Give Them Unquiet Dreams

The distance that the dead have gone does not at first appear—Their coming back seems possible for many an ardent year.
— Emily Dickinson

When I was a child, my grandmother gave me advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since. “Never forget where you came from.” So I remember my origins. I am borne back ceaselessly into the past.

Nana sat on the toilet seat. I was on the floor in front of her.

She brushed my brown curly hair until my scalp hurt.

“You have your grandfather’s hair. Stand up. Look at yourself in the mirror.”

I touched my scalp. “It hurts.”

“You must toughen up, Aiden. Weak people get nowhere in this world. Your grandfather was weak. Addicted to the bottle. Your mother has an impaired mind. Now she’s in a nuthouse. And your father, he couldn’t handle the responsibility of a child. People have to be strong. Do you understand me?” She bent and stared into my face. Her hazel eyes seemed enormous. I smelled coffee on her breath.

There were blackheads on her nose. She pinched my cheeks.

I reflexively pushed her hands away.

“Life is full of pain, sweetheart. And I don’t mean just the physical kind.” She took a cigarette from her case on the back of the toilet, lit it, and inhaled. “You’ll be hurt a lot, but you must carry on. You know what the British people used to say when the Germans bombed London during World War Two?”

“No.”

“Keep calm and carry on.” She hit my backside. “Now run along and put some clothes on.” I was wearing my underwear and T-shirt.

“We have a busy day.”

I dressed in the jeans and a yellow short-sleeve shirt she had bought me. She stood in front of the mirror by the front door of the living room, arranging her pearl necklace. She put on bright red lipstick and fingered her gray hair, trying to hide a thinning spot at the top of her forehead. She turned and smoothed her green cotton dress, glancing at herself from behind. “Not bad for an old broad.” She looked me over. “Come here.” She tucked my shirt in, licked her hand, and smoothed my hair. “You’d think I never brushed it.”

As she opened the front door, she said, “Hold on,” and went to the kitchen counter and put her hand in a glass jar full of bills. She took out at least thirty single dollar bills.

“Here. Give this money to the kiddos next door.”

When we were outside, she pushed me toward their house. They were playing on their swing set in the fenced-in yard. In front of the broken-down house was a yard of weeds. A rusted bicycle with no wheels lay on the ground. The pale girl with limp dirty hair looked at me suspiciously as I approached the fence. Her brother stood, arms folded, in the background. He scowled and spit.

“This is for you,” I said, shoving the money through the chain links. The girl reached out to grab it, but most of the bills fell onto the dirt.

“Thank you,” she said.

As I walked away, her brother yelled, “We don’t need no charity from you.”

I opened the door of my grandmother’s blue Plymouth. The air conditioning blasted, and the interior was full of cigarette smoke.

She crossed herself. “Say it with me. ‘There but for the grace of God go I.’”

I repeated the words with her, and we drove to her friend Margie’s house. Margie was a smelly fat lady with a big white cat that hissed at me. She always wore the same navy-blue sweater and was constantly picking cat hairs off her clothes while talking about the latest sermon, God, or the devil. Nana told me when Margie was a young girl, her classmates made fun of her. “Smelly,” they called her.

And she did smell. Like urine, cats, and mothballs.

“Don’t let him get out,” Margie yelled as the cat pounced from behind the open door. “Arthur, don’t you dare run out!” She bent to grab his tail and groaned. “My back!”

“Don’t worry. I got him.” I had my arms wrapped around the white monster. He hissed.

“Why don’t you put him in the closet when you open the front door? We go through this every time.” My grandmother pushed past her toward the kitchen in the back of the house. “I have to sit down. It’s hot as a pig’s arse out there.”

Margie placed a tray of ham sandwiches, along with cheese and crackers, on the round gray Formica table. I liked her wallpaper—yellow with the red outlines of children holding hands in circles. On the back wall, she had pinned an American flag with a sign underneath that read, “Happy Birthday, America. 1776—1976.”

“I don’t know how I feel about all those miracles Father Flynn was going on about.” Margie placed a sandwich on a plate for me with some chips. “What ya want to drink, Aiden? I got nice lemonade.” Her two front teeth were red from where her lipstick had smudged. As usual, cat hairs covered her blue sweater, especially the ledge of her belly where the cat must have sat all the time.

“That sounds good.”

She smiled. “Always such a nice boy. Polite. You’ll never have any trouble with this one. Not like you did with Lorraine.”

“I hate when you call her that.”

“That’s her name, ain’t it?” She poured my grandmother and me lemonade and sat with a huff.

“That was my mother’s name, her formal name. I prefer to call my daughter Laura.”

“What the hell difference does it make?” Margie bit into her sandwich and rolled her eyes at me.

“Makes a lot of difference. My mother was a strange woman. I named my daughter Lorraine out of respect for the dead.”

“Laura is …” I knew Margie was going to say that my mother was strange too.

“Laura is what?” My grandmother put her sandwich on her plate and leaned in to Margie.

