The sun was up, the sky was blue—the powder blue of skies in children’s books. Jessie walked in a green, green cornfield, glad to be out of the city, pleased to have escaped her obligations, wondering what to do about the little hippopotamus. Roughly the size of a baby pig, he waddled behind her like a private remorse, a pet regret.
There was a strange knocking in the sky, a rapping like the old-fashioned thumps of a cane signaling the start of a play in The Children of Paradise. All at once, blue sky and green landscape pulled loose and flew up like a curtain. It’s the end of the world, thought Jessie, terrified. The painted canvas of earth and sky vanished overhead. All that remained was a vast starry darkness. And an audience.
She stood onstage in a theater as big as the cosmos, as infinite as outer space. Her hippo remained beside her. Boy, do I have a witty unconscious, she told herself. Because she was beginning to suspect that this was only a dream. She hoped it wouldn’t be one of those silly actor dreams where you forget your lines or don’t even know what play you’re in.
She looked out at the audience. It was all men, an ocean of men in tuxedoes. Which pleased her. She always enjoyed being the only girl at the party. She saw Caleb sitting in the front row. And Mr. Copeland, their high school drama teacher. His eternal boyishness was gone, and he looked as old as their father would be if Dad were still alive. Beside Mr. Copeland sat Frank, in a scowl of folded arms, disgusted with her for appearing in public with a hippopotamus.
But where was Henry? She could not see Henry. He hadn’t taken the trouble to come. The shit.
The little hippo at her feet abruptly cleared his throat. He was looking up at her with soft, kind eyes. He slowly opened his wide pink mouth. He was going to speak: he would tell her everything.
But before he could explain the meaning of it all, the cane resumed knocking. Thump, thump, thump. As if the play had still not begun. There was another play behind this play, the real play, God’s play, and God was losing His patience.
Jessie suddenly woke up in her bed.
Knock knock knock. Someone was banging at her door.
“Wha? Huh? Who?”
A muffled male voice replied, “It’s me. I’ve come to apologize.”
She was sitting up. She lifted and pulled at her blankets, but it was gone. The hippopotamus of wisdom was nowhere in sight.
“Minute. Just a minute,” she croaked at the door. Her voice was hoarse and dry. She started down the ladder. Someone had come to apologize? But so many people owed her an apology.
She unhooked the chain and opened the door.
And there in her hall was the long, unshaven face of Henry Lewse. He held a wet umbrella in one hand and a large paper funnel in the other.
“Here,” he said and gave her the funnel. “I’m sorry about yesterday. That was very stupid and uncalled for.”
Jessie wondered if she were still dreaming. She folded back the paper; the funnel was full of flowers. Not dream flowers, but real ones, plain white daisies with dusty yellow centers.
So this was the real Henry Lewse in her shabby hallway. He looked as incongruous here as a rose in a bowl of brussels sprouts.
“Sorry,” he said. “I tried calling. But I only got your machine.”
“I turned my cell phone off.”
“I see. Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes: baby blue Nikes.
Jessie realized she should probably ask him in. But she didn’t want to let Henry Lewse enter her grubby privacy. So she just stood at the door in T-shirt and panties, talking to her boss. Or rather, her ex-boss. Or maybe not quite ex-boss.
“I thought we could go out for breakfast,” he finally said. “And then we can talk and iron out our differences.”
“Oh? Yes. We could,” she muttered.
“Where shall we go?”
“Uh, there’s the diner downstairs. Why don’t you just go there? Get a cup of coffee and I’ll meet you. All right?”
“Downstairs?” he asked dubiously.
“Yes. Go out the front door, turn right, and it’s at the end of the block. I’ll get dressed and join you in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine then. See you in fifteen.” He smiled at her, a bashful, guilty, irritated smile. Then he leaned into the apartment, grabbed the door, and pulled it shut. He had been embarrassed talking to his undressed assistant?
She remained by the closed door, staring at the cone of daisies in her hand, wondering again if she were awake or dreaming. She looked at the half window under the loft bed. It was still raining. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was after ten. Which was late for most people, but early for Henry. Nevertheless, he had come all the way downtown to apologize to her. Jessie was surprised, touched, and suspicious.
Not until she stood at her sink, splashing cold water on her face, did she remember her little hippo. What the hell was that about? When did her unconscious get so fucking whimsical? And what fine truth was he going to tell her?