Dreamtime

The children play in golden, afternoon light.

His children, Phoebe and Jack.

It’s tag, maybe, but with more rules. Ridiculous rules. Phoebe’s in charge as usual and she keeps telling Jack he’s doing it all wrong.

Jack, of course, ignores her.

Green fields stretch out beyond them, right to the horizon. A promise of plenty, of life.

“Daddy, I’m thirsty.” Phoebe. Long of limb, tan, curly brown hair so much like his own. Bright green eyes, big and curious like her mother’s.

“Hey Thursday, I’m Friday.” She frowns at his reply, but he can tell she’s amused.

“No daddy, I said thirsty,” she says with a seven year old’s exasperation. Runs off to join her brother.

“You shouldn’t tease her,” Elsie now. Standing beside him. How’d she get there? Her hand is in his and it feels good. So good.

He gives his wife a crooked grin, “I’d never tease Thursday.”

Elsie laughs, those green eyes flashing, her blonde hair is burnished gold. He loves her now more than ever. Would do anything for her. For them. Anything.

“Oh Larry,” she says in that way she does.

No. My name’s not Larry. Can’t be.

She’s giving him that look that says ‘What’s wrong?’—she’s squeezing his hand. “Larry?”

No. Don’t call me that. They’ll hear. They’ll know. They’ll come.

Suddenly, he can feel the mud. Thick; all over him.

Suddenly.


4:30 AM

Reed wakes with a gasp and the hangover crashes over him like a wave.

It’s dark in his little studio apartment and he just lays there, fixed in place by the pain in his head.

He was with them. For a moment. Can still feel them. Elsie called him by his name. His real name.

No—not his name. There’s another Larry Wright now, and Elsie’s with him. Phoebe and Jack too. They’re with him and they love him. Don’t know any better. And they can never know. Not if they’re going to stay safe. Not if Reed is going to stay safe.

Still, he wonders. Does Phoebe feel that something’s wrong—deep down? When they kiss? When they’re—

A bubble bursts in his gut and Reed knows what’s next. He’s no stranger to the morning after. All the booze from the night before, and whatever food he’d put on top to keep it down, it’s all heading for the exit.

He’s up and across the room, stumbling over his clothes in the dark. Hits the lights in the bathroom, the toilet seat’s up. That’s good, because he’s already puking.

When it’s done, he flushes and closes the lid. Gets up with a groan and sits. That’s when the sobs come, silent, wracking his whole body. Sorrow, real sorrow, is a corporeal experience. It’s almost routine at this point and Reed chokes the tears down presently. The hang over is still raging, but there’s a cure for that.

He stands. Looks at his face in the mirror above the sink for a long time. The brown, deeply lined skin. The brown pupil-less eyes. Pointed ears. All of it the color of mud.

No, he’s not Larry anymore. He’s something else altogether. And his name is Reed Mills.

One ugly fucking Goblin.

Finally he opens the medicine cabinet and pulls out the small bottle of Jameson next to the deodorant. Time to start his day.


7:00 AM

Something’s come loose in the back of his truck and it thumps around when he takes the corner. The neighborhood is still quiet when he pulls up to Mrs. Conley’s house.

Reed cuts the engine, leans over and opens the glove compartment. The little bottle is close to empty and he drains it with one last gulp. Feels good. Feels like home.

He stows the bottle back in its place and gets out. Walks around to the bed of the truck and drops the gate. Starts pulling out equipment: mower, trimmer, blower. All the tools of the trade.

Reed sees the curtains in the living room window twitch and knows Mrs. Conley is up. Probably in worse shape than he is.


9:30 AM

He’s just cut off the backpack blower when Mrs. Conley speaks up behind him: “I suppose you should come in for some coffee, Reed.” As always, she sounds tired.

Reed turns to find her standing there in the driveway, an old lady, still in her house coat. Her white hair is an unruly halo around her head. Her blue eyes are watery and sad.

“Sure, Mrs. Conley. Let me just put this away.”

His gear secured in the back of the truck, Reed meets her at the front door and lets himself be led to the little kitchen. The house is dark, not messy but cluttered. The air is stale.

“Sit,” she says. It’s more a command than an offer, and Reed takes a seat at the little table. She brings him a cup of coffee. Black. Reed wishes there was a little something extra in his cup. But that’s OK. Mrs. Conley has other things to offer.

You see, she’s a widow. Husband died last year. And she’s lonely. But she’s so lost in her sadness that she doesn’t really know how to talk anymore. Just needs a little company. And that’s OK by Reed. Because she’s sitting there, across from him, with her own cup. And they’re together in their sorrow, a silent sharing of woes.

And Reed is getting his fill.