This Shared Dream (29 page)

“Downstairs. I took them off,” he said proudly. “Are you crying?”

Jill sniffed and wiped her face with her palms. “Yes.”

“Are you sad?”

“I was. But I’m better now.”

“What were you sad about?”

“My mother and my father.”

“They’re gone.”

“Yes. I miss them.”

“I miss them too.”

“You do?”

“Yes. I miss Grandma Dance especially.” She was surprised at that, but she
had
been showing him some old family pictures.

“Did you eat breakfast?”

“I tried.”

“But what happened?”

“I spilled the milk when I opened it.”

“It’s a whole gallon. It was pretty heavy.”

“Yes.”

“And then your pajamas were covered with milk and you took them off.”

“They were all wet. When is Abbie coming?”

“Pretty soon, I think. Let’s get dressed and clean up the milk.”

The kitchen, indeed, was a mess. “Tell you what,” said Jill. “Let’s pick out the Spacies first.” She and Whens, down on all fours, began fishing them out of milk and mushy cereal.

Jill had about five in one hand, and she sat back, crossed her legs, and considered them.

“Mommy, you’re not helping,” said Whens.

“I’m thinking.”

She’d never had much to do with Spacies. She had entered this timestream when she was seventeen, a little too old for cereal toys. Brian and Megan, she knew, had loved them in
their
version of the sixties, which was different than Jill’s. The entire moon colony collection—complete!—was arranged on the kitchen windowsill, interspersed with other dusty knickknacks. There was even a tiny multinational flag, which featured the paradigm-changing photo of the Earth taken from the moon. Brian had told Jill that the flag had been included in just a few cereal boxes; it was rare and valuable.

Whens stuck his hand in every new cereal box and grabbed the cellophane pouch as soon as it came from the store. She used to tell him not to do it, but now she picked her battles more carefully, thus saving herself from complete exhaustion and the embarrassment of issuing ineffectual edicts.

The wet Spacies had an imperative feel to them. She had certain needs when they touched her skin. She had to be imagining these sensations—yet, they were quite powerful. For instance, she had to learn to read. She had to become proficient in spatial and mathematical concepts. And, no problem, she could. She was human.

She had a sudden, dizzying vision of a world filled with geniuses of all kinds, a world in which change and progress in improving health, extending life, empowering marginalized people, and in expanding the artistic abilities and possibilities and individuality of everyone moved rapidly. Instead of just fight or flight, there was a new option: define and discuss.

And there were no wars.

Ah, utopia. Her particular silliness.

She stared at the tiny figures in her hand, descendants of those that Brian had kept since he was a kid, grouped around a pot of salmon-colored geraniums on the kitchen windowsill. She went to the sink, pushed aside a china collie, and saw several astronauts, of varying heights, wearing big helmets and puffy suits. A dark woman wearing a white coat—a physician, perhaps, or a scientist, stood next to a short, blond man playing a flute. But there were many more, along with space vehicles and a few things from the Mars Colony set. She leaned over the kitchen sink and studied them. They were quite detailed.

She felt more urges, more necessities.

She had to contribute to the community. If she was not a part of a community, she had to create one. An altruistic one.

She stepped back from the sink. Altruism. What was that, anyway? She remembered endless marijuana-fueled college discussions about it. Did it exist, was it possible? Given that humans were naturally, when pressed, fairly vicious animals with the advantage of forethought and the ability to raise vast sums of money and armies and to invent fearsome weapons? Beat swords into plowshares, indeed. Generally, plows were melted down for bullets.

Not in the world of Spacies.

Spacies, of course, were not just about space, about The Future, anymore. There were teachers, artists, entrepreneurs, scientists. They all came with stories and scenarios. They were, Jill realized, a propaganda tool.

They rather reminded her, she thought with a chill, of the Infinite Game Board.

She remembered throwing a fit when she’d realized that the Game Board had been left in Dallas.

Coupled with the harassing a few weeks ago …

She’d thought about calling the police, and then wondered what the hell she would say. She had, of course, put it out of her mind. She was so very good at that.

How would anyone else even know about the Device?

