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The Dream King
Gregor Robinson
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eBook - ePub
The Dream King
Gregor Robinson
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With exceptional power, Robinson exposes both the gravity and levity of relationships â formed in duty, in fear, in need â and the subtle ways we attempt to escape their persistent pull. At turns humourous, chilling and tender, Robinson's fiction displays a versatility in tone and subject that mirrors the stories of our lives, real or imagined, domestic or exotic. His writing elevates the "What If?" to new imaginary heights.
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In the eyes of his parents, Dearborn lived in a foreign country and it made him feel like an alien. How on earth would he tell them about Helen? He thought of himself as dutifulâhe phoned his mother every Sunday and there were even occasional lettersâbut there was always reproach. Why had he left his home town? Dearborn said that this was life in the Twentieth Century. People left towns and homes in the country and moved to cities. People were in motion, not only in Ontario (he had only moved one hundred seventy miles, after all; they ought to put the matter in perspective) but across the globe. There was greed, fear, hatred, starvation; immense economic and demographic forces were at work. Dearborn knew these things. He earned a living doing market research, was an expert in his field.
That was another thing. âWhat is it you do, dear?â his mother would say. âPeople askâyour Aunt Adelle, friendsâ and Iâm never able to explain. Not advertising, I know that. But something. What, exactly? What do you do?â
His father had been a bank manager, as had his father before him.
They were arriving that afternoon, staying three or four days. Dearborn had the details before himâhis motherâs clear handwriting on blue letterhead with a line drawing of the house where both he and his father had been raised. His grandmother had moved next door; his mother visited her every day until she died. His parentsâ lives made Dearborn feel insubstantial, like the cotton that drifted from the branches of the big trees that grew at the end of lawn.
They were coming to visit the children, his mother wrote. They thought it would be a help. They didnât know that âthe difficultyâ, as his mother always called it, was long over, had all been settled, really, the first year of the marriage.
And his father would visit doctors. He was being watched. For diabetes. For the arthritis that interfered with his walks. He also drank too much. âEight ounces a day, I said to the doctor!â heâd told Dearborn the last time he was in the city, his eyes bright. His heart. And the thing they avoidedâhis spells.
âStupid!â Roxanne shouted. Dearborn looked up from his motherâs letter, working the gap in his teeth with his tongue. âCareless girl!â Roxanne shouted. It was an expression of Anneâs. Dearborn used to admonish her, âDonât speak to the children like that. Theyâll pick it up.â
âGirls,â he yelled âstop yelling.â
âThe reason theyâre always yelling,â Anne would tell him, âis because youâre always yelling. You should listen to yourself sometime.â
âWeâre not fighting,â Roxanne yelled back from the living room. She was the older one, almost six. Jasmine was three and a half, and in her current phase preferred to be called Snow White. Jasmine and Roxanne.
âWhat kind of a name is Jasmine?â Dearbornâs mother had asked. âAre there Arabs in our family somewhere? Am I missing something?â
Roxanne and Jasmine. Anneâs choices. Dearborn would have named them Mary and Susan. One of the many decisions over which he had not exercised his veto.
The latest thing was that Anne wanted one of the girls. She didnât see how splitting them up made any difference, since they were adopted anyway. He said it was creepy, and it was crazy. They were supposed to be a family.
âBut we arenât a family any more,â said Anne. âYou and that teenager.â
âSheâs not a teenager,â heâd told her. âAnd you started it.â Almost true, Dearborn reflected. We order events according to our own mythologies.
Roxanne, walking around now with one of the fat lamps in her arms: âItâs alright, Sarah,â she said to the lamp. âIâm here. Daddyâs here.â
âWhat are you playing?â Dearborn asked.
âBig sister. This is the baby. Her nameâs Sarah.â
âI told you, donât play with the lamps. Use a doll, the cat, something. You drop this lamp, youâll cut yourself.â
âIs it made of china?â
âItâs made of china. You know that,â said Dearborn.
