Dreams for Stones (29 page)

“What? Jade? You mean it?” Kathy said.

“If you gave this to someone else, I’d never
forgive you. No more free advice for starters.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Kathy hugged her
friend.

“Group hug.” Polly said, joining in and
pulling Columba with her.

“But do you have time?” Kathy asked, when
she caught her breath.

“I’ve already worked up two sketches. If you
like them, I think this project will practically draw itself.”

Jade pulled two sheets of paper out of her
portfolio and walked over to one of the tables where she laid them
out.

“This is what I’m thinking for the cover.”
She pointed to a sketch of a wide field bounded by a fence. Running
toward the fence were a boy and a German shepherd. An added wash of
color indicated a sunset.

“And this is a portrait of Ethel, Bethel,
Bobby, and Brad.” The picture showed a small boy sitting in a
high-backed invalid chair placed on a stone path in a garden.
Surrounding him were two goats and a German shepherd. Startled,
Kathy realized she was looking at the boy from her dream.

She turned to Jade and found the other woman
giving her an intent look.

“I’m having trouble finding the right word
to describe what I think,” Kathy said.

“Ouch?”

“No, that’s most definitely not it.” Kathy
shook her head and smiled. “Wonderful, delightful. Absolutely
perfect.”

Jade started smiling too.

“That’s exactly how I pictured them,” Kathy
finished.

“Okay,” Columba said. “I sense a plan here.
Let’s see if we can’t set a record. I’d love to have this ready for
the Christmas season.”

“You’re talking next year of course,” Jade
said.

“You did say the pictures were drawing
themselves,” Columba said.

Jade rolled her eyes.

Kathy left the dirt path and jogged over to the Cheesman pavilion
and halfway up the steps before stopping to sit down. The steps
were chilly and the pavilion and park were mostly deserted in the
early morning.

She wrapped her arms around her knees,
staring at the park, unseeing, trying to empty her mind as she
waited for the sun to come up, but her thoughts kept pulling away,
returning as they always did these days to the puzzle that was
Alan.

Okay, she could admit it to herself,
couldn’t she—why she hadn’t tried to contact him after the meeting
with Elaine?

Because she was afraid. Afraid, he’d reject
her again. And if he did, that final break would be the worst thing
that ever happened to her. But as long as she didn’t act, she could
pretend that everything would work out. Somehow.

Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t. She could
hardly expect him to want to see her after the angry words she’d
flung at him the last time they talked.

She closed her eyes, fatigue weighing her
down. She was so tired. Tired of the regret. Tired of not knowing
what to do. Tired of waking up at night knowing that although Alan
lived nearby, he might as well be on Jupiter.

So much broken between them—shattered by his
actions and her words, words she’d used to try to make him hurt as
much as she hurt.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but
words will never hurt me. . .

It wasn’t true. Words had the power to wound
much more deeply and lastingly than sticks and stones. And
sometimes the wounds never healed.

With her arms still wrapped around her
knees, she rocked, trying to ease the pain in her heart, although
she knew there was only one way to ease it. The words she’d used to
hurt Alan were choking her.

She needed to apologize.

But where and how to do it, that was the
issue. If she phoned, she knew she would have trouble speaking, and
even if she managed it, he might simply hang up when he recognized
her voice. Not that she would blame him.

Maybe it would be better if she went to his
office. She pictured herself opening the door and waiting for him
to look up, and a shiver rolled through her. She clenched her jaw
to keep her teeth from chattering.

Okay. A written note, then. She could manage
that. Take her time. Figure out just the right words.

And just maybe the right words were already
written.
Bobby and Brad.
“
Mira
, Kathy, I think more
people need to see it. . . Anybody who’s hurting.”

The first evening seminar of the autumn semester had been followed
by a longer than usual discussion between the visiting author and
the graduate students.

Alan opened the door to his apartment
building, feeling the long day settle over him as he picked up his
mail. He glanced through it quickly on his way upstairs. As usual,
it was mostly catalogs from companies he’d never bought anything
from and never would. Some bills. And a large white envelope that
slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor.

