The Dream Man TThhee DDrreeaamm MMaann Rori Gwynne 2 The Dream Man 1 She’d fight for him. No more cool, no more walking away. She’d trust him. Claim him. Love him. If it couldn’t be forever, it’d be for now. If it couldn’t be always…she wouldn’t believe it. She’d go to him. She’d make it work. Grace stared into the sink at last night‘s dirty dishes hoping one would be easy to clean. Yuck. She fished out a small glass bowl, turned on the hot water and squirted soap over everything, watching, delighted, as a hundred tiny bubbles flew out from the top of the bottle. A million colors at once floated up in front of her face, a million mirrors reflecting her face, her soft blonde hair and brown eyes, hanging in transparencies so delicate they would break from a touch. She waved her hand through them slowly, smiling, watching them dance until they were gone. The whole kitchen took on a lemony smell. Over the metallic noise of running water splashing on pans, she suddenly heard it again. It was louder than hot water ringing through the faucet or hitting cold spoons, louder than cups overflowing. It was her body humming. She was vibrating like a tuning fork. She closed her eyes to listen. Fireworks, sparklers striking on and off beneath her skin—not blood rushing through her, not the sound of her heart—but small cannon fire, gun salutes, crashing plates beat out a rhythm inside her. She was a drum. She was a neon sign. Colors whipped through her, lights raced up and around inside her, glittering as they passed down her shoulders, her arms, her legs, turning red when they reached her womb, throbbing to her drumbeat. She leaned back, her mouth open, barely breathing, giving in to the pounding, the throbbing, the lights. All of it felt now like beautiful hands caressing her from the inside. She lifted her chin as though someone was behind her, holding her, pressing hard against her. The noise turned to breathing and the pressure took on a shape, a male shape, filled in with real muscle, with real, beautiful hands pulling her to him, leaning her back. It was the man in her dreams, and now he was here. “Grace,” the dream man whispered into her neck. She let go of the dish. It dove down and crashed against the knives and forks, tinkling, breaking the spell. Her eyes flew open. She had no idea where she was. Grief-stricken, as though she‘d just lost everything, she turned to the empty air behind her, looking for what had just happened to her. There was no more drum, no 3 The Dream Man neon, no sparklers. Everything was gone. In one instant, she felt she‘d been given something and lost it. ―Who are you?‖ she asked, breathless. Shaking, but not moving from the spot, she waited for an answer. She studied the empty air as though she could see it, see him, if she looked hard enough, the way she‘d just seen air currents flying tiny pieces of soap across the room. She searched the space in front of her for molecules of the dream. But it was only empty air. No dream. Her finger stung. She lifted it up and stared at it. A small red line was dripping blood onto the kitchen floor. Glass, she thought. Broken glass. And then, all in a rush, she returned to her life. Her kitchen, her sink, the broken bowl, the shards of glass in the disposal. The hot water was still running. She switched the faucet to cold and held her finger under it, watching her blood run down the porcelain and mingle with the soap and food and glass. She was insane, that was it. It was so ridiculous. Silly. She looked at the broken glass and dirty dishes and just couldn‘t stand there anymore. A new day waited for her. Things to do. Long lists. She put the finger in her mouth and turned off the water. So what if her hand was still shaking and she was crazy? Trembling against her will, she pushed aside the lace curtain that hung softly in the window like an invitation to strangers‘ eyes and only blurred her view of the park across the street. She leaned on the windowsill with both hands, forcing herself to focus on the two huge, shiny black dogs racing each other through the trees, The day is already going by too fast, she thought, shivering. Like it‘s on a wheel. With her eyes closed, she could see the wheel of days rushing past her house, picking up speed as it plunged downhill towards the boulevard, towards the ocean, to disappear forever before she could touch it, or hop on. This morning she‘d leapt from bed, determined, reaching for the wheel, trying to grab on, trying to stop it from carrying the day away without her. She stretched to the top of the window to unscrew the pin holding it closed and shoved it up and open with both arms and all her weight, holding her face in the fresh gust of air, smiling at the feel of it on her eyelids. It was February, right after her fortieth birthday, after a beautiful, warm, clear, healthy winter in Brentwood, near Los Angeles, near the ocean. Sea salt still hung in the air, coating Grace‘s skin with a silky film that made her think of walking into an empty, sunlit white room and being wrapped in gauze curtains. On the other side of the window slept the hundreds of ladybugs who‘d flown five miles from the beach to her house just to climb on her daffodils. It was 6:35, and she‘d been awake for five minutes. Robin was at a friend‘s house. Paul was still asleep. Broccoli ran up the steps from the side yard after her morning pee, her nails clicking on the cement, 4 The Dream Man managing to slide by the screen door just before it shut itself in the breeze. She licked Grace‘s ankles, whining gently for breakfast, her fuzzy white coat covered with burrs and leaves from her five minutes in the yard. Grace got down, kissed the dog‘s lovely nose and pulled off the sticky burrs. ―Want to eat this stuff?‖ Broccoli gave her a soulful, hopeful look. ―Okay, you can have chicken.‖ ―I love it,‖ Matt said, studying the huge drawings spread out across the grass of his Beverly Hills back yard. ―We‘re here,‖ Grace pointed to a group of circles surrounding a rectangle, then lifted her arm up to the greenery surrounding them at the top of a small hill. Wild limbed bushes, deep green and black, stood in a semi-circle in their rubber pots like a ring of forest gnomes guarding the end of the path. ―The roses and lilies will be there,‖ she pointed to the left, into a plot of ground tilled and sprinkled with plant food and fresh topsoil, separated from them by small trees. Grace had designed this section of Matt Walton‘s grounds to feel like a sacred spot. There would be a fountain, and benches made of rock and concrete she‘d had built to look like huge, original stones from the rock hedges of Yorkshire, England. All the trees and bushes spread their arms out, embracing each other with jumbled, furry branches like the thorn bushes on Watership Down, her favorite place, from her favorite book. Matt, too, was captivated by the romance of England. In fact, Grace‘s current popularity as a landscape architect owed itself to her rich clients who wanted her to unfold the British countryside in their gardens, complete with wild purple heather from the moors, green hedgerows from the dales, and open spaces where they could imagine the rabbits of Watership Down digging their home in their hard-won sanctuary in the Hampshire Downs. Every year, Grace promised herself she‘d get on a plane and see the Downs for herself. Maybe this year. It was only nine o‘clock, but the sun was already starting to burn the baby tear moss left unprotected in its angular flower border by the previous designer. When they cleared some of the old plants from the lower gardens, she‘d have them move the moss up here, under the trees. Grace loved baby tear moss. It was all over the front yard of her parent‘s home, shaded by the roof and huge philodendrons, growing so full and bushy over the years that she could step into it, dance, and sink down, laughing, delighted with the velvety feel of it on her feet. She loved the smell. It made her think of fern grottos and ancient forests, right there in the middle of the grayness and sameness that was the Valley. ―I like daffodils,‖ Matt said. ―Can I have daffodils?‖ 5 The Dream Man Grace smiled. ―Sure.‖ ―I mean, do they fit the—you know, the theme?‖ He waved his arms over the huge yard. ―The theme is that it‘s your garden. There‘s enough room here for anything you like.‖ She passed her eyes over the acre of small hills, wooden steps made from train trestles, and weeds. ―Plenty of room for daffodils.‖ Matt grinned at her. Grace slowly rolled up the drawings and put a rubber band around them with a snap.