What Dreams May Come (19 page)

Turning back—there was a crack in the sliding door I noticed as I did—I stepped over to the baby grand. Its case, once a glossy brown, was now drab. I touched the keys. The sound they evoked was tinny. The piano was completely out of tune.

I averted my eyes from the dreary room and called Ann’s name.

There was no answer.

I called repeatedly, then, when the silence was unbroken, walked through the bar room to the family room, remembering the day—it seemed a century ago—I’d walked this same way in our earth house, the day of my funeral, before I’d realized what had happened.

The family room was as bad as the others—frayed and dusty furniture, faded paneling and drapes, tile floor grimy. In its fireplace, a small fire burned. I would never have believed, until that moment, that a fire could be anything but cheerful. This one was, so small and mean looking—a few, pale, licking tongues of flame around some scraps of wood— that it seemed to give no heat at all and certainly no comfort.

No music, I realized then.

Our home had always been filled with music, often a conflux of it from two to three sources at once. This house— this dour, unpleasant version of our house—was weighty with silence, cold with silence.

I didn’t look at the photographs on the walls. I knew I couldn’t bear to see the children’s faces. Instead, I moved into the kitchen.

Dirty dishes, pots and cutlery in the sink, the windows streaked with grime, the floors spotted. The oven door was open and I saw, inside, a baking pan half filled with hard, white grease, a few small scraps of dried-up meat.

I opened the refrigerator door and looked inside.

The sight repelled me. Wilted lettuce, dry, white cheese, stale bread, yellow-edged mayonnaise, an almost empty bottle of dark red wine. A fetid smell of rot came from the barely cool interior and I closed the door. Turning from it, trying not to let the look and feel of the house get past my mental guard, I moved across the family room and down the hallway toward the back of the house.

The children’s rooms were empty. I stood in each of mem. They were not as cold and gloomy as the rest of the house but certainly not pleasant either. Only Ian’s room looked used, its bed unmade, papers lying on his desk as though he’d just been doing homework. I wondered why.

Ann was sitting on the grass outside our bedroom.

I stood by the glass door, looking at her, tears in my eyes.

She wore a heavy, dark blue sweater over her blouse, a pair of wrinkled slacks, old shoes. Her skin, what I could see of it, looked pale and chapped. Her hair was lank as though she hadn’t washed it in a long time.

To my distressed surprise, I noticed Ginger lying by her side. I didn’t know it then but, after Ann was gone, Ginger had stopped eating and mourned herself to death in a month. Now she was here, so filled with love that she’d chosen this bleak environment rather than leave Ann alone.

Ann was slumped, immobile, holding something in her cupped hands. I’d never seen her in a posture which bespoke such abject misery and, moving to see what she held, I saw that it was a tiny, gray bird stiffened in death.

I remembered, suddenly, that this had happened before.

She’d found a bird in the street, struck down, unnoticed, by some motorist. She’d brought it home and sat down on the back lawn with it, cupping its small, pulsing body in the warmth of her palms. I remembered what she’d said. That she knew the bird was dying and wanted it to hear, in its final moments, the sounds it knew in life—wind rustling in the trees and songs of other birds.

A burst of sudden fury hit me unexpectedly. This was not a person who deserved to live in such squalor! What kind of stupid justice was that?

I had to struggle with the feeling. I could feel the anger, like a magnet, pulling me toward something I didn’t want to reach. If I hadn’t sensed, at the same time, that it was, also, pulling me away from Ann, I might have succumbed at the outset.

As it was, I remembered Albert’s warning once again and was able to repress the anger. This wasn’t judgment, I told myself. Or, if it was, it was self-inflicted. She was here because her actions had put her here. It wasn’t punishment but law. My resentment of it was a waste of energy. All I could do was try to help her understand. That was why I was there. And now it was time to start. I’d reached her body. Now I had to reach her soul.

A poor beginning

THE SLIDING GLASS door was pushed halfway aside and, stepping to the opening, I spoke her name.

Neither she nor Ginger reacted. I thought it possible that she might not have heard but knew mat Ginger would have.

