Sun City, Arizona
Wanda Johnson smoked her first cigarette when she was sixteen years old, and had smoked every day since for sixty years. Now, whenever a coughing fit took her, she talked of quitting.
“My friend Ellie went to a hypnotist to quit smoking. It cost her two hundred dollars. He hypnotized her and told her she would lose her taste for tobacco. Know what? She still smokes. Didn’t do a damn bit of good. I might try it, though. They say some people are better subjects than others.”
They were sitting in Wanda’s mobile home, having come directly from the airport to Wanda’s trailer park. Most of the trailers in the Shady View Court had screened rooms built off of one side where the elderly residents would sit in the evenings, enjoying the pure, Arizona air. Wanda’s trailer had one of these extra rooms, but Wes, Elizabeth, and Monica sat inside with the door closed, letting the air conditioner knock the temperature down thirty degrees.
Wanda’s plump body shook with another cough. Her hair was gray and cut short, giving her a boyish look. She wore dangling orange earrings that looked like fishing lures, and sat in a rocker with doilies covering holes
where cotton batting poked through. Everything smelled of cigarettes; the air was thick and hazy from Wanda’s incessant smoking.
As professional listeners, Elizabeth and Monica sat patiently, letting Wanda direct the conversation. Wes fidgeted through the small talk, when they discussed everything from airline food to Wanda’s cactus garden. While Wes acted interested, inside he worried about diverting grant funds for the flight to Arizona. The Kellum Foundation had long supported him and he wanted to keep their trust. Twice he tried to break into the conversation, to get Wanda to the point, but Elizabeth stopped him both times with a hand on his leg.
“What’s the point of quitting now?” Monica asked. “You’re seventy-six years old. The stress of quitting would do more harm than smoking.”
“Have you seen the price of cigarettes?” Wanda said. “I could go to Las Vegas twice a year if I didn’t smoke.” Then, after a deep drag on her cigarette, “Would you like more tea?”
“No thanks, Wanda,” Monica said. “We really came to hear about your dream.”
“My friends are sick to death of hearing about my dream, so I’m glad to have someone new to tell it to.” Wanda sipped her tea. “It’s always the same. I’m on a ship, but the ship isn’t on an ocean. It’s in the middle of a desert, hardly anything growing anywhere you look. There’s no sky. When you look up there’s nothing to see—just nothing. There’s no one else on the ship. I walk all over the deck and through the cabins—never see anyone. The ship isn’t quite right, though. You can go through the same door twice and not come out in the same place.”
Wanda looked thoughtful, then said, “Dreams are queer like that, aren’t they? It’s been so long since I’ve dreamed anything else I can’t remember what other dreams are like.”
Wanda’s eyes glazed, her mind drifting back to before the dream began.
“I remember dreaming I went to school in my pajamas,” Wanda said after a long thought. “I must have been seven or eight. Or maybe I didn’t dream it? Maybe I really did go to school in my pajamas?”
“Many children dream of wearing their pajamas to school,” Elizabeth said.
“You don’t say. It would be fun to dream that again.”
“Wanda, is there more to your ship dream?” Elizabeth asked.
“Just the feeling. I’m afraid—in danger—I want to get off the ship, but I can’t. The more I wander, the more I want to get off. By the time the dream ends I’m desperate to get home.”
“What kind of ship is it?” Wes asked.
“Looking for symbolism?” Wanda said. “My dream’s been analyzed over and over and no two experts gave me the same answer.”
“Just curious,” Wes said.
“It’s not a cruise ship, I’ve been on one of those. It’s a Navy ship. It’s got the big guns mounted in turrets, a single smoke stack, and there’s a crane on one end. There’s guns all over the ship. It’s got to be a Navy ship.”
“Is there a name? Any identifying marks?” Elizabeth asked.
“Not that I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen every bit of that ship.”
“Did you ever try to get off of the ship?” Wes asked.
“Every night, honey. That’s what I do all night long.”