“Is a nice girl. She’s got problems, but don’t we all?” She reached out and clasped my hand. “Right, Aiden?”

“Yes, Margie.”

My grandmother rubbed her neck and spoke softly. “Nobody’s perfect. Laura’s getting better. She’s got a few psychological issues. The new meds seem to be helping. She’s the most gentle, optimistic person I’ve ever known. Didn’t even argue when we said it was best for her to spend some time at McCall’s.” Her eyes were shiny and her face flushed. Her bottom lip trembled. She looked at me. “Don’t you need to use the bathroom?” She raised her eyebrows. That was her signal.

“Yes, I gotta pee.”

“You don’t have to be so detailed,” she said. “Just go.” Margie laughed hard and farted.

I exited and crept up the gray stairs. The old banister was dusty. The rug in the upstairs hall was full of Arthur’s hair. I picked up a piece to examine it, then rubbed my pants. Nana said Margie’s room was the last one on the left. Her jewelry case was on top of her dresser. I took the diamond earrings and opal bracelet Nana had told me about. There were also a couple of showy rings—one a large red stone, the other a blue one. These and a gold necklace with a cross I shoved into my pockets. Then I walked to the bathroom and flushed the toilet. I messed up the towel a bit so it looked like I dried my hands.

When I entered the kitchen, they were still talking about miracles.

My grandmother passed our plates to Margie, who had filled the sink with sudsy water.

“He raised Lazarus from the dead,” Margie said. “And then he healed the deaf and dumb men. And the blind man too,” she said, raising her hand and splashing my grandmother.

“Let’s not forget about the fish. And the water into wine,” my grandmother said.

Margie shook her head. “I don’t know, Catherine.” She looked into the sink. “It’s hard to believe that Jesus could have done all that. Why aren’t there miracles today?” I imagined a trout springing from the frothy bubbles.

My grandmother smiled at me. “Of course there are miracles today. As a matter of fact, I’m taking Aiden to that priest at Mission Church. A charismatic healer is what they call him. Aiden’s going to be cured, aren’t you, honey?”

“Cured of what?” Margie said.

“He’s got a little something wrong with his blood is all. Too many white cells. Leukemia. This priest will take care of all that.”

“Leukemia!” Margie said. “Catherine, that’s serious.” Margie tried to smile at me, but I could tell she was upset. “Sit down, honey.” She motioned for me to go to the table. “We’re almost done here.”

“You gotta take him to a good doctor,” she whispered to my grandmother, as if I couldn’t hear.

“I know that. I’m not a stook.”

“What’s a stork gotta do with this?”

“An Irish expression. Means idiot.”

We said our goodbyes, and when we were in the car, my grandmother said, “Let me see what you have.” I pulled the goods out of my pockets while she unclasped her black plastic pocketbook.

Her eyes lit up.

“Perfect. She isn’t watching, is she?” I looked at the house. Margie was nowhere in sight. Probably sitting on her rocking chair with Arthur in her lap.

“Put those in here.” She nodded toward her bag.

When we were about to turn onto Tremont Street where the church was, I remembered the gold necklace and cross. I pulled it out of my pocket, and my grandmother took it from me, running a red light. “This would look beautiful on Laura.” In a moment, a police car blaring sirens followed us.

“Don’t say anything.” My grandmother moved to the side of the road. She looked in the rearview mirror and rolled her window down.

“Ma’am, you ran a red light.” The policeman was tall with a hooked nose and dark brown close-set eyes.

“I know, Officer. I was saying a prayer with my grandson. He gave me this gold cross. I got distracted. I’m very sorry.” He leaned into the car. I smiled.

“Is that a birthday gift for your grandmother?”

“Yes. I wanted to surprise her.”

“And he certainly did,” she said, patting my knee and smiling at the police officer.

“It’s good no cars were coming. You could have been hurt,” he said. “That’s a beautiful cross,” he added.

My grandmother began to cry. “Isn’t it, though?” She sniffled.

The officer placed his hand firmly on the edge of the window.

“Consider this a warning. You can go. I’d put that cross away.”

“Of course. Of course.” She turned to me. “Here, Aiden. Put it back in your pocket.”

The police officer waited for us to drive off. I turned and looked. He waved.

“Are you sad, Nana?”

“Don’t be silly.” She waved her hand. “That was an act.” We laughed.

We parked and entered Mission Church. It smelled of shellac, incense, perfume, and old people. It was hard to see in the musty darkness. Bright light shone through the stained-glass windows where Jesus was depicted in the Stations of the Cross.

“Let’s move to the front.” My grandmother pulled me out of the line and cut in front of an old lady, who looked bewildered.

“Shouldn’t you go to the end of the line?” she whispered, smiling down at me. Her hair was sweaty, and her freckled fat bicep jiggled when she tapped my grandmother’s shoulder. I thought of the asteroid belt.

“I’m sorry. We’re in a hurry. We have to help a sick neighbor after this. I want my grandson to get a cure.”