He bent to pick it up and read the return
address. Calico Cat Books.

Kathy? His heart stumbled into a faster
rhythm as he fished out his key and opened the door. He dumped
everything on the couch except the white envelope, which he opened.
He eased out the contents—typed pages and a handwritten note. The
note was signed “Kathy.” Heart pounding, he began to read.

Alan,

The last time we spoke, I said something I would give anything to
be able to retract. But once said aloud, words can never be
reclaimed. All I can do is tell you that I no longer believe those
words, and I regret having said them. I hope you can forgive
me.

I’m sending you a story. A peace offering of sorts. I’m sorry we
lost touch.

Kathy

I’m sorry we lost touch. He was sorry
too.

He re-read the note, feeling a weight lift
from his heart. Such a relief to know she was no longer angry with
him. And maybe that relief would free him to finally think about
his last meeting with Charles, something he’d been avoiding.

He carried the note and Kathy’s manuscript
into the bedroom, leaving them on his nightstand while he got ready
for bed. Then he re-read Kathy’s note and, on the burst of optimism
it ignited, picked up the manuscript and began to read.

My name is Bobby Kowalski. When I was smaller than I am now, I had
a bad sickness. It was something called men-in-jeans, and I almost
died. I don’t remember it. I just heard Mom telling the lady who
comes to help wash and feed me all about it. She said, “Oh the poor
little man.”

I’m not a man. I’m a boy. So maybe someone else had the
men-in-jeans. Still, it is very strange that I can no longer move
my arms and legs or make a sound.

My mom’s name is Emily, and she’s beautiful. She has soft, brown
hair, and her eyes are the same color as the sky on a sunny day.
Dad’s name is Jess. He’s tall, like a tree, and his voice sounds
all low and rumbly. If a bear could talk, and it was friendly, I
believe it would sound exactly like my dad.

Mom takes care of me, while Dad goes to work, and my favorite part
of the day is when she reads to me. In the books are pictures of
dinosaurs and trucks, horses and trains, ships and treasures. And
the people in the stories have adventures.

I would so very much like to have an adventure.

Today, Dad brought home a dog. The dog came right over and licked
my hand. He’s black on top and tan underneath with pointy ears and
a bushy tail.

He cocked his head at me, and I heard the
words, “Come play with me,” inside my head. It felt strange and
tingly.

“Ah, perhaps you cannot,” he said. Then he
laid his head on my lap, and his fur tickled my hand, making me
want to laugh.

“I wonder what your name is.”

It was only a thought, because I can’t talk,
but he heard somehow and answered, “Brad.”

“How did you know I asked you that?”

“Ah. That is an enigma.”

I didn’t know what that was, a nigma. I
decided it must mean he didn’t understand either.

Just then, Dad cleared his throat, and I
looked at him. He was smiling at Brad and me, but Mom had tears in
her eyes.

I was very afraid it meant Brad couldn’t
stay.

Brad has been here since the snow left. He stays by my side all day
and sleeps beside my bed at night. When I tell him to, he goes and
nudges Mom’s hand. She comes and tries to figure out what I
need.

Sometimes, it is only to know she will
come.

Yesterday was Mom’s birthday. A large red truck arrived with her
gift—two goats. Mom clapped her hands, and Dad laughed. The goats
jumped and bucked, and Brad barked. It was very exciting.

One goat came over to me and said, “What’s
wrong with you, little boy?”

“You talk. Like Brad does,” I said.

“Of course I talk,” said the goat. “Who is
Brad?”

“Brad is my dog.”

“Aha. And who are you?”

“My name is Bobby. What’s your name?”

“I’m Ethel, and this is Bethel,” she said as
the other goat joined her.

“How do you do, Ethel and Bethel.”

“We do very well,” answered Bethel.
“Especially if this is going to be our home,” she added, looking
around.

“It is. You’re my mom’s birthday
present.”

“We’ve never been birthday presents before,
have we, Bethel?”

“I don’t believe so, Ethel.”