“I mean jump over the side,” Wes said. “Have you ever jumped off?”
“It’s a hell of a long way down. I’d be hurt.”
“But it’s just a dream,” Wes said.
“It’s so real,” Wanda said, eyes blank as if she was seeing the images from her dream. “I really feel like I’m there. I’d be afraid to jump. You know what they say, don’t you? When people die in their dreams they really die.”
“How could you know that?” Wes asked.
“I read it somewhere,” Wanda said.
“But if someone died in their dream and never woke up, how would you know they dreamed that they died? If they were dead they couldn’t tell you what they had dreamed the night before.”
“A seance, I suppose,” Wanda said. “There’s scientific ways to know,” she added seriously.
Wes opened his mouth to argue, but Elizabeth’s hand pressed his leg again.
“You’ve been dreaming this dream for a long time, haven’t you, Wanda?” Monica said.
“I’ll say,” she said, reaching for a package of Lucky Strikes. They waited while she lit up another cigarette and took a deep drag, blowing the smoke out through her nose. “Since World War II,” Wanda went on, traces of smoke still flowing from her nose. “I was only married to my first husband a few weeks before he shipped out. I never really got to know Johnny, but he was oh so handsome in his uniform. Swept me off my feet, he did. A honeymoon and then he was gone. Slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am,” she said, and then chuckled. “A few months later a telegram came telling me my Johnny was dead. The dream started after that.”
“A Navy ship lost in the desert with no way to get home! The dream is about her husband,” Wes whispered to Elizabeth.
“I heard that,” Wanda said. “My eyes are bad, not my hearing. I don’t
blame you for thinking that, I thought the same thing myself at first. When the dream wouldn’t go away I went to see a psychiatrist.”
“Who was that?” Monica asked.
“Dr. Goldman. He was Jewish, don’t you know? They say they’re the best, and that’s why I picked him. Freud was Jewish, you know?”
“I’d heard that,” Elizabeth said politely.
“That was back when I lived in Trenton. I suspect he’s long dead. He wasn’t a young man even then. I liked him but he didn’t help a bit. Finally, I told him the dream went away just to make him feel good, paid my last bill, and never went back. I tried three or four other psychiatrists—some Jewish, some not—but they didn’t help either.”
“Don’t you ever dream anything else, Wanda?” Monica said. “Maybe early in the morning when the dream is over.”
“Not that I remember, but I suppose it’s possible. They say you can’t remember all of your dreams.”
Using small talk, Monica and Elizabeth wound the meeting down, making sure they left Wanda with a positive feeling. Stepping from Wanda’s air-conditioned trailer into the Arizona summer was like running into a wall. They hurried to their car and turned the air conditioner up full.
“I’m beginning to think this was a wild goose chase,” Wes said from the backseat. “Her first husband was a sailor lost at sea and the dream is about a Navy ship. Isn’t the connection clear?”
“No,” Elizabeth said, as she drove them out of Wanda’s trailer park.
“You’re forgetting about the other dreamers,” Monica said. “They don’t all have relatives who died in the Navy.”
“Have you asked?” Wes said.
“I don’t have to,” Monica said.
“Isn’t it an obvious connection?” asked Wes.
Monica and Elizabeth were in the front seat and exchanged a look that made him feel foolish.
“Besides, the dream isn’t that unusual,” Wes said.
“Don’t forget the others dreaming the same dream.”
“There’s two hundred and fifty million people in this country dreaming every night. If you searched you could find a hundred people dreaming about ships in the desert. I don’t see why we need to visit any more of these people.”
“A hundred people dreaming exactly the same dream every night?” Monica said sarcastically.
“Wes is worried about losing his grant money over this,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll make a deal with you, Wes. If you’re not convinced after the trip to Tulsa, I’ll cover the cost.”
Elizabeth had cut to the heart of it, making Wes feel cheap. Sulking in the backseat, he listened to Monica and Elizabeth chat all the way to the airport.
