Flight Dreams (11 page)

With a shrug of his shoulders, Neil asks the ladies, “You wanted an artist?” Turning to the man in overalls, he says flatly, “Hello, Howard.”

“Neil!
You look
fabulous!”
says Howard, rushing across the room, necklace rattling. “I can’t believe it’s been a
full year.”
He grabs one of Neil’s hands with both of his own and leans forward, kissing him squarely on the lips. Mary Klein gasps. The others aren’t sure how to react. Roxanne flashes a satisfied smile, then steps forward to help acquaint everyone, introducing the lanky arrival as Howard Q, a noted Chicago illustrator.

“Q?” repeats Manning, making sure he heard the name correctly.

“That’s right,” says Howard with a laugh that suggests he is asked the question continually. “In the art game, a gimmick goes a long way to help you stand out from the crowd. So I changed my name. It’s official. Just Q.”

“I see you need a drink, Howard,” says Neil. “Rum and Coke, right?”

“You’re a
dear
to remember.”

Howard turns to the Stirkhams and dives into an animated conversation with Clarice, who displays an adventurous, cosmopolitan interest in the illustrator. Roxanne, feeling her liquor by now, searches for still more raucous music, as if to signal that the “color” of the party has arrived. Neil, passing Manning on his way to the kitchen for the cola, says, “Could you come here, Mark?”

Arriving at the refrigerator, Neil says, “I’m sorry, Mark.” The swift, careless manner in which he mixes Howard’s drink reveals anger not apparent in his voice.

“There’s no need to apologize,” Manning assures him. “That guy is no reflection on you. There must be quite a few like that in the ‘art game.’”

“Howard
is
a reflection on me,” Neil tells Manning, looking him in the eye. “I think his whole act is tasteless, and I would never carry on like that, but we’ve slept together—once. He and I may seem like very different people, but we’re both gay. Lots of folks can’t handle that.”

The words have caught Manning off guard. “Neil,” he begins cautiously, “I’m not sure why you’re telling me this, and I don’t know what you expect me to say. If you’re afraid I’ll think less of you because of Howard or because of your sex life—don’t. This is a big town”—Manning allows himself a little laugh—“and I’ve been around it awhile. I hate to sound jaded, but I’m not easily shocked.”

Neil smiles with the confidence that a potential crisis has passed. “Thank you, Mark. Guess I’m not ‘conditioned’ to presume open-mindedness in others.” Then, dropping the serious tone, he asks, “I gave quite a performance, though, didn’t I?”

After a moment’s reflection, they share a loud laugh.

Roxanne pokes her head through the door to tell them, “If you two could break up your private party, there
are
other guests who might enjoy your company.” And she is gone—her testy tone suggesting that Neil and Manning have hit it off better than she planned.

“Oops,” says Neil. “We’d better get back. Howard Q must be getting thirsty.” He finishes mixing the drink and plops a wedge of lime into it.

They rejoin the group in the living room, where the babble has grown louder to compete with the music. Rising above it all are Howard Q’s sporadic shrill outbursts. Neil delivers the rum and Coke, letting the glass hang from two fingers as if it held something rancid. Handing it over, he says, “I don’t know how anyone over twelve can drink this craw rot.”

“You’re just too
proper
to be seen drinking something you
like,”
counters Howard. “But thanks anyway, love.” He purses his lips and blows Neil a kiss.

The group is engrossed in a conversation dealing with the need for increased public funding of the arts—because “beauty belongs to everyone” and “artistic expression is an inalienable right.” Clarice Stirkham proposes a constitutional amendment to that effect. Her husband nods gravely, agreeing in principle, but he points out that mounting support for it among the labor bloc might be difficult. He hastens to add that the working man is not intrinsically insensitive to the arts, but has simply never had the opportunity to taste life’s finer fruits.

Manning listens quietly and lights a cigarette, annoyed. Neil eyes him with concern, detecting his distaste for the conversation. Howard Q greets Clarice Stirkham’s proposal with enthusiasm, pouting that lack of opportunity in the
real
arts has forced him to prostitute his talents and “go commercial.” Roxanne surveys the cross dynamics of the room and glows with the satisfaction of a contented hostess.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Neil finally says, feigning boredom with the conversation.

“Like what?” asks Howard, mildly indignant.

“Well, how about the Carter case? After all, we’ve got an
expert,”
says Neil, deferring to Manning.

