The Last Call

I successfully fought off sleep for an hour, maybe longer.

Big trucks whistled along in the night down I-35, half a mile away to the west, and there was the occasional whoop of an ambulance siren: approaching, dwindling, gone.

Finally, sleep came, embracing me and carrying me off.

There are some that give credence to dreams. I always subscribe more to the philosophy that they are the drippings of experiential soup; nothing less, nothing more. But my dream there on Coleeta White’s couch was potent, and inside it, I became caught up in a plot not of my own devising.

This was Africa. I don’t know how I knew this, it just was. A thousand miles away from any coastline, Julie and I were in a valley. It was property that we owned and we were together there. On the land there were solid square miles of old junk cars and trucks laying about in no particular pattern, rusting away, turning into habitats for exotic wildlife that was too quick for the eye.

Our Land Rover had run out of gas here near the center of our labyrinth. I opened the squeaking door of the truck and climbed out. Julie came out her side.

“I’ll get it,” she said, and reached into the back for a jerrycan of gas, about five gallons worth. She hefted it with a small grunt and it knocked about against the sidewalls before coming free.

I turned and put my hat on my head and walked a few paces back down the road, surveying our disorderly valley.

Something was wrong here.

On a feeling, I turned and Julie was standing to the side of the road. The jerrycan was raised up over her head. She tilted it toward her and liquid spilled out, covering her from head to foot and running off in little pools.

She smiled at me.

I was rooted to the spot, trying to move toward her. I had to stop her. Why was she doing this? Julie pulled out a pack of matches from her butternut-colored safari shirt. The can hit the dirt beside her, rolled over into the ditch. She held the book of matches out before her, between us. I tried to read a “why” in her eyes, but there were motivations there unknown and unknowable.

I shouted at her but I couldn’t make a sound. A low, dry whistle emerged from my throat.

The matchbook opened. She struck a match. Above us the sky was the deep purplish blue of approaching twilight. We lived in this world that was like no other. And Julie wanted to leave it.

I tried to scream at her. The scream was a bubble of agony, terror, unreality and negation swelling in my chest, struggling to break through like a drowning man struggling for the surface.

The smile widened on her face. She batted her eyes at me. The match came to life. It was like a stage magician’s trick. She held the lit match above her cupped palm as if to say “Look, see? I have made fire!”

She let go of the flickering match. I could no longer see the flame from it, but I knew it was there. The match fell slowly, gracefully, a drifting feather-match, as delicate as a mayfly’s wings and as potent as poison.

The bubble broke. The scream came, at first as an almost silent wail, then in growing intensity like a teakettle coming to boil, it whistled out:

“NnoooOOOOO!”

Flames engulfed her, her hair, her eyes, her clothes and skin. And I was screaming but my scream was just the tiniest whistle.

“Bill! Bill!” It was Hank and I was awake, the shallow wail from my throat cut off.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he said.

I stared into the darkness in the direction of his voice. The house was quiet.

I noticed lights through the blousy window curtains. Truck headlights. They were there just a moment before they winked out.

“Somebody’s here,” Hank said. “I hope to God it’s this big friend of yours.”

“That it’s Lawrence,” I said. “Back from his chicken run to Waco. Yeah. I hope so too.”

It was.

The inside back porch light came on and I heard a heavy tread on the hardwood floor.

I listened.

After a few moments I heard low murmurs from down the long hallway off the living room. It sounded like it was the back bedroom. It was Lawrence and his mother whispering to each other.

I didn’t feel so good, and it wasn’t just the leftover stirrings from the nightmare I had just experienced. It was a feeling of vacuum down in my gut. Like maybe I was taking unfair advantage of folks of good will and had become a nuisance.

The whispers and mumbles lasted a few minutes, Mrs. Coleeta explaining, no doubt, and Lawrence clarifying. No other voices.

The conversation ceased. The hardwood floors vibrated, and I knew Lawrence was again moving through the house.Hank and I waited, but Lawrence was either intent on getting some much-needed sleep for himself or on allowing-for the moment-sleeping dogs to lie. Or both at the same time.

We heard the creak of old bed springs behind a closed door.

“Let’s catch a few hours more,” Hank whispered in my direction.

Before long I was back on the edge of sleep. And thankfully, this time, there were no dreams.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Breakfast was a family affair. Keesha sat up at the table, smiling, a milk moustache prominent beneath her little nose. She wore a small light-blue PowerPuff Girls blouse-one of the purchases from Target, no doubt. She looked happy in it. No more lonely nights and grimy tenements for her. It made my heart glad.

Julie sat across from me and to Keesha’s left, making fast work with her knife and fork.

Lawrence put in an appearance, plopping himself down in a chair and looking as though he could do with a little additional sleep.

Breakfast done, Julie helped Ms. Coleeta with clearing the table and getting the kitchen squared away. It was refreshing to see Keesha both eager to help and encouraged to at the same time. The vacant look that had been there on her face had begun to fade. There is no greater thrill in life than to find that you are not only useful, but that you can help, and that your help matters. I was sure it was that, coupled with her natural childhood resilience, that made all the difference.

Hank remained at the table nursing yet another cup of coffee while Lawrence took me out back to the pit.

As the morning wore on, I helped him clean out the previous day’s dead coals and scrape the grill.

I had a beer in my left hand, and that made it feel like a Sunday.

“Hey, Bill?” I knew from the tone of his voice that what he had to talk about with me wouldn’t be exactly sweetness and light. I was right. “How’d you get roped into this?” he asked after handing me a scratcher pad.

“It’s a long story,” I told him.

“When did it start?”

“As far as I can tell about 1926.”

“You’re playin’ me, man,” he said.

“Well, maybe a little. But still, I think that’s where the money started. I’ve still got some checking into all that to do. But I came in on this whole thing Monday morning. By the way, what’s today?”

“Thursday.”

“Damn,” I said.