“What’s wrong?” the woman whispered. We were four people away from the priest, who was standing at the altar. He prayed over people then lightly touched them. They fell backward into the arms of two old men with maroon suit jackets and blue ties.

“Aiden has leukemia.”

The woman’s eyes teared up. “I’m sorry.” She patted my forearm. Again, her flabby bicep jiggled, and the asteroids bounced.

When it was our turn, my grandmother said, “Father, please cure him. And can you say a prayer for my daughter too?”

“Of course.” The silver-haired, red-faced priest bent down. I smelled alcohol on his breath. “What ails you, young man?” I was confused.

“He’s asking you about your illness, Aiden.” “I have leukemia,” I said proudly.

The priest said some mumbo-jumbo prayer and pushed my chest. I knew I was supposed to fall back but was afraid the old geezers wouldn’t catch me.

“Fall,” my grandmother whispered irritably. Then she said extra softly, “Remember our plan.”

I fell hard, shoving myself against the old guy. He toppled over as well. People gasped. His friend and the priest began to pick us up.

I pretended to be hurt badly. “Ow. My head is killing me.”

Several people gathered around us. My grandmother yelled “Oh my God” and stepped onto the altar, kneeling in front of a giant crucified Jesus. “Dear Jesus,” she said loudly, “I don’t know how many more tribulations I can take.” Then she crossed herself, hurried across the altar, and put a gold chalice in her handbag. My moaning and fake crying distracted everyone.

“He’ll be OK.” She put her arm under mine and helped the others raise me.

When I was standing, she said to the priest, “You certainly have the power of the Holy Spirit in you. It came out of you like the water gushing from the rock at Rephidim and Kadesh. Let’s get out of here before there’s a flood.” She laughed. The priest looked confused. The old lady who let us cut in line eyed my grandmother’s handbag and shook her head as we passed.

When we were in front of Rita’s house, our last stop before home, I asked my grandmother what tribulation meant. And where were Rephidim and Kadesh?

She laughed. “You pronounced those places wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Your mother used to do the same thing whenever I quoted that Bible passage and she’d ask me where they were too.” She opened the car door. “I don’t know where the hell those places are. Somewhere in the Middle East … And a tribulation is a problem.”

“Oh.”

After ringing the doorbell a couple of times, we opened the door. We found Rita passed out on the couch.

My grandmother took an ice cube from the freezer and held it against her forehead. Rita sat bolt upright. “You scared the bejesus out of me.” She was wearing a yellow nightgown, and her auburn hair was set in curlers. “Aiden, I didn’t see you there.” She kissed my cheek. For the second time that day, I smelled alcohol.

“Do you think you can help me out?” my grandmother asked.

Rita looked at me.

“Of course I can.”

“Pull me up and I’ll get my checkbook.” I realized all my grandmother’s friends were fat.

At the kitchen table, Rita said, “Should I make it out to the hospital?”

“Make it out to me. I’ve opened a bank account to pay for his medical expenses.”

“Will five thousand do?” Rita was rich. Her husband was a “real estate tycoon,” my grandmother was always saying. He dropped dead shoveling snow a few years back.

“That’s so generous of you.” My grandmother cried again. More fake tears, I thought.

We had tea and chocolate chip cookies. Rita asked how my mother was doing. My grandmother said, “Fine” and looked away. She talked about the soap operas that they watched. My grandmother loved Erica from All My Children. Said she was a woman who knew how to get what she wanted. Rita said she thought Erica was a bitch.

When we were home, listening to talk radio in the living room, I asked my grandmother if she believed in miracles, like the ones she talked about with Margie.

“Sure, sure,” she said, not looking up. She was taking the jewelry out of her bag and examining it in the light. I saw bits of dust in the sunlight streaming through the bay window.

“You’re not listening to me, Nana.”

She put the jewelry back in her handbag and stared at me. “Of course I am.”

“Do you think I’ll have a miracle and be cured of leukemia?”

“Aiden.” She laughed. “You haven’t got leukemia. You’re as healthy as a horse, silly.”

“But you told everybody I was sick.”

“Sweetheart, that was to evoke pity.”

“What do you mean?”

She spoke hesitantly, like she was a bit ashamed. “Make people feel bad so we can get things from them. I need money to take care of you, Aiden. I’m broke. Your grandfather left me with nothing, and I need to pay for Laura’s medical expenses. If Margie notices her jewelry gone, maybe she’ll think you took it to help your Nana. I told her I was having a problem paying your hospital bills.”

“Sorta like a tribulation, right?”

“Exactly, sweetheart.”

“Is my mother a tribulation?”

This time my grandmother’s tears were real. They gushed like water from that rock in the Middle East. I knelt before her and put my head in her lap. She rubbed my head and looked out the window.

It seemed the tears would never stop.

“Don’t worry, Nana. I believe in miracles too. Someday Mom will come home.”

And we stayed like that until the sunbeams dimmed and the dust disappeared and her tears stopped.

In the quiet of the room, she whispered, “Keep calm and carry on” to me or to herself.