âItâs precious, right?â
âPrecious. Very precious, but not as precious as you.â It was a discussion theyâd had before. âPlus you could electrocute yourself pulling the plug.â
Dearborn took the lamp and put it back on the table. He handed her one of the dolls from the armchair. But sheâd already picked up the bookends, budgies in white marble. âItâs alright, Sarah, donât cry,â she said to one of the bookends. âDo you want to go to sleep? Itâs alright, you go to sleep. Iâll be right here in the next room. Iâll wear my big shoes, so youâll be able to hear me walking.â
There was a note from the senior kindergarten teacher attached to the refrigerator door with a Pizza Hut magnet: Please make a special effort to come on Monday. We would like to talk about Roxanne.
Roxanne came into the kitchen. âDaddy, are you going to marry Helen?â
Dearborn shrugged, his mouth full of muffin.
âMoon and June and kissing,â said Roxanne. âYuck.â
She turned and left, back to the living room, where Jasmine was playing with the cassette machine.
âDaddy, show us your monster laugh.â Jasmine had sneaked up behind him through the dining room door.
During an argument on their first anniversary, Anne had reached across the glass table (they had crammed her patio furniture onto the tiny balcony of their 21st floor apartment) and slapped Dearborn so hard she loosened an old tooth. Now he had a crown, cloned on some fragment of the actual tooth. It kept falling out. He couldnât afford to go to the dentist every time, so he endured the gap, did the monster laugh. On special occasionsânights out, meetings with clientsâhe shoved the tooth in with some chewing gum. It was usually good for two, perhaps three hours.
Roxanne came in with a tangerine. She wanted Dearborn to do Marlon Brando from The Godfather, another of his specialities.
âNot today, girls. The monster has a headache.â
âYou and Helen had too much wine, right Daddy?â
Dearborn led them into the living room and put The Three Stooges on the video.
âHow could you have bought that for them?â Anne had asked. âYou think its funny, hitting people over the head, sticking things up nostrils? You want them to grow up like that?â
Dearborn did think it was funny. And he hadnât grown up like that. What about your mother? he thought. She thinks farts are funny. Dearborn was at the stage where he was still framing responses, composing ripostes to old jabs.
Upstairs, Helen was sitting on the floor in the corner of the bedroom, playing with the cat. She was just out of the bathroom. She was wearing bikini underpants, no top.
âI love you,â Dearborn told her. He bent down and kissed her left nipple. She smelled of his shower soap. âBut you have to move your things out of the house.â
She shrugged her shoulders. âYouâre forty-four, right? Maybe itâs time to tell them. Your parents. You know, like, you have a penis? You like girls?â
âYouâre only twenty-four. My mother is seventy-two.â
âGreat. Now we know everybodyâs age.â
âThey havenât taken it in that Anne is out of the picture. They think we might get back together.â
âDoesnât matter to me. Really. I just think you should level with them. I donât believe in shame.â
âItâs not a question of shame,â said Dearborn. âI just donât want them to know Iâm involved so soon after my wife has left. And with a woman twenty years younger.â
âLike it might give them the wrong idea? I think theyâre old enough, you know?â
âHow about your mother?â Dearborn asked. âWhat does she think about us?â
âShe likes you. She does. After Anne first left, she wanted to ask you over for dinner. She wanted to go out with you herself. I think so. I really do. Get you in the sack.â
âWhat about the age difference?â
âSheâs only two years older than you.â
It wasnât just his imagination: he and Helen always seemed to be talking about peopleâs ages. âI meant the difference between you and me,â he said.
Helenâs mother was on her own; her husband had just come out. âWe used to wonder, like, why he never came home?â Helen had told Dearborn and Anne when sheâd first found out. âThose walks in the park?â
âAnother homo,â Anne had said, glaring at Dearborn. She was at the stage where she still blamed everything on man, the species. She was always in the process of escaping a world of vile men.
Dearborn took Helen by the hand and pulled her up, towards the bed.
âIâve got class today,â Helen said.
She taught classes at a gym, Saturday mornings. Dearborn told her he would give her a lift. Anne had left him the car. Heâd won that argumentâhe needed the car for his work. In the end, when Anne moved out, Dearborn had quit his job and gone freelance. He now hated being out of the house, hated being away from the children. He stayed at home with the kids and his modem, Helen and teenagers from the neighbourhood helping out with the sitting. But he still had the car.