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Karla Compton was five foot seven, brown hair, brown eyes. She was attractive, but not beautiful—just what a good agent should be. With makeup she could be pretty, without makeup she was plain. With a little work she could be ugly. She dressed in khaki pants and a print blouse, purchased at a J. C. Penney’s. She had two closets in her apartment, one with clothes she wore when working, the other with outfits from upscale stores that she wore on personal time. On a given morning she could draw on a wardrobe ranging from Kmart jeans to designer dresses. Having been to Oklahoma before, she was dressed middle class and carried her gun in her purse. Nathan Jett wore Dockers and a white, square-cut polo shirt which covered the holster on his belt. They were checked into a Holiday Inn, waiting for the call that would tell them when and where to respond to a pending breakout. Two other agents, Pierce and Sloan, sat on the end of the bed watching preseason football. Compton was standing on the balcony, looking out toward the airport, the hotel pool just below. Jett studied her body, not out of lust, but wondering how long she would last against him. She looked fit, but couldn’t weigh more than one hundred and thirty
pounds, giving him nearly a seventy-pound advantage. He joined her on the balcony, leaning over, watching the kids splashing in the pool.
“You still studying karate?” Jett asked.
“Tae Kwon Do,” she replied.
“Ever use it in the field?”
“Some.”
She was as laconic as he—no wasted energy or words.
“What’s the biggest guy you ever took down without help?”
Now she turned to him, face expressionless.
“Is there a point to this?”
“Yeah. If I work with someone I want to know I can count on them,” Jett said.
“If you need help, just ask.”
“I never need help.”
“Then you can count on that, too.”
She had an attitude, and Jett liked that, but he still had doubts about her in a fight. Sloan shouted excitedly at the television, Pierce complaining. Jett and Compton both turned, thinking the same thing. Anyone excited about a preseason football game had no future in the agency.
The phone rang and the others waited for Jett to pick it up.
“We’ve got a breakout,” Oscar Woolman said. “You’re close and it happened less than thirty minutes ago.”
Jett listened carefully to the directions; he never wrote anything down. When he hung up he nodded to the others. Visibly excited, Pierce and Sloan checked the load in their weapons. Jett noticed Compton simply pick up her purse, as sure of her weapon as he was of his. They checked the bedroom, bathroom, drawers, and garbage cans, making sure nothing of theirs remained. They would never return to the hotel, and some would not return from the mission at all.
Tulsa, Oklahoma
Wes sat on a vinyl kitchen chair, sweat trickling down his neck, his wet shirt sticking to the back of the chair. Margi Winston put a glass of lemonade in front of him, hand shaking as she did. His glass had Kermit the Frog on the front, Monica and Elizabeth had plastic cups with a Dairy Queen logo, and Margi drank from a beer mug. She was trying hard to be a good hostess, and if she had owned a set of matching glasses she would have used them. Her house was small—two bedrooms, kitchen, and living room. The neighborhood was run down, the street had no curbs, the asphalt was broken and crumbling along its edges.
“The air-conditioning’s broken,” Margi said, swirling the ice cubes in her glass. “I haven’t had time to get it fixed yet.”
Monica had briefed them about Margi’s situation on the trip to Tulsa. She was an outpatient now, but had been hospitalized for months, losing her job and then her health insurance. When her mother died she inherited the house she lived in but was behind in the taxes and would lose it soon. The air-conditioning wasn’t fixed because she couldn’t afford the repairs.
Now Margi sipped her lemonade, holding her mug with two hands, unable to completely stop the shaking.
“This is Dr. Martin and this is Elizabeth Foxworth,” Monica said. “Elizabeth is a social worker like me and Wes is a psychologist.”
“Can they help me?” Margi said immediately.
“I don’t know,” Monica answered truthfully. “Wes—Dr. Martin—has been doing experiments that could give us a new approach to your problem.”
Wes squirmed, having made no commitments and being loaded with doubt.
