To Dream Or Not To Dream

Sleep wrapped Leslie in heavy bonds. Struggling to open her eyes, she slowly turned to snuggle against her husband’s warm back, but she encountered empty space. Sitting up, she looked down toward the end of the trailer expecting to see Ed sitting on the couch drinking his coffee. His space was empty. Where was he? It was not like him to slip out of bed so quietly. She looked at the clock. 8:15 Had she been so deep in sleep that she had not heard him get up to go to work?

Awkwardly climbing down from the fifth wheel’s sleeping area, she struggled into her clothes. Throwing on her big yellow shirt to keep the mosquitoes at bay, she stepped out the trailer door into the heavy Florida air. She noticed their red truck was still next to the trailer on the asphalt pad. The sight of it gave her a slight tug of apprehension because Ed always drove the truck to work to carry his tools and supplies. Ignoring the truck, she climbed on her old blue bike and began pedaling down toward the maintenance yard. The lone white heron still maintained its solitary vigil at the edge of the Florida Bay unaware and unconcerned at Leslie’s growing panic. The winter sun was just beginning to make its ascent past the dark green hammocks that outlined the Everglades blue washed sky. An occasional solitary Florida Pine filigreed the flat horizon. To the left the undergrowth was thick and insects buzzed and whirred; Leslie could not see the Buttonwood Canal but she felt its dark amber presence.

At the maintenance yard, Ed’s supervisor and several of the men were still standing drinking coffee and discussing projects of the day. A silver blur of a mullet leaped in the marina, catching Leslie’s attention momentarily and she wondered if there was any manatee there today. She loved watching them slip gracefully through the water belying their huge proportions. Their whole being seemed to emanate gentleness and peace. She could understand how the sailors on their long isolated voyages imagined them to be mermaids.

Breathlessly, she stopped and jumped off the bike.

“Bill, have you seen Ed?”

Bill gave her a curious look. “What are you talking about, Leslie? Who is Ed?”

“Don’t tease me. My husband. Have you seen my husband?”

“Huh?" He laughed, "Oh, it's a joke. Seems like I recall you saying you didn't really have need of a husband. . ."

“OK, don’t tell me.” She interrupted, whirled and hopped back on the bicycle feeling angry, hurt and humiliated at their teasing. It was not funny. Methodically, she pedaled back toward the trailer oblivious to the mosquitoes that sang around her head. She did not stop at the trailer but continued on down to the laundry room. He probably was there. She had remembered that they were both off work today and had planned on doing the laundry and then driving to Homestead for groceries.

The laundry room was quiet but she still checked the washer and dryers. They were empty and cold. A wave of apprehension gripped her and she leaned against the drier to catch her breath. Slowly she rode back to the trailer. This time the truck was not reassuring. Something was wrong. The aluminum box which she had thought was too expensive was gone and in its place was the original white plastic storage box. She parked the bike and ran her hand over its smooth whiteness. A raven stood on the picnic table and scolded her before skimming toward a tree at the back of the trailer where it perched watching her. She followed it with her eyes and was drawn to the five or six black vultures that circled and dipped over the swamp, watching, and waiting. Their macabre dance filled her with dread.

A mosquito landing on her hand stung her bringing her back to reality; she mechanically swatted it, leaving her hand spotted with red. Wondering what was happening she went back into the trailer. She washed the blood off her hand and dried it with a paper towel. How could he have disappeared completely without taking the truck? It was fifty miles to the nearest town and there was no bus service. She opened his side of the closet and stared at the garments hung there. They were her clothes. She jerked open the other door. Her jackets and sweaters stared at her accusingly.

Bewildered she sat down on the couch and looked around the trailer, now noticing the subtle changes. His shoes were no longer sitting by the couch; nor were his hats tucked on the shelf overhead. How could he have moved out so quickly and completely without her knowing? Had he drugged her? She had felt very groggy when she had first awaked; but that did not make any sense. He had not given any indication that he was unhappy.

She looked at the table. Her R.A identification card lay face down where she had left it yesterday. Almost involuntarily, she read her birthday, social security number, the expiration date and finally her number, 44. Ed was 45. Slowly, almost as if she were in a trance, she turned it over. Her face stared up at her from the strange red background. She looked at her named typed neatly beside it with her signature below. She stared at her name, Leslie A. Watkins. The name she had had for some many years before she married Ed. No! That was not right. It could not be. Her name was Leslie A. Beaumont. A cold vise gripped her heart. Slowly, she laid the card down, carefully placing it exactly as she had found it, stood and moved as if in deep water up into their sleeping loft to dream or not to dream.