Machine Dreams

hit his shin on the metal bed frame. Fumbled on the nightstand with his hand, felt for the lamp and turned the switch, stupid, of course it didn’t work, and he touched the bed. Good, a double, the mattress lumpy but not as bad as it could be. The all-clear sounded as he’d known it would, and he lay down, pulled the pillows behind his head, and crossed his feet. Then the strange thing had happened. The power came on, trembling faintly in the walls, and theroom turned bright, startling him. He looked at the room uncomprehendingly. It was plain, clean and ordinary, with a water closet to the left behind a narrow door—but he felt his skin prickle with an odd, interior fear and sat up on the bed. He put his feet carefully to the floor and gripped the edge of the metal bed frame.
    The room was entirely taken up with a plain pine bureau, luggage table, nightstand and lamp, the bed—his eyes came back to the lamp. In its angled light he saw the flowered paper of the walls. The walls were plastered unevenly so that the fanlike pink flowers of the old paper seemed to ripple. He looked more closely then and understood. The paper was the same print as the pattern on his walls at home, at Bess’s house in Bellington. He sat, a stupid Yank son of a bitch. Then he stood abruptly, switched off the light. Laughed once, out loud. Felt for his suitcase and walked out. Fifteen minutes later, he had a room in a hotel two blocks away.
    That’s why he’d been spooked last night, afraid of what he’d see when the lights came on. Not scared of the dark, scared of the light. And what was Katie afraid of? Afraid of that room, he guessed, being made to stay in it instead of going to school.
    He touched the solid roof of the car: that silver gray shined up real nice with a good waxing but the chrome grill would take some work. Moving to the front of the sedan, he was conscious of the office girls in the hospital across the alley. Didn’t want to get to his knees to wax the ample grill, so he bent from the waist. Hold the can of wax in one hand, rub briskly with the other. Could leave it to sit and dry while he went inside. Check on Clayton, that’s what. He could take Clayton with him to meet Reb for lunch at the Elks’, make sure the old guy stuck to an innocent beer. Reb seemed to control his drinking; a beer at noon was his limit, though he likely drank more at night than people thought proper for a doctor. Reb could hold the liquor but Bess had said Clayton was “sick” Thursday, and sleeping in weekend mornings wasn’t like him. Bess pretended not to notice; did she complain in private? Probably not, those old girls knew their place and were smart: if a woman told a man not to drink, he’d drink till he fell down.
    Mitch looked toward the small white house. Trellis roof of the little cement porch seemed fragile, overspread by gnarled, nakedbranches of the big buckeye. He could bring the porch swing out of the garage and hang it any day now. Though the weather was still cool, the snows were surely over.
    Ease the screen door shut—there, the smallest thing could wake Katie. Standing in the kitchen, Mitch heard Clayton getting up—so, finally. A relief not to have to wake him. Could light the gas under the coffee now. Get the bread out of the drawer, put the loaf on the cutting board beside the knife: a setup, make it clear Clayton ought to eat something.
    “Well, Cowboy.” Clayton stood in the hallway, rubbing the top of his bald head. “Near slept my life away. Surprised you’d let me have such peace.”
    “Just about to haul you out. Want some coffee?”
    Clayton shook his head. “Not yet. Think I’ll have a red-eye. Hair of the dog that bit me.”
    Mitch opened the Frigidaire, surveyed its contents as though he didn’t already know Bess had gotten rid of that six-pack. “You’re stuck with caffeine, Clayton. Or straight tomato juice.”
    “Who the hell drank all the beer?”
    “Looks like Bess drank it, after she put you to bed last night.”
    Clayton sat at the table, his arms folded, and chuckled. “I bet you that coffee she left me is black as sin.”
    “See for yourself.” Mitch poured a cup and set it in front of Clayton; they both observed the steaming liquid. It smelled strong, like burnt grounds. “Want some milk, lighten it up?”
    “No use trying to dilute it.” Clayton held the cup to his lips and took a swallow. “Best drink it when it’s so hot I can’t taste it.”
    “Better get some