Before she got out, Helen said, âWarren called again.â
Her ex-boyfriend. Warren Blue (he had invented his own name) played bass in a bar band. Otherwise, he did nothing. Dearborn would sometimes notice him loitering on the sidewalk in front of the house. Warrenâs career allowed plenty of time for watching and besetting. It was hard for Dearborn to understand how Helen had ever become involved with such a person. She said it had started when she was in her freshman year, when she hadnât had the confidence to say no. Warren Blue was six foot three. No doubt he was tireless in bed, thought Dearborn.
âWonât take no for an answer,â he said.
âWonât take an answer, period,â said Helen. âBass players are strange.â
Dearborn took this as some kind of message, a vague threat. âIâll tell my parents about us soon,â he said. âPerhaps, before they go home.â
âSee you tonight.â
âWhere are we going?â Dearbornâs father asked. He gazed around the hall. He had just left the TV room. He wore an old tweed jacket with saggy pockets. His glasses were crooked.
âMaple Leaf Gardens,â said Dearborn.
âDonât see why,â said his father. âDonât see why we have to go out.â
âJack, try to fit in,â said Dearbornâs mother. She held his coat over her arm, waiting.
âYou used to like hockey,â Dearborn said.
âHe still likes hockey,â said his mother. âHe watches on television all the time.â
âMatlock was just starting,â said his father, vaguely affronted. He shuffled along to the bathroom. From the hallway, Dearborn and his mother heard the click of the lock. They heard him urinate. They heard a gurgling sound. Dearbornâs father kept a bottle in his shaving kit.
âOne good thing,â said Dearbornâs mother. âHeâs drinking less. He forgets where he puts it. He forgets that he likes it.â
His father opened the bathroom door. He positively beamed. âHockey!â he said. âTheyâve finally started to win.â
Downstairs, Helen was waiting. She was dressed in faded jeans and a black ribbed turtle neck. Her hair was glossy. She was babysitting the children.
âIâm glad to meet you at last. Iâve heard so much about you,â Helen said when Dearborn introduced her to his parents.
âYou have?â said his mother, glancing at Dearborn. She had eyes like a hawk.
After the game, Dearborn took them out for a coffee. The restaurant was brightly lit with huge orange globes, illuminating the brown and orange decor. The place was crowded and the manager sat them at a big table with a father and two young boys. The boys looked remarkably like their father, Dearborn noticed. As he aged, he took note of family resemblance more and more. He was becoming something of an expert on nature versus nurture, the various theories. What effect would divorce have on his children, he wondered?
The two boys had souvenir programmes from the game spread on the table.
âGood game,â said Dearbornâs father, smiling at them.
The boys nodded.
âI used to play for the Leafs,â said Dearbornâs father.
Was this true, Dearborn wondered? His father had played for McGill, before the war, and Dearborn remembered something about him having been asked to try out for the pros. But nothing more, surely.
âYeah?â said the older boy. He would have been about nine. âWicked,â said the younger, about six.
âYup,â said Dearbornâs father. âPlayed with Eddie Shore and Turk Broda. Teeter Kennedy.â
The boysâ father looked at Dearbornâs father in studied silence. The boys were silent too. Perhaps the way Dearborn and his mother were watching, waiting to see what would happen next, gave them a signal.
âJohnny Bower. Gordie Howe. All the greats,â said Dearbornâs father.
âJohnny Bower?â said the older boy, puzzled.
âReally,â said the father. He definitely knew now that the chronology was impossible. He was young, maybe twenty-eight. Dearborn noticed that he had the same kind of intonation, used the same expressions as Helen.
âWhen did Gordie Howe play for the Leafs?â the older boy asked his father. âGordie Howe never played for the Leafs.â
âEat your cake,â the father answered.
âIs that guy weird, or what?â asked the six year old, half whispering.
Dearbornâs father looked down at his coffee. He took off his glasses; his eyes were red-rimmed. Dearborn thought his father might weep, and he reached out and put his hand on his arm.
âI think Iâll go downstairs and have a pee,â said his father, with immense dignity. Dearborn and his mother watched him shamble towards the kitchen. He looked ...