Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 43, No. 4. Whole No. 245, April 1964

There Is No Dreaming by Kyle Montgomery

This is the 262nd “first story” to be published by Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine... It is a “first story” which reveals a remarkable sensitivity to (and note the coming quotation marks) things “refined” and “elegant” and “genteel”...

The author, asked for a brief dossier, wrote: “Since this is my first venture beyond printed rejection slips, I am in uncharted territory...” However, here are a few “vital statistics”: age, 28; past occupations: brush salesman, house painter, furnace cleaner, department store clerk and window dresser; lived (!) and worked in a “funeral home” — all “in addition to the normal pursuits of a student.” Later: six years in the Air Force; studied at the Kabukj-za Theatre in Osaka, Japan; attended North Carolina State College, majoring in Philosophy and Religion; manager of a Credit Bureau; stage designer for little theater productions and one of the organizers of a “pseudo-beatnik coffee house”... It will be fascinating to see what the future brings forth from this “writer-to-watch”...

Life has been benevolent, mused Miss Clarice, and then wondered whatever prompted that thought.

Mama would definitely not agree.

With the intrusion of Mama in her thoughts, Miss Clarice cocked her head like a sparrow suddenly alert to a feline threat. Her water-pale fingers pecked at the lace jabot of her black crepe dress as she listened. Then she sighed and returned to the open book on her lap.

The book, a volume of Donne’s poems, was Clarice’s weekly nepenthe — a release from the accumulated tedium of a life spent teaching twelfth-year English Literature. Even a sparrow can admire the canary’s trills, although she might never sing them herself. Thus the ritual of Saturday-afternoon retreats into poetic privacy — even throughout the empty weeks of this summer vacation.

Perhaps the bittersweet bonbons of Emily Dickinson might have been a more felicitous choice, but this afternoon found Miss Clarice Odette Foster prey to a vague desire for stronger fare. A prolonged diet of dry husks screamed for the substance of suet. The bony brittleness of age sought a lusty affirmation of life.

To further escape the snores of her mother, Clarice chose the peacock chair on the side porch as her bower for the vicarious release through Donne.

“For God’s sake hold your tongue, and let me love.”

Miss Clarice paused in her reading and shook her head. Although well into her eighties, her mother possessed a disgustingly healthy and forceful snore. She more than matched Donne’s lustiness.

Allowing Donne to rest on her narrow lap, Miss Clarice reached for her woven straw fan. The sun had moved over the porch and now it angled its light through the gingerbread onto the gray-stitched auburn hair of Miss Clarice.

...Clair de lune... No, red moonlight...

Ages ago, back in the greengage years before the emptiness, the boy next door had whispered such words to a petite but big-eyed girl in the moon shadows of the orchard. But moon shadows are pale things and the sun is a fiercely maternal dispeller of shadows. Still, memories of the orchard remained — remnants of the plums and apples still stocked the drying racks in the attic and the riotous grapes were jellied and sealed with paraffin on the cellar shelves. But...

That was the past now: one did have responsibilities.

Thoughtfully, Miss Clarice whisked the air with a violet-scented handkerchief. Then she dabbed her temples with the cool linen and indulged herself with the palest of smiles. While, with fur-soft tingles, the enervating warmth of the late sun gently brushed against her and curled purring about her. Such unusual warmth for this time of the year; and yet, so unlike that of Springtime.

For a moment, but only for a moment, she considered moving the chair to the cooler shadows of the overhang. Could Mama see Clarice unshaded in the sunlight, she would more than scold — too much sun freckled Miss Clarice. But, despite her ubiquitous suspicions, even Mama could hardly accuse the sun of defiling her daughter’s hands with that lacework of brown freckles. No, a more devious seducer had eluded Mama’s traps and enshared Clarice’s hands in those nets of age.

As the declining summer flush enveloped her, Miss Clarice relaxed and gazed languidly over the porch railing and beyond the Golden Raptures, Talismans, and Orange Delights. Then, with a start, she leaned forward.

Such a brilliant red! So vibrant in the sun’s glare.