Clearly, I had not “descended” far enough as yet.

I hesitated for a while. It gave me such a—grimy feeling, is the only way I can describe it, to lower my vibration and take on further thickness, further weight.

I knew I had to do it though and, bracing myself, allowed it to take place. I shuddered at the feeling. Then, gripping the handle of the sliding screen door, I eased it open.

Instantly, Ginger jerked her head around, ears standing high, and Ann began to turn. Seeing me, Ginger lurched to her feet with a growl and scrabbled around to face me. “Ginger, don’t—” I started.

“Ginger.”

The sound of Ann’s voice almost made me cry. I stared at her as Ginger faltered back, glancing around. Ann was pushing to her feet and, for a glorious instant, I thought she recognized me. With a beginning sound of joy, I moved toward her.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

I froze in mid-step. Her tone had been so cold, I felt an icy clamp snap shut on my heart. I stared at her, dismayed by her hard, suspicious voice.

Ginger still growled, hair raised on her back; obviously, she didn’t know me either. “She’ll attack if you come any closer,” Ann warned. I sensed that she was more frightened than threatening but, again, the hardness of her tone cowed me.

I had no idea whatever how to proceed. I recognized her, of course. She returned my look and found me totally alien. Was it possible, I wondered, that there was still a vibratory distance separating us?

I was afraid to find out. Did she see me clearly? I wondered. Or was I blurred to her as Albert had been to me the first time I’d seen him after I died?

I cannot say how long we would have stood there mutely if I hadn’t spoken. We were all like statues, she and Ginger staring at me, Ginger silent now but still standing taut, ready to defend Ann if she had to. I felt a rush of affection for her. To love Ann so that she accepted this in place of Summerland. What more can be said in praise of her devotion?

My mind seemed like the works of some old clock, its wheels revolving inchingly. There had to be something I could say, I thought. Some way to begin. But what?

I have no idea how long it took for the initial concept to form in my mind. As I’ve indicated, Robert, time in afterlife is not the same—and, even though this place was closer to Earth than to Summerland, its time scale was, in no way, similar to the clock and calendar continuum Ann and I had known in life. What I mean is that the period of time we spent in gazing at each other may have taken many minutes or a second or two; I believe the former, however.

“I’ve just moved into the neighborhood,” I finally said.

My voice seemed to sound on its own. I didn’t know what I was getting at. Or, if I did, the knowledge was deeply buried in my mind. At any rate, the words came out, unbidden; a start however small.

I cannot convey to you the pain it gave me to see a look of such distrust on her face as she reacted to my words. “Whose house?” she asked.

“Gorman,” I told her.

“They haven’t sold their house,” she said.

I took a calculated risk. “Yes, they have,” I told her. “Some time ago. I moved in yesterday.”

She didn’t respond and I was forced to wonder if I’d lost my cause already, caught in a palpable lie.

Then, when she didn’t challenge me, I guessed that my calculation had been accurate. She had memories of the Gormans but was out of touch with everything beyond this immediate environment and had no way of knowing whether what I said was true or not.

“I didn’t know they’d sold their house,” she finally said, confirming my assumption.

“Yes. They did.” I felt a sense of minor achievement at the point I’d won. But, even as I spoke, I knew I still had a long way to go.

I tried to evolve the next move in my mind. There had to be some definite approach to this; some step by step method of getting through to her.

The realization struck me as I tried. There wasn’t any definite approach. I’d have to feel my way along from moment to moment, always on the lookout for some special opportunity.

Ann provided the next step though, I’m sure, unknowingly. “How do you know my name?” she asked.

“From the Hidden Hills directory,” I said, gratified to notice that the answer was acceptable to her.

The gratification was nullified immediately as she asked, once more suspicious, “What were you doing in the house?”

I made the mistake of hesitating and Ann tensed, drawing back. Instantly, Ginger growled again, the hair erecting on her back.

“I knocked on the door,” I said as casually as possible.

“There was no answer so I came inside and called. I kept calling for you as I moved through the house. I guess you didn’t hear me.”

