These Dreams of You by Steve Erickson Page A

dark place with the dummies or the place where the heads are cut off,” says Sheba.
    â€œVery civilized children, then,” she jokes. “I have never been to your country,” she adds, “but my mother lived there, in the late Sixties and much of the Seventies, after leaving England.”
    â€œReally?” says Zan. “Where?”
    â€œAround and about. Mostly in Los Angeles.”
    â€œThat’s where we’re from.”
    â€œYes,” she smiles, “I know.”
    â€œWhere’s your mother now?”
    â€œShe is no longer alive.”
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    â€œIt happened long ago. I would like,” she says, “to go to your country someday. Especially now. Now it must be a very exciting place.”

T he weather outside has cleared and Zan suggests a walk. The four circle the small park across the street from the hotel, which is part of a crescent of small hotels. “It’s hard getting them out of the room,” Zan explains to Molly; they all sit on a bench, Parker and Sheba fighting over a Game Boy. Zan says, “Let’s do this. I’m taking the children with me to the university tomorrow. James is going with us. Why don’t you come as well? See how it goes.”
    â€œShe’s going through your purse,” Parker says to Molly about Sheba. Molly ignores it. “James?” she says to Zan.
    â€œSorry,” Zan scoffs, “Mister J. Willkie Brown, as he prefers the world to know him. Of course I’ll pay you for the time. What’s your rate?”
    â€œWhat do you think is fair?” she says.
    He tries to calculate currency exchange. “Ten pounds an hour?” It’s more than he can afford—these days anything is more than he can afford—but he doesn’t want to be the foreigner exploiting a black woman in her country, or more her country than his, anyway.

P arker says to Molly, “She’ll break that camera.” Sheba looks at her brother and draws a finger across her throat. “Sheba,” Zan says to the girl, who’s pulled a small camera from Molly’s purse, “that’s not yours.”
    â€œI don’t mind,” says Molly.
    â€œThank you, that’s nice of you,” Zan says, “but she can’t think it’s O.K. to go through other people’s things.”
    â€œShe broke Viv’s camera,” says Parker.
    â€œSHUT UP, PARKER!” Sheba says.
    â€œMom was pissed off,” says the boy. He adds, “That’s a really old-school camera.” This is the first time Zan has heard his son say “pissed.” Also, if he had nothing else to think about, he would monitor the occasions when Viv is “Mom” and when Zan is “Dad”—an excavation of Parker’s references and forms of address. Sheba attacks the button on the camera. “Stop it,” Zan says and takes the camera, handing it to Molly. “It’s an old-school camera,” Sheba says, mimicking her brother.
    â€œI have had it since I was a little girl,” says Molly, “about your age.” Parker is trying to fathom cameras existing that far back in time. “It’s a ghost camera,” Molly smiles, bending down to Sheba. “Oooh.”
    â€œThat’s not scary,” the four-year-old informs the woman. “What’s a ghost camera?”
    â€œIt means,” says the woman, leaning into her explanation to make it sound as mysterious as possible, “that sometimes you take a picture but a minute later when you pull out the film, it has disappeared.”
    â€œI think,” Parker says, “that’s another name for a camera that doesn’t work.”

Z an shoots his son a look. “I’ll phone you tonight,” he says to the woman, “and we’ll make tomorrow’s arrange­ments.”
    â€œI’m afraid I don’t have a mobile,” says Molly.
    â€œOf