Evil Dreams (3 page)

“I’ll be a good guy and cooperate,” he said, flashing his best smile.

“As I mentioned before, I use a tape recorder during my consultations.” Standing, Sam crossed the room to a console built into the wall separating the two offices. “You won’t mind, will you?” he asked, fully opening the louvered doors which had been slightly ajar.

“I assume the tapes will remain confidential —that is, between you and me?” Although questioning the privacy of such a method, he admired the efficiency of the procedure.

“You, me, and my secretary,” Sam answered.

“Miss—ah, Worthington?”

“Yes. Tory has been with me almost two years. She’s very reliable, I assure you.”

Did Jon have any choice other than accepting his judgment? “I don’t have any real objections to the recorder.” He sighed resignedly.

Flipping a couple of switches, the doctor pressed a button to activate the tape recorder before returning to his chair. “I have a remote control for the recorder here on the desk, which I’ll use from time to time, in case you wonder what I’m doing when I reach over and press a button. Incidentally, microphones are concealed in different areas of the office. Some of my patients are unable to talk freely if the mikes are in the open. Now, tell me, in as explicit detail as possible, about your dream.”

In a detached, almost impersonal manner, he recounted his nightmare as he had experienced it for the last twenty-eight years, to the point where he would awaken.

When he finished speaking, the psychiatrist waited for a moment. “Is that it?”

“In all its glory,” Jon said lightly. Perhaps if he kept his own attitude indifferent toward the dream, the doctor might decide there was no problem.

Sam peered at him, his brown eyes unblinking. For several minutes he remained silent and then said, “That’s some dream. Is it always the same?”

Jon nodded. “Always.”

“Never any deviation from what you’ve just told me?”

“Only in the degree of pain.”

“Explain that.”

“Sometimes my head feels as though it really has burst. Other times, it’s relatively mild and I won’t even wake up.”

“How do you know you’ve experienced it when the dream doesn’t awaken you?”

“I usually recall it later during the day.”

“What would you say is the percentage of times you awake with the headache?”

Jon hesitated. “Maybe sixty percent of the time—I’m not certain.”

Sam slowly nodded, dropping his attention to the pad where he had jotted notes to generate questions. “The span of time you’ve experienced the dream is quite unusual. What’s the earliest age you can recall having it?”

Jon pursed his lips for a moment before answering. “About five, I guess.”

Sam shook his head, failing to conceal his amazement. “You’re thirty-three now, which means you’ve been having the same dream for twenty-eight years.”

Jon nodded.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions concerning it to see if we can come to any conclusions about some of the symbolism.”

Jon brightened and said, “Do you feel now it isn’t as difficult as you made it sound at first?”

Sam’s head jerked up. “No. Nothing of the sort. Knowing what I do about you, I want to see if there’s a deep seated reason for the long standing repetition. But then, like all dreams, it’s a jumble of symbols that probably mean something to you. In future sessions we’ll work backward in your life. Now,” he hesitated before consulting his pad, “the crowd noises, this could be related to a desire for acclaim as an author. Would you enjoy a public image as a recognized author?”

“I don’t know. I might,” he said. “Actually, most authors receive very little public recognition.”

“How do you mean?”

“Their names are known, not their faces.”

“Do you think you might have a desire to have yourself known and recognized as a celebrity?”

Jon shrugged. “I feel if I can finish the novel I’m working on by the end of the year, I will have accomplished my goal. I’ll also have proven Trina’s belief in me. Beyond that, if I can sell it and begin a career as a novelist, I’d be happy. But I don’t think I’m doing it to gain a celebrity status.”

“All right, Jon,” he said, “we’ll leave that particular aspect for now and move on to the running. Is anything annoying you, something you’re trying to avoid?”

“No,” he answered, after reflecting on the question for several minutes.

“What about your dislike for the medical profession? Do you feel perhaps you’ve tried to avoid being ill so you wouldn’t have to consult a physician?”