I could see that the answer dissatisfied her and a sense of hopelessness washed over me. Why doesn’t she recognize me? I thought. If she didn’t even know my face, what hope was there that I could help her?

I resisted the feeling, once again recalling Albert’s warning. How many times would I have to fight against that hopelessness before this ended?

“I just came by say hello,” I began without thought; I had to keep things moving. Then, on impulse, I decided on a second calculated risk. “You seemed to recognize me when you saw me,” I told her. “Why was that?”

I thought—again, for a glorious instant—that a sudden breakthrough had been made when she answered, “You look a little like my husband.”

I felt my heartbeat quicken. “Do I?”

“Yes. A little bit.”

“Where is he?” I asked without thinking.

A bad mistake. She drew back noticeably, eyes narrowing. Had my question sounded menacing to her? The answer to that became apparent as Ginger growled once more.

“His name is Chris?” I asked.

Her eyes grew narrower yet.

“I saw it in the directory,” I told her; not too suspiciously fast, I hoped. I felt myself tense as the realization came that, in her mind, my name might not be in the directory anymore. But she only murmured, “Yes. Chris.”

Shall I tell you, Robert, of the agony of yearning to take her in my arms and comfort her? Knowing, even as I yearned, that it would be the worst thing I could possibly do?

I forced myself to continue. “The Gormans told me that he’s written for television,” I said, trying to sound no more than neighborly. “Is that right? What—?”

“He’s dead,” she cut me off, her voice so bitter that it chilled me.

I knew then, with complete and overwhelming impact, what a task I faced. How could I hope that Ann would ever recognize my face and voice much less my identity? To her I was dead and she didn’t believe the dead survived.

“How did he die?” I asked. I didn’t know why I spoke; I had no plan. I simply had to labor on, hoping that something useful would occur.

She didn’t answer at first. I thought she wasn’t going to speak at all. Then, finally, she said, “He had an auto accident.”

“I’m sorry,” I told her, thinking, with the words, that an air of quiet sympathy might be the best approach. “When did it happen?”

An odd, somewhat disturbing surprise. She didn’t seem to know. Confusion flickered on her face. “A … while ago,” she faltered. I thought of using that confusion to my advantage but couldn’t figure how. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. It was all I could summon.

Silence again. I tried to come up with something, anything, reduced, at last, to reviving my second risk. “And I look like him?” I asked. Was it possible, I thought, that constant repetition of the idea might, in time, induce her to see that I more than resembled her husband?

“A little,” she answered. She shrugged then. “Not too much.”

I wondered momentarily if it would help for me to tell her mat my name was, also, Chris. But something in me shied away from that. Too much, I decided. I had to move slowly or I might lose it all. I almost said My wife is dead too, then decided it was, also, dangerous and let it go.

It was as though she read my mind although I was sure she couldn’t have. “Does your wife like Hidden Hills?” she asked.

The sense of encouragement I felt that she had asked a reasonably social question was muddied by my confusion as to how to answer it. If I told her that I had a wife, would it enable me, eventually, to lead her thinking toward herself? Or would it place an irreparable barrier between us for her to think that there was some other woman in my life?

I decided, on impulse, that the risk was greater than I dared and answered, “My wife and I are separated.” That was literally true and should satisfy her.

I hoped that she’d ask me if we were planning on a divorce—in which case I could answer that the separation was of a different nature, thus opening up another area of thought.

She said nothing though.

Silence once more. I almost groaned to find it happening again. Was my attempt to help her to be an endless series of false starts broken by these silences? Desperately, I tried to think of an approach that would result in some immediate perception on her part.

I could think of nothing.

“How did the bird die?” I asked on impulse.

Another mistake. Her expression became more somber yet “Everything dies here,” she answered.

I stared at her, not realizing, until several moments had passed, that she hadn’t really answered my question. I was about to repeat it when she spoke.

“I try to take care of things,” she said. “But nothing lives.” She looked at the bird in her hands. “Nothing,” she murmured.

I began to speak then didn’t as she went on.

