He got out of bed and showered, and as he usually did after The Dream – for so he thought of it, not as just any dream, but as The Dream, the one dream, the dream that was the only dream that he could ever remember having in his almost thirty-three years – he went to the couch afterward.
The one consolation on nights where he had The Dream was that it only came once. He had never had it twice in the same night, so could at least look forward to several hours of blessed oblivion before the day began. It made falling asleep after The Dream that much easier.
But tonight, in spite of that fact, sleep eluded him. He tossed and turned on the worn couch, feeling the weave of the cushions scratching at his skin as though during The Dream he had been converted to the princess of fable, so sensitive that she could not sleep if even a pea was beneath the mattress.
He spun around for a good half hour before finally sitting up and turning on the television. Another first. He never watched television at night, reasoning that if you were trying to sleep, the last way to get that done would be to involve yourself in a show of some kind. Plus he had concluded some years before that there was nothing of value to be seen on television between the hours of midnight and five a.m. All that could be found were infomercials, women wearing far too little clothing for him to think about watching – he was happily married and tried to avoid such things, even when his wife wasn't sleeping mere feet away from him – and music videos.
So when he turned on the television, he wasn't too surprised to find that there was very little on. He finally settled for watching reruns of Happy Days on one of the cable channels, and absently stared as the Fonz walked around like the king of the world, as Richie tried to find a girl, as the Cunningham parents worked awkwardly but endearingly to keep their brood together and wholesome in the rose-colored reimagining of life in the nineteen fifties.
He stayed there until morning, watching old television shows that appeared and disappeared before his eyes without leaving so much as a single trace of their existence behind. He could have been watching anything and it would have left the same lack of impression. All he could see before his eyes was the specter, standing in front of a burning world. All he could hear was a child's voice, speaking in whispered, almost reverent tones that were so low he could not quite make out the words.
He sat, and tried not to think of the end of the universe. He thought of Lillian, and how lucky he had been to find her. At thirty years old in a family where the men had a tendency to marry extremely young, he had been verging on being a confirmed bachelor in his parents' and brothers' eyes when she had come into his life, much to the extreme pleasure of his family.
He had met her at church. She was a teacher, and had moved in mid-year to replace the second grade teacher at the local school. The second grade teacher had been a member of his father's congregation, and had died tragically only a few days before. The entire community had been reeling over the loss. Mrs. Bloom, a sprite lady in her late fifties, had seemed like the kind of person who would likely live forever or until the Second Coming of Jesus, whichever came first. She had blue hair. Not what Ben thought of as "old lady blue," but rather a vivid, sky-blue dye job that made her seem like some punk-rocking granny. The kids in her class loved it, and called her "Mrs. Blue" instead of Mrs. Bloom.
She had been teaching in the town for almost thirty years, almost as long as Ben had been alive. Indeed, she had been his second grade teacher, two decades and change before. But that changed on one Sunday afternoon when she went for her "daily constitutional": a walk around the mountains outside Brookton that she took every evening at sunset, rain or shine.
The day in question was a bright and sunny one, one of those days in early spring that serve to remind you that summer is only a glimmer away, a day when the sun didn't want to go to bed, but rather stayed up late and strong, giving light well into the seven o'clock hour.
She went for her walk...and didn't come back. Mrs. Blue's daughter, who was living with her mother while in the midst of a messy divorce from a man who could only be described as the town misfit, called the Sheriff after her mother didn't return on time. A few hours later the Sheriff – who technically didn't have to go looking for a full-grown woman after she'd been missing less than an hour, but who frankly didn't have much better to do in the quiet town of Brookton – found Mrs. Blue.
She had been murdered. There was no question. At first the people heard that she had been killed by a mountain lion or perhaps a pack of coyotes, but slowly the details came out and it turned out that Mrs. Blue had not died at the teeth of a wild animal, but at the hands of the wildest animal of all: man. She had been ripped open from throat to groin, her insides torn from her body in a display of mad strength that made those who had seen it shudder and grow pale for years after it happened. The viscera had been piled beside her head, then burned as her open eyes stared at the blue sky that matched her hair.
The murderer had ever been found. The popular theory was that it was some crazy from out of town, since if there was one thing that everyone agreed on, it was that no one in Brookton – not even Mrs. Blue's certifiable loser of a son-in-law – was sufficiently disturbed and angry to do something like this. The Sheriff, a good man but one who was desperately out of his league when it came to things like ritualistic murders, had called in the state police, but they had failed to find a single clue or piece of evidence that might lead them to the perpetrator of the heinous crime, and soon they were no longer a presence in Brookton.
So the community felt the loss of its second grade teacher keenly, for though Brookton was big enough that not everyone knew everyone else, it was still small enough that most people knew all of the teachers that gave instruction at Brookton El, and indeed a good portion of the people in the town had been in Mrs. Blue's class themselves.