“I’ve just been to a battery of doctors,
Doctor,”
Jon icily reminded him. “I’m positive that has nothing to do with it.”

“Are you happily married?”

Trina’s image popped into Jon’s mind. How could he be anything but happily married to someone like her? She constantly amazed him with her insight where he was concerned, overlooking his stubborness in certain matters and being able to make him see the logic of her own arguments. After all, it had been Trina’s idea to have him seek the cause of his nightmare. He would have plodded through life accepting the dream and the resulting headaches without question. Not that he had not wondered and thought about it over the years. He had come to almost accept it, but Trina’s inquisitive mind and tenacious approach to the problem it represented had finally convinced him to seek help.

He smiled whenever he envisioned her. Trina, beautiful and charming like her mother, had fallen in love with him, and when he discovered her virginity the first night they went to bed, he wondered about his own good fortune in finding such a prize as she. Flawless in his eyes, she would complain about gaining weight while standing naked in front of the full length mirror in their bedroom, pointing out the indiscernible bulge of her tummy. Her breasts were a source of disgruntlement as well, she would complain, because they were not the right size for her tall frame. But Jon felt they were magnificent and knew she would tease him like that, trying to get him to compliment her. It worked every time.

“Of course,” he said simply.

“Do you have any children?”

“No.”

“Do you want children?”

“Someday we’d like to have at least one child.”

The psychiatrist continued making marks on the pad and Jon wondered if he were taking notes. If he were, why the recorder?

When he finished, Sam found his patient closely watching him. “I find the fog—both black and gray—interesting. That could be a desire for isolation so you could write undisturbed. What do you think?” He fixed an unblinking gaze on Jon, waiting for his answer.

“I don’t think so. Doctor,” he said. “Everything you’ve mentioned so far is way out in left field. The dream has always been the same, ever since I began having it. I wasn’t writing then, had no idea I wanted to be a writer, or that I could be one. Nor was I trying to avoid anything.”

Nodding slowly, Sam said nothing. A puzzled expression crossed his face as he looked away. “The trees turning into people could represent your desire to have an adoring public grow out of your loneliness as a writer.”

“Hardly as a child,” Jon said, an edge of irritation clinging to each word. “Besides, I’ve only been trying to be a full time writer for a few months.”

“Remember, I said
could.
Sometimes a wish or desire can be so dominant in our lives, it becomes an obsession without our being aware of it. As we work together, we could discover you had an overpowering desire at the age of five to be known as a writer.”

Jon chuckled to himself. Nothing could be solved if they took this approach. Hadn’t he asked himself questions like this hundreds of times? The answers never made sense. If for no other reason, he would play the game for a little while—just for the experience. And, to satisfy Trina.

“What are you thinking right now?”

Jon suddenly realized the doctor had been studying him while he silently chortled. “Nothing, really. Just puzzling over the same thing you are,” he lied.

“The woman, as you describe her, is most interesting. Has she always been the same?”

“Yes.”

“Your description sounds as though her style of clothing might not be contemporary. What period would you say she’s from?”

Jon thought for a moment. “Late thirties or early forties.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Different movies I’ve seen.”

“From the thirties or forties?”

“Yes. And movies depicting stories about those years.”

“You were born in—” Dayton began but stopped to reach for a file on his desk. Thumbing through it, he pulled out a sheet and continued, “1946.”

“February third,” Jon said. “I’ve thought about that, too. I wasn’t around when clothing like that was worn.”

“How do you feel about your wife?”

“How should I feel?” Jon asked, smiling slyly.

“Do you love her? Are you jealous? Do you feel secure?”

“I was just about to the point of deciding I was going to be a bachelor when I met her.

Trina is probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I love her and I’m not the least bit jealous.”

Jon still held the fact that Trina and he were married as somewhat of a marvel—his own personal Ninth Wonder of the world. They had met at a meeting of the Teacher’s League and at first, he had thought a few dinner dates and movies or whatever, would be in keeping with his chosen state of bachelorhood. He had taught in Chicago for seven years, earning his Masters degree during summer classes at Loyola. By the age of twenty-nine, he had decided single life was for him—at least until he made up for all the playtime he had lost while working toward his advanced degree.

