The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

‘But I do trust him,’ she said. ‘It’s myself I don’t trust. Go to sleep, Chad. This subject is closed.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Gotcha.’

The clock read 2:26A when she said, ‘It could be done. I’m sure of that much. I could change my hair color. Wear a hat. Dark glasses, of course. Which would mean it would have to be a sunny day. And there would have to be an escape route.’

‘Are you seriously—’

‘I don’t know! Two hundred thousand dollars! I’d have to work almost three years to make that much money, and after the government and the banks wet their beaks, there’d be next to nothing left. We know how that works.’

She was quiet for awhile, looking at the ceiling above which Mrs Reston trod her slow miles.

‘And the insurance!’ she burst out. ‘Do you know what we have for insurance? Nothing!’

‘We have insurance.’

‘Okay, next to nothing. What if you got hit by a car? What if I turned up with an ovarian cyst?’

‘Our coverage is okay.’

‘That’s what everyone says, but what everyone knows is they fuck you at the drive-through! With this, we could be sure. That’s what I keep thinking about. We … could … be … sure!’

‘Two hundred thousand dollars makes my financial hopes for the book seem kind of small, though, don’t you think? Why even bother?’

‘Because this would be a onetime thing. And the book would be clean.’

‘Clean? You think this would make the book clean?’ He rolled over and faced her. Part of him had grown hard, so perhaps part of this was about sex. On their end of the bargain, at least.

‘Do you think I’ll ever get another job like the one with Winnie?’ She was angry, although with him or herself she couldn’t tell. Nor did she care. ‘I’ll be thirty-six in December. You’ll take me to dinner for my birthday and a week later I’ll get my real present: a past due notice for the last car loan payment.’

‘Are you blaming me for—?’

‘No. I’m not even blaming the system that keeps us and everyone like us treading water. Blame is counterproductive. And I told Winnie the truth: I don’t believe in sin. But I also don’t want to go to jail.’ She felt tears growing in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to hurt anyone, either. Especially not—’

‘You’re not going to.’

He started to turn over, but she grabbed his shoulder.

‘If we did it – if I did it – we could never talk about it afterward. Not one single time.’

‘No.’

She reached for him. In marriages, deals were sealed with more than a handshake. This they both knew.

The clock said 2:58A and he was drifting to sleep when she said, ‘Do you know anyone with a video camera? Because he wants—’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Charlie Green.’

After that, silence. Except for Mrs Reston, walking slowly back and forth above them. Nora had an image – half a dream – of Mrs Reston with a pedometer attached to the waistband of her pajama pants. Mrs Reston patiently walking off all those miles between her and dawn.

Nora fell asleep.

The next day, in Winnie’s study.

‘Well?’ he said.

Her mother had never been a churchgoer, but Nora had attended Vacation Bible School every summer, and had enjoyed it. There were games and songs and flannelboard stories. She found herself remembering one of the stories now. She hadn’t thought of it in years.

‘I wouldn’t have to really hurt the … you know, the person … to get the money?’ she said. ‘I want to be very clear about that.’

‘No, but I expect to see blood flow. Let me be clear about that. I want you to use your fist, but a cut lip or bloody nose will be quite sufficient.’

In one VBS story, the teacher put a mountain on the flannelboard. Then Jesus and a guy with horns. The teacher said the devil had taken Jesus up on top of a mountain and showed him all the cities of the earth. You can have everything in those cities, the devil had said. Every treasure. All you have to do is fall down and worship me. But Jesus was a stand-up guy. He’d said Get thee behind me, Satan.

‘Well?’ he asked again.

‘Sin,’ she mused. ‘That’s what’s on your mind.’

‘Sin for its own sake. Deliberately planned and executed. Do you find the idea exciting?’

‘No,’ she said, looking up at the frowning bookshelves.

Winnie let some time pass, then said for the third time: ‘Well?’

‘If I got caught, would I still get the money?’

‘If you lived up to your part of the agreement – and didn’t implicate me, of course – you certainly would. And even if you were caught, the very worst to come of it would be probation.’

‘Plus court-ordered psychiatric evaluation,’ she said. ‘Which I probably need for even considering this.’

Winnie said: ‘If you continue the way you are, dear, you’ll need a marriage counselor, at the very least. In my time in the ministry, I counseled many partners, and while money worries weren’t always the root cause of their problems, that’s what it was in most cases. And that’s all it was.’

‘Thank you for the benefit of your experience, Winnie.’