Chapter 25
Curtis: Dream a Little Dream
Curtis falls asleep within minutes. He dreams.
He is standing outside his house smoking a cigarette, waiting for something. He doesn’t know what he’s waiting for, just that he is supposed to wait. A few minutes later, he hears a horn honking. His ride is here.
He climbs into a chariot, the very same one that picked up Stu McLundy after his heart attack in North Bennington. Curtis looks at his driver. He’s young, probably about 20 years old, a good-looking boy with dark skin, dark hair and impossibly white teeth. He’s wearing what appears to be a barker’s uniform; a red and white striped blazer, red pants and a straw hat. The driver tips his hat to Curtis.
“Hello there!” He smiles at Curtis, his teeth gleaming in the dusk.
“Uhh…hello. Where are we going?”
The driver doesn’t answer. He reaches between the driver and passenger seats and pulls out a whip. He cracks it in the air, startling Curtis. The driver then aims the whip at the golden horses. When he snaps it on their backsides, the engine roars, then purrs.
They drive down the street for a few moments before Curtis gets up enough courage to talk. “Where are we going? And who are you?”
The driver glances at Curtis. “Not sure where we’re going Curtis. We’re just…going. It won’t be long, though. Never is.”
They ride again in silence. Curtis doesn’t recognize any of the streets. When they turned, they should have been on Main, but instead they’re on a poorly paved road that makes the car shudder every few feet as they navigate potholes, bumps and rocks. There are fields to the left, stretching far and wide, and hills to the right that give rise to proper mountains in the distance. Ahead, there is just a road that seems to go on forever. As they ride, Curtis keeps expecting it to get darker, but it remains dusk, never changes from that eerie light that comes when day is about to put on the cloak of night.
“You enjoying the ride, Curtis?”
“Not really.”
“Maybe I should put on the radio?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer, just switches it on. There’s nothing but static and he doesn’t move to change the station or tune it in, he just smiles and drives, occasionally tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. Curtis says nothing. He’s starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“Curtis, do you ever wish you could do it over again? Go back to a certain time in your life maybe? You know, like finding an old book with a bookmark on your favorite part, starting from there?”
“Uhh..yea. I actually think about that all the time.”
“Where would you go Curtis?”
“I’d go to when Sharon and I were happy. When we first got engaged. When life was good.”
“Interesting.”
“Why do you say it like that?” He doesn’t question why this man knows everything. He just goes with the conversation.
“Because if you went back to the time you were engaged, you’d have to relive the part again with the break up and all that nasty stuff that happened after.”
“Well, couldn’t I change it?”
“Can you change the way your favorite book ends, Curtis?”
“Then why bother asking me at all? Obviously I can’t go back and change things, so why not just get to relive at least some of the good days again and why are you asking me all this? And where are we going? I want to go home.”
“So many questions, Curtis.” He lights a cigarette, takes a drag, blows out his words with the smoke. “Unfortunately, I have no answer. I’m just the driver.” He flicks the whip again. The golden horses scream and the car pushes forward.
“Do you have anything you’d like to say, Curtis?”
“About what?”
“Everything. Nothing. Maybe, perhaps, your last couple of months on this earth. Or your last couple of hours, even.”
Now Curtis is sweating and his hands are starting to shake. He gets it. This is some kind of interview. He’s had these before when he’s left jobs. Exit interviews.
He’s going to die. He thinks about what he was doing before he got in the car. Grant, pills, bed, the Cure. Sleeping. He’s sleeping. He’s dreaming. He exhales pure relief. He hadn’t even realized he was holding his breath. This is just a dream.
“Yes and no.”
“What?”
“It’s a dream but it’s not. Yea, I can hear your thoughts, Curtis. So let’s just get them out in the open, ok? Don’t make this hard. We’ve already been driving too long and She doesn’t pay overtime.”
Curtis suddenly leans forward and without warning, not a gag or a heave, vomits on the floor of the chariot car. The smell that comes from his puke is rancid, like a rotting corpse. He looks down and sees that his vomit is green.
“Please take me home.” He feels himself starting to cry but for some reason he doesn’t want to cry in front of the driver. “I don’t want to die. I don’t…I…please.”
“Curtis. Tell me this. What were you going to do to Sharon?”
“You don’t understand. I don’t even remember most of it. I would never hurt her.”
“Oh, come on. All those fantasies you had. The wedding dress. The trout. Come on, that was good stuff, Curtis. Don’t deny it!” He punches Curtis lightly on the shoulder, drinking buddies sharing a joke.
They are passing by more scenery now. Woods, trails and then they’re on a dirt road dotted with low houses. Curtis knows these kinds of homes. They’re summer houses. Upstate houses.
“I loved her,” he says as a way of begging for his life. “I loved her more than any guy has ever loved a girl. I worshiped her. When she left me, she destroyed me. She stabbed me in the heart and all that other crap they talk about in songs. She embarrassed me and hurt me and what else can I say? Of course I dreamed about killing her. But I’d never do it. I don’t know what happened back there. But it wasn’t me. It wasn’t me. You gotta believe me, it wasn’t…”
“Curtis, you’re begging for your life when you should be begging for your soul.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Hey, here’s the turnoff now. Want a cigarette before I decide which way we’re going?”
****
Curtis stirs from a dream. He takes a second to think about where he is, what day it is. He thinks, it’s Saturday. It’s Winter Festival morning. Then something tugs at his brain and he knows it’s something he shouldn’t push away but he does, if just for a second.
He’s home. He’s in his room. It’s late afternoon, judging by the light. The Cure is playing on his stereo, “Pictures of You,” but he doesn’t remember putting that on. He needs to pee. He needs water. He needs to figure out why his head is telling him everything is wrong when he can’t remember why it wouldn’t be right. He needs to do a lot of things but he’s not doing any of them because damn, that was a lot of sleeping pills he took and his body feels like it weighs five tons. He decides to just lie there and try to piece together the day. But he’s groggy and all his thoughts ramble together like a piece of horrible fiction. He’s not sure what was part of his dream and what’s real. The car, the driver, Sharon’s body…that had to be a dream, right? He starts crying again because he remembers sitting on the couch telling Grant how much he loved Sharon and that he didn’t kill her and it all comes back. All of it, even the parts he forgot before. The shadowy man. The urge to kill.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he says to no one in particular. He whispers this over and over again.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
The music goes off.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Footsteps. Movement.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Someone calling his name. A low whisper. Curtis.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Maurice is standing over his bed, grinning, calling his name. You blew it, Curtis.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I’m…….he feels cold hands on his neck. He’s helpless to stop them. His body is frozen, his mind is going blank. He just hears his own voice echo inside his head.
I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
As he slips into unconsciousness, he’s in what seems like a dream again. He is getting into the car. The driver whips the golden horses. The static on the radio breaks and Curtis can hear, faintly, the opening to “Heartbeat, It’s a Love Beat.” The driver bears right.
Maurice Fetterling stands over Curtis’s body for a few minutes, just to make sure the job was done right. When he’s sure Curtis is dead, he turns to his companion. The shadow man nods his head, puts his hand up in the air. A strange woman in a flowery dress appears. She tosses a sword to the shadow man. The shadow man catches the sword with one hand and in the same motion swings it effortlessly. Maurice’s head lands with a soft thud on Curtis’s bed. The shadow man applauds himself, bows toward the woman, and they both disappear.