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Miss Stubin clasps Janie’s hand and squeezes. “Knowing that Henry exists gives me hope that there are more. But dream catchers are nearly impossible to find.” She chuckles. “Best thing you can do to find them is to fall asleep in public places, I guess.”
Janie nods. She glances at Henry. “How am I supposed to help him?”
Miss Stubin raises an eyebrow. “I don’t know, but you know what to do to find out. He’s already asked you for help.”
“But . . . I don’t see . . . and he’s not leading me anywhere.” Janie looks around the near-vacant gymnasium, looking for clues, trying to figure out what she could possibly do to help Henry. Not wanting to get too close.
Finally, Janie turns to Henry and takes a deep breath, glancing at Miss Stubin briefly for support. “Hey there,” she begins. Her voice shakes a little, nervous, scared, not sure what to expect. “How can I help you?”
He stares at her, a blank look on his face. “Help me,” he says.
“I—I don’t know how, but you can tell me.”
“Help me,” Henry repeats. “Help me. Help me. Help me. HELP me. HELP ME. HELP ME! HELP ME!!” Henry’s voice turns to wild screams and he doesn’t stop. Janie backs away, on her guard, but he doesn’t come toward her. He reaches to his head and grips it, screaming and ripping chunks of hair from his scalp. His eyes bulge and his body is rigid in agony. “HELP ME!”
His screams don’t end. Janie is frozen, shocked, horrified. “I don’t know what to do!” she yells, but her voice is drowned out by his. Terrified, she looks for Miss Stubin, who watches intently, a little fearfully.
And then.
Miss Stubin reaches out.
Touches Henry’s shoulder.
His screams stutter. Fail. His ragged breaths diminish.
Miss Stubin stares at Henry, concentrating. Focusing. Until he turns to look at her and is quiet.
Janie watches.
“Henry,” Miss Stubin says gently. “This is your daughter, Janie.”
Henry doesn’t react. And then his face contorts.
Immediately, the scene in front of Janie crackles. Chunks of the gymnasium fall away, like pieces of a broken mirror. Bright lights appear in the holes. Janie sees it happening and her heart pounds. She shoots a frantic glance at Miss Stubin, and at her father, desperate to know if he understands, but he is holding his head again.
“I can’t stay in this,” Janie yells, and she gathers up all her strength, pulling out of the nightmare before the static and blinding colors overtake her again.
2:20 a.m.
All is quiet except for the ringing in Janie’s ears.
Minutes pass as Janie lies facedown, unmoving, unseeing, on the clammy tile floor of the hospital room. Her head aches. When she tries to move, her muscles won’t comply.
2:36 a.m.
Finally, Janie can see, though everything is dim. She grunts and, after a few tries, shoves to her feet, steadying herself against the wall, wiping her mouth. Blood comes away on her hand. She moves her tongue slowly around, noting the cut inside her cheek where she apparently bit down during the nightmare. Feels her neck, her throat, gingerly. Her stomach churns as she swallows blood-thickened saliva. Janie squints at her watch, shocked that so much time has gone by.
And then she turns to look at Henry. Runs her fingers through her tangled hair as she stares at his agonized face, frozen into the same horrible expression as in his dream when he screamed over and over again.
“What’s wrong with you?” she says. Her voice is like the static in the nightmare.
She bites her bottom lip and still she watches from a distance, remembering Henry the madman. He’s unconscious. He can’t hurt me.
She doesn’t believe it, so she says it aloud, to herself and to him. “You can’t hurt me.”
That helps a little.
She steps closer.
Next to his bed.
Her finger hovers above his hand and Janie imagines him jumping up, grabbing her with that cold death-grip. Tearing her throat out. Strangling her. Still, slowly, she lowers her hand and lays it on top of Henry’s.
He doesn’t move.
His hands are warm and rough.
Just like a father’s hands should be.
2:43 a.m.
It’s too late for the bus.
When she is able, Janie meanders her way through the hospital and down to the street. Slowly limps home in the dead of night.
MONDAY
August 7, 2006, 10:35 a.m.
A dream catcher. Her father. Just like her.
Unbelievable.