Her parents, she thought, with a brief, happy thrill. But no, it certainly hadn’t been them. She recalled the two other men in the hospital—if they really had been there.

She continued to stare at the Spacies in her hand, trying to grab and follow that slippery thread. All those memories were so damned vague, so dreamlike …

“Mom!”

She rinsed the milky Spacies and put them on the counter. “Okay, now. You tell me. What’s the best way to clean this up, do you think?”

*   *   *

Whens finished sopping up milk and cereal with a rag, which he’d rinsed in the bucket of water he’d asked his mother to fix for him. The floor was still a little wet. He looked at it while he dried his hands on his T-shirt. Well, a lot wet. Puddles. But it was clean.

“Mom,” he yelled. But of course, she didn’t answer. You had to go find her. She never answered yells unless you made them sound like you might die if she didn’t come.

He took the Spacies from the counter and stuffed them into his pockets. Then he grabbed the handle of the bucket and dragged it to the back door, opened it, and dragged the bucket out on the porch. It spilled when it got caught on the threshold, but at least everything went out onto the wood and drained between the boards. There was some cereal left behind, and he squished it through the cracks.

There. That was done.

He left the bucket out there, tipped over, and looked into the yard. It would be fun to play on the new swing set. He started down the steps, but then remembered.

The attic. She had told him to come back.

He had gone back once or twice, but she hadn’t been there.

Maybe she would be there this morning.

He came back inside, and carefully shut the screen door so that it wouldn’t slam. He crept over to the door to the attic, which was on the other side of the kitchen.

“Whens? What are you doing?” Her voice came from the library.

“Playing.”

“Is the floor clean?”

“Yes.”

She fell silent.

He managed to get the attic door open, just a little bit, without it creaking. Then he slipped through into the long, dark, narrow staircase with its haunted stacks of old magazines.

He continued on, his bare feet making no sound.

The second floor landing was sunny; someone had left the door to the hall open. He stretched past the opening like a cartoon character in case Mom was upstairs now, and passed the other landmarks—the fascinating metal gas station with a car lift you cranked that his mother said might cut him, and a deflated basketball. Mom said Aunt Megan kept it because she used to be on the basketball team.

Finally, he reached the top landing. It was so hot.

He turned the funny oval doorknob and entered the attic, where the heat was even more intense. He had to be careful, now, not to step on something sharp, or anything that might break.

He liked the gloomy light and the dancing dust. He went over to the trunk, which was where he had been when he’d first seen Grandma, and climbed up on it. Then he climbed down and found the old book he kept there,
My Father’s Dragon,
got back up, crossed his legs, and opened it. He loved the story, and the pictures. He knew it by heart.

He turned a few pages, then heard, “Hi.”

She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged. He thought she was beautiful. She wore shorts and a T-shirt. “Want to play checkers again?”

“Yeah.” He jumped off the trunk and got the old checkerboard and checkers, in its ragged, taped box, from the place next to the trunk where he kept his favorite attic stuff so far. He already had a butterfly kite, a rusty gear wheel, and his dragon book.

“I get black,” she said.

“I get to go first.”

*   *   *

Jim drove, Megan sat next to him, and Abbie was in the backseat. The car was stopped at a light on Fourteenth Street.

“I’m just not comfortable leaving Abbie there,” Jim said, as the light turned green.

“Shhh.”

“She’s got her headphones on.”

“I don’t care. What’s that thing she’s playing with?”

“Some classbook thing from school. Which reminds me, we’re supposed to have a conference with her teacher about it like last month. Something about its new capabilities.”

Megan sighed.

Jim started up again. “Your sister’s a nutcase.”

“I can’t believe that you just said that. It’s not like you.”

“I’m sorry, but Abbie is my baby. I feel uncomfortable about it. Why can’t she stay with Brian and Cindy?”

“I told you. They’re coming over to the house too. For the weekend.”

“Then it’s the
house
! It’s just so
kooky
there.”

“Jim! Stop it. You don’t get out enough.”

He smiled. “All right. But what’s all this about calling Stevie ‘Whens’?”

“He named himself.”

“Maybe Abbie will be ‘Little Wheres’ when we get back.”

“Hon, I have to go to this meeting. But if you’d like to stay here with Abbie, you can.”

