing not to comment on it.

  We’re going to do this. Simon felt his right leg throbbing. Jesus, we’re actually going to put the brake on BioChem, the whole goddamn thing. He pushed away a stack of old newspapers and sat on a brown and red plaid couch across from Hodge.

  “You haven’t mentioned my part yet, Morris.”

  The old man leaned forward on the recliner, digging a hand into his suitcoat pocket and removing a small box with six dark buttons embedded in the surface. “Yes, how we’re going to do this,” he said, wiggling the box between a thumb and forefinger. “You’ll be turning up the temperature on the vats while I disrupt the sensors.”

  At the start of the evening, Simon had been ready to do the deed alone. Now that Hodge’s plan and reality presented itself, he felt less than heroic: what if the guy’s scenario went bad? He imagined alarms and police sirens. He imagined Dora bringing little What’s-Its-Name to visit Daddy in the Big House, his hand pressed against little What’s-Its-Name’s chubby pink fingers, a sheet of wire and Plexiglas between them; pictured Dora whispering in its chubby pink ear, “This is your daddy. Try not to grow up and be like him.” But in the real world, he and Dora had talked sabotage—“Let’s call a spade a spade,” she’d said—and though he sensed her anxiety over his safety, no objections had been made, no second thoughts on her part. Dora
suspected BioChem’s connection to Clayman might involve Eddy, yet the words seemed flimsy.

  …“suspected”…

  …“might”…

  Yeah, too flimsy.

  He wanted substantial reassurance, proof, a token of evidence. Didn’t he have that, though? Didn’t he get his own personal nightmare when he helped Morris at the bar? To quote Benjamin, Have faith. The visions, or whatever they were, never mislead him. I’m sorry, Benny, faith isn’t one of my virtues. I need an extra something, a booster shot. I’ve got to be sure.

  “…very straight forward procedure.” Hodge continued to talk, his fingers dancing over the buttons of the small box as if pantomiming code. “I heat the units, increase the wing speed without sending them into flight, and that ought to damage the sensors. I mean, we want them to fly, we just don’t want the direction to be accurate. You follow?”

  “—When?”

  “What’s today? Friday?” Morris squinted at his wrist watch. “I hate these digital numbers. You can’t read shit.”

  “Two-o-six. Saturday morning.”

  “Sooner the better.”

  “…now?”

  “You busy?”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Uh-huh. Did I tell you what happened after our presentation to Budget?” Again, the old man didn’t wait for a reply. “Clayman gives me an envelope. A hand written letter. Like I’m supposed to be impressed. I got it here, somewhere.” Hodge tapped his suitcoat with his palm; reached into the side pocket. “Yeah, here,” he said, unfolding the letter. “Listen to this: ‘Dear Mr. Hodge, I want to personally thank you for your hard work and creativity. Know that these efforts will have a major impact on securing the future of your country. Sincerely, Senator Jonathan Clayman, et cetera, et cetera’.”

  Hodge held out the letter; Simon took it, glancing briefly at the controlled, neat script.

  “Nice, Morris.”

  “Nice, my butt. Look at the date. The senator wrote this before the demonstration. I’m telling you, the guy has a plan.”