The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

As if to prove this, Lady turns away from me and the chewing recommences.

Well, I can handle that. I’ve been living with Lady for thirteen years, nearly half my married life. There are three things that get her on her feet. One is the rattle of her leash and a call of ‘Elevator!’ Another is the thump of her food dish on the floor. The third—

I get up and walk down the short hall to the kitchen. From the cupboard I take the bag of Snackin’ Slices, making sure to rattle it. I don’t have to wait long for the muted clitter of cocker claws. Five seconds and she’s right there. She doesn’t even bother to bring her toy.

I offer her one of the little carrot-shapes, then toss it into the living room. A little mean, maybe, but the fat old thing can use the exercise. She chases her treat. I linger long enough to start the coffeemaker, then go back into the bedroom. I’m careful to pull the door all the way shut.

Ellen’s still sleeping, and waking up before she does has one benefit: no need for the alarm. I turn it off. Let her sleep a little later. It’s a bronchial infection. I was scared for awhile there, but now she’s on the mend.

I go into the bathroom and officially christen the day by brushing my teeth (I’ve read that in the morning a person’s mouth is as germicidally dead as it ever gets, but the habits we learn as children are hard to break). I turn on the shower, get it good and hot, and step in.

The shower’s where I do my best thinking, and this morning I think about the dream. Five nights in a row I’ve had it. (But who’s counting, right?) Nothing really awful happens in this dream, but in a way that’s the worst part. Because I know – absolutely, positively – that something awful will happen. If I let it.

I’m in an airplane, in business class. I’m in an aisle seat, which is where I prefer to be, so I don’t have to squeeze past anybody if I have to go to the toilet. My tray-table is down. On it are a bag of peanuts and an orange drink that looks like a Vodka Sunrise, a drink I’ve never ordered in real life. The ride is smooth. If there are clouds, we’re above them. The cabin is filled with sunlight. Someone is sitting in the window seat, and I know if I look at him (or her, or possibly it), I’ll see something that will turn my bad dream into a nightmare. If I look into the face of my seatmate, I may lose my mind. It could crack open like an egg and a tide of bloody darkness might pour out.

I give my soapy hair a quick rinse, step out, dry off. My clothes are folded on a chair in the bedroom. I take them and my shoes into the kitchen, which is now filling with the smell of coffee. Nice. Lady’s curled up by the stove, looking at me reproachfully.

‘Don’t go giving me the stink-eye,’ I tell her, and nod toward the closed bedroom door. ‘You know the rules.’

She puts her snout down between her paws and pretends to sleep, but I know she’s still looking at me.

I choose cranberry juice while I wait for the coffee. There’s OJ, which is my usual morning drink, but I don’t want it. Too much like the drink in the dream, I suppose. I have my coffee in the living room with CNN on mute, just reading the crawl at the bottom, which is all a person really needs. Then I turn it off and have a bowl of All-Bran. Quarter to eight. I decide that if the day is nice when I take Lady out, I’ll skip the cab and walk to work.

It’s nice, all right, spring edging into summer and a shine on everything. Carlo, the doorman, is under the awning, talking on his cell phone. ‘Yuh,’ he says. ‘Yuh, I finally got hold of her. She says go ahead, no problem as long as I’m there. She don’t trust nobody, for which I don’t blame her. She got a lot of nice things up there. You come when? Three? You can’t make it earlier?’ He tips me a wave with one white-gloved hand as I walk Lady down to the corner.

We’ve got this down to a science, Lady and I. She does it at pretty much the same place every day, and I’m fast with the poop bag. When I come back, Carlo stoops to give her a pat. Lady waves her tail back and forth most fetchingly, but no treat is forthcoming from Carlo. He knows she’s on a diet. Or supposed to be.

‘I finally got hold of Mrs Warshawski,’ Carlo tells me. Mrs Warshawski is in Five-C, but only technically. She’s been gone for a couple of months now. ‘She was in Vienna.’

‘Vienna, is that so,’ I say.

‘She told me to go ahead with the exterminators. She was horrified when I told her. You’re the only one on Four, Five, or Six who hasn’t complained. The rest of them …’ He shakes his head and makes a whoo sound.

‘I grew up in a Connecticut mill town. It pretty well wrecked my sinuses. I can smell coffee, and Ellie’s perfume if she puts it on thick, but that’s about all.’

‘In this case, that’s probably a blessing. How is Mrs Franklin? Still under the weather?’

‘It’ll be a few more days before she’s ready to go back to work, but she’s a hell of a lot better. She gave me a scare for a while.’

‘Me too. She was going out one day – in the rain, naturally—’