Lydia Netzer - How to Tell Toledo from the Night Sky

“You ass,” Sally said.

“That this group must somehow form a family,” Bernice went on, louder, starting to bounce on the bed rhythmically with the theme song she was now singing.

“THE BRADY BUNCH!” hollered Sally into her pillow.

“The Brady Bunch!” both girls sang together, now yelling so that the veins were sticking out on the sides of their faces.

“Bernice!” yelled Sally. A dog was barking in the neighbor’s yard. Sally always pronounced her name with an emphasis on the first syllable, like BERN-iss, when she was joking around like she was angry. “Bernice, this is unacceptable. Now put on a blue dress and your whitest apron, and sweep up this mess.”

Bernice was laughing so hard, her stomach was in spasm.

When they settled down, Sally said, “Now I’m all riled up again. You’re going to have to scratch a lot more, and probably sing, too, but no more TV theme songs. I want Compton and Batteau. And hum the violin parts. You owe me. Hey, when we have our kids, we should teach them all about Compton and Batteau. It’s such an obscure act, when they find out they both know the songs, they’ll feel it’s fate for sure.”

When she was finally asleep, Bernice leaned over to look at Sally’s face. The wide mouth was open, a bit of drool descending onto the pillow. The eyelashes were pressed against her cheek like little marks left by a stylus. The eyelids fluttered as if something beneath them was held in captivity. Bernice wanted nothing more than to press her lips to Sally’s temple, feel the vein that pulsed there, blue and deep, and press their warmth together while her friend slept. It would have been a violation, she thought. It would have been a sin. So Bernice left Sally unkissed, and curled back around into the space in the small of Sally’s back, and went to sleep.

Later that night, Bernice was dreaming. She was in a mall, but an ugly one, and she was passing by a men’s clothing store. Inside the store, Bernice could sense a problem, like you do in dreams. She knew instinctively that something bad was happening. Then she herself was inside the store, moving through the aisles. She saw a woman, standing next to a display of brightly colored shirts, and the woman was naked. The woman was embarrassed, but nobody was really noticing her, so Bernice wanted to tell her it didn’t matter. The woman turned and Bernice knew that it was Sally. Then she saw, like a hammer to the head, that it really was Sally. Not a dream Sally, but Sally having a dream.

“Sally,” she said. “It’s OK, you’re dreaming.”

Sally looked toward Bernice, but it was clear she didn’t really see her. She picked up a shirt from the table and held it against herself, as if she was thinking it could cover her, front to back.

“Sally,” said Bernice. “You’re dreaming. Hey.”

Bernice had to concentrate hard to stay in the room, in the clothing store, with Sally. She knew from reading the books that the hardest part of lucid dreaming was staying in the dream once you’d realized it was, in fact, a dream. Everyone knows what it’s like to figure out you’re dreaming. It’s what you do with the information that matters. Usually you slide away, or just wake up. Bernice forced herself to stay put, and kept calling through the dense underwater audio of the dream, calling to Sally. Sally only pressed her legs together, pressing up against the table, looking back and forth.

Of all the checks you can perform to let your mind know you’re dreaming, being naked should be the easiest. You might not remember to count your fingers, or look at a calendar, or check a watch. But you should be aware that if you’ve let yourself go out in public without pants, what you’re experiencing is not real. However, most everybody in dreams, Sally included, finds themselves in public with no clothes on, and seeks no explanation—only a solution.

Bernice told Sally what the books said. “Take control. It’s your dream. You can put clothes on. Just dream them on.”

Sally turned toward her then, but still appeared confused, as if Bernice was a person she could not clearly see.

So Bernice did the only other thing she could think of to save Sally from the embarrassment of the naked dream, and that was to reach up to her throat and pull her own clothes off. Dreaming, she didn’t bother with zippers and buttons, but just tugged the clothes off like they had already dissolved. Then Bernice was standing there in the clothing store, naked, too. Sally could see her now, though the other patrons still remained gauzily indifferent.

“Bernice,” said Sally.

“It’s OK,” said Bernice. “See? We’re only dreaming.”

Irene saw George sitting in the dark. It was the back of his head that she saw first—a man’s head, boxy and large. She came into the room through the back door, and it was him that she saw right away. Something about the way his shoulders lay back against the seat, or the way his chin was tilted to the side, looking up, made her say, “Mine.” Something in this man her heart recognized. Or, not her heart but her throat. Not her throat but something else, something that might live inside you but not be made of blood and flesh. If there was such a thing available for people to have, Irene hadn’t known about it until last night, when hers had jumped and strained, yearning for George. It was disorienting. Like being sick.

She had come to hear a lecture from a visiting professor. The room was dark, and the star machine was on. Irene didn’t like that.

George turned to look back, and saw her. He waved vigorously, and motioned that she should come over. George had left a seat for her right on the aisle. She sat down next to him and leaned over without looking at him to get her laptop out of its bag.

“Hi!” he said. He put one hand on her knee.

“Hello,” she said into her lap, still reaching into her bag.

“It’s great to see you, Dr. Irene Sparks,” said George.

She sat up with the machine, opened it, and said, “It’s great to be seen, Dr. George Dermont.”

“Do you have any gum?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “I don’t like gum. After all, what’s the point of it?”

“It’s for chewing,” said George.

“I don’t like chewing,” said Irene.

George took his hand back and fiddled around with the notebook on his lap, curling and uncurling one side of the paper. Irene switched her laptop on.

“So how was your day?” he asked. When she turned to face him, she noted his gaze was hovering down around her collarbone.

“Fine,” said Irene. “Assistant is a bit irritable. You know her, I guess.”

“Yeah, Patrice.”

“Sam Beth, she corrected me.”

“Yeah, she’s a … um … Daughter of Babylon. So they’re big on their ancient names. But for paperwork, it’s Patrice.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a bit about that,” said Irene. “The Daughters of Babylon, huh?”

“Some kind of Internet cult,” said George cautiously. “Astronomer priestesses.”

“But I guess you know her pretty well?”

“She told you?”

“She did.”

Sam Beth had approached Irene at the banquet, just as she was trying to leave. Her face was flushed, and her eyes cut back toward George’s table, George’s parents. “I’ve had sex with Gilgamesh,” she said urgently, clutching a wineglass. Irene had continued piloting Belion toward the door, but Sam Beth caught her by the arm.

“Sorry?” Irene had asked. “What did you need?”

“With George,” said Sam Beth. “He’s looking for his Inanna.”

“I don’t get it,” Irene prompted. But this explained the way Sam Beth had behaved in the office. Something inside Irene felt disappointed, and a little sad.