Dreamology(36)

I hear a laugh, a woman’s laugh, loud and full, and suddenly I’m excited. I smile and pick up my pace, hustling back through the dining room, checking beneath each piece of furniture as I go. But I can’t find her. In the main foyer I catch a whiff of something lovely. Sweet and a little bit spicy. Familiar. Like shampoo. I close my eyes and breathe it in. But as soon as it comes, it goes again.

Where is she?

Anxious and alone, I wander over to the window curtains and wrap myself up in deep green silk. I wait; for what, I’m not exactly sure.

That’s when I hear the breathing—large grunts and snorts. I think I should be afraid, but I’m not. I’m less afraid than ever. I’m relieved. They are getting closer, and I wait patiently. Suddenly the curtain is pulled away and I am face-to-face with Jerry, except he’s as big as a buffalo. His wet nose wipes against my face as he sniffs, and then he nudges me, before picking me up by the collar of my sweater and carrying me back through the house.

He hops up the stairs and places me back in my bed, giving me a big slurp with his tongue and curling up next to me. I fall easily to sleep.





16


Swans Mate for Life




JERRY HAS THIS unbearable habit of scraping at the front door for dear life every time he needs to go to the bathroom, and then taking an exhaustive amount of time deciding where to pee. Or worse, just standing on the sidewalk and staring at me indignantly, as though he is waiting for me to tell him what we are doing here in the first place, and why I got him up so early.

“Are you kidding?” I say, staring down at him with my hands on my hips. It’s nine a.m. on Saturday morning and I am in bare feet, jeans, and an old lavender sweater I pulled from one of my mother’s drawers. “You have exactly one minute to go to the bathroom. And then we are going inside, and I don’t care if you have to hold it all morning.” Jerry blinks once before hustling over to the edge of the sidewalk to handle his business.

“That’s what I thought,” I say.

This morning I woke up spooning him like he was a living breathing teddy bear, his little sausage-shaped frame nestled comfortably in the blankets, his giant head resting on the pillow like a person. I also woke up with an odd pit in my stomach. But not the kind of pit I felt the morning after the Brooklyn Flea dream. This one was different. Less heartbroken, more lost. Like I was missing something I couldn’t find, but something I hadn’t been able to find for a while. The feeling is fading little by little, but the memory is vivid. I stare up at the fa?ade of our beautiful old house and then I just know. I was missing her. My mom. I’d been looking for her in my dream.

“Time to go back in, Jer-Bear,” I say, turning around to discover that we are not alone. Oliver’s fluffy head is blocking Jerry’s face as he leans down to pat him on the back.

“Hi!” I say enthusiastically, but when Oliver raises his head to look at me, he just squints.

“I’m sorry, have we met?” he asks.

“Oh, come on,” I say then, giving him a shove.

Oliver’s blue eyes widen in shock, cradling his shoulders as if to protect himself. “Ma’am! Please. I’m just here to visit my friend Jerry. We were roommates in college.” He turns back to the dog. “Jer, do you even know this woman?” I’m pretty sure dogs can’t roll their eyes. But if they could, Jerry definitely just did.

“Very funny,” I say. “What are you really doing here?”

Oliver grins. “Well, obviously I’ve come to take you both on an adventure.”

I open my mouth, ready to protest—I am in bare feet, after all—before realizing that an adventure is exactly what I need.

“I’m only doing it for Jerry,” I say. “He needs to have some fun.” We turn to find Jerry lying on his side on the brick sidewalk, while a little girl with a butterfly balloon rubs his belly.

“Poor Jerry,” Oliver says, shaking his head. “His life is so hard.” Then he crouches down with his hands on his knees and says to my dog, “How do you feel about boats?”

Of all the wonderful books that exist about the city of Boston, Make Way for Ducklings is by far the best. The story is about a mother duck who gives birth to her babies on a small island in the middle of the Charles River, and must find a way to get them back to the pond at the Public Garden. So she marches them through town in a little row, and the whole city stops to “make way,” until they safely plop their fuzzy bottoms into the water, and all is right with the world.

In the Public Garden, which is right across the street from our house, there are also swan boat rides. For three dollars you can climb aboard what basically looks like two green canoes welded together under six rows of wooden benches, followed closely by a giant swan sculpture, behind which sits your tour guide. Then you are pedaled around the pond, which has to be no more than half a mile in length, for fifteen uneventful minutes, and get off again.

“Isn’t this kind of a tourist attraction?” I ask Oliver as we wait in line for a ride.

“Aren’t you still kind of a tourist?” Oliver responds.

“I resent that,” I say. “And so does Jerry.”

Oliver doesn’t answer, he just hands me an envelope. “Here, hold this,” he says.

“Why?” I ask.