Chapter 1
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| "Big day tomorrow, agent," said the marshal and shut the door. Neal waited for the scary shadows to begin and thought about tomorrow. If you don't like what's going on around you, you might as well concentrate on what will happen when it quits. Sooner or later, there will be something different. Maybe it won't be better but it won't be the same. This is a fact. Oh, well. Anyhow, you can't control the past but you can dream yourself away from the present to another time and place and while you dream, you can plan for the future. Just because you dream doesn't mean you can't get your work done. Just because you work doesn't mean you can't have fun. |
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| You have to be careful with dreams. Did the cellar door really open? Did the spider really scamper along the edge of the curving limestone ledge? Was an envelope really wedged between two crumbling bricks? Edge, ledge, wedge. Rhymes, like dreams, can slow you down. You have to get past them. Twenty criss-crossed pills dribbled out to be counted and pocketed. Five twenty-dollar bills straightened and slipped into place where the pills had been. Just after midnight the door closed. In an hour it opened again. The money disappeared, the empty envelope stayed and for the next to the last time on this night the door closed on the spider's domain. |
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| You can't change dreams but you can remember who you are and why you're dreaming what you're dreaming. You might as well pretend there's a reason even if there isn't. Otherwise, you'll just bang around in your own head and maybe get hurt. The cellar door opened. What now? The penlight played over the moldy walls seeking eight legs struggling with death and destruction or so it might seem to a young dreamer. The light showed the bottom of the steps where to this day the earth floor remains as black as the Ace of Spades, pitch or doom. Furry orange crates against the north wall still hold dusty jars of preserved piccalilli, chowchow and chili sauce. In the southwest corner a small locked trunk still takes up space. Unlike spiders, squirrels and foxes, humans remain many years in the same place. |
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| The silver key fit and turned. Taped to the inside of the lid, the paper rustled. At the top of the yellowy sheet, Dr. Tempest M. C. K. Preacham had printed his name. Beneath he'd hand-drawn a table with four columns and the headings of "Name", "Date", "Preparation" and "Use". He'd created the patient tables with an Eversharp fountain pen and ruler back before keyboards and copiers when doctors had to know their patients, like them or not. In the clear face of the dream were no column entries and the trunk itself appeared empty until the round mother-of-pearl button revealed the hidden shelf. But to talk in front of your dreams is to fall behind your history. Dreams have their own sense of direction and mystery. |
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| You can hear in dreams and Neal heard the button click. Two small, corked jars without labels were lifted from the truck and dropped into separate compartments in the valise. The shelf swung, the lid lowered, the key locked. The penlight first flirted up the steps and then across the yard. The light went out and the cellar door closed for the last time on this night. Spiders hate people messing around where they live so this one had to be in a bad mood. Still, he or she repaired damage and rewove the best he or she could because hey, what else is a spider in a cellar to do? |
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| Dream -- that's what. If you don't like stuff, you can dream but you can't count on spiders to do this even though they mostly keep to themselves so they probably wouldn't get in trouble over it. Through the third floor bedroom window of the Fairwell mansion, the penlight illuminated remaining tasks. Look out! When your dreams start to sound like your teacher, you better pay attention. On the desk was a huge, old book with gold letters on the cover: King's American Dispensatory by Harvey Wickes Felter, M.D., and John Uri Lloyd, Phr. M., Ph. D., © 1898. Wur! Next to the book lay a newspaper open to a story about a movie named Nashville with purple ink highlighting the parts about a man who claimed there were too many lawyers in the United States Congress. Okay, who knows how Neal could read any of this but he could and he kept on reading to himself like he was sure he had to learn but wasn't sure what. There were 288 lawyers in Congress in 1976 when Hal Phillip Walker got mad and complained. Nobody was counting doctors. Counting doctors in Congress wasn't a big deal in 1976 although maybe it should have been or should be. When, whether or why counting doctors or lawyers in Congress was or is a big deal for anyone may not matter in dreams, actually. |
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| Dr. Preacham's sharpened strap razor cut and diced the roots. The mortar and piston, his tools when he'd practiced and prescribed, crushed the leaves and berries. His funnel dribbled the green powders into the crystal decanter three-quarters full of sweet, strong cherry cordial. The stoppered decanter was placed in the cabinet. The tools were stored in the valise. Someone hummed, "were you there when they crucified my Lord?" The book rested on the newspaper. Suddenly the night lost pictures and sounds. Without the penlight and looking from the outside in, the moon painted the bedroom window like any other, backlighting the glass with rock, water and woods, silvering the roof of the mansion and grounds. |
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| Built in 1898 for his bride, reports the Salt Lick Historical Society Guidebook, the first Delaney Fairwell chose a federalist design since modified for beauty and utility. The County takes pride in this 19th century example of building skills. Screened balconies surround the upper floors. Filigrees of ivy cling to the stone pillars year round. Century-old trees grace the yard and imposing structure. The Fairwell mansion is recognized in architectural circles as a national treasure. |
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| You can hear and see in dreams whether or not you listen and watch. The River rolled past loud enough to wake the baby. Neal was five miles away as the crow flies but he could hear the water slap the banks below the mansion and see the green phosphorous patches spread. Okay, he had to open his eyes. First he looked up north to Canada, then out west to where the spires of the Milo churches that have spires poke the sky on the way to California, then down south to the solid bins of the Salt Lick County Farmers Cooperative where Iris Kelly's dad works 24/6 and sometimes 24/7, then back east to black and more black. He covered his head with his pillow. Clouds covered the moon and the screech owl called. The black was thickest before dawn when the red sun rose fast and hot and bright as a fireball. |
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 | Down at the creek, the Old Man scratched his shoulder on a dead elm. He leaned to drink and swung his head and snorted. He was suspicious. You would be too if people were always shooting arrows and bullets at you. Okay, maybe not always. Maybe only two months a year but still. Anyhow, the Old Man twitched his tail and stretched his neck. He knew a field where he might find delicious food. Sniffing the air he thought he smelled timothy or sweet clover or alfalfa and he tossed his big head before trotting off into the woods. |
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| Good smells in a dream are easy to get along and grass doesn't smell bad. Besides, no way would Neal miss a chance to hang with the Old Man. Right away the two of them teamed up to patrol Fairwell Whitetail Farms and no, Neal didn't eat grass. He was dreaming. He's not crazy. When the team checked security at the mansion, they saw Ham Fairwell, barefoot and wearing bibs and stuck in a pear tree directly under the window that had been so busy earlier. Halfway to the roof and halfway to the ground, Ham needed help and the tree needed pruning but who had a ladder or snippers? Neal looked at the Old Man. The Old Man looked at Neal. What could they do? Ham hugged the sticky bark. His long fingers rubbed and tapped and pulled while curious bees and flies circled. Ham didn't want to stop but he didn't know how to go on. He was higher than high and lower than low. The Old Man charged the tree like a bull but this did no good and Ham screamed until his twin Delaney arrived and called to him, "come down, Ham, you can climb tomorrow." |
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| "Will she, will she, will she?" Ham asked his brother. |
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| One twin may be nothing like the other. |
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| Brothers can be different too and are. Neal doesn't have one but he knows some and you can trust him. Delaney didn't answer his question so Ham stayed put and asked over and over. He asked until Neal's head hurt and the Old Man ran away. Also, Ham drummed and strummed on the pear tree with his fingers and toes. Plus, too many rhymes waste time and in the end is usually where the rhyme goes. |
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