Dreams for Stones Read online

  He read the first two pages before coming to a penciled comment from Meg, his most effective critic and editor.

  The sight of that familiar writing startled him, but the pain of memory seemed less intense than in the past. Seeing the note, he remembered that right before the trip to Alaska he’d printed out the novel and given it to her to read.

  He looked at the piles of pages, suddenly curious to know how far she’d gotten. He flipped through the first two piles to find notes scattered throughout. Then he picked up the third stack and discovered she had written her usual note on the last page.

  It meant she had finished before they left on the trip. Likely she planned to go over it with him when they got back.

  He put the pages down without reading any of her notes. He wasn’t ready yet, but he thought that it was possible that soon he might be able to take up all these pages and all these words and begin to work with them again.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan walked in to find Angela had cleared off the small table that held drinks, her notes, and the ever-present box of tissues. In the middle sat a clear bowl of water. Floating in the water were stones. Getting over grief and guilt is as difficult as getting stones to float, Angela had said. He’d thought she was telling him it was impossible.

  He looked from the bowl to Angela, then leaned forward, reaching out to touch the stones. They were real. Hollowed out, maybe.

  “Pumice,” Angela said.

  He cleared his throat, trying to think what to say, feeling his heart fill. Not with pain or sadness, but with relief.

  Angela was letting him know he was going to be okay.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “I’ve read Bobby and Brad,” Grace said. “It’s a beautiful story, Kathy. I loved it, and so did Delia. She thinks the goats are graciocos, funny. But it made me cry.”

  Kathy propped her chin in one hand, with the phone in the other listening to Grace.

  “I think you should show it to Columba and Polly.”

  “I’m not even sure it’s a children’s story.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s special. I think more people need to see it. Children who are worried and scared about being sick or different. And their sisters, brothers, parents. Anybody who’s hurting. You need to share it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Kathy looked up from the galleys she had been checking to find Jade standing by her desk.

  “I finished reading Bobby and Brad,” Jade said. “But I didn’t want to talk to you about it until I came up with the right word to describe my reaction.”

  Kathy winced. “Ouch.”

  “No. That definitely isn’t it. More like wonderful, delightful, touching.” She smiled at Kathy. “You should show it to Columba and Polly.”

  “They might hate it.”

  “They might love it and want to publish it. And if I didn’t expect that to be their reaction, I wouldn’t suggest you show it to them.” Jade turned serious. “It’s a wonderful story, Kathy, and you know it.” Jade pursed her lips and took a breath. “And I know the perfect illustrator.”

  Kathy felt slightly dizzy. “Maybe we better see what Columba and Polly think before we get carried away.”

  ~ ~ ~

  “Kathy, you busy?”

  Columba and Polly were standing by her desk. It couldn’t be about her story. She and Jade had talked only yesterday afternoon.

  “Let’s go over to my desk, shall we?” Columba said.

  There was no privacy at Calico Cat with all their desks scattered around the single large room.

  Walking over to Columba’s desk, Kathy looked at Jade, who gave her a thumbs-up.

  After sitting down, Columba spoke in her usual slow, definite manner. “We’ve both read Bobby and Brad.”

  “And we absolutely adore it,” Polly chimed in with a grin.

  Columba frowned at Polly, “Never can keep any decorum around here, can you, Poll.” Then she turned to Kathy with a slow smile. “We want to get it into production as quickly as possible.”

  “Aren’t you jumping the gun, girlfriend? She hasn’t told us we can have it,” Polly said.

  “Well, sure we can.” Columba looked suddenly unsure. “Can’t we?”

  “I can’t imagine taking it anywhere else,” Kathy said, happy laughter bubbling up and out.

  Jade walked over to join them. “This a private party, or is the illustrator welcome?”

  “What? Jade? You mean it?” Kathy said.

  “If you gave this to someone else, I’d never forgive you. No more free advice for starters.”

  Grinning from ear to ear, Kathy hugged her friend.

  “Group hug.” Polly said, joining in and pulling Columba with her.

  “But do you have time?” Kathy asked, when she caught her breath.

  “I’ve already worked up two sketches. If you like them, I think this project will practically draw itself.”

  Jade pulled two sheets of paper out of her portfolio and walked over to one of the tables where she laid them out.

  “This is what I’m thinking for the cover.” She pointed to a sketch of a wide field bounded by a fence. Running toward the fence were a boy and a German shepherd. An added wash of color indicated a sunset.

  “And this is a portrait of Ethel, Bethel, Bobby, and Brad.” The picture showed a small boy sitting in a high-backed invalid chair placed on a stone path in a garden. Surrounding him were two goats and a German shepherd. Startled, Kathy realized she was looking at the boy from her dream.

  She turned to Jade and found the other woman giving her an intent look.

  “I’m having trouble finding the right word to describe what I think,” Kathy said.

  “Ouch?”

  “No, that’s most definitely not it.” Kathy shook her head and smiled. “Wonderful, delightful. Absolutely perfect.”

  Jade started smiling too.