“One of our dogs died too,” she said. “She had an epileptic fit.”

But Katie’s safe, I thought. I almost said it but realized that of course I mustn’t. I wondered if there were anything at all I might pursue on that subject.

“My wife and I had two dogs too,” I said. “A German Shepherd like yours and a fox terrier named Katie.”

“What?” She stared at me.

I didn’t say more, hoping that the idea was at work on her mind: a man who looked like her husband who’d been separated from his wife and had had two dogs like hers, one with the same name. Should I add that our German Shepherd had, also, been named Ginger?

I didn’t dare.

Nonetheless, I had just begun to feel a flutter of hope when something seemed to film across Ann’s eyes—something almost visible—as though she’d just caught sight of something for an instant, then been forcibly removed from it—doubtless by herself. Was that the process which kept her prisoner here?

She turned away from me and looked across the polluted greenness of the pool. I might have vanished from her sight.

It was a poor beginning.

The sheltering of melancholy

WHEN SHE SPOKE at last, I couldn’t tell whether she was addressing me or herself.

“My pine trees died too,” she said. “People kept telling me they would but I didn’t believe it. I believe it now.” She shook her head slowly. “I try to water them but the pressure is off. They must be repairing pipes in the neighborhood or something.”

I don’t know why it struck me with such vivid force at that moment. Perhaps the mundane quality of what she said. But I remembered Albert’s words.

There is no point in your trying to convince her that she’s not alive; she thinks she is.

That was the true horror of this situation. If she knew that she’d committed suicide and that this was the end result, some kind of approach might be made. As it was, there could be no possible meaning to this plight for her, no logic whatever to this dismal state in which she found herself.

I really didn’t know what to say, yet, once more, heard myself speaking. “I have water in my house,” I told her.

She turned as though surprised by my continued presence. “How can that be?” she asked. She looked confused and irritated. “What about electricity?”

“I have that too,” I said, realizing, then, why I’d spoken as I had. I was hoping that she’d discover, by comparison, that what was happening in her house was, logically, unrealistic and, thus, be led to examine her surroundings more closely.

“What about your gas service?” I asked, pursuing the idea.

“That’s off too,” she said.

“Mine isn’t,” I replied. “What about your telephone?”

“It’s … out of order,” she said. I felt a momentary glimmer of expectancy at her tone—one which asked of itself: How can this be?

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to press my advantage. “It doesn’t make sense that all your services would be out at the same time.”

“Yes, it’s … odd.” She stared at me.

“Very odd,” I said. “That only your house would have none of them? I wonder why ?”

I watched her carefully. Was any degree of awareness reaching her? I waited anxiously to see.

I should have known.

If convincing her was all that simple, in all likelihood someone would have done it already. I knew that as a look of apathy replaced the one of doubt—replaced it instantly. She shrugged. “Because I’m on a hilltop,” she said.

“But why—?”

She broke in. “Would you call the phone company for me and tell them my service is out?”

I stared at her, confounded by my own frustration. For a moment, I had a reckless urge to tell her everything directly—who I was and why she was there. Something held me from it though, sensing the peril of attempting to convince her that way.

Another idea occurred.

“Why don’t you come to my house and call them yourself?” I asked.

“I can’t,” she said.

“Why?”

“I… don’t leave,” she said. “I just—“

“Why not?” My voice was edged with impatience now, I was so disturbed by my failure to help her in the least.

“I just don’t leave,” she repeated. She averted her face but, before she did, I saw the beginning of tears in her eyes.

I didn’t think but reached out automatically to comfort her. Ginger growled and I drew back my hand. Would I feel it if she attacked, the thought occurred? Could I bleed, suffer pain?

“The pool looks so awful,” Ann said.

That sense of cold despair again. How terrible her existence was, spending endless days in this place, unable to do anything to ease its drab appearance.

“I used to love it out here,” she said, unhappily. “It was my favorite place. Now look at it.”

My question was answered. I could suffer pain at that level. I felt it deeply as I looked at her, recalling how she used to come out on the deck each morning with her coffee, sit in the sunshine in her nightgown and robe and gaze across the crystal water of the rock-edged pool, looking at the lush planting we’d put in. She had loved it; very much.

