Alex Adams: White Horse

“Dreams are funny things,” he says. “All this technology, all these specialists and their experiments, and we still don’t have a grip on what they are or what they mean.” The elevator shakes and hums. “You asked about my dreams. Since we’re just two people making conversation, I’ll tell you.” He hits the Stop button and we jerk to a halt. “I’m standing on a beach in Greece, where my family are from. There’s no sand. The beaches are pebble, the water still. I feel… like I’m the only person left on earth. So I crouch down and pick up a smooth stone, and when I stand I feel there’s someone behind me. A woman. I can’t see her but I know she’s there.”

“Because you’ve had the dream before?”

His smile is reluctant. His eyes dark and serious. “Many times. It always plays out the same. When I turn, I’m almost deafened by the sound of a single gunshot. Red blooms across her stomach. It spreads fast until she’s covered in her own blood. I race to her, scoop her up as she falls, but it’s too late. And I am helpless.”

“The man who would help everyone is helpless,” I say.

“Not everyone.” He smiles. “Anyone on a reality TV show is screwed.”

Sunshine. He smells of sunshine. My eyes close for just a moment and I’m standing out in my grandmother’s yard, surrounded by fresh sheets being slow-baked under a high summer sun. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me.

“What do you think it means?”

He shrugs, taps the Stop button, and we start moving again.

“Nothing. It’s just a dream.” A dimple breaks the plane of his cheek. “Unless it’s not. I’ll make you a deal. Take action in your dream. Tip the jar. See what lies beneath.”

“And if I do that?”

“I’ll take you out to dinner.”

It’s what I want; I know that.

We lurch as the elevator stops. He’s still watching me, the question in his eyes, waiting on my answer.

The words catch in my throat, then shake themselves loose. “I’m sorry,” I say, “but it wouldn’t be right. But if the world ends tomorrow, understand that I regret saying no.”

The world doesn’t end thenext day. Or the day after that. But six months later, humanity is too busy circling the drain for any of us to worry about dates we didn’t accept.

The day grinds on. Eachhour heavier than the last. Theoretically they should be getting lighter as I get closer to Brindisi, but like any theory it’s there to be disproven.

When I mention this to Lisa she asks, “What’s in Brindisi?”

“Boats. More specifically, a boat. The Elpis .”

“Can I come?”

This morning she was glassy-eyed, but now she’s clear and bright. Her chest bones are a skin-covered xylophone peeking out of the V-neck of her shirt. Mine are the same beneath my raincoat.

“If you want to.” Though where she’d go without me hadn’t entered my thoughts until now. “I’m counting on it.”

“Yay.” She gives a little clap. “Where’s the boat going?”

“Greece.”

“Why go there?”

“Because I’m meeting someone.”

She chews on this for a moment. “What if they’re not there?”

“They will be.”

“But what if they’re not?”

“They will be.”

“They will be,” she parrots.

Ben’s eyes are bloodshot; asnot droplet hangs from the reddened rim of his left nostril.

“Have you seen Stiffy?”

It’s 2:53 a.m. I haven’t seen anything but my crazy dreams for the past five hours. I try to think. When did I last see his cat? The night James came over? That was two, no, three nights ago. Have I seen the marmalade tomcat since then?

“Is he missing?”

My question is stupid. Of course he’s missing, otherwise Ben wouldn’t be here searching. But the sleep has scrambled my head and I haven’t yet untangled myself from its hold.

Ben wipes the back of his hand across his nose. He pulls his omnipresent brown cardigan tighter around his narrow body. He’s pale, I see that now, and not just from the hallway’s harsh light.

“Yeah. For a couple days now. It’s not like him, you know?”

“He likes his food.”

“Yeah.”

I feel bad for Ben; Stiffy is all he has. “I’ll keep an eye out, okay? I have to work in a few hours, but I’ll help you look for him tonight.”

“Really?”

I make all the right noises and Ben retreats. Sleep doesn’t come again. It’s done with me for the night. Friday. The last day of the working week. Tonight I see Dr. Rose. Which means it’s three nights ago, not two, that I saw James.

Steam rises from the cupin my hands. It’s a thin, shimmering shield that separates me from Dr. Rose. He’s watching me—not like a woman, but like a client. Between last time and this time he’s flipped a switch, and now we’re each of us in our proper place. I’m glad. Really, I am. Because I like Friday nights; I want to see the next one with him. And the one after that.

“Why do you do it?”

My thoughts pull out of the coffee. “Why do I clean floors?”

He nods once.

“Would you believe me if I said I like working with my hands?”

Seconds tick by without him speaking. He isn’t visiting any other part of me until I’ve shown him this piece.

“Because when Sam died I realized that life is about an inch long, and I didn’t want to drop more hours in a bucket I had no intention of filling. So I took a janitorial job that paid well enough, offered decent benefits, and didn’t ask me to think too hard. It gave me time to think about what I want to be when I grow up, where I want to study. And it’s satisfying. It yields immediate results. Something is dirty, then it’s not.”

“What do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Happy.”

“I want to see that.”

“What happened to your friends?”Lisa asks.

“Dead.”

“Me too.”

A while later…

“Do you think they’re better off?”

“Sometimes.”

“Why?”

“Because not everybody can handle this.”

“But we can.”

“We’re doing our best.”

“What do you think will happen to us?”

“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “How about you?”

She shrugs. “I think I’m going to die. I’m scared. Are you scared?”

“Sometimes. But I try not to think about it too hard.”

Lisa’s makeshift cane taps constantly, chipping away the miles. My blisters have hardened into thick lumps on my heels and soles.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“What was it like?”

“Great and terrible.” Like Oz.

“I’ve never been in love. At least, I don’t think so. I used to have this boyfriend, Eddie. He wasn’t really a boyfriend—more like a boy who was a friend. He kissed me one time and then after that he wouldn’t speak to me. I cried for a week. Do you think that was love?”

“Maybe. Only you can know for sure.”

“I don’t think it was. I hope not. But I hope so, too. Because I don’t want to die without falling in love at least once.”

James is leaning back onthe couch, poring through a textbook bigger than his head.

“So, what do you think, Rain Man?”

I laugh. “Jesus, you can’t call him that.”

“Sure I can.” He winks at me.

Raoul turns away from the jar, flashes me a smile that makes me wish I was wearing sunglasses. “I know what they call me behind my back. Could be worse. Like James.”

James is making a meal of Raoul with his eyes when he’s not focused on the book. Part lust, part fascination with the younger man’s expertise.