“What would you like to know?” Manning asks him. “Not that there’s much to tell. I hit another dead end on the phone this week.”

“
I
have a question, Mr. Manning,” says Mary Klein, her timidity overcome by curiosity. “I read something last week about
psychics
being brought in to help on the case. That sounds
terribly
exciting. What have you learned from them?”

“That wasn’t my story, Mrs. Klein; it was in the
Post.
I think it’s nonsense. I’ve dealt with many of these mystics, and I’ve yet to see evidence of any ‘powers’ whatever.”

“Oh,
evidence,”
says Howard with a smirk. “What’s ‘evidence’?”

“Mr. Q is quite right,” Clarice Stirkham butts in. “Things aren’t always so cut-and-dried as we might like. Some things are simply beyond human comprehension and will forever remain so. There are forces—there are powers—that cannot be subjugated to the evidence of our five feeble senses.”

“Really?” asks Manning. “Like what?”

“Come now,” she sniffs. “Surely you don’t possess a
complete
understanding of the world around you. Does life hold no mysteries at all?”

“Many, indeed,” he answers, “but I look upon any mystery as a question that man has simply not yet been able to answer. I do
not
think that the unknown should be revered as unknowable.”

“Do you mean to tell us, Mr. Manning, that you acknowledge no force in the universe beyond the perceptions of your own mind?”

“That is precisely what I am telling you. To deliberately cloud, to
negate
the working of your mind, which is your ultimate weapon for survival, is both irrational and self-destructive. Submission to forces that display their power is only that—submission. And submission to
imagined
powers is worse yet—it is folly. What ‘force’ are you speaking of, Mrs. Stirkham? Is it God?”

“Not exactly,” she says warily, guessing the direction of his logic. “Some may wish to think of a spiritual power as ‘God.’ It’s a handy label. But no, I am simply referring to any manifestation of the unknown or the unknowable—clairvoyance, death, dreams, and such.”

The conversation stops. The listeners have been engrossed in the volley of dialogue, and they now wag their heads indecisively, waiting for someone to clinch the last word.

No longer argumentative, but genuinely inquisitive, Manning says, “Mrs. Stirkham, you mention dreams. Do you know anything about their interpretation?”

“A bit.” Her tone is guarded.

“I had a dream last night,” Manning continues, “totally unlike any I’ve had before. It’s been on my mind all day.”

Neil’s gaze is fixed upon Manning’s green eyes. He commands gently, “Tell us about it.”

“This may sound a little crazy,” Manning says with an apologetic laugh, “but I dreamed that I
flew.”

“I’ve often had such dreams,” Clarice Stirkham assures him.

“How awful!” says Howard Q.

“I once had a dream like that myself,” Neil says quietly.

“Not me,” says Roxanne. “It must be quite an experience.”

“It certainly was,” Manning tells the group. “I’ve never paid much attention to my dreams, but this one was so different, so vivid, I wonder if it has a particular meaning.”

“Dreams can often be interpreted in different ways,” Clarice Stirkham explains. “It depends from which school of thought you derive your analysis. Dreams of flight are a classic example. Some people maintain that the flight represents exactly that—a flight or escape from something, a warning from your sleeping mind that you are in danger or that you need to alter your life in some fundamental way. Others view flight dreams as a kind of psychological overflow valve, releasing the accumulated pressures of waking life through the rapture of self-propelled flight. And then there’s Freud …”

“Sex, sex, sex,” the law partner interrupts, grinning. “I suppose Freud would say that flight dreams signal sexual repression.” He laughs, and the group chortles with him.

“Oh, that couldn’t be
Mark’s
problem,” says Roxanne with a suggestive wink, laughing a low, convulsive sound.

Manning recognizes the sound—Roxanne has been pounding her cocktails. He lights another cigarette. Having unwittingly put himself “on the couch,” he shifts the course of the discussion. “Mrs. Stirkham,” he asks, “in your dreams, how do you actually go about flying? That is, do you fly … like a bird, flapping your ‘wings’?”

She blinks, considering his question, and answers, “Well, yes. I wear a long white robe with flowing sleeves—something like a choirgirl might wear. I step to the edge of a cliff and, without hesitation, spread my arms like wings and jump out over the canyon before me. I glide peacefully till I awaken. But then”—her tone turns condescending as she asks the group—“how else
would
one fly, if not like a bird?”