“I’ll try anything,” Margi said, trembling in her chair, eyes tearing. “I need something.”
“Tell them about your dream,” Monica said.
“It’s always the same. There’s a ship in the desert and I’m on it but I don’t want to be. I want to get off so I go looking for a way but I can’t find one. I walk all over the ship but there’s no way to get off. Night after night I walk the ship but I can’t get off.”
Margi paused, sipping her drink, staring at the table, sweat beading on her forehead, her hands tight around the beer mug holding her lemonade.
“The ship is so confusing. I’ve tried to memorize the passages, to learn my way around, but I can’t. Sometimes you climb down a ladder and you’re in the engine room, and the next time you climb the same ladder you come out on the deck. Go through a door once and you’re in the kitchen, go through again and you’re in the radio room.”
Margi’s short blonde hair was unkempt, her skin was pale, her blue eyes were set in dark hollows. With a slight figure normally, now she was beyond thin, bordering on emaciated. She was thirty years old but looked forty, prematurely aged by stress. Another month or two and she would resemble a concentration camp survivor—if she lived that long.
“What kind of ship is it?” Monica asked.
“It’s a Navy ship.”
“Destroyer? Battleship? Aircraft carrier?” Wes prodded.
“It’s not an aircraft carrier, because it doesn’t have runways—you know, the big flat area for the planes to take off. It does have airplanes, though—two of them. They’re on the back of the ship. I don’t know the difference between a destroyer and a battleship, but this ship has great big guns.”
“How many funnels does it have?” Wes asked.
“Funnel?” Margi said, hands so tight on the beer mug her knuckles were white.
“Smoke stacks,” Wes said.
“One, I think,” she said. “Is that important?”
Margi looked stricken, as if she had missed the one important part of her dream that was the key to saving herself.
“No, it’s not important. I was just curious,” Wes said.
“What do you see when you look over the side of the ship?” Elizabeth asked.
“Desert.”
“And when you look above?” Elizabeth went on.
“Nothing.”
“Have you ever tried jumping over the side of the ship?” Elizabeth asked. “You might get off that way.”
“It’s too far,” Margi said. “It would break my legs.”
“Does the ship have a name?” Elizabeth asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Are there letters or a name painted on a wall anywhere?” Elizabeth said.
“No. But I’m not sure I’ve seen all of the ship. Sometimes I still find a room I haven’t been in.”
“Have you ever seen anyone else on the ship?” Wes asked.
“Never.”
“Is there a mirror? Can you see yourself?” he asked.
“I don’t remember any mirrors.”
“How long have you had this dream?” Monica asked.
“Seven years last July,” Margi said, eyes tearing, hand shaking so hard now she had to put her glass down.
“Margi, I can’t promise anything, but if there’s any way we can help, we will,” Elizabeth said.
When they left, Margi was sitting in her kitchen weeping, hands trembling in her lap.
Once back in the car Wes turned the air conditioner on full and then said, “That was odd about the airplanes. What she described wasn’t an aircraft carrier but she said it had airplanes. That’s the kind of confabulation you get in dreams—mixing details.”
“It was odd,” Elizabeth agreed.
“Wanda didn’t mention the airplanes,” Wes pointed out. “Maybe these aren’t exactly the same dreams.”
Wes was driving, with Elizabeth next to him and Monica in the rear seat, and now both women glared at him.
“Just because Wanda didn’t mention the airplanes, it doesn’t mean they weren’t in her dream,” Elizabeth said.
Wes didn’t point out that the opposite was true also; instead, he quickly changed the subject.
“Quite a different reaction than Wanda,” Wes said.
“Interesting, isn’t it,” Elizabeth agreed. “Wanda treats the dream like an old friend and Margi is disturbed by it.”
“Not just disturbed,” Monica said. “The dream is killing her.”
“Lack of REM sleep?” Wes asked.
“Yes.”