Janie slips into her running clothes and makes her way to the bus stop. Takes it to the last stop on the edge of town. And runs the rest of the way.
Things in the country are so much slower than they are in town. Janie’s feet slap the pavement as she runs along, the whole world seemingly coming to a stop before her eyes. Row after row of ripe corn begs to be harvested—Janie can see the soft brown tassels go by in a blur as she runs.
Her glasses slip down on her nose from the sweat, and she is reminded yet again that she needs to take in the sights for as long as she can. It makes her sick to think about losing all of this, so she absorbs it, one step after another, until her mind wanders again.
She hears the buzz of tree frogs and remembers how, when she was little, she used to think that the intense buzz was not an animal, but the sound of electrical wires, bustling with energy. When she learned the noise came from frogs, she didn’t believe it.
Still doesn’t.
After all, she’s never actually seen one.
And as she sucks in stale, humid air, the faint odor of cow manure becomes common. Alongside it is the sickly sweet smell of wildflowers and the searing hint of recent road patching.
Janie’s mind is clear and her purpose is sure when she reaches the long, overgrown driveway of Henry’s house. She slows to a walk, trying to cool down.
Just as she reaches the clearing, her cell phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it, knowing it’s probably Cabel. Needs to think. To do this alone. She opens the door and steps inside the house.
That eerie feeling comes over her—the one that makes her shiver and feel a little bit dizzy and sick all at the same time when being somewhere overtly quiet and extremely off-limits. Janie huffs, still winded, and the noise breaks the silence. “Talk to me, Henry, you creepy little strangler,” Janie says softly. “Show me how I can help you.”
She walks to the kitchen, wipes her sweaty forehead on a kitchen towel and grabs a glass from the cupboard. Turns on the faucet. The water chokes and spurts out, a lovely rust color until it run clears a moment later. Janie lets it run for a minute and then fills the glass. Drinks it, the tepid water not quite raunchy enough to make her gag.
She decides to tackle the computer first. Boots it up and realizes that it’s on dial-up. Not surprising for way out here in the country, but still totally annoying. “Talk to me,” she mutters again, tapping her fingers impatiently on the table.
First, she looks through his bookmarks. Immediately finds Henry’s online store account and logs in, his username and password unprotected, already filled in. Janie peruses the online store, called Dottie’s Place. Finds a collection of odd, unrelated items including babies and children’s clothing, small electronic equipment, books, and glass figurine collectibles. She clicks on a pair of “gently worn” name-brand overalls and reads the description. Reads the words Henry chooses. Sees his intelligence and marketing ability and business savvy all rolled into the little store.
There are several auctions in progress, plus a few that have ended in the days since Henry became ill.
And then she sees his rating. 99.8% positive.
Janie doesn’t recognize the feeling that wells up in her chest.
Makes her eyes water.
All she knows is that Henry Feingold has a near-perfect rating.
She’s not about to let that record get tarnished.
Janie
freezes the inventory. Assesses the items that were already sold and searches for them on the inventory shelves. Packs the few items up and finds the UPS slips in the drawer. Fills them out. Wonders if she needs to call for pickup, but then finds the link online in Henry’s favorites. She schedules a pickup for before five p.m. Sets the boxes outside the door so she doesn’t forget.
Back at the computer, Janie inhales Henry’s other bookmarked pages. A political message board, a cooking website, several links to marketing professionals, a Jewish holiday website. Gardening sites.
Dreams.
And a link to a Wikipedia page about Morton’s Fork.
Janie clicks on that last one.
Reads the page.
Finds out that Morton’s Fork is not literally a fork. It’s a term for a dilemma of sorts. In summary: a forced choice between two equally suck-ass things.
Janie reads about it and sees a comparison to a catch-22, and she glances at the book on the table that coined the phrase. She furrows her brow. “Okay, Mister Creepy-pants,” she mutters, back on the computer, typing wildly searching keywords. “What are you all about? What’s your big choice?”
And then she stops typing mid-word.
She sinks back into the chair, remembering the last time she read about a catch-22. Just a few months ago, in a green spiral notebook.
Knows, of course.
It’s clear what Henry chose, years ago.