Her fan agitating the heat, Miss Clarice studied the crimson automobile parked beyond her neat but militant row of irises.

Not that this was her first notice of the vehicle: it had made frequent week-end appearances during the summer months. And one afternoon while Clarice was snipping dead stalks in the iris beds, the neighbor woman had explained its presence — a gift to her son at college. Surprising that she had not noticed it earlier this afternoon. Such an impressive vehicle and so... so vital.

Suddenly repelled, Miss Clarice twitched away from the railing.

Surely it could not be. Miss Clarice blinked, then she looked again. Impossible! It must be her imagination again — that could not possibly be a snake coiled beneath the front tire. It must be another product of her exhaustion; yes, she was mentally and physically depleted, and vulnerable to such imaginings.

Or — of course! — the sun. She should have thought of that immediately.

Miss Clarice ventured back to the railing. Imagine such a fantasy! Fascinated by her mirage, she stared enraptured, almost hypnotized. It puzzled, yet it somewhat pleased her.

Then it shocked her.

Slowly at first, but unmistakably, she could see the snake beginning to writhe and uncoil. Even stranger, she could almost feel the sinuous surge of latent energy. Then Miss Clarice jumped.

Spewing water, the snake flopped violently against the tire.

Clarice giggled.

How silly! The snake proved nothing more than a garden hose of green plastic. Whatever possessed her? — to imagine a snake! Would Mama laugh over that fancy! Clarice could almost see her: she could almost imagine...

Clarice stiffened, tensely aware of something behind her. Her head inclined toward the French doors. Her ears strained for the repetition of a sound, the ponderous thump-thump-thumping of Mama coming down the stairs. But a gift of silence reassured her.

She eased back into the chair and anxiously gathered Donne once more to her tremulous bosom. How could she have allowed herself to be deceived so? This troubled her.

For a while it had looked as though Mama was determined that Clarice never forget that ancient episode of the hair rinse. Such a trifling matter, really. However, since the incident Clarice had been spoon-fed large portions of endless homilies on all matters virtuous. It had seemed so harmless at the time, but then, as usual, Mama was correct. One must never, even once, forget one’s position...

Miss Clarice looked up.

Something moving had forced itself into her thoughts. She edged forward to the railing again.

A young man in yellow swim trunks moved from the neighbor’s porch to the car. Perched atop his head was a battered straw hat with its wide brim upturned in front and down in back. Something in his jaunty manner tugged the strings of Clarice’s reticule of memories, or perhaps it was the teasing melody he whistled. The strings snarled and Clarice never knew which — memories or melody. She was still fretting when the young man picked up the hose, adjusted the nozzle, and began to wash his car.

Miss Clarice stared, caught herself doing so, and flicked her eyes around to the French doors. Mama’s snorts continued their normal spasmodic tempo.

Clarice waited until her breathing slowed before she returned to Donne:

“...or ruined fortune flout”

And yet, it had not seemed as wanton as Mama insisted: the rinse merely hid the gray. Not at all the same as actually dyeing her hair with one of those delightful colors. It merely hid the gray — as unobtrusive as the rinse which tempered Mama’s hair with steel-blue glints. But one should not argue with Mama. She knew what was best for her daughter, didn’t she? Still...

The vigorous sibilance of the hose insinuated itself in Clarice’s reverie.

She looked across the irises and smiled — an unguarded and full smile. In his haste the young man had overlooked closing one car window. An indulgent smile now. She would not have been so careless; each window would have been inspected — nothing left to chance. Always be doubly certain all windows and doors are shut and firmly bolted before climbing the steep stairway to bed. One can never be too cautious. An ounce of...

What a rich shade of yellow, Clarice thought — almost golden.

Young people wear such vividly alive colors nowadays. Not at all like the drab colors which Mama had always selected for her — dusty lavenders and lace-frosted grays. Why must propriety be shrouded in dead colors? Was there a special virtue in funereal black, or was it a virtue in itself? Black — the color of guilt? Or of confinement?