Her tone grew sardonic. “Some exclusive area,” she said.

“Yet everything works at my house,” I said, trying again.

“How nice for you,” she responded coldly; and I knew, in that instant, that no approach could work twice. I was back to square one in mis dreadful game, forced to start all over again.

Silence once more. Ann standing motionless, looking across the ugly expanse of the pool, Ginger beside her, eyes fixed on me. What was I to do? I wondered in discouragement. It seemed as though the more time passed, the less aware of possibilities I became.

I forced myself to concentrate. Was that the danger Albert had warned me about? That I would let these dismal surroundings draw me in and make me part of them?

“You have children?” I asked on impulse.

She turned to look at me with distant appraisal. Then she answered. “Four.” Looking away again.

I was going to ask about them when I decided to attempt, once more, to set up, in her mind, a series of provoking “coincidences.” The area of children hadn’t been approached yet.

“I have four children too,” I said. “Two daughters and two sons.”

“Oh?” she said without turning.

“My two girls are twenty-six and twenty,” I told her. “My sons are twenty-three and seventeen.” Was I pressing too far? I wondered.

She was looking at me again. Her expression hadn’t changed but it seemed to me there was a tightening around her eyes.

I braced myself and said, “My children’s names are Louise, Marie, Richard and Ian.”

Now she was drawing back again, a distrustful look on her face. The expression of a woman who sensed that she was being baited but didn’t know how or why. I felt a pang of fear at that expression. Had I made a dreadful mistake?

Even as I wondered that, I heard myself ask, “What are your children’s names?”

She said nothing.

“Mrs. Nielsen?” I said. I’d almost called her Ann.

That look of filming across her eyes again—and sudden, gut-wrenched realization on my part.

No matter how close I came, I could never reach her. Whenever I came too close, something built-in would affect her, causing her to cut herself off. Already, she had mentally shrugged off my words, perhaps blanked them out entirely.

Yet still I went on with a kind of blind, unwilling dread. “My older girl is married and has three children of her own,” I said. “My younger girl—“

I broke off as she turned away and started toward the house, the dead bird dropping, unnoticed, from her hands. I started after her but Ginger, at her heels, looked back with a warning growl. I stopped and watched Ann moving off from me.

Had the end already come?

Suddenly, Ann glanced aside and made a sickened noise, then ran inside the house through the family room doorway, sliding the glass door shut with a bang.

I looked at the ground where she’d glanced and saw a huge tarantula crawling over a rock.

I groaned, not out of fear of the tarantula but at the realization that one of Ann’s deepest fears was embodied here. She’d always been terrified of tarantulas, made virtually ill by the sight of them. How hideously predictable that her private hell would include these giant spiders.

Walking over to the tarantula, I looked down at it. Bulbous and hairy, it clambered sluggishly across the rock. I looked around and saw Ann at the glass door, looking at it in panicked revulsion.

I looked around again and saw a shovel leaning against the house. Moving to it, I picked it up and returned to the tarantula. I angled the blade in front of it until it had crawled onto the metal. Then, carrying the shovel to the edge of the deck, I flung the spider as far as I could, wondering, as it arced across the pool and into the ivy, whether it was real or not. Did it exist on its own or only because Ann feared it?

I looked toward the family room door as it was opened slightly. And my heart leaped as I saw a look of childlike gratitude on Ann’s face. “Thank you,” she murmured. Even in Hell there can be gratitude, I thought in wonder.

I moved quickly to strengthen my position. “I noticed that your Sparklett’s bottle is empty,” I said. “May I put up a new one for you?”

She looked immediately suspicious and I almost groaned at the sight. “What do you want?” she asked.

I forced myself to smile. “Just to say hello,” I told her. “Invite you to my house for coffee.”

“I told you I don’t leave,” she said.

“Don’t you ever go for walks?” I asked, trying to sound pleasantly casual. She and I had walked a lot in Hidden Hills.