Brad joined us, and I told him the goats’
names. When I looked over at Mom and Dad, they were watching Ethel,
Bethel, Brad, and me, and Mom had tears in her eyes. I would have
worried except the last time she cried, Brad came to live with
us.

After dinner, we had a cake with candles.
Dad lit them, then he turned out the lights, and it was like we
brought the stars inside. Then Mom blew out the candles, and she
and Dad laughed together like they used to before I got sick.

Something has changed since Ethel, Bethel,
and Brad came to live with us.

I think perhaps they have helped us remember
how to be happy.

Alan looked up from the page. The blank wall
at the end of the bed met his distracted gaze. It was still a
habit, to stare at that spot, even though he’d removed the picture
of Meg.

He’d done that after he took the notebooks
full of what he had written about her out to the ranch, ridden to
the lake on a rainy day, and built a small fire on the shore.
Angela hadn’t suggested a ritual burning, but it seemed the right
thing to do. Once or twice, the fire had flared, and he’d felt the
sharp pain in the tips of his fingers as he let loose another
page.

When he returned to Denver afterward, he
walked into his bedroom and stared at Meg’s picture for a long
time. Saying goodbye, letting go, letting her go, his memories of
the two of them floating like the bits of charred paper had floated
above the flames of his small fire.

Finally, he’d reached up and taken the
picture down. Carefully, he dismantled the frame and removed the
photograph, which he rolled and placed in the box where he kept all
the pictures Meg had painted.

Abruptly, he pushed away the memories of Meg
and looked back at Kathy’s manuscript.

Today, Ethel and Bethel brought me a present—a red petal from a
flower they said is called a rose.

“Taste it, Bobby, you’ll love it,” said
Ethel.

“But why would I want to eat something so
pretty?”

“Because it tastes even better than it
looks,” said Bethel. “See, Ethel, I told you we should eat all the
roses ourselves. Bobby has no emaciation.”

“You mean appreciation,” said Ethel.

“I know what I mean,” Bethel said.

When the goats argue about their big words,
it’s sometimes hard to know who is right, but I think probably
Ethel is.

Ethel placed the petal on my tongue. It was
soft, and when I bit down, it did taste very good.

“Thank you, Ethel. Bethel. But where did you
find a rose?”

Ethel and Bethel looked away without
answering.

This evening when we finished dinner, a man named Mr. Pitzer came
to visit. “A vandalism so abominable I can hardly speak of it.”

He used big words like the goats do. I
didn’t know what they meant—abominable and vandalism. They must be
bad though, because he sounded very upset.

“All the roses along the cemetery fence have
been eaten. Hundreds of them. Not a single petal left behind.”

I didn’t know what that was either—a
cemetery. But Ethel and Bethel knew, because they’d been there.
Brad figured it out, just like I did. He started to giggle, then he
laughed so hard his leg thumped. I laughed too, inside, remembering
how good the one petal Ethel and Bethel shared with me had
tasted.

Dad frowned at us. “What is the matter with
Brad? Could he have fleas? We’d better put him outside until we can
check him over. We certainly don’t want him giving Bobby
fleas.”

Brad stopped laughing. He got up, came to me
and put his head in my lap. We both looked at Dad.

Dad stared at Brad. “If I didn’t know
better, I’d think he understood me.”

“Well of course he did,” I answered. Then I
remembered. Dad couldn’t hear me.

“Do you think so, Jess?” Mom asked. “I
believe he and Bobby communicate somehow.”

“What makes you say that?” Dad asked.

She frowned. “It’s mostly a feeling I
have.”

“Perhaps Brad having fleas is a small price
to pay then.”

Brad and I sighed with relief.

As he was leaving, Mr. Pitzer asked Dad one
last question. “Do you think deer ate my roses, Jess?”

Brad and I sat very still.

“Could be I suppose,” Dad said, slowly.

After Mr. Pitzer left, Mom and Dad looked at
each other. Then they laughed.

“Oh, Em. It had to be the goats. I’ll have
to check. See how they got out.” Dad wiped laughter tears from his
eyes. “We can’t have them stripping Pitzer’s roses. They’re his
pride and joy.”