Aftermath of Dreaming(35)
I look at Michael—who is now looking at the veil as if it sprang fully formed from my dream like Athena from Zeus’s head—and wonder what he’ll say. He’s been known to just change the subject if he decides a topic has reached its end, unencumbered by conversational rules, yet communication is his life. But maybe that’s why.
“An emergency rescue vehicle,” Michael says. “That’s a trip.”
In all the years of remembering that dream, I had never thought of it that way. Maybe so I wouldn’t have to wonder what I needed rescuing from. When I told Suzanne about it after it happened, she was just annoyed that I had her saying something that she thought was so dumb.
“Do you have any food?”
I know I do not, at least the kind he’d be interested in, but I go to the kitchen anyway, duly checking the oatmeal in case some miraculous conception had occurred and it had divinely delivered cookies. I am taking out two apples, plus the jar of peanut butter, when Michael walks in and peers over my shoulder into the fridge’s brightly shelved almost-emptiness.
“Let’s get in your bed,” he says, then turns and leaves the kitchen.
I put away the apples and peanut butter, fill two glasses with water, and follow him into my bedroom. It occurs to me that the scream dream might be scared off by his presence tonight. I hope so, otherwise it would be kind of weird for him to wake up at three A.M. as I scream hysterically into his ear. Michael is already in bed, appears, in fact, already asleep when I walk into the room. I put the glasses down on the stack of antique suitcases I use as a nightstand, pull back the spread, and get in. With one sleepy reach, Michael pulls me close to him, his body like a pillow. His arm lies over me protectively, and I fall asleep more easily than I have in months, somehow knowing that there won’t be any screams tonight.
12
The early morning air in my apartment is still tingly even though Michael is over two hours gone. My living room is ebullient with last night’s mess strewn about. Clothes are on the floor, the couch’s slipcover has been pulled off to throw in the wash, and the room is charged with the experience of us.
I’m spinning and twirling, even though I’m sitting still. I want to tell Reggie everything, leave out no detail, but I know that I can’t, so I force myself to dial his number slowly, trying to keep my excitement held back.
“That’s great, honey.” Reggie sounds uninterested and annoyed. “I’m glad you and Michael had such a good time.”
I have told him the most G-rated, no-threat-to-our-friendship version of last night’s date that I could, but clearly that made no difference.
“Oh, Reggie, are you really that upset with me?” I can hear him vigorously cutting what I know is sausage on his end of the line. “It was a date, with someone who knows me and l—l—”
“And what? Someone who what?”
“Okay, all right, so Michael hasn’t said the L-word to me—yet, but…” At least there’s a chance of my having a future with him because, for one thing, he’s straight, I want to say, but don’t, because honestly I don’t think Reggie is. At least I don’t think of him that way. More neutral kind of. If not deep inside really gay. He told me a story once a couple of years ago about how he and this male friend of his used to kiss so much whenever they saw each other that they practically had their tongues down each other’s throats. I had thought when I first met Reggie that he wasn’t really into women, so I was relieved that he finally felt safe enough to talk about it with me, and I told him the truth. I love you whoever you’re attracted to, I said, what matters is that you follow your heart. He was quiet for a moment then changed the subject. And ever since then, all he talks about is women. As if that conversation never took place. And he’s had a few girlfriends, so I don’t know what to think.
Not that Reggie wants to date me. Which is one reason I find his possessiveness or whatever it is so easy to brush off, though annoying because sometimes I think he thinks he should want to date me. Similar to the way I feel about beets. The idea sounds good, they’d be unusual on my plate, but once tasted, they’re rejected and forgotten, as if forces other than myself had conspired to put them in front of me. So I understand, and besides, I’ve never even heard of a vegetable that Reggie will eat.
“Are we not going to be able to talk anymore because I’m seeing Michael again? You didn’t hate him so much when I was with him before.”
“I was building up steam.”
“Reggie.” I pick up my clothes to put in the hamper, returning my living room to its natural state. There is emptiness on the line, then a sigh that is so connected to how I feel that I wonder for a moment if it was mine.
“I just don’t want to see you go through the same thing you did last summer, but you know what? It’s your life and it’s none of my business.”
“Ow. Hello? You’re my best friend—I want it to be your business. I just don’t want you against it—or me.”
“I’m not, honey. Really. I just want you to be happy.”
“That’s funny; so do I.”
I stare out my living room window at the tree in the courtyard, wishing it could transport me away from all this Reggie-mess. It is a type of eucalyptus, silvery green and light brown, a habitat just out of reach but on display for me, along with the birds that nest there, the wind in the leaves. Sometimes I just sit and look at it, watching it through my living room window because even though it’s not a kind of tree that I grew up seeing, it reminds me of home—the big branches shading everything, an intermediary between earth and sky. It makes me feel safe and happy having it there right outside.