But as so often happens in life, tragedy bore hopeful fruit, at least in Ben's case. Because when he met Mrs. Blue's replacement, he knew that he had just met one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.
Not that they had an easy relationship from the beginning. Indeed, Ben put his foot so firmly in his mouth within two weeks of meeting her that he was fairly sure she would never deign to speak to him again, let alone consent to go on a date with him.
The first time he had seen her, she had appeared in his father's church a new congregant. He had not known at the time that she was Mrs. Blue's replacement, but had only known that she was beautiful, and graceful, entering the – to her – strange new place with assurance and a way of walking that brought to mind professional ballet dancers. She moved with ease, as though she was not so much walking into the chapel as flowing into it, like some kind of spritely spirit that had taken a break from Heaven but had still retained much of her angelic beauty.
Ben knew he had to speak to her, and approached her after services. She was already surrounded by a group of men who wanted to make her acquaintance – meaning they were sniffing around her like hungry dogs who have just spied a fresh steak that had providentially appeared in their midst – but Ben, as the son of the preacher, was able to take her elbow gently and offer to show her around the chapel and help her find her way to the Sunday School classes.
She nodded in thanks, and he asked her name. "Lillian. Lillian Emerson," she answered, and even in speaking she was graceful, and lovely, and desirable in a way that Ben had never before experienced. He spoke little as he helped her to her Sunday classes, but instead found himself lost in her beautiful eyes and in the wavy beauty of her long blond hair.
He didn't think much of her during the next week. Not that she didn't appear in his thoughts from time to time, but he was often engaged mentally. He was a writer, whose first two books had found enough success that he had been able to quit his first career – working as an accountant in one of the small firms that serviced most of Brookton come tax season – and still afford to keep his small apartment and maintain the Spartan living style to which he had become accustomed through the years as a hopeless bachelor.
Still, in between cranking out pages in his newest – and, he thought, best – novel, he found himself thinking of Lillian from time to time, and the thought never failed to bring a smile to his face. He resolved during the course of the week that he would ask her out come Sunday. Nothing major, just perhaps dinner at one of the nice Mom-and-Pop places that could be found in the center of town; maybe a walk around to show her some of the local sights.
That Sunday, however, she had failed to appear. He had felt depressed at this at first, until the doors opened and another beautiful woman walked in.
Brookton was large enough that new people were moving in and out fairly regularly, but his father's congregation was fairly stable. To have one great beauty appear was unusual. To have two in as many weeks was unheard of.
The new woman came and sat right in the pew directly in front of Ben, and he found it very difficult to concentrate on his father's sermon that week. He wondered if perhaps the disappearance of Lillian and her replacement by this new picture of loveliness was fate or divine intervention. Maybe he wasn't supposed to ask Lillian out. Maybe he was supposed to continue as a bachelor, fulfilling his parents' worst nightmares.
Or maybe he was supposed to ask this new girl out.
He was still pondering the question when the sermon ended, still thinking on it during the closing hymn, still ruminating about it as the benediction was spoken. He really didn't know what to do.
The question was, to some extent, taken out of his hands, however, when the new woman in front of him turned and said, "Hi!" to him in a bright voice.
Ben almost turned around to see if she was talking to someone behind him. He wasn't a stunning example of manly good looks, he knew. He had a weak chin and had developed a bit of a belly during his time as an accountant. No woman's head would turn just because he walked into a room. And yet...and yet, here was a singularly lovely woman speaking to him, not waiting to be approached by anyone else, not running off to talk to any of the several quite good looking unmarried men who were in the congregation, but speaking to him.
"Uhh...," he managed after a moment. Scintillating conversation it was not, but it was the best he could manage through his surprise.
The woman smiled brightly. "How are you doing?" she asked, as though they were old friends who had known one another for years.
"Fine," he finally stammered. "Fine." And then, in case she hadn't heard it the first few times, he added one more "Fine" for good measure. Then he regained some modicum of control over himself and reached out a hand. "I'm Ben Dirkson," he said. "What's your name?"
All in all, he thought it was a pretty suave opening. He said it without stuttering too much or breaking out in sudden flop sweat, so he was going to count it as a win, in any event.
He was, therefore, quite surprised when the young woman's eyes beetled close together and she grew visibly upset. What had he done? he wondered. Usually women didn't decide that they actively disliked him. They might be disinterested, they might even be unaware of him, but at least they didn't actively show displeasure at his very presence. So what had he done in the past three seconds to deserve the ire of this lady?
A moment later all was made clear as she said in dark tones, "My name? It's Lillian, the same as it was last week."
Ben blinked, confused. Lillian? This wasn't Lillian. Lillian had long, wavy hair. And this girl had tightly curled tresses that hugged her face closely. Sure, both of them had blue eyes, and now that he thought of it their smiles were very similar, and not only that but they had the same perfectly white teeth and –
Oh, Lord, no, he thought as he realized his mistake. He had been utterly thrown by the total change in hairstyle. How could he? How could he have made such an utterly boneheaded mistake? Not only that, how could he have made it to Lillian, who had clearly decided that she liked him at least enough to be civil to him at church, and maybe even would have consented to go on a date with him – though he recognized that as a long shot.