When Jon met her mother, he understood from whom Trina had inherited her beauty. Charlene Benson, barely fifteen years older than Jon, could have passed for Trina’s older sister. Standing side by side, the statuesque women had taken his breath away.

Trina’s father, Meredith, had died during her first year of teaching. Jon tried to understand their ready acceptance of what he interpreted as a tragedy, hoping to better reconstruct his own attitudes about death. Charlene adjusted well to her husband’s untimely death and spent most of her time in Florida, until she died.

“Do you feel you own your wife—possess her?” The strange question broke into Jon’s chain of thought. “Does she own you?”

“We love each other. We like each other,” he answered, “but we don’t own one another. We came to that conclusion long before we married.”

“Does that knowledge make you feel secure?” Sam pressed.

“Of course. We’re both mature enough to know we can go our separate ways if our feelings change.”

“Do you ever feel threatened by her?”

Jon stared at him. “No way! Never!” he said simply. How could he possibly feel intimidated by Trina?

“How about your mother.”

“How about her?”

“Is she a threat?”

“Hardly. She’s been dead a long time.”

“I know,” Sam said quietly. “Her dying triggered your dislike for the medical profession. But could her memory be a threat to your well being now?”

“I loved my mother very deeply. I guess I went bananas when she died. But no, my relationship with her was a good one.”

“Tell me a little about her.”

“She met my dad in Germany right after World War II was over. The day after, to be exact. They got married before Dad was sent home and she came to this country about eighteen-months later. I was born in Germany. When I was old enough to understand, she told me about her home and how she grew up.”

“Did she ever push you in school or say she wanted you to be a writer?”

“She wanted me to be a priest,” Jon said. A tear, begging to form, was blinked away. How long would they concentrate on his mother? Jon had been extremely close to Helga Ward. Closer than to his father, Milton. For some peculiar reason, he had always felt that his father disliked him. At best, the older Ward’s attitude remained aloof, almost indifferent toward his son. Jon seemed to favor his mother in personality, demeanor and mannerisms. There, however, the resemblance ended. Helga’s flaxen hair and fair complexion contrasted sharply with her son’s dark, handsome features. He often wondered, once he had reached adulthood, about his relatives in Germany. He had never met any of them but she had told him more than once that he had inherited his dark good looks from her forebears. Then, she would grow morose and say something about his own father’s reddish-brown hair possibly showing up in Jon’s children one day.

“Did she mention your becoming a priest often?” Sam asked.

“Not really. You’d have had to know her to understand how beautiful a person she actually was.”

“How about your father?”

“Dad was like most fathers—stern, strict. He wanted my mother to do everything in the house, which included raising me.”

“You said ‘was.’ Is he deceased?”

“Yes.”

“When did he die?”

“1960. He was killed in an auto accident.”

“Did you feel sorry when he died?”

“Of course.”

“Did you love him?”

Jon’s voice wavered before answering. “I guess I did. I know I was afraid of him.”

“Did you respect him?”

“I had to.”

“Did he ever hurt your mother?”

“Not to my knowledge. I think they really loved each other.”

Before the doctor could pose another question, his wrist watch buzzed and Jon knew his first appointment had come to an end. He breathed deeply only to shiver, suddenly conscious of the fact his shirt, damp with perspiration, stuck to his body.

“That’ll do it for today, Jon,” Sam said, pressing the tape recorder’s remote control button on his desk. “We’ll continue the next time and begin moving a little further into your past.”

“Do you think we’ll find anything?” he asked, standing.

“I’m certain you’ll know yourself better, and perhaps at the same time find the reason for your dreams. Make an appointment with Tory on your way out,” he said, approaching his patient.

They shook hands before Jon turned to leave. Limping across the room, he rubbed his elbow before opening the door to the outer office.