says, and hands Daniel her bowl of beet juice. "Are you sure you don't want a sweater? I'm cold."
The crack has made its way to the outer edges of the saucer. Margaret watches, vaguely alarmed now, as the saucer breaks in two and Daniel and Stephen's section of the saucer begins to float away.
The mist turns to rain.
"Hey!" Margaret calls. "Where are you guys going? Can I come too?" She reaches down to undo her seat belt, but there doesn't seem to be a clasp anywhere.
"To the gas station, Margaret," Stephen answers. The distance between them is growing, and a fierce, steady wind begins to kick up. Stephen has to shout. "WE'RE ALL OUT OF JUICE!"
The wind smells odd, Margaret notice s. Vaguely medicinal, like bour bon. The rain is being driven down hard and fast now; the raindrops feel like pinpricks. This must be what it feels like to get a tattoo, Margaret thinks. She continues to try and free herself from the seat belt; it seems to be tightening.
"I'll get you a sweater, honey! Wait!" she calls out, but the wind is
whipping with such intensity that she can't be sure Daniel hears her.
Daniel turns and waves at her.
"See you soon, Mom," he shouts. "I'll bring something back for you." Daniel takes a sip from the bowl of beet juice. When he looks up again,
his face, still smiling, is covered in blood. His mouth begins to move; he
is trying to say something.
"WHAT, HONEY?" Margaret screams, frantic and terrified now. She thrashes wildly against the grip of the seat belt. "WHAT IS IT, DANNY? WHAT?!" As he drifts away, Margaret can see Daniel's mouth still moving, but his voice is drowned out by the roaring wind.
Stephen takes a long drag on his cigarette and then puts it out on the saucer floor. He looks up and—exhaling a gray, fetid cloud of smoke— blows Margaret a kiss.
Suddenly, Stephen and Daniel's part of the saucer explodes into a thousand pieces.
Margaret screams. There is blackness. The dream is over. There is one other thing about the dream that never changes: When it is over and Margaret wakes up, she is always sobbing.
Down the hall, Wanda is dreaming about making love with Peter. They are in their loft apartment in Manhattan. Outside, beneath their window, a winged Charlie Parker stands under a lit street lamp and plays '"Round Midnight" on an Irish tin whistle.
And several miles northwest of the Hughes mansion in the Olympic View Apartments (B- 101 ), a man with an extensive collection of H awaiian shirts is wide awake. Insomniac by nature, he resists sleep b ecause he fears the iconography of his dreams: When peopled, they f eature characters from his past; when he is alone, he roams the rooms o f a huge house in which, somewhere, a woman is crying. He can never f ind her.
He is trying to read a Dashiell Hammett novel on loan from the C entral Branch of the Seattle Public L ibrary. But his eyes keep strayi ng to a framed black-and-white photograph which rests on the table n ext to his bed.
Usually, when he looks at this photograph—which is quite often— h e pays scant attention to the other people in it. They are out of focus, a nd have a ghostlike, slightly dematerialized look that doesn't command v isual attention. Their only purpose is to provide background interest or the central subject of the photograph—a woman bowling—in the s ame way that a chorus line of nondescript, leggy dancers provide deco r ation for a Broadway star.
Tonight, though, the man's eyes keep catching on one of the back g round figures: a little girl, barely visible over the top of the scorekeeper's able.
Goddammit, the man is thinking. Her eyes.
And then he does something he's never done before. He turns the p icture facedown on the bedside table and refocuses his attention on his b ook, which is, after all, a helluva good one.
Her eyes— goddammit —are as big as saucers.
Eight
Going into Tex
Wanda was lounging against the kitchen counter, already reading the morning paper. Margaret
The crack has made its way to the outer edges of the saucer. Margaret watches, vaguely alarmed now, as the saucer breaks in two and Daniel and Stephen's section of the saucer begins to float away.
The mist turns to rain.
"Hey!" Margaret calls. "Where are you guys going? Can I come too?" She reaches down to undo her seat belt, but there doesn't seem to be a clasp anywhere.
"To the gas station, Margaret," Stephen answers. The distance between them is growing, and a fierce, steady wind begins to kick up. Stephen has to shout. "WE'RE ALL OUT OF JUICE!"
The wind smells odd, Margaret notice s. Vaguely medicinal, like bour bon. The rain is being driven down hard and fast now; the raindrops feel like pinpricks. This must be what it feels like to get a tattoo, Margaret thinks. She continues to try and free herself from the seat belt; it seems to be tightening.
"I'll get you a sweater, honey! Wait!" she calls out, but the wind is
whipping with such intensity that she can't be sure Daniel hears her.
Daniel turns and waves at her.
"See you soon, Mom," he shouts. "I'll bring something back for you." Daniel takes a sip from the bowl of beet juice. When he looks up again,
his face, still smiling, is covered in blood. His mouth begins to move; he
is trying to say something.
"WHAT, HONEY?" Margaret screams, frantic and terrified now. She thrashes wildly against the grip of the seat belt. "WHAT IS IT, DANNY? WHAT?!" As he drifts away, Margaret can see Daniel's mouth still moving, but his voice is drowned out by the roaring wind.
Stephen takes a long drag on his cigarette and then puts it out on the saucer floor. He looks up and—exhaling a gray, fetid cloud of smoke— blows Margaret a kiss.
Suddenly, Stephen and Daniel's part of the saucer explodes into a thousand pieces.
Margaret screams. There is blackness. The dream is over. There is one other thing about the dream that never changes: When it is over and Margaret wakes up, she is always sobbing.
Down the hall, Wanda is dreaming about making love with Peter. They are in their loft apartment in Manhattan. Outside, beneath their window, a winged Charlie Parker stands under a lit street lamp and plays '"Round Midnight" on an Irish tin whistle.
And several miles northwest of the Hughes mansion in the Olympic View Apartments (B- 101 ), a man with an extensive collection of H awaiian shirts is wide awake. Insomniac by nature, he resists sleep b ecause he fears the iconography of his dreams: When peopled, they f eature characters from his past; when he is alone, he roams the rooms o f a huge house in which, somewhere, a woman is crying. He can never f ind her.
He is trying to read a Dashiell Hammett novel on loan from the C entral Branch of the Seattle Public L ibrary. But his eyes keep strayi ng to a framed black-and-white photograph which rests on the table n ext to his bed.
Usually, when he looks at this photograph—which is quite often— h e pays scant attention to the other people in it. They are out of focus, a nd have a ghostlike, slightly dematerialized look that doesn't command v isual attention. Their only purpose is to provide background interest or the central subject of the photograph—a woman bowling—in the s ame way that a chorus line of nondescript, leggy dancers provide deco r ation for a Broadway star.
Tonight, though, the man's eyes keep catching on one of the back g round figures: a little girl, barely visible over the top of the scorekeeper's able.
Goddammit, the man is thinking. Her eyes.
And then he does something he's never done before. He turns the p icture facedown on the bedside table and refocuses his attention on his b ook, which is, after all, a helluva good one.
Her eyes— goddammit —are as big as saucers.
Eight
Going into Tex
Wanda was lounging against the kitchen counter, already reading the morning paper. Margaret
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