Not anymore, he knew. There was no way that she was going to forgive this trespass. Beautiful women expected – deserved – to be remembered. And he had committed the cardinal sin of forgetting what Lillian looked like. Or at least, he had committed the sin of being confused by the change in her hair. No way would she even speak to him after this, let alone agree to go out with him.
The moment worsened when he gasped in horror at his mistake. Unfortunately, a glob of spittle had been in his mouth at the time, and when he inhaled, it went down his trachea.
He gagged. Then he coughed. Again, normally not the kind of thing that a suave ladies' man would do, if not necessarily a social sin. However, the cough came so quickly and violently that he didn't have a chance to raise his hand to cover his mouth. He coughed right in Lillian's face.
Her eyes, which had been irritated, now grew disgusted as he unloaded the cough straight at her.
"What –?" she stuttered.
Before he could think of anything else to say, he blurted the one thing that he absolutely should not have said.
"Go out with me!"
Lillian looked confused again. No doubt because he had not so much asked it as hollered it; he sounded like a five year old asking for more birthday cake.
Again, Ben's heart sank. He had forgotten what she looked like. He had coughed in her face. He asked her out in a tone of voice that a drunk might use.
And she said yes.
He blinked, not merely surprised but actually flabbergasted. He had read that word in books, but had never before experienced what it actually meant to be in that strange state. He couldn't speak. His eyes bulged.
"Are you trying to hypnotize me?" she asked with a smile.
His eyes bulged still more.
Lillian laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, sweet and tinkling as a crystal bell sounding on a perfect spring day.
"Why?" he finally managed.
She stopped laughing and pursed her lips. And then, right there in the middle of the chapel, she shrugged and said, "Damned if I know. You had me at the cough."
They were married six months later.
Thinking of Lillian, of their introduction to one another and their courtship and subsequent life together, Ben Dirkson managed to finally drift off. Light was already filtering through the windows in the living room when he did, but at least he got a few minutes – maybe even an hour – of sleep before Lillian was shaking him gently.
"Poor baby," she cooed, and kissed his forehead. "Bad night?"
"Yeah," he answered. He looked at his wife. At least she looked rested. Though upon reflection he could not remember her ever looking less than radiant. Even when hunched over a toilet bowl puking her guts out, she was still far and away the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
He smiled and pulled her down for a kiss.
"Easy, Casanova," she finally said with a smile. "I let you sleep in, so we're running a bit late."
"Who cares?" he said with a lecherous growl. He kissed her again, and then let his hands drop to her breasts.
She took his wrists and pushed them down to his sides. "Later tonight," she promised. "You don't want to be late for church."
"Maybe just this once," he said in a half-pleading, half-hopeful voice.
"No," she answered, but she was smiling as she said it. She laughed. "God, I love you," she said.
"I love you," he said back. And meant it. She was his greatest treasure. Her and the baby she carried.
He stood and found that she had made breakfast while he slept. Pancakes and eggs stood waiting on the table for him. He ate while Lillian watched. She wasn't puking every couple of hours any more, but he had noted that she had a distinct lack of appetite in the morning, so the fact that she had made breakfast for him meant even more than it might have only six months ago.
After breakfast, he went to the bathroom. He voided his bladder, then looked in the mirror to see if he would need to shave or not. His family was, as a rule, fairly hairy, but he seemed to have been skipped by the Dirkson hirsutism. He could often go days – as much as a week – without shaving. And he probably would have gone longer were it not for the fact that at that point Lillian usually began complaining about his beard scratching her, his cue to make himself clean-shaven once more.
Darn, he thought as he realized that he would, indeed, need to shave.
He looked down at the bottom drawer that was attached to the cabinetry beneath the bathroom sink. It held his meager toiletries – electric razor, deodorant, brush, and so on. He found the electric razor and pulled it out. He thumbed it on to make sure it had enough of a charge – nothing worse than shaving with a half-charged razor – and then, satisfied, looked back at the mirror.
And screamed.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michaelbrent Collings is a lawyer, screenwriter, black-belt martial artist, father, husband, and has a killer backhand on the badminton court. He has written several other books, many of them bestsellers; has published dozens of articles on several continents; and is currently writing a number of television shows and movies.
He has a Facebook page, and if you search for "Michaelbrent" on Facebook you'll find him, guaranteed (like it or not, there is only one "Michaelbrent" in the whole world). Or, if you wish, you can follow him on Twitter by following mbcollings.
He also has a website and blog at michaelbrentcollings.com, and double dog dares you to check it out.
Michaelbrent resides in Los Angeles, California, with his wife, two kids, and several imaginary friends, all of whom are too cool to invite Michaelbrent to their parties.