Her husband was in another town again, finding his way in their old car.
He called at the end of the day, told her about the neighborhoods, the white
pines and sweet birch, the yellow textile mills, streams as wide as tennis
courts. She held the phone between her ear and her son's. Her husband wanted
to know what they'd dreamed about the night before. She said she had long
hair, and a man from one of their TV shows danced with her, then kissed her.
Later the man told her it was a hoax, that he didn't really love her. Her
son said dinosaurs and big elephants. Her husband said he'd been sleeping
and that was all, and he had wanted to dream his flying dream again. She
knew that dream. It was the one where he floated up out of their living room
and left her and their son sleeping. In the dream, he would float out the
window, push off power lines like a diver at pool bottom and come up above
the trees. The more he wanted it, the more he floated, until their town was
an open palm of streets and highways, auxillary clubs and hair salons. He
never knew where he'd end up. That day she and her son had eaten
clementines until the box was empty. She'd arranged segments on a plate over
and over and pushed the chair to the table. Her son kept asking to water the
plants and take the dog out. Before bed, she told him stories. He hurried
her along to the giant or the wolf. When he fell asleep she played records
turned low in her bedroom and walked through the dark kitchen. The bricks on
the house next to hers were green and red. Sometimes she'd catch herself
staring at them, finding patterns in the window over the kitchen sink.
Stairs leading to curtains, some one's empty bedroom, streetlight shining on
a blanket.
**
Clementines - Lydia Copeland (c)
