These Dreams of You

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Like many of the small hotels in the area, this one has no telephones in the room, so Zan can’t be sure whether Molly means that she called the front desk downstairs or tried his cell, which hasn’t rung at all and which she wouldn’t have the number for anyway. While Parker was in the room gluing and painting, there was half an hour when Zan took Sheba to the little market around the corner, darting in and out of the rain, then down the street for a sandwich and the English butter cookies with which both of them have become mildly obsessed. At a newsstand, Zan bought a copy of a British music magazine with Sheba’s favorite artist on the cover, a retrospective. There was a call earlier on Zan’s cell from J. Willkie Brown that Zan didn’t answer and hasn’t returned.

A small table huddles in the corner of the room and Zan and the young woman sit down at it. On the table is a small pot for hot water and a small selection of teas. “Operative word, obviously,” Zan waves at the room, “is small.”

“Of course,” she smiles.

“Sheba and I sleep in the big bed,” he says, “and Parker has the small one. She hasn’t gotten to the point yet where she wants to sleep alone.”

“But she will,” Molly says.

“I keep reminding my wife that Parker was the same when he was younger. Never wanted to fall asleep alone. Then one night when he was nine or ten,” Zan snaps his fingers, “not only does he want to sleep alone, he barely wants his parents in the same house.” Zan is more rattled than he realizes by the news of the foreclosure. “Have you been in London long? I’m sorry,” he stops himself, “I shouldn’t assume—”

“No,” she says, “you’re quite correct, I am not from London.” She cocks her head in thought. “I’ve been here. . a short time.”

“Your English is excellent,” says Zan. “I hope that’s all right to say.”