“I tried that,” says Manning, deadpan. “It didn’t work.”

“Right,” says Neil, suddenly animated. “In my dream, I didn’t fly like a bird at all. It was more like Superman—I could leap and soar at will. And I’d be leaving out an important detail if I didn’t mention that the dream was essentially erotic. Not to offend anyone, but it was the only ‘wet dream’ I’ve had since puberty.”

Clarice Stirkham eyes Neil with the affronted air of having been upstaged. Mary Klein blushes but remains stoically composed. The law partner laughs gustily while muttering, “I knew it, I just
knew
it.” Roxanne tongues an ice cube from her empty glass, sucks it into her mouth, and cracks it between her molars.

The group now turns to Manning for his reaction, since it was his own dream that triggered the discussion. He smiles awkwardly, searching for words. “I’d have to say that Neil’s experience sounds similar to my own.”

“Good
heavens,
” says Howard Q with a rumbling purr and a toss of his shoulder. “I’ll have to start paying more attention to my dreams. Sounds like
you
guys have been having a ball up there in the clouds.”

There is general laughter among the group, though Clarice Stirkham skewers Howard with the betrayed glance of one who has lost an ally.

A sharp knocking of the door silences the banter, but not the atonal wailing of Roxanne’s progressive jazz, which blares through the apartment. She excuses herself and crosses the room to greet her next guest; there is a wobble to her gait.

She opens the door. Her eyes meet the smiling features of a rotund middle-aged man who is dressed like a character from a period French farce, complete with cape and walking stick. She’s not certain if the attire is simply in poor taste or if it is meant as a costume, a joke.

“Yes?” she asks, suppressing a laugh.

“Miss Exner, I presume? I am Humphrey Hasting.”

“Oh!” It takes her a split second to connect the name with the
Post
and its shoddy reporting of the Carter case. Ushering the man through the door, she tells him, “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you, but I must never have seen your picture.”

“Ah, yes,” he moans while removing his cape with a flourish, picking a stray pet-hair from its collar. “Such is the nature of a writer’s fame—to be known solely for his work, his words, his service to the reading public.”

“Of course, Mr. Humphrey,” she tells him, still flustered, taking his cape and folding it over the back of a nearby chair.

“Hasting, Miss Exner,” he corrects her with a smile, raising an index finger in mild admonishment.

“I beg your pardon?” she asks, now totally addled.

“Hasting,” he repeats. “My name is Humphrey
Hasting.”

“I’m so terribly sorry,” she effuses, grabbing his hand and patting it. She asks herself, Why in hell did I invite him, anyway? She leads him toward the windows, telling him,
“Do
come meet my other guests.”

The group turns to behold the new arrival. A saxophone screams from the bookshelves. Roxanne announces above the music, “I’d like you all to meet Hasty Humphries from the
Post.
”

Manning stifles a laugh. Neil gapes open-mouthed. Bud Stirkham roars at his old pal, “Howdy, Hump!”

Hasting stands rigid and trembling while Roxanne makes an awkward attempt to undo her gaffe. A clarinet stutters wildly over her apologies.

At last a correct round of introductions has been made. Clarice Stirkham latches on to Hasting, and they are instantly in sync, immersed in a dialogue assessing the social role of news writing. Neil leaves for the kitchen to mix Hasting a drink. Manning escapes with him.

They arrive to find Roxanne downing a quick, stiff refill. She turns as they enter and, anticipating an attack, spits at them, “All
right,
I’m
sorry.
”

“It’s
your
party,” Manning tells her. “Far be it from me to question your guest list.”

“Christ, Rox,” says Neil, “how could you invite that… fruitcake? My God, he looks like a wine steward!” He breaks into laughter.

“I’ve never
seen
him before.” She’s defensive. “We’ve never met.”

Neil stops laughing. “Then why’d you invite him?” His voice carries a tone of indictment. “To embarrass Mark?”

“Why would I do that?”
she yells at them, at herself, then takes a deep breath, regaining just enough composure to march out of the kitchen and join her other guests.

Neil tells Manning, “Guess I’d better get Humpty Dumpty a drink.” His hard features melt into a smirk as he mixes a sweet potion of syrupy red glop and dresses it up with orange slices, cherries, a straw, and a little paper umbrella that he finds in the back of a drawer.