The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

Still in that same patient tone, Ollie said, ‘My brother Tom isn’t worth the powder it would take to blow him to Des Moines. I have never said as much to him, it would be cruel, but I’ve said so many times to you. Haven’t I?’

‘Well … yes.’

‘I have supported him through three failed businesses and two failed marriages. I believe I’ve told you that many times, as well. Haven’t I?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I did well, and I invested well,’ Ollie said, beginning to walk and tapping his cane in his own personal code: tap, tap-tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. ‘I am one of the infamous One Percent so reviled by the liberal young. Not by a lot, mind you, but by enough to have lived comfortably here for the last three years while continuing to serve as my younger brother’s safety net. I no longer have to perform that service for his daughter, thank God; Martha actually seems to be earning a living for herself. Which is a relief. I’ve made a will, all proper and correct, and in it I’ve done the proper thing. The family thing. Since I have no wife or children myself, that means leaving everything to Tom. Except this. This is for you. You’ve been a good friend to me, so please. Take it.’

Dave considered, decided he could give it back when his friend’s death premonition passed, and took the watch. He clicked it open and admired the crystal face. Twenty-two past six – right on time, as far as he could tell. The second hand moved briskly in its own little circle just above the scrolled 6.

‘Cleaned several times, but repaired only once,’ Ollie said, resuming his slow ambulation. ‘In nineteen twenty-three, according to Grampy, after my father dropped it down the well on the old farm in Hemingford Home. Can you imagine that? Over a hundred and twenty years old, and only repaired once. How many human beings on earth can claim that? A dozen? Maybe only six? You have two sons and a daughter, am I right?’

‘You are,’ Dave said. His friend had grown increasingly frail over the last year, and his hair was nothing but a few baby-fine wisps on his liver-spotted skull, but his mind was ticking along a little better than Olga’s. Or my own, he admitted to himself.

‘The watch isn’t in my will, but it should go in yours. I’m sure you love all your children equally, you’re that kind of guy, but liking is different, isn’t it? Leave it to the one you like the best.’

That would be Peter, Dave thought, and smiled.

Either returning the smile or catching the thought behind it, Ollie’s lips parted over his remaining teeth and he nodded. ‘Let’s sit down. I’m bushed. It doesn’t take much, these days.’

They sat on one of the benches, and Dave tried to hand the watch back. Ollie pushed his hands out in an exaggerated repelling gesture that was comical enough to make Dave laugh, although he recognized this as a serious matter. Certainly more serious than a few missing pieces in a jigsaw puzzle.

The smell of the flowers was strong, heavenly. When Dave Calhoun thought of death – not so far off now – the prospect he regretted most was the loss of the sensory world and all its ordinary luxuries. The sight of a woman’s cleavage in a boatneck top. The sound of Cozy Cole going bullshit on the drums in ‘Topsy, Part Two.’ The taste of lemon pie with a cloud of meringue on top. The smell of flowers he could not name, although his wife would have known them all.

‘Ollie, you may be going to die this week, God knows everyone in this place has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel, but there’s no way you can know for sure. I don’t know if you had a dream, or a black cat crossed your path, or something else, but premonitions are bullshit.’

‘I didn’t just have a premonition,’ Ollie said, ‘I saw one. I saw Mister Yummy. I’ve seen him several times in the last two weeks. Always closer. Pretty soon I’ll have a room visit, and that will be that. I don’t mind. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. Life’s a great thing, but if you live long enough, it wears out before it runs out.’

‘Mister Yummy,’ Calhoun said. ‘Who the hell is Mister Yummy?’

‘It’s not really him,’ Ollie said, as if he hadn’t heard. ‘I know that. It’s a representation of him. A summation of a time and place, if you like. Although there was a real Mister Yummy once. That’s what my friends and I called him that night in Highpockets. I never knew his real name.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘Listen, you know I’m gay, right?’

Dave smiled. ‘Well, I think your dating days were over before I met you, but I had a pretty good idea, yes.’

‘Was it the ascot?’

It’s the way you walk, Dave thought. Even with a cane. The way you run your fingers through what remains of your hair and then glance in the mirror. The way you roll your eyes at the women on that Real Housewives show. Even the still-life drawings in your room, which form a kind of timeline of your decline. Once you must have been so good, but now your hands shake. You’re right – it wears out before it runs out.