Overheard in a Dream. Torey Hayden

for sending me that Ramona Quimby book, Daddy. I didn’t have that one. And it’s really good! I’m almost clear through it already and I only started it last night. I was so happy when I opened up your package and saw that’s what it was.”

      “Well, thank you for your nice long newsy letter,” James said. “I got it on Monday. What a nice surprise in my mail box.”

      “It was so long, it was practically like a Ramona Quimby book too, wasn’t it?” Becky replied gleefully. “My teacher says I’m probably going to be a writer when I grow up, because I’m so good with details.”

      “Yes, you certainly are. I like your details. And I’m glad to hear you’re enjoying gymnastics so much.”

      James’s words were interrupted by noises of a muffled struggle on the other end of the line. “Get off!” Becky was muttering. “I’m still talking!”

      “Daddy! Daddy!” Mikey’s voice broke through.

      “Hi, Mike, how’s it going?”

      “Becky won’t let me have the phone and it’s my turn.”

      More muffled struggling and the sound of Becky muttering, “Pushy little pig. You give it back to me afterwards.”

      “Did you get the postcard I sent, Daddy?” Mikey asked. “It’s got a lighthouse on it.”

      “Yes, I did. Thank you very much.”

      “I did all the writing on it myself. I even wrote your address.”

      “And a Superman job you did too,” James said. “It was very easy to read. The mailman got it right to my door with no trouble at all.”

      “Dad?”

      “Yes, Mike?”

      “When can we come to your door again? I miss you. I want to see you.”

      “Yes, I miss you too, Mikey. Big lots. And that’s one of the reasons I’m phoning. To make arrangements with Mum for you two to come out over Thanksgiving.”

      “I don’t want to wait that long. I miss you now.”

      “Yeah, I know. Me too,” James said. “Every night I say, ‘Goodnight, Mikey. Goodnight, Becky’ to that picture beside my bed.”

      “Yeah, every night I say ‘Goodnight, Daddy’, to your picture,” Mikey replied. “But I wish it was really you.”

      “So why don’t you put your mum on the phone so we can make some plans.”

      “Okay, Daddy. Kiss you,” he smacked into the phone. “Love you forever.”

      “Love you forever too, Mikey.”

      A moment’s pause as Mikey dropped the phone noisily on the table. Then Sandy’s voice, deep for a woman’s voice but soft and darkly fluid, like molasses over gravel.

      “Well, yes, I got your email,” she said. “And I want to know exactly what you’re playing at.”

      “It should have been quite plain, Sandy. I’m not paying the kind of mortgage I’m shelling out on that place to have Joey living there and I know he is, because the kids have told me. Let Joey pay the damned mortgage.”

      “The mortgage was part of the settlement, James.”

      “Not if he’s living there.”

      “The mortgage was part of the settlement,” she repeated in short, clipped words that emphasized their meaning. “Because our kids are living in this house. That’s still happening. So why are you even bothering with this shit?”

      “Because I’m earning a South Dakota wage and paying for a West Side brownstone. Joey’s a fucking corporate lawyer. In Manhattan, for Christ’s sake. He can afford to pay his own way.”

      “Well, if you think you can have the kids any time you want and then turn around and say you aren’t going to pay the mortgage …”

      “This has nothing to do with when I get the kids. We agreed those dates in mediation, Sandy.”

      “Yeah, well, we agreed the mortgage in mediation too.”

      “Sandy.”

      She slammed the phone down.

      “You got to ignore her, Jim,” Lars said. “It’s like in playing football. If you want to complete a good pass, well, then you just got to think of nothing but that pass. You got to totally ignore the other team because they’re doing nothing but trying to put you off your concentration. Same with Sandy. She doesn’t want you to complete any passes, whether it’s getting the kids out here at Thanksgiving or telling the shifty lawyer guy to move the hell out of your house.”

      “I know it,” James said in frustration and sank back into the chair. “It’s just when she starts in with that patronizing tone …”

      “It’s interference, Jim. Nothing else. She’s just running interference. You got to take your mind off her and put it on the positive. On what you want to accomplish.”

      “She so knows how to twist the knife,” James muttered. “She knows she can hurt me through the kids.”

      “Jim, don’t let her get to you.”

      “She makes me feel pathetic. That’s what I hate. She acts like in coming out here, I’ve run away when in fact, I’ve done just the opposite. I’ve faced up to myself, to where I went wrong. I made some bad choices and took some wrong turnings but when I realized that, I took action to create a better life. It just wasn’t the one she thought she was signing up for.”

      Very slowly, Conor began to talk more. It was difficult to tell if it was meaningful speech or simply echolalia because it was made up largely of phrases James himself had used first, but it became increasingly clear that Conor wanted to interact.

      One morning when he arrived, Conor said, “In here, you decide,” at the doorway of the playroom, almost as if it were a greeting.

      “Good morning, Conor. Won’t you come in?” James replied.

      “Ehhh-ehhh-ehhh-ehhh.”

      For a long moment Conor remained in the doorway. He pressed the cat against his face, over his eyes, then lowered it and pointed it around the room.

      “In here, you decide,” he said again. “In here, you go around the room.” He began his usual counter-clockwise perambulation. Once, twice, three times he went around the room.

      “Where’s the boy’s auroch?” he said suddenly. “In here, you decide.”

      “Yes,” James said. “In this room you can decide for yourself if you want to play with the toy animals.”

      “Where’s the boy’s auroch? You decide.”

      “Would you like me to help you find the basket?” James asked.

      “Find the basket with the animals,” Conor replied, although James couldn’t discern if it was a genuine response or simply an incomplete echo.

      Rising from his chair, James crossed over to the shelves. “Here are the animals,” he said, and lifted the red wire basket out. “Shall I take it to the table for you?”

      “In here, you decide.”

      “That’s right. You decide if you want me to take it to the table.”

      “Take it to the table.”

      Conor followed. Lifting the cat up, he scanned the basket, then reached in and lifted an animal out. “Here is a dog,” he said and set it on the table. This seemed to please him. There was almost the hint of a smile on his lips. “Here is a duck.” He set that up too.

      James watched him as he progressed through the basket of animals. While the boy’s actions were