Nightmares have the legs of Olympic sprinters. They chased me all night long; they caught me around three.
My blood spreads into the sidewalk cracks and runs down to the street. It was a proper nightmare, so the blood became a river. A man in a buttoned-up trench coat paddled a kayak across the street when the sign read Walk Now. The paddles were dismembered arms.
Chan lay on the sidewalk beside me.
“I’m tired of always being second to your agenda. We’re done,” I said. Tears welled in his eyes. I was merciless. “I mean it,” dream-me said.
Bus #21 was now a marooned train on Third Avenue. Near the middle of the vehicle was a digital clock that looked as if it belonged to Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The numbers counted up. One. Two. Three. Four. They became a voice. “One. Two. Three. Four.” They became a scream. “ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR.” The numbers grew louder than a scream. “SEVEN. EIGHT. NINE.”
The world was ash. A cool wind blew down the street and the ash lifted off the ground. The man in the kayak traded one dismembered arm for another. I watched him row away.
Becky woke me.
“Did I scream?” I asked when I was finally aware that she was holding me and singing softly. My hair was a damp, tangled mess, and she finger-combed the strands. “You were moaning,” she told me.
“I’m sorry.”
“Shhhh.” She kept singing.
I fell back into the haze.
Three hours later the house awoke. Coffee perked. A two-year-old clapped. A Great Dane licked his paws and then our faces. “We’re awake,” I told Buddy Holly, but Becky and I didn’t budge. We slept like lovers, spooning on the couch, because we’d decided we were too tired to care about the conditions and I suspected Becky felt majorly protective after my nightmare.
She flopped toward me, our faces inches apart. “Rough night?”
“Semi-typical night.”
Becky was about to say something, when Rudy’s voice sifted through the wall. “I know, Ms. Jay. I know.”
“That’s his teacher, right?” Becky whispered.
“Yeah.”
We listened again.
“Two survivors, maybe even three, return to the scene. . . . Yep. . . . I can’t turn anything in until I get back, but I’ll send you updates. . . . The heart of the story. . . . Thanks for covering me. . . . Yes, I have all my equipment. They’ll understand. . . . Will you let Dad know when he calls? . . . You’re the best, Ms. Jay.”
Becky dug her elbow into my side. “Is he writing about this?”
“Maybe.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Rudy rolled into the living room. He wore black fingerless gloves that he hadn’t the night before. “My dad’s working the oil rig for another six days, but Ms. Jay’s handling him. Victor’s mom won’t care as long as I’m with good people. We run our own little boat around here. I’ve got all the things that make me work these days, and, you know, a toothbrush. So, I guess travel is settled on my end,” he said agreeably. “Oh, the bathroom is free for the next six minutes if you want to hop in.”
Becky and I utilized our six minutes while Victor and Rudy learned the easiest way for Rudy to enter and exit the truck. Dolly was significantly higher than the Mustang. I wasn’t there to watch, but he mastered the maneuver by the time my teeth were brushed and my hair was in a sloppy bun, the back of my T-shirt soaked from not bothering to towel it dry. Becky and I took a quick lesson on the proper way to store his wheelchair in Dolly, because it was flippin’ expensive and a donation. And that was that. I was plus a Rudy and minus a Chan.
On a final trip into the house, Victor trapped me in the kitchen. “He’s a pro at workarounds. Assume he’s unbreakable.”
I assured Victor I understood. And although he smiled and deemed me capable, he offered a warning. “If he needs help, he’ll hate it.”
“Don’t we all.”
Victor wrapped my shoulder with his three-and-a-half-fingered hand and squeezed. We stood there in a solemn agreement that this trip was a good thing without using a single word. Becky honked, and I ran out the door. Deuce sat on Victor’s hip; father and son waved Dolly away from the curb. Rudy pointed at the mailbox across the street. “In case you were wondering, they’re not the same Westwoods.”
I pinched my nose in case it started to trickle, and we were off.