After my trip with Cam searching for Thirties memorabilia, I was restless the remainder of the day.
My eye kept being drawn to the photo of Marilyn Monroe—and it was crazy because I detested the 1950’s.
Somehow there was something in that photo that drew me, but it wasn’t connected to the Fifties but to the 1930’s.
I know that sounds strange but I almost felt I could channel The Depression Era like a medium holding a séance.
It wasn’t all warm feelings and nostalgia though. Staring at the photo evoked pleasant feelings of warmth and sensuality, but it also scared the hell right out of me.
I dreamt of my strange girl that night—we were together at a large reception in an Art Deco room.
The people around us were sipping champagne dressed in eveningwear—and the girl glittered in a silvery backless gown.
I grasped a silken arm and guided her out—out to the terrace and the cool night air.
Immediately, an ocean of darkness flowed about us. She was my slippery, silvery fish.
In the distance, was the lake—lights lambent on waves.
She leaned in, as the wind rose.
“I want it to be like this always, Scott—forever. Promise me.”
“I promise, Love,” I whispered back.
Her upturned face was sculpted by light.
Waves washed over headlands. There were tears on the wind.
The trees swayed, rocking like seaweed.
And Time in its lofty way, bore us away— roiling, and folding us in its waves.
All other sights and sounds submerged, as down we were dragged to a bottomless world, to the bubbling depth of a watery deep, where rocking waves gently lulled us to sleep.
I awoke gasping, my heart pounding in my ears—roaring with the sound of the surf.
I took in great gulps of air—my limbs still weak from fighting the undertow.
I was being dragging down, but to what? —To death—to sleep—another world, another time?
It was crazy. I barely escaped with my life. But I needed to go back and finish the dream.
Actually, I wanted to go back and be with her again.
It made no sense. I felt I was going insane. Somehow, in some corner of my mind, I think I was convinced I was certifiably mad—but instead of being disturbed, I revelled in the fact.
It was worth it to be with her and touch her flesh—that’s all that mattered.
I couldn’t cope, so I did the only thing I could—I put the dream out of my mind, pretending it never happened.
Tuesday night, Abe called and set things up for Saturday.
He was actually making good on his promise to reward Harry for helping solve the cold case by taking him for a spin in a high-powered police pursuit car.
I phoned Harry and told him the news—said we’d be by about ten and for him to count on being gone most of the day.
I expected questions, a pause, a hesitation—but there was nothing like that. On the contrary, he immediately agreed, and in fact, seemed overjoyed.
Overjoyed—for what? A simple ride in a super-charged car?
Where did he get the energy? I was a third his age and could barely make it through the day.
But already I knew the answer to that—it was the breakup with Sam that was sapping my energy.
But, then again, maybe not.
Something niggled at me. I knew I couldn’t suppress it, so I relented and let the thought out.
Was it the girl from my dream?
The question was absurd—she wasn’t real—just a figment of my imagination. Still, what happened to me was real, and undeniable.
There was no use fighting it—it was plain—something was missing in my life that even Sam couldn’t supply.
And what was more, I didn’t know anybody else who could supply it—other than this dream girl.