Dovetail(14)

Whatever happened to this family? They looked happy enough when this picture had been taken, but later on something had gone terribly wrong.

Joe had lost his mother but had known only love from all the mother figures in his life. How did this permanent rift start? He’d ask Pearl about it the next morning, and if she wouldn’t talk, he’d question his dad. He wasn’t going to push it until he was home, but he hoped his father would trust him enough to let him know the truth of the matter. If he didn’t find out, he’d always wonder.

He wandered some more, taking note of other family photos. He had no clue who most of them were, but there was one of a large family, parents with four daughters, taken in the front yard with the house in the background. One of older girls was almost certainly Pearl. Were the others her sisters? He shook his head. So many questions.

In the kitchen, he checked the cabinets and the fridge, glad to see eggs, juice, coffee, and milk for breakfast. He wasn’t hungry at the moment but knew tomorrow he’d be ready for a meal.

By the time he’d gone through the house, it had gotten late. His body was still on Trendale time—medication at nine thirty, lights out at ten, and not a peep after that. When he felt his eyelids drooping, he decided to get some sleep.

He debated for a moment, then decided that leaving some lights on downstairs would be reassuring to him. Not that he was afraid, but it would be a good deterrent to some would-be thief who might think the house was vacant. Plus, it helped guide the way. Just as Pearl had said, the second door on the left upstairs led to a room that was cleaner than the rest of the house. The sheets and blankets smelled fresh too, like fabric softener. He found a nearby bathroom, washed up for the night, and brushed his teeth.

Stripping down to his briefs, Joe slipped between the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. He’d been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to sleep at all without the nighttime pills he’d gotten at Trendale, so he was glad when a wave of fatigue washed over him. There was something rewarding about the feeling of drifting off to sleep, particularly after a long day. And it had been a long day, at least emotionally.

Joe dreamed.

Again, it wasn’t the shapeless nonsense of most dreams but a scene unfolding sequentially as experienced by someone who was there. He used the word dream when describing it only because he didn’t know what else to call it. There were some similarities. He experienced it during the night while he slept, like a dream. Also, he had no control over what unfolded. But there were differences too. More vivid than a memory and more real than a dream, it felt like he was there, thrust into the situation, hearing and seeing and smelling and feeling all of it. All of it. He had no choice in the matter. He never knew he was dreaming at the time he was experiencing it, just that he’d been thrust inexplicably into someone else’s life. He was another man, or at least that was the sense he got, and when he was this other person, he wasn’t Joe Arneson anymore. When he woke up, it was always with a shock at finding himself transported to a different body.

The dream he had that night started off on a positive note. For the most part, the emotion he felt during it was one of joy. He saw a young woman sitting at a piano, playing dramatic, vibrant music. Others were in the room in his peripheral view, but he couldn’t have said who they were or how many there were. He had eyes only for her. Her hands fluttered over the keys like the wings of a bird. She wore a simple blue dress, and her hair was swept up, revealing the back of her neck. Oh, the music! She played with a passion, pouring her soul onto the keyboard, the music swelling, and his own mood swelled with it. Above and behind her, there was a flickering of light, something that puzzled him when he thought about this dream later. What was that? The pulse of light was large and erratic and had the attention of everyone else in the room.

Joe was along for the ride as an unidentified man. He walked down an incline to join her, surprising her by sitting next to her on the bench. She gave him a quirk of her lips, a small brief smile, but kept playing. He was so close now that he could see the sweep of her hair as it was pulled back and pinned in place. Again, he noticed the graceful arch of her neck above her collar. He had to fight the urge to kiss it; he sensed they didn’t know each other well and that kissing her around other people would be shameful in some way.

Her hair was a warm golden brown. It was frustratingly hard to get a good look at her face. Her hands were small, but that didn’t stop her fingers from moving deftly up and down the keyboard. She leaned into the piano, pressing with a fury, the music building and building and then softening. Above them, the lights quivered, casting moonbeams over her. The people behind them gasped. He leaned in cautiously, wanting to inhale her, all of her, aware that this was his moment, that he could physically connect with her while everyone else was distracted. All he wanted was a touch, and an innocent one at that—the brush of his hand on her arm or his knee against hers. He would have settled for one brief moment of connection.

It wasn’t destined to be.

Just as he leaned in, he was jerked backward by someone gripping the collar of his shirt, yanking so hard that he was thrown to the floor with a force that took his breath away. The room swam above him, the flickering lights outlining a figure leaning over him in a menacing way. In the dim light above the man’s head, he could make out what appeared to be a crystal chandelier mounted on the ceiling.

He couldn’t see a face. What he heard was a threatening voice saying, “Keep your disgusting hands off her!”