Memory Corner #10

Love is but a Dream

Phobe was my new girl. Woman, not girl. Mother of two toddlers. Divorced. Witty. Damn, she could make me laugh. That was a whole lot of beautiful to me. And she was beautiful. In a Latina way. She drove a rebuilt Mustang, '66, which she won in the settlement. Her ex wanted his freedom, and it cost him his classic car, alimony, and the house. 

I think she liked me because I was in college. You know, good influence on the kids. Got a future. Good for the community. And I was a sucker for a good joke. Some women get a man by filling his belly with good vittles. She got one with a quick one-liner and some running gags that we kept building on every time we had a date. 

It was that last date I remember most. We went to see Emerson, Lake, and Palmer at the Inglewood Forum. As usual, the band gave a great show and capped the concert off with cannon fire. That's the only part of the show Phoebe remembered. I knew she didn't care for "Rock music" as she and her ex-old man listened to the Eastside sound: Los Lobos, El Chicano, Malo, and such. But she played along with the concerts I selected and never once mentioned a band she'd like to see. Still, I got to see the bands I liked and got to drive her Mustang, stick shift. Baroooom. 

I drove her home so she could let the baby-sitter know that she was dropping me off and would be right back in a few minutes. She checked on the kids, who were sleeping, and the sitter went next door where she lived to let her parents know the time-table. She asked me to tell Phoebe. 

I was sitting on the sofa, and Phoebe returned from the bedroom down the hall. She asked if I wanted a beer or a soda. Nothing for me, thanks. I told her the sitter would be right back. She nodded and sat next to me. I had a nice time, she said. I shook my head in agreement. 

Suddenly, a little boy in pajamas walked into the room. He didn't speak or look around or acknowledge my presence. He went straight to the sofa and squeezed between his mom and me. 

"He's sleepwalking. He must have heard your voice. Notice how he sat between us. He's keeping you from me," she said with a strange grin of pride on her face. "Mommy's little boy."

The kid didn't move. His eyes were open and unblinking. How could he do that? A bug could fly into his eye. I was half-expecting the other kid to get up and enter the room. Who knows what he would have done. 

The baby-sitter came in and Phoebe told her to take Pablo back to bed. She said, "Again? Yay, that boy doesn't like strangers." And they laughed as Pablo stood and walked back to bed with the baby-sitter walking right behind him, trying not to touch him, lest he wake. 

Anyway, that's what I think was going on. I stood up to let Phoebe know I was ready to go. And we went. She couldn't drive fast enough to get me home. She waited for a kiss, but I was out the door faster than she could pucker. I entered the apartment and didn't turn on the lights till I saw she had driven off. 

I blazed a joint and sat in the dark and smoked it. No music. No TV. Just silence with my thoughts. 

"Notice how he sat between us."

"That boy doesn't like strangers."

"Mommy's little boy."

Honestly, I didn't want to call her and talk about it.  

"He's keeping you from me."

That was "cute" to Phoebe and the sitter. Maybe they knew the boy's strange sleepwalking trips better than I'd ever could, or wanted to. To me, that was surreal. Scary surreal. No one escorted the boy back to his bed with a push or even an attempt to carry him. They knew as soon as I was leaving, the boy would return to bed. As if they'd done this routine dozens of times. So routine, it was funny. 

I was creeped out. And stayed creeped out for days. Days that I didn't call Phoebe. Then weeks. Then months. 

About a year later, I ran into her at the college. She was with the sitter, who was registering for classes. Phoebe was just there for support. The sitter did all the talking like we were old friends. She knew I taught part-time at that particular college. But as she talked to me, Phoebe stared at me coldly, somewhere between anger and hatred, with just a dash of disappointment. 

The sitter excused herself when she heard the registrar call her name, took Phoebe by the hand, and almost dragged her to the registration window. She didn't break her stare once. After the sitter went to register, I waited a short moment for Phoebe to say goodbye. Nothing. Just the stare. 

As I walked to my classroom, I felt those old creeps rising on my skin like goosebumps. It was the stare. It was exactly the same face that little Pablo had when he sat between us that night.