“
Travel
magazine will really pay me well for the Cuba piece. We could use the money. But … that weird old house.”

“It’s a lovely house,” Megan declared.

“Sacred.”

“You bet.”

“Haunted.”

“By us. By Mom and Dad.”

“I’m just nervous. You know, I’m not sure if I’ve been away from Abbie this long before. I’ll probably cry the day she goes off to kindergarten.”

Megan reached over and squeezed Jim’s shoulder. “She’ll be fine. And Cuba will be fabulous.” She snapped her fingers in a Latin rhythm and nodded her head as if to music. “We will drink mojitos and dance the rumba, long into the night. We will be like crazed mating tropical birds! We will drink strong coffee and it will make us fly!”

“That will be interesting,” said Jim. “I’ve rarely seen you drink anything stronger than a beer. Don’t they have San Pellegrino water in Havana?”

“I thought you were flying in a plane,” said Abbie from the backseat. “I hope I see some ghosts in that kooky house while you’re gone.”

*   *   *

Cindy arrived at Halcyon House wearing shorts, a tank top, and work boots.

“Hey!” she said, finding Jill in the kitchen. Cindy’s straw-colored hair was hidden beneath a long-billed cap, and she set her work gloves and goggles on one of the stacks of
Washington
Post
s on the kitchen table. She pulled out a chair, sat down, and crossed her long, tan legs at the ankles. “Got any decent coffee?”

“Coming right up.” Jill ground some Kenya AA and poured it into a press pot, then shoved newspapers aside and set the pot, a green mug, sugar, and cream next to Cindy. “What’s Brian doing with the kids?”

“He’s taking them all to the zoo.” Whens had spent the night at Brian and Cindy’s with his cousins.

“Good idea. Did Nate come?” Nate was one of Brian’s employees.

“He’s in the truck. Smoking a cigarette.”

Jill left the room and returned with a notebook. “I made a list.”

“The front step, first,” said Cindy, pressing the coffee and pouring a fragrant cup. She added two large spoonfuls of sugar and a little more; stirred. “If I have to cut a new center stringer, the step might take all day. I’ll have to take the whole thing apart.”

“I really appreciate it, Cindy. You don’t have to do all this.”

“I like construction work. I almost prefer it to my own job, with all the politics and hoops. Plus,” she flashed a wicked grin, “Brian will appreciate what I do a lot more after today.”

“Well, thanks. I can’t believe the place will be ready for a big party in two weeks.”

Cindy finished her coffee and stood up. “That is pushing it. But at least they’ll be able to get in the house without breaking a leg. How many did you invite?”

“About a hundred.”

Cindy stared at her. “You’re kidding.”

“Add up people from Georgetown, the Bank, family, neighbors—comes to about a hundred. I hired a caterer.”

“God, I hope so.”

Jill ran to answer a knock on the front door.

Three women stood on the porch, looking around doubtfully. Their names—Jonquil, Evelyn, and Carol—were embroidered on their shirt pockets. “You must be from Maids-to-Order. I’m Jill. Come on in. I’ve got a list. You’ll mainly be doing the first floor. Don’t worry about the windows today. We’ll do them tomorrow.”

The women looked at each other. Finally, Jonquil said, “This is a pretty big place.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” Evelyn added.

Jill folded her arms. “So, what do you want?”

“Time and a half,” said Carol.

“Okay,” said Jill, wishing she’d gotten bids on the job instead of calling a number blind.

Soon the house hummed with activity. Jill switched between a chain saw and an electric trimmer to reveal, after many years of shaded obscurity, the handsome, wraparound front porch. She liberated lush yellow climbing roses from strangling vines. She pulled the rotting remains of a fan-shaped trellis from a thicket of brambles. After thinning heavy flower-bearing hydrangeas and ripping more vines from trees, she cultivated the front flower bed with a hoe and a shovel, digging up and dividing big clumps of canna lily bulbs. She carefully spared a patch of fiery red poppies and freed spears of yellow and violet glads. She discovered a stand of tall, old-fashioned hollyhocks blooming unseen in the jungle. She was deeply glad to find living evidence of her father’s labors still thriving.