Read Online How the Dead Dream by Lydia Millet - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lydia Millet
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morning a bartender called him. She had polished off a bottle of champagne, passed out in a bougainvillea, and was waiting to be picked up near Venice Beach.
“I must be allergic,” she said to him, as he drove her home. She was still slurring her words.
He patted her knee. “Drunk, we call it.”
She gazed out the window until they pulled into the parking lot beneath his building. Then she stayed sitting, her eyes glassy. He walked around the car and opened her door for her.
“You’re a good boy,” she said fondly, and stumbled over the door lip. He caught her before she fell.
Finally he persuaded her to take a vacation. He loaded her suitcases into his car; he bought her a yellow rose, which she pinned to her lapel. Then he drove her to a cruise ship docked in San Diego, bound for Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, and Cabo. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a white dress as
she walked up the gangplank; she waved at him from the rails smiling madly, as though there were streamers descending around her and theme music playing.
That night he took his dog onto the bed with him, a gesture his mother roundly condemned as unsanitary. In the deepest part of the night he woke up and listened to the dog breathe, the regular pace of the breathing. There was no moon, and through the thick drapes his mother had hung on his windows even the light of the city did not penetrate. He lay with his arms and legs frozen, imagining paralysis: he tried to feel the gradual freezing, the numbness that crept up into him. As a child he had done this.
Back then he had liked to play for a short time that he was something else. In the water he was a dead man, in the grass of the yard he was a fallen log. Then he forgot childish things.
The silence of the apartment was unaccustomed now, since his mother had often paced at night, washing and ironing, watching cable television and drinking instant decaffeinated coffee. Always if he woke there was the faint hum of activity beneath him. Before her, what? Now he barely remembered how his nights had been. Before his mother, the dog; before the dog, nothing. But now he was used to company.
He pushed back the covers and moved to the foot of the bed, where he lay next to the dog, along her warm back. His arms were pulled in close to his body and the dog’s head was a few inches from his face. Could he sleep here, or would he be distracted?
For a while he was: he smelled the skin of the dog, the hair of the dog: he felt the dog’s warmth. But patiently he waited for all this to pass, and tried to match their breathing.
And near morning, waking with goose bumps raised along his arms, he pulled the covers down around both of them.
•
Then his first golden egg, a swath of empty desert would be converted to subdivisions for retirees, with golf courses and Olympic-size swimming pools and luxury spas and a phalanx of nurses to monitor cardiac rhythms and tend to recovering hip and knee surgeries. Down the road, thanks to economies of scale and various state and federal subsidies, it might become a great citadel—light rail systems, a solar-powered mall. But in California nothing ambitious came without an array of planning difficulties and lawsuits from the liberal fringe, and soon enough there were cases in district court; he excused himself from conference calls with his public-relations consultants, which droned on and ate into his time on other undertakings.
The project stalled.
Meanwhile he got regular postcards from his mother, who claimed to have met “wonderful people” on the cruise and decided to fly from Yucatan to Guaymas with a claims adjuster from Toledo.
Dear T. , read a postcard featuring a sombrero, The weather is beautiful hear . You would not recognize me with my brown sun tan I look just like a native!! My espanol is muy better too.
The court’s opinion could easily go against his enterprise— he did not watch the details but this much was quite clear— so it was imperative
“I must be allergic,” she said to him, as he drove her home. She was still slurring her words.
He patted her knee. “Drunk, we call it.”
She gazed out the window until they pulled into the parking lot beneath his building. Then she stayed sitting, her eyes glassy. He walked around the car and opened her door for her.
“You’re a good boy,” she said fondly, and stumbled over the door lip. He caught her before she fell.
Finally he persuaded her to take a vacation. He loaded her suitcases into his car; he bought her a yellow rose, which she pinned to her lapel. Then he drove her to a cruise ship docked in San Diego, bound for Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan, and Cabo. She wore a wide-brimmed hat and a white dress as
she walked up the gangplank; she waved at him from the rails smiling madly, as though there were streamers descending around her and theme music playing.
That night he took his dog onto the bed with him, a gesture his mother roundly condemned as unsanitary. In the deepest part of the night he woke up and listened to the dog breathe, the regular pace of the breathing. There was no moon, and through the thick drapes his mother had hung on his windows even the light of the city did not penetrate. He lay with his arms and legs frozen, imagining paralysis: he tried to feel the gradual freezing, the numbness that crept up into him. As a child he had done this.
Back then he had liked to play for a short time that he was something else. In the water he was a dead man, in the grass of the yard he was a fallen log. Then he forgot childish things.
The silence of the apartment was unaccustomed now, since his mother had often paced at night, washing and ironing, watching cable television and drinking instant decaffeinated coffee. Always if he woke there was the faint hum of activity beneath him. Before her, what? Now he barely remembered how his nights had been. Before his mother, the dog; before the dog, nothing. But now he was used to company.
He pushed back the covers and moved to the foot of the bed, where he lay next to the dog, along her warm back. His arms were pulled in close to his body and the dog’s head was a few inches from his face. Could he sleep here, or would he be distracted?
For a while he was: he smelled the skin of the dog, the hair of the dog: he felt the dog’s warmth. But patiently he waited for all this to pass, and tried to match their breathing.
And near morning, waking with goose bumps raised along his arms, he pulled the covers down around both of them.
•
Then his first golden egg, a swath of empty desert would be converted to subdivisions for retirees, with golf courses and Olympic-size swimming pools and luxury spas and a phalanx of nurses to monitor cardiac rhythms and tend to recovering hip and knee surgeries. Down the road, thanks to economies of scale and various state and federal subsidies, it might become a great citadel—light rail systems, a solar-powered mall. But in California nothing ambitious came without an array of planning difficulties and lawsuits from the liberal fringe, and soon enough there were cases in district court; he excused himself from conference calls with his public-relations consultants, which droned on and ate into his time on other undertakings.
The project stalled.
Meanwhile he got regular postcards from his mother, who claimed to have met “wonderful people” on the cruise and decided to fly from Yucatan to Guaymas with a claims adjuster from Toledo.
Dear T. , read a postcard featuring a sombrero, The weather is beautiful hear . You would not recognize me with my brown sun tan I look just like a native!! My espanol is muy better too.
The court’s opinion could easily go against his enterprise— he did not watch the details but this much was quite clear— so it was imperative
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