  “That’s exactly how I pictured them,” Kathy finished.

  “Okay,” Columba said. “I sense a plan here. Let’s see if we can’t set a record. I’d love to have this ready for the Christmas season.”

  “You’re talking next year of course,” Jade said.

  “You did say the pictures were drawing themselves,” Columba said.

  Jade rolled her eyes.

  ~ ~ ~

  Kathy left the dirt path and jogged over to the Cheesman pavilion and halfway up the steps before stopping to sit down. The steps were chilly and the pavilion and park were mostly deserted in the early morning.

  She wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at the park, unseeing, trying to empty her mind as she waited for the sun to come up, but her thoughts kept pulling away, returning as they always did these days to the puzzle that was Alan.

  Okay, she could admit it to herself, couldn’t she—why she hadn’t tried to contact him after the meeting with Elaine?

  Because she was afraid. Afraid, he’d reject her again. And if he did, that final break would be the worst thing that ever happened to her. But as long as she didn’t act, she could pretend that everything would work out. Somehow.

  Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t. She could hardly expect him to want to see her after the angry words she’d flung at him the last time they talked.

  She closed her eyes, fatigue weighing her down. She was so tired. Tired of the regret. Tired of not knowing what to do. Tired of waking up at night knowing that although Alan lived nearby, he might as well be on Jupiter.

  So much broken between them—shattered by his actions and her words, words she’d used to try to make him hurt as much as she hurt.

  Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. . .

  It wasn’t true. Words had the power to wound much more deeply and lastingly than sticks and stones. And sometimes the wounds never healed.

  With her arms still wrapped around her knees, she rocked, trying to ease the pain in her heart, although she knew there was only one way to ease it. The words she’d used to hurt Alan were choking
her.

  She needed to apologize.

  But where and how to do it, that was the issue. If she phoned, she knew she would have trouble speaking, and even if she managed it, he might simply hang up when he recognized her voice. Not that she would blame him.

  Maybe it would be better if she went to his office. She pictured herself opening the door and waiting for him to look up, and a shiver rolled through her. She clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Okay. A written note, then. She could manage that. Take her time. Figure out just the right words.

  And just maybe the right words were already written. Bobby and Brad. “Mira, Kathy, I think more people need to see it. . . Anybody who’s hurting.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The first evening seminar of the autumn semester had been followed by a longer than usual discussion between the visiting author and the graduate students.

  Alan opened the door to his apartment building, feeling the long day settle over him as he picked up his mail. He glanced through it quickly on his way upstairs. As usual, it was mostly catalogs from companies he’d never bought anything from and never would. Some bills. And a large white envelope that slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor.

  He bent to pick it up and read the return address. Calico Cat Books.

  Kathy? His heart stumbled into a faster rhythm as he fished out his key and opened the door. He dumped everything on the couch except the white envelope, which he opened. He eased out the contents—typed pages and a handwritten note. The note was signed “Kathy.” Heart pounding, he began to read.

  Alan,

  The last time we spoke, I said something I would give anything to be able to retract. But once said aloud, words can never be reclaimed. All I can do is tell you that I no longer believe those words, and I regret having said them. I hope you can forgive me.

  I’m sending you a story. A peace offering of sorts. I’m sorry we lost touch.

  Kathy

  I’m sorry we lost touch. He was sorry too.

  He re-read the note, feeling a weight lift from his heart. Such a relief to know she was no longer angry with him. And maybe that relief would free him to finally think about his last meeting with Charles, something he’d been avoiding.

  He carried the note and Kathy’s manuscript into the bedroom, leaving them on his nightstand while he got ready for bed. Then he re-read Kathy’s note and, on the burst of optimism it ignited, picked up the manuscript and began to read.

  My name is Bobby Kowalski. When I was smaller than I am now, I had a bad sickness. It was something called men-in-jeans, and I almost died. I don’t remember it. I just heard Mom telling the lady who comes to help wash and feed me all about it. She said, “Oh the poor little man.”

  I’m not a man. I’m a boy. So maybe someone else had the men-in-jeans. Still, it is very strange that I can no longer move my arms and legs or make a sound.

  My mom’s name is Emily, and she’s beautiful. She has soft, brown hair, and her eyes are the same color as the sky on a sunny day. Dad’s name is Jess. He’s tall, like a tree, and his voice sounds all low and rumbly. If a bear could talk, and it was friendly, I believe it would sound exactly like my dad.

  Mom takes care of me, while Dad goes to work, and my favorite part of the day is when she reads to me. In the books are pictures of dinosaurs and trucks, horses and trains, ships and treasures. And the people in the stories have adventures.

  I would so very much like to have an adventure.

  Today, Dad brought home a dog. The dog came right over and licked my hand. He’s black on top and tan underneath with pointy ears and a bushy tail.

  He cocked his head at me, and I heard the words, “Come play with me,” inside my head. It felt strange and tingly.

  “Ah, perhaps you cannot,” he said. Then he laid his head on my lap, and his fur tickled my hand, making me want to laugh.

  “I wonder what your name is.”

