Dream House (excerpts)
There it was again. Green. I felt it nipping at my eyelids as soon as I closed them. Sleep fell over me, and soon the form and structure of the house took its shape in my mind. The windows, the straight pillars, cool wood, and crackling fire. The ceiling slanted diagonally and the light fell, casting oblique shadows, crisscrossing and colliding along the floor. And the sound, of course. Bristling. This time new layers came to light. Birds chattered from the trees, the creek babbled, dry leaves were crunched underfoot by creatures unknown. The windowpane rattled. It was like an airplane was coming, roaring overhead, but never passing—it hung suspended in the air, pushing against some immovable force. I found myself turning, and with effort, I walked into my own footsteps, taking hold of my body so that I was turning, no longer an observer. I took it upon myself to explore.
…
My oldest daughter was the third to go. She met a boy. The neighbors spoke to me through the fence in knowing voices—he was bad news. They heard he came from the woods, and told me to keep my daughter close. He was raised by wolves, they said, glancing back over their shoulders. She was in love. I asked her about him, and she told me.
They met one sleepless night as she went walking down the lane. From around a bend, she began to hear the sound of car blinker. It rose in volume as she got closer, turning the corner, tic-tac-tic-tac, and then she saw it. A car lying lurched in a ditch, door ajar, a man lying face down in the grass. A boy, shirtless, knelt beside him. She started forward but felt new eyes on her, acute and glowing. Crouched low in the undergrowth two coyotes watched her—still, soundless, like sentries. Riveted by their stares, she watched the scene unfold before her. The boy raised his hands over the limp man, hovering, whispering something under his breath. The car’s headlights began to glow brighter, pulsing, rising, as the boy hovered. With a flash, the lights went out, and the man snapped up, wide awake. The boy turned and saw her standing there, his eyes acute and glowing, and she knew not to be afraid.
They met each other on Thursdays after the rest of us went to sleep, behind the old chapel where she was christened. Lifting her shirt up to expose her waist, he would hover his hands there, drawing circles and murmuring and weaving translucence into her life. The coyotes did not scare her; they were more or less dogs, albeit with some ancient, hieroglyphic knowledge. He saw things more simply, she said. If only he would let others speak of the good, he does. With a silent smile she told me that he is modest, kind, and two years younger than her. That she was safe, happy, and would like to continue seeing him.
…
The chapel was still burning when I arrived. I parked across the street as the firefighters gathered around it, like some sort of strange ritual; they huddled in a semi-circle and let loose their hoses. Jets of water converged upon the chapel, splintering more wood and causing pillars of steam. The flames looked rather helpless, hugging the naked foundations, protecting the building from the hands of those angry men with hoses. I grabbed the camera from my pocket and put it up to my eye, feeling the rest of myself disperse and mingle with the air. Only my hollow fingertips and the fire ahead remained. I clicked the shutter and the flames froze—posing—awaiting martyrdom and eternal glory.