Dovetail: A Novel(54)

Kathleen was engrossed in the movie, delighted to see Jamie Lee Curtis come on the screen, when Joe abruptly got to his feet and walked down the aisle toward the front of the theater. She craned her neck to see what he was doing. There was no exit door in that direction.

Joe reached the end of the aisle, close to the screen, and stopped, just standing there, looking at nothing at all. His back was to the crowd, and since he wasn’t blocking the screen, no one objected. She could barely make out his form in the dim light, but he appeared to look up at the ceiling and back down at a spot on the floor. Then he took a few steps back and did the same thing again. What in the world was he doing?

She got up and went to join him, touching his shoulder. “Joe?” she whispered. Startled, he turned around, a stricken look on his face. “Is something wrong?” she asked softly.

“No, I just . . .” He shook his head, like he couldn’t figure it out.

“The lobby is that way.”

“No, that’s not it. I just remembered something.”

Someone in the audience yelled out, “Hey, quiet down in front! Take it outside.”

Kathleen took Joe by the arm and led him back up the aisle. Instead of stopping at their row, Joe kept going, so she grabbed his cap off the seat and joined him as he went through the swinging doors.

Out in the lobby, she presented him with his cap, which he took from her and held loosely at his side. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think I have to cut the evening short.”

“You don’t look so good,” she said kindly. “Why don’t we get some air?”

Wordlessly, he followed her outside. Leading the way to a bench facing the street, she indicated he should sit, then took the spot beside him. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”

He took in a deep breath, his chest swelling. “I feel a little unsteady, like I just lived through an earthquake.”

“You look like you’ve lived through an earthquake. What happened in there?”

He turned to her. “You mentioned dinner. Would you mind going now?”

“The Pine Cone?”

Joe shook his head. “No. Somewhere with a bar. I need a drink.”

Kathleen knew of a steak house a few blocks down the street, and they were able to walk there. They arrived in a matter of minutes. The sign outside read MARJORIE’S SUPPER CLUB—FOOD AND DRINKS.

“From the name, I thought it was a private club,” he said, sliding into his side of the booth. “Like a country club. I didn’t know it was open to anyone.”

“A supper club isn’t really a club. It’s a type of restaurant. A Wisconsin thing,” Kathleen said. The hostess set menus down in front of them, assuring them their waitress would be with them shortly, then walked away.

“So what makes a restaurant a supper club?” Joe asked.

“I’m not entirely sure, but they all seem to have relish trays on the table.” She pointed to a cut-glass serving tray holding pats of butter, crackers, carrots, pickles, and celery. “And the decor is sort of old-fashioned posh.” She indicated the dark paneling and framed oil paintings of landscapes, each with its own spotlight. “Supper clubs usually feature prime rib and steaks. And you’ll see a lot of old people drinking a cocktail called a Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet.”

The waitress came for their drink order. Joe said, “I’ll have a Brandy Old Fashioned Sweet.” He grinned at Kathleen. “When in Rome.”

Kathleen said, “I’ll have the same.”

After they’d been served their drinks and ordered the prime rib special, she finally broached the subject of Joe’s behavior at the movie theater. “So you felt like you lived through an earthquake?” she asked carefully. “Literally, or was that a metaphor?”

“Not literally.” Joe looked pensive. “I just had a strong physical response to being there. I think . . .” He paused, taking a sip from his drink. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

She chuckled but stopped upon seeing his expression. “I’m sorry. I thought you were kidding.”

“I wish. I was hoping this wouldn’t come up. Did my grandmother happen to tell you where I was before I came here to Pullman to help her with the house?”

Kathleen shook her head.

“I was in a mental health facility. I was what they call a full-time resident, which meant I lived there. An inpatient. For months.” He studied her face, then kept going. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not dangerous.”

“I didn’t think you were.” She pulled the fruit skewer off the rim of her drink glass and inspected the orange slice and cherry. “So why were you there?”

“It wasn’t my idea, believe me. I’d been living with my folks and having really vivid, troubling dreams. I’d call out in my sleep or wake up shaking, feeling absolutely devastated. My parents were worried. I thought I was going for a consultation at a place called Trendale Psychiatric Treatment Center, and the next thing I knew, I was talked into being admitted for a short stay so I could”—here he made finger quotes—“be assessed.”

“And what was their assessment?”

“I don’t know that there ever was an official diagnosis. All I know is that they couldn’t help me. They were going down the wrong path. The doctors were sure it was tied to something in my childhood, but I’m telling you”—he leaned over the table—“these dreams have nothing to do with me or my life. In the dreams, I’m this other man, and I’m reliving the same things over and over again. It’s like I’m living his life or something. I tried to tell them, but no one believed me. One of the docs kept saying they were creations of my own mind. But today, at the theater, I now have proof that it’s not just my imagination at work. In one of the dreams, this man was knocked to the floor, and when he looked up, he saw a chandelier exactly like that one, with that same decorative medallion. You said it was one of a kind.”