  It was only a thought, because I can’t talk, but he heard somehow and answered, “Brad.”

  “How did you know I asked you that?”

  “Ah. That is an enigma.”

  I didn’t know what that was, a nigma. I decided it must mean he didn’t understand either.

  Just then, Dad cleared his throat, and I looked at him. He was smiling at Brad and me, but Mom had tears in her eyes.

  I was very afraid it meant Brad couldn’t stay.

  Brad has been here since the snow left. He stays by my side all day and sleeps beside my bed at night. When I tell him to, he goes and nudges Mom’s hand. She comes and tries to figure out what I need.

  Sometimes, it is only to know she will come.

  Yesterday was Mom’s birthday. A large red truck arrived with her gift—two goats. Mom clapped her hands, and Dad laughed. The goats jumped and bucked, and Brad barked. It was very exciting.

  One goat came over to me and said, “What’s wrong with you, little boy?”

  “You talk. Like Brad does,” I said.

  “Of course I talk,” said the goat. “Who is Brad?”

  “Brad is my dog.”

  “Aha. And who are you?”

  “My name is Bobby. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Ethel, and this is Bethel,” she said as the other goat joined her.

  “How do you do, Ethel and Bethel.”

  “We do very well,” answered Bethel. “Especially if this is going to be our home,” she added, looking around.

  “It is. You’re my mom’s birthday present.”

  “We’ve never been birthday presents before, have we, Bethel?”

  “I don’t believe so, Ethel.”

  Brad joined us, and I told him the goats’ names. When I looked over at Mom and Dad, they were watching Ethel, Bethel, Brad, and me, and Mom had tears in her eyes. I would have worried except the last time she cried, Brad came to live with us.

  After dinner, we had a cake with candles. Dad lit them, then he turned out the lights, and it was like we brought the stars inside. Then Mom blew out the candles, and she and Dad laughed together like they used to before I got sick.

  Something has changed since Ethel, Bethel, and Brad came to live with us.

  I think perhaps they have helped us remember how to be happy.

  Alan looked up from the page. The blank wall at the end of the bed met his distracted gaze. It was still a habit, to stare at that spot, even though he’d removed the picture of Meg.

  He’d done that after he took the notebooks full of what he had written about her out to the ranch, ridden to the lake on a rainy day, and built a small fire on the shore. Angela hadn’t suggested a ritual burning, but it seemed the right thing to do. Once or twice, the fire had flared, and he’d felt the sharp pain in the tips of his fingers as he let loose another page.

  When he returned to Denver afterward, he walked into his bedroom and stared at Meg’s picture for a long time. Saying goodbye, letting go, letting her go, his memories of the two of them floating like the bits of charred paper had floated above the flames of his small fire.

  Finally, he’d reached up and taken the picture down. Carefully, he dismantled the frame and removed the photograph, which he rolled and placed in the box where he kept all the pictures Meg had painted.

  Abruptly, he pushed away the memories of Meg and looked back at Kathy’s manuscript.

  Today, Ethel and Bethel brought me a present—a red petal from a flower they said is called a rose.

  “Taste it, Bobby, you’ll love it,” said Ethel.

  “But why would I want to eat something so pretty?”

  “Because it tastes even better than it looks,” said Bethel. “See, Ethel, I told you we should eat all the roses ourselves. Bobby has no emaciation.”

  “You mean appreciation,” said Ethel.

  “I know what I mean,” Bethel said.

  When the goats argue about their big words, it’s sometimes hard to know who is right, but I think probably Ethel is.

&nbs
p; Ethel placed the petal on my tongue. It was soft, and when I bit down, it did taste very good.

  “Thank you, Ethel. Bethel. But where did you find a rose?”

  Ethel and Bethel looked away without answering.

  This evening when we finished dinner, a man named Mr. Pitzer came to visit. “A vandalism so abominable I can hardly speak of it.”

  He used big words like the goats do. I didn’t know what they meant—abominable and vandalism. They must be bad though, because he sounded very upset.

  “All the roses along the cemetery fence have been eaten. Hundreds of them. Not a single petal left behind.”

  I didn’t know what that was either—a cemetery. But Ethel and Bethel knew, because they’d been there. Brad figured it out, just like I did. He started to giggle, then he laughed so hard his leg thumped. I laughed too, inside, remembering how good the one petal Ethel and Bethel shared with me had tasted.

  Dad frowned at us. “What is the matter with Brad? Could he have fleas? We’d better put him outside until we can check him over. We certainly don’t want him giving Bobby fleas.”

  Brad stopped laughing. He got up, came to me and put his head in my lap. We both looked at Dad.

  Dad stared at Brad. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he understood me.”

  “Well of course he did,” I answered. Then I remembered. Dad couldn’t hear me.

  “Do you think so, Jess?” Mom asked. “I believe he and Bobby communicate somehow.”

  “What makes you say that?” Dad asked.

  She frowned. “It’s mostly a feeling I have.”

  “Perhaps Brad having fleas is a small price to pay then.”