But not so with the uninhibited youths of today. Although she had once agreed with Mama that some of today’s clothes were too exuberant and possibly a trifle too brief. And yet, were they? They thrived in the fires of the sun: they did not flinch in the passion of its scorching fingers. They were too young for a true loss of innocence. How often this summer Clarice had admired the brazen youths littering their precious laughter like scraps of tinsel across a landscape uncluttered by watches or jolting alarm clocks. Admired and envied them. How different from when she was young. When she was young? Yes, in the days of her earlier innocence, she too had loved colors. But as innocence dried, the colors died.

Miss Clarice stirred and patted her brow. How odd — to feel chilled in the sunlight. Why, she even had goose pimples!

Falling back into the wicker chair, Miss Clarice glanced behind. If Mama could know, whatever would she think?

Mama’s snores blared indifference through the French doors.

Yes, Mama certainly relished her afternoon naps. She virtually wallowed in abandonment and Clarice envied her the ability to derive such uncorseted pleasure from those deep slumbers. Earlier, during the peak of the summer heat, Clarice made a timid attempt to emulate Mama, but she soon found it impossible. Sleep just would not come to her. Welts from bone-clean stays of worn memories resisted her efforts and a whirlwind of uncomfortable thoughts buffeted her with a rush of wistful anxiety. Strange thoughts and new doubts; sudden hopes bearing worse fears.

Nor could she speak of them to Mama. Even if Clarice could have forced herself to do so, Mama was inaccessible — she was much too practical. True, Mama would have listened to every word, but she would have snorted and expressed her opinion by dialing the druggist for a tonic or a refill of Clarice’s heart medicine. So Clarice granted Mama the right to undisturbed sleep.

He was leaving.

Surely he wasn’t finished already.

Her lips trembling, Clarice pushed herself forward in the chair. Why, she could not remember, but the young man had become an essential part of the afternoon and its pulsating warmth. And now he was leaving.

Her hands fluttered her jabot, flitted to her hair, then fell to her lap. With a sigh she glanced at her book and tried to re-knit the metered threads of her reading:

The needle slipped through the threads and pricked the heavy hand of memory. Briskly, Miss Clarice bandaged the wound and thrust it away. As an additional antiseptic measure, she closed the book.

In time to notice the young man returning.

The sun nestled now in the crepe myrtles and sketched the scene in limned silhouettes. Still his bathing trunks blazed golden and Clarice removed an unexplained tear from her eye.

Then she placed Donne on the rattan side-table.

Behind her, Mama droned on, but Clarice ceased to notice. Other sounds held her and the air was rose-scented and gilded. She trembled, then fretted with her fan. Silly boy! Such a foolish thing to do. When he sloshed water into that bucket, most of his soap was washed away — so wasteful. And yet, so typical...

Choked by a sudden tightness in her throat, Clarice swallowed.

How like the boy next door — not this one, the otter one. So long ago. If she could see him, what would Mama think of this one?

Miss Clarice raised her fan and lowered her eyelids.

From the willow beyond the porch shot the raucous jeer of a bluejay. Once there was a mockingbird in that tree, but the bluejay drove it away. So long ago.

The young man screamed.

And Miss Clarice’s eyes snapped back to the other yard. Then she frowned. A young girl was there, spraying the boy with the hose. Hopscotching back and forth, he tried to tease the hose away from her. Together they laughed. While Clarice deepened her frown. When had she come — from where?

Louder and louder the boy laughed — a vibrant burst of joy. Its vigor chafed Miss Clarice and she did not know why. Sadly, she watched; silently, she listened to the crystal sparks of the girl’s giggles. Isolated in their private universe, the two mated their glee.

Then the boy snatched the hose and was chasing the girl. Trying to dodge the whipping water behind her, the girl tripped and fell. In the middle of Miss Clarice’s iris beds.

“Watch out!” The sharpness in her voice surprised Miss Clarice as much as it did the young couple.

“I’m awfully sorry,” the girl said, as she brushed dirt from her tanned knees. “I... that is, we...”

“It’s quite all right,” murmured Miss Clarice. “I do hope that you haven’t harmed yourself.”

