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| Excerpt |
Born and nurtured during a childhood scarred by extreme suffering and anger, youthful rage demanded
reentry into G.W.’s REM sleep.
Weakened by intense dread that he would once again fail to repel the nighttime invader threatening to
reawaken past fury he had buried years before, G.W. cried out for his mother, the one person he hoped
would save him.
His mother remained as silent as her grave at midnight.
G.W. fought to regain control, banish the interloper threatening to add insult to injury by interrupting the
hushed darkness protecting his sleep.
He failed.
G.W.’s breathing and heart rate increased at a brisk pace as he fell deeper and deeper into the second of
his five nightly REM stages. His large voluntary muscles paralyzed, G.W.’s face, his fingers, and especially
his eyes, twitched in a show of rebellion at their forced master/slave relationship to G.W.’s superior muscle
group. G.W.’s brain activity, racing towards an ultimate coupling with the source of his youthful rage, forced
perspiration to erupt, soak his sheet and pillow.
Finally, G.W. relented, allowed the nightmare to consume his sleep.
As in all previous dreams, the shrill ringing of his uncle’s phone in the middle of the night heralded the
intruder’s arrival, the death of G.W.’s mother, and the end of his childhood.
“Yes?” his uncle whispered into the receiver.
G.W. knew who was on the other end, the doctor at the cramped and dingy public health clinic serving only
those who society considered the dregs, humans relegated to steerage-class status. In his dream state, G.W.
listened to his uncle’s words, words issued in hushed tones, but words G.W. easily extracted from the
depths of his memory.
“Doctor Albers? How’s my sister?”
G.W.’s uncle’s face drooped like overheated candle wax as he listened to the doctor’s response. “I’m
sorry. Your sister passed away from surgical complications. We did our best.”
“I understand,” G.W.’s uncle said. “God bless you for trying.”
As in previous dream reruns, G.W. screamed, “Noooo!” Tears flowing, he buried his face in his pillow until
his uncle approached, attempted to comfort him. “George?” His uncle said. “They tried but couldn’t save
her. She’s in God’s hands.”
G.W. leaped from his bed. Pounding on his uncle’s chest, “There is no God for us!” he screamed. “He let
her die! If she’d been white or rich she’d still be alive! I hate all white people!” Sobs racking his young body,
G.W. collapsed on his bed.
The dream evaporated as G.W. cried out in an unintelligible plea for his mother’s life. As his cry
disappeared into the moist air floating through his window from Puget Sound to the west of his modest three-
bedroom West Seattle home, he heard his wife’s voice. “George! The phone! Answer it!”
Aroused by his wife’s demand but not yet awake, G.W. blinked once and glanced at the digital clock across
the room. Like a lady of the night offering her wares in a Kellogg or Wallace, Idaho red light district, the
oversized numbers flashed 1:02. The deadly late hour, heightened by a deep foreboding of what unknown
tragedy awaited him if he answered the incessant and shrill ringing of his bedside phone, G.W. hesitated.
Fear clutched his heart in a manner he hadn’t experienced since the night of his mother’s death.
G.W. chastised himself, tried to ignore the potential reality behind a middle-of-the-night call. “It’s probably
a wrong number,” he said to his wife.
The effort to assign the call to other than unexpected death, however, failed miserably.
Hand shaking, G.W. reached for the phone sitting like a sentry poised to wake the dead, but deliver news
only the dead need not fear. G.W. pushed thoughts of his mother aside and struggled to shake the last
remnants of sleep from his mind. He fumbled with the handset and nearly dropped it on the floor. He
recovered. “Hello?” he said in a thick voice.
“George Martin?” an unfamiliar man asked.
Fear erupted like a locomotive bearing down on a damsel in distress. Only his wife referred to G.W. as
George. “Ye…yes?”
“This is Detective Ambrose. I’m with…”
G.W. shot into a sitting position. “Detective?”
“Yes, sir. Detective Ambrose. I’m with the Seattle Police Department.”
G.W.’s mind cleared in an instant. He pressed the receiver to his ear. “Police? I…I don’t understand.”
“George?” he heard Maria say. “What’s wrong?”
He shushed her with a wave of his hand and concentrated on the detective’s next statement.
“I’m investigating a robbery and attempted homicide, sir. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
G.W’s mind raced with possibilities but failed to land on any reason for the call. “Who…? I mean, why are
you calling me?”
“Do you know a man named…?” The detective paused as if searching for a name. G.W. heard him shout to
another man. “Tim. Hey, Tim. What’s the name on the ID?”
G.W. couldn’t hear Tim’s response.
“His ID says his name’s Malcolm McCloud,” the detective said. “We found a note in his room. It’s
addressed to you at the number I called. It’s signed, Colt. Are you George Martin?”
G.W’s mind crumbled. He remained silent.
“Sir, do you know Mr. McCloud?”
G.W.’s head and neck collapsed into his shoulders. His mind raged with questions. Colt? Robbery and
attempted homicide? It can’t be Colt. He’d never…
“Mr. Martin. Did you hear me?”
G.W. cleared the diminishing cobwebs of sleep inhibiting his mind. He swung his legs over the edge of the
bed, attempted to quiet his raging thoughts. He returned to the detective. “I heard you, but Colt wouldn’t
hurt a fly. You must be mistaken.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin. I didn’t make myself clear. Mr. McCloud was the victim, not the perpetrator. He
intervened after some thugs tried to rob a woman. She’s in the hospital but she’ll survive.”
“The victim? Then…then Colt’s not in jail? He’s okay?”
“I’m afraid not. Mr. McCloud. I’m sorry to be the one to inform you, but Mr. McCloud is in a coma and near
death. He’s not expected to live beyond…”
“Beyond what?”
Recognizing the intense grief in G.W.’s voice the detective stopped, rethought his response. “I’m sorry,
sir. Mr. McCloud’s hanging on by…well, just understand he’s not expected to see another sunset. I have no
idea why he’s alive. By all rights he should be dead.”
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