“Only if you go up another foot.” I took my shower.
A sound woke me. Red numbers floated next to my bed in the dark room, illuminating nothing. Icy dread gripped me as I became convinced that somehow a worm-infested killer had snuck into the room while we were sleeping. I listened hard, and I heard the sound again. It was a low, harsh gasp, and a faint rustle of bedclothes. It was coming from Anne’s side of the room. I slipped out of bed, my eyes perfectly at home in the dark as always.
Anne’s head was thrashing back and forth on her pillow and her hands were clutching and wrenching at her sheets. Her eyes were closed, but her face was filled with fear. She was whispering “please” and “no” over and over in her sleep.
I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “Anne?” Her eyes flew open and she screamed. She tried to throw herself out of bed, but I held on tight as she struggled. “Anne! It’s me. It’s Abe. You’re okay. It was just a nightmare.”
“Abe?” She sagged, suddenly limp. “Can you turn on the light? Please?” After I did, she searched my face, squinting in the sudden light, and then threw her arms around me. She held on tight, forcing me to sit down on her bed next to her. I held her in return. She trembled and cried silently.
I stroked her back and murmured the same familiar reassurances that we all do at times like this, knowing that the words didn’t matter. It was the act of compassion that was important. She let go and sniffed and wiped her eyes when she was done. “You need a tissue?”
She shook her head. “No, I used your shirt.” She barked out a little laugh.
“Bad dream?”
She nodded. “I’m fine, really. Just embarrassed. I haven’t had a nightmare since I was little. I’m sorry I woke you.”
“That’s okay, I read somewhere that we old people don’t sleep much anyway.”
“I wasn’t me, Abe. In the dream, I mean. I was getting ready for work and I was a waitress or something, because I could see myself in the mirror and I was wearing a uniform and an apron. I kept trying to put my makeup on, but I couldn’t because my hands were shaking too much. I remembered trying to hurry and at the same time not wanting to leave the bathroom because it was the only place I was left alone. But I couldn’t stay too long or he would come in to get me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know, the man. So I gave up on the makeup and just washed my face. I looked terrible. There were black circles under my eyes, and my head hurt from not sleeping and from being scared all the time. It seemed like I had been scared forever. I came out of the bathroom, and he was standing in the hall like usual, waiting to take me to work.
“He had to drive me, because I wasn’t allowed to have the keys any more. I wasn’t allowed to be alone and I wasn’t allowed to drive. He made me cook, but all the knives were gone, except for the one he carried. He cut anything that needed to be cut. We went out to the car and started driving, and that’s when you woke me up.”
“Well, it’s over now. The things you’ve been through in the last couple of days? I’m surprised you only had a nightmare. Anybody else would have lost it by now. You’re a tough nut.”
“It was so weird. It didn’t feel like any dream I’ve ever had. I don’t know how to describe how real it was. I know everyone has dreams that seem real at the time, but this was way beyond that. Oh, and one other thing. The man in the dream, his skin was never still, like there were tiny wires moving underneath it all the time. He was a bag.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. If anything was going to give me bad dreams, it would be them.”
“Did my grandfather ever have dreams like this? Maybe this is part of that thing that we have.”
“Not that I know of. He knew when something was close, and he could get a fix on it, but that’s all.”
“Maybe he just didn’t tell you.”
I shrugged. “I guess. But I slept ten feet away from him for almost a year, and as far as I know he slept like a baby the whole time. Besides, we would tell each other anything that crossed our minds when we marched. Most days were long and boring, especially in the beginning. We talked about dreams, plans, made-up stories, you name it. He never made a secret of his gift, so I don’t know why he would hide something like this. Why, do you think this is more than a dream?”
“I don’t know. It sure felt real.”
“Well, at this point, I don’t think we can rule anything out. You ready to go back to sleep?”
“No, but I can try.” I snapped off the light and started to get up, but she pulled me back down. “Stay. Please.”
“Sure.” I swung my legs into the bed and propped myself up against the headboard. She lay down next to me, and after a few minutes, I heard her breathing even out as she fell asleep. I put one arm around her and waited for the dawn, content.
15
Anne was asleep when I slipped out of bed and dressed. She had dozed fitfully for hours after our talk, but now, sleeping in the light, she was at peace. I doubted that this episode happening on her first night spent in the same room with the altar piece was a coincidence. I was re-packing my duffel and thinking about having to do some laundry when she woke up.
“Hey. Did you sleep?” She seemed a little embarrassed as she said it.
“Sure. Any more nightmares?”
“Not that I remember. But the one I did have is going to stay with me for a while.” She rubbed her upper arms with both hands. “Give me a few minutes to get ready, and we can go.” She snagged one of her bags and disappeared into the bathroom.
While she was gone, I went to the hotel lobby and got directions to the address Henry had given me. By the time I got back, Anne was ready to go, as promised.
Frank Eaton’s widow, Georgia, turned out to live in a tiny tract house in Brentwood. We made small talk on the way, sipping donut shop coffee and staring out the windows. Brentwood was a pleasant part of town, old enough to have history and well kept enough to show that people were proud to live there.
Groups of white and powder-blue wooden houses with peaked roofs sat in the center of tiny manicured lawns one after another, separated by ancient sprawling strip malls and low brownstone office buildings. It was the kind of place where only the cars had a sense of the present day about them.
We parked on a side street and peered at the small black address numbers on each house until we found it. There was a tiny porch of white painted wood tacked on to an otherwise unrelentingly square building.
It was mid-morning on a workday, and the street was quiet except for the faint barking of a dog inside the house next door. I rang the bell. After a few moments a pleasant, albeit wavering, voice came out of the speaker grill by the door. “Yes? May I help you?”
“Mrs. Eaton? I’d like to talk to you about your late husband Frank, if you have a moment. May I come in?”
“Oh, my. Frank? Is this about his pension? I get it until I die, that’s what they said.”
“No, ma’am. It’s not about his pension. May we talk for a few minutes?”
“What about? Who are you?”
“My name is Abraham Griffin. I’m named for my grandfather, who knew your late husband.” The lie rolled off my tongue effortlessly, but I couldn’t help but glance at Anne as I said it. She gave me a little nod, like she was absolving me.
The door buzzed and opened, revealing Georgia Eaton in a pink sweater and house slippers, looking like everyone’s great aunt. The smell of baking cookies and cinnamon washed over us.
“Why, if you aren’t the spitting image of your grandfather! I knew him very well, you know. Him and your grandmother both. Come in, come in!”
She ushered us through a small living room, and into an even smaller kitchen. Anne and I were seated around a tiny table that could just fit four if they were very friendly. There was a window over the sink that was draped
