behind them. I began to fling the costumes aside, looking for the people, or for something buried beneath them, and they flew into the air and came down with people in them-different people-and the people stood stock-still where they landed, staring at me, their faces cut and battered by the hooves. One of them had cobblestones pressed into the bloody Oedipus holes in his head where his eyes should have been, stones round and rough and black, and a dumb joke came to me in the dream: Oedipus Rocks, and Eleanor shook me awake.
“You were laughing,” she said.
“Yeah?” I said, sitting up to get closer to the square of moonlight on the foot of the bed. “Well, it wasn’t very funny.”
“Tell it to me.”
When I’d finished, I said, “And I don’t want to hear any nonsense about the big candles.”
“It seems pretty straightforward. It’s an anxiety dream about the wake, about searching through costumes to find someone. And you’re ambivalent about Christy.”
“What about the horses?”
She put an index finger on the bridge of her nose and rubbed it slowly up and down. “They came from behind a wall. They had tremendous strength. They, ah, they dispelled illusion; when they trampled the people in costumes it turned out they weren’t actually people at all, and then they were different people.”
“And?”
“You made a joke in the dream, which is pretty unusual in itself. A pun, a reversal of meaning. I’d say you know something that you’re not acknowledging. Something you’ve put behind a wall, and when you raise or lower the wall, some of the people in the landscape surrounding Max aren’t going to be who you think they are.” She passed both hands, cupped, through the moonlight as though she could scoop some up and drink it. “That’s pretty literal, but it’s the best I can do.”
I put my arms around her. “You could soothe me,” I said.
I woke at eleven in Eleanor’s bright bedroom, feeling rested for the first time in days. A note had been neatly safety-pinned to the pillow beside me.
At the library until 2. Coffee’s ready — just pour water into the thing at the top of the maker.
What are you going to wear to the party?
The coffee maker, an Insta-Brew, had been named by someone who apparently didn’t own a watch. By the time the coffee was finally ready I’d showered with lime-scented soap and Japanese camellia shampoo-a combination of smells that brought more memories than there was room for in the shower stall-and slipped into my jeans from the previous evening, rancid with Typhoon’s cooking oil, plus a clean T-shirt Eleanor had laid out at the foot of the bed. I padded barefoot into the bright little kitchen and poured a cup to the brim and carried it carefully into the living room, full of furniture I’d once lived with, and settled into a chair that knew me well.
I’d never been alone in Eleanor’s house before, and it was a peculiar feeling, both familiar and new. Things I recognized from our time together stood out here and there: a vase, a small painting we’d bought in San Francisco, the lacquer and mother-of-pearl end tables her mother had hauled all the way from China. Most of the objects in the room, though, had come into Eleanor’s life after we’d parted company. I had a sudden pang of-of what? loneliness? regret? — imagining her bringing these new things home, finding the right place for them. To a stranger they would have been indistinguishable from the things I’d bought her, the things we’d chosen together.
Next to the window on the opposite wall, framed in sober black, hung Eleanor’s bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I didn’t have the faintest idea where mine were, but Eleanor’s were on display. For years she’d deprecated their value, the value of her own achievement, hanging the degrees on the wall only when her mother came to visit. Her mother, like most Chinese parents, was fierce about her children’s education, and if the degrees weren’t in full sight when she came for dinner she embarked on a long harangue in Cantonese. Five minutes after she left, the diplomas came down again.
At some point, though, Eleanor had apparently decided to leave them up, and I’d missed the change. One of hundreds I’d missed, probably, over the years. She’d pointed out during our interrupted chat that I’d changed and, with her usual tact, hadn’t mentioned herself, but she wasn’t preserved in amber, as much as I might like to think she was. She wasn’t the woman who’d earned those degrees, any more than I was the puzzled kid with all the scholarly initials after his name who hadn’t a clue what to do with his life. She’d undergone her own changes. So far, she still kept a place of some kind for me in her life, but there were no guarantees. She’d had relationships with other men, and I’d handled them in the stolid, approved American-male fashion, hiding both the pain I felt when they began and the relief that had flooded over me when they ended. There wasn’t anything decisive I could do; I’d waived my rights in that area when I’d let her walk down my driveway on the last day we lived together. Let her go because marriage would disrupt my life.
And what was so swell about my life, anyway? I was moving in patterns that had once had meaning, had given me pleasure, but now they were just habits most of the time, like a role in a play that has been running for years. Show up, do the old stunts, collect the money or applause or thanks, go home. A week later I didn’t know what I’d done on any particular day. I drank too much, I didn’t talk enough. I was lonely. Like most people faced with the challenge of getting through a life, I’d developed a bag of tricks that took care of my needs on a few levels and left me unsatisfied on all the others. And when the time came to learn some new ones, I screamed and dug in my heels and hung on for dear life to all the things that didn’t satisfy me.
So what was I protecting against all that love?
The answer presented itself with that peculiar clarity that unwelcome answers usually have. Nothing.
Schultz was right. I should see a shrink, if only to force me to focus on the walls I’d built in my head.
A wall lifting or being lowered, horses thundering through the space where it had been.
I realized I’d been looking at the bright square of a window for long minutes. When I refocused on the room, a dark square floated in front of me. Retinal memory, real-seeming but false, an image from the past persisting until the nerves recharged themselves, a neural version of the emotional images of people we carry until circumstances force us to realize that they’ve changed. Or that they’re no longer there.
On the table in front of the couch were some familiar-looking brochures, full of bright colors and images of wedded bliss. My mother, the emotional guerrilla.
I went to the phone.
It took three tries before I got the right post office. Kearney was apparently riddled with post offices. The woman on the other end sounded thrilled to talk to me, like no one had called in years.
“I sent some money-a cashier’s check, actually-to Phillip Crenshaw, two l ’s in Phillip, care of box three thirty-two at your office. He never received it.”
“Hmmm,” she said happily. “Did you put a return address on the envelope?”
“Sure. As I say, there was money in it.”
“Oh, dear. How long ago?”
“Little more than three weeks.”
She made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s far too long. Something must have happened to it.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Sent from where?”
“Los Angeles,” I said.
“Well, what can you expect?” she said, as though that explained everything. “Los Angeles.”
“I took it to the post office myself.”
“I’ll give it a check. Can you hold on?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking, This is a civil servant?
“Don’t go away,” she said, laughing gaily.
“I’m glued to my chair,” I said truthfully.
Five minutes later she was back. I heard her humming before she picked up the phone.
“Sent it here?” she asked.
I gave her the box number again.
“I just asked,” she said, “because that’s a forwarding box.”
“To where?”
“That’s what’s so funny,” she said. “Los Angeles.”