REM stood for rapid eye movement and was associated with dreaming. Sleep studies had shown that rapid movement of the eyes under the eyelids was a reliable indicator of dreaming. As a graduate research assistant, Wes had worked on a dream deprivation study. College students recruited for the study slept in the lab and then Wes or another graduate student would monitor their eyelids through the night, waking them every time REM sleep appeared. The idea was to deprive them of dreaming and see the effects. Those college students they kept from dreaming quickly became irritable and anxious. Physiologically they showed signs of severe stress, and none of the students could stand more than a week of dream deprivation.
“Margi sleeps, but she can’t dream normally so she doesn’t get the physical benefit,” Monica said. “No matter how long she sleeps, she never feels rested. She needs to dream about her life and her problems, so her mind can edit out the day’s worries just like an overworked muscle needs rest to cleanse itself of the lactic acid that builds up during exercise.”
“Wanda has had the dream for fifty years—why is she thriving?” Elizabeth asked.
“Wanda is one of those rare individuals who need very little sleep,” Monica said. “When she was young she averaged only five hours a night. Now she sleeps only three and a half.”
“I had a professor like that,” Wes said. “He slept four hours a night and thought his graduate students were lazy if they slept any more. He didn’t seem to understand the concept of individual differences.”
“Wanda’s mind handles wastes differently than most people’s,” Monica continued. “She would be a good subject for future research, Wes. At the other end of the spectrum are those that need ten or eleven hours of sleep a night. Margi is one of those. Her mind processes waste inefficiently so she needs more sleep—more dream sleep.”
“Margi has lasted seven years with the dream,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “I wonder if there aren’t others who didn’t last that long?”
“I know of two people who committed suicide that had complained of a persistent dream,” Monica said.
“About a ship?” Wes asked.
“About a ship,” Monica confirmed.
They rode a few minutes in silence, Wes behind the wheel. Wes wasn’t convinced they weren’t dealing with coincidental dreaming, but he was intrigued with the difference in physiological response between the two women. There had to be a neurological basis for the difference, and his mind went to work on the problem.
“Wes, are you listening to me?” Elizabeth said.
“Sorry, I was thinking of something.”
“Why did you ask if there was a mirror on the ship?” Elizabeth repeated.
“I got to thinking about the similarity of the dreams—not that I’m convinced they’re the same dream, but if the dream is being forced on them from the outside, then they’re not the ones who are wandering the ship. It makes you wonder who they would see if they looked in a mirror.”
“We should have asked Wanda if she had seen a mirror,” Monica said.
“If she’d seen someone else in a mirror she would have mentioned it,” Elizabeth noted.
“But she wouldn’t mention airplanes if she had seen those?” Wes said, pointing out the inconsistency in Elizabeth’s logic.
Wes checked the rearview mirror. Elizabeth was glaring at him. Soon her green eyes were animated again, her cheeks flushed. She was a beautiful woman with high cheekbones and fine facial features, but all Wes could see was the look that told him she had plunged into the puzzle of the dream and wanted him to jump in with her.
“If we routed Margi’s dream through your computer, Wes, could you insert a mirror with your program?” Elizabeth asked.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Wes said. “We can intercept and transfer the brain’s signals at a multiplexed level, but we can’t generate our own.”
Elizabeth and Monica looked disappointed, and they rode in silence, Wes still thinking about Elizabeth’s suggestion. He couldn’t program a mirror and insert it into a dream, since he couldn’t decode the multiplexed brain waves—only another brain could do that. Then he thought of another way to see into the mirror.
“Wes, you just missed the exit,” Monica complained.
He put his idea on the back burner while he looked for the next exit, but when he looked over at Elizabeth he could see she was reading his mind again.
“By the way,” Monica said, “who is paying for this trip?”
“I guess I will,” Wes said.
“Convinced?” Elizabeth said.
“Intrigued,” he replied. “Where to next?”
“Home,” Monica said. “Our next dreamer lives three blocks from the campus.”