“Are you okay, Sally?” the boy asked, placing his arm around her shoulders. “We’re sorry, Miss Clarice. We were fooling around and forgot about...”

“There is nothing to worry about, Robert. No harm done.” Miss Clarice averted her eyes from the glare of the setting sun. “You children run along now.”

“Come on, Sally. You’d better wash your knees,” he said and turned her away from the porch. “If I can do anything. To help fix those, Miss Clarice, let me know.”

“Yes... Robert.”

Quivering, Miss Clarice returned to her chair.

How young they were — how very young. And yet, already he knew how to care for her. Had it been so when she was that age? Miss Clarice struggled to recall: it was such a long time for remembering. Yes, he had been the same, in his way.

Even after the many years Miss Clarice still spoke of — no, thought of — the young man next door as an impersonal him, Since that moon-splashed interlude she had yet to mention his name. The indifferent pronoun softened the edges of memory. That was all, for nothing had succeeded in erasing it from her thoughts. Not even Mama.

Pressing its heat closer to the ground, the sun settled deeper into the crepe myrtles.

With a vague effort, Miss Clarice reached for her book and prepared to reconcile herself with the jilted Donne:

Miss Clarice broke off the reconciliation: it required an expense of energy which she suddenly felt lacking.

Across the crumpled irises the young man returned. Gone was the previous carefree attitude. As he hurried to complete his task of washing the car, he tossed frequent sullen glances in Miss Clarice’s direction.

In the corner of the railings a fly buzzed in the tangles of a dusty spider web, but Miss Clarice did not hear it. Merged with the louder drone of Mama’s snores, the buzzing became one with the metronome of sound beating within Clarice. Throbbing sounds. While over and around her, the passing sun continued to weave its lulling spell.

Clarice flicked the linen feebly.

She gazed on the boy and gently wondered.

So young and golden. But he has lost his smile. Why doesn’t he smile any longer? Certainly he isn’t frowning because of the irises. She had assured them — no harm done. The irises have bloomed their full this year. She did so wish he would smile again. Too young to frown. Mama, why doesn’t he smile?

The sun was in the hedges now. How warm it has been today. And so tiring. If only she could sleep like Mama. So tired. And — fuzzy. I wonder why. So like the whisper of a myriad butterfly wings. Must be from the sun. So warm. A warm and listless feeling. As if I’m floating — in a cloud of butterfly wings. He said I floated on the moonbeams. Ah, at last, he is smiling again. Mama. Robert is smiling again. May I go, Mama?

Yes, I understand. I know, Mama — I understand—

It’s time for bed, Mama. Are your windows bolted?

The windows, Mama, the windows... “Here, Mama, let me help you with the stairs”...

Anxiety wrinkled Clarice’s face as she tried to rise from her chair. But as she lifted her hand, a Monarch glided noiselessly down upon it and the weight was too great for Clarice to support. She faded to the color of defeat and allowed the beating wings to press her back into the chair.

“I... I hope there is no dreaming.”

Her hand fell inert across the closed book.

Completely entwined, the fly no longer buzzed. It waited also.

Beyond the Golden Raptures, Talismans, and Orange Delights, beyond the crushed iris blades, the young man coiled the hose. Carrying the pail, he walked to the house. Once he glanced over his shoulder — toward the other porch where Miss Clarice primly sat, her tilted head resting in the unruffled lace of her jabot.

From the kitchen the young girl rushed out to meet him.

“Through?”

“Yeah,” he answered, as he dropped the pail.

“Come on in then. We’re making lemonade.”

“Coming.”

At the kitchen door the girl turned. “Sammy...?”

“Unh-huh?”

“Why did Miss Clarice call you Robert?”

“Who knows?” He shrugged. “Mom says she’s been acting kind of funny ever since her mother’s death.”

“Oh, yes, I remember. She was the one that fell down the stairs, wasn’t she?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know — maybe Miss Clarice flipped and pushed her Mama.”

“Silly! A sweet old lady like Miss Clarice? You’re kidding.”

“Maybe.” He shrugged. “C’mon. Let’s try the lemonade. I’m beat, and that sun was murder.”