Dreams of the Sleepless
By Elmer Seward
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About this ebook
Joe has been running for months, trying unsuccessfully to escape the nightmares of his past. On a sleepless summer morning, the wandering loner becomes reluctantly entangled in the lives of Molly, a young woman whose childhood dreams of golden beaches and the deep blue ocean have become nothing more than murky reflections in a muddy creek, and Eli, an old man who scans the obituaries merely to confirm that his own photo isn’t smiling back from the pages. A violent confrontation in those early hours with Jeb, Molly’s cruel ex-boyfriend, explodes in events that will change all four lives.
Even in this small, rural town, Joe can’t escape the twisted nightmares that haunt him. When they erupt in violence, they threaten his newfound relationship with Molly, his life, and the lives of those who have befriended him. In the end, Eli, Molly, and Joe wrestle with their own sleepless dreams and the realization that escaping the black night haunts of the past requires running toward the dim, uncertain sliver of light on the horizon, promising a new day.
Elmer Seward
Elmer Seward was born and raised along the Chesapeake Bay in southeast Virginia. Growing up, the cemetery behind his house was his playground. The metaphorical theme of death and rebirth that figures prominently in his novels is probably influenced in some way by the time that his mother heard, through the screened window, a small voice crying for help. Rushing from the house and through the yard, she discovered her all-too-curious six-year-old son at the bottom of a freshly dug grave. In that moment, he discovered that trouble is much easier to get into than it is to get out of. Sometimes we need help getting out of the hole that we jump into willingly.He is blessed to have a large blended family and is the reluctant servant of two crazy dogs, a Cocker Spaniel and a BruMaltChiYorkie (don't ask). All of these strongly influence the characters and events in his novels; however, his beautiful wife, Mitzi, is the true inspiration for the tender hearted but determined women in his stories.
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Dreams of the Sleepless - Elmer Seward
Now
I punctuate the sentence, period at the end. I lift the pen and look up. Outside in the parking lot, the car at the pumps. Did I see it at our last stop? Black Ford. How many black Fords are there in the world? Millions. I watch a moment longer. Nothing unusual. I look down, reread my last sentence and then continue, Sometimes, I’m better now. Really, I am. I want to write, Sometimes, I see monsters at night, but I leave it unsaid. I choose the glass half-full. He would like that. I sign the card using some other man’s name, not my own. A quick look to the parking lot. The black Ford is gone. The muscles in my neck uncoil as I release one long breath. Looking down again, I flip the card over and study the sepia image. It’s a reprint of a vintage post card depicting International Bridge in Fort Kent Maine. I smile at the symmetry of it all. I slip the card in the mail slot and marvel at how different life is now. Now? Now, my life is measured in postcards with quickly jotted lines. Then? Well, then . . . there wasn’t much to measure.
Then
Hot Coffee, Black
The bright light spilled from the diner's windows into the dark street, a beacon calling to storm tossed travelers in the night. Calling to life's broken souls. Calling to me. It was early, and the small restaurant was almost empty. Like most diners, it was unremarkable. There were rows of booths along the windows to the left and a counter with red upholstered bar stools to the right. The once red upholstery, more like a dry riverbed, cracked and a muddy rust color, revealed years of wear. Beyond the counter a large serving window opened into the kitchen. The counter wrapped around at the far end and met the windows just beyond the booths.
I pushed through the door to coffee's friendly greeting. Country music played softly in the background. I couldn't quite place the song. I was sure that I had heard its sad lyrics and melody before, but details like that were lost on me now. Beyond the order window, I heard a woman's voice singing perfect, quiet harmony.
A solitary customer sat hunched over his cup near the far end of the counter, a rumpled newspaper lying abandoned next to him. He was tall and wiry. His short-cropped, white hair and beard stood in stark contrast to his dark brown skin. His dingy white shirt hung loosely from his frail frame.
He'd probably been a much bigger man when he bought that shirt years ago but was now a shadow of his younger self. He turned toward me as I stood just inside the doorway. His face like a fallow field was deeply furrowed. Slowly he studied me in the way that he might study the obituaries, his friends long since passed on. Nothing interesting, just grateful not to see a younger photo of himself smiling back from the pages. Expressionless, he turned back to his coffee. Most people coming to a diner, even at this early hour, are in a rush to eat and get on with the day. His slow, deliberate manner told me that he was in no hurry to go anywhere. Maybe, like me, he had nowhere to go.
I slid into the first booth as far from the old man as I could. I wanted to be alone. Although he seemed more interested in the depths of the dark liquid that sat before him, I decided to be cautious. Sometimes people in small towns can be chatty. They like to pry. I picked up the laminated menu, sticky with yesterday's syrup, and scanned it. The door behind me creaked open. A guy in khakis and a black polo shirt walked past and took a seat several booths away, facing me. I could feel his eyes on me. Not wanting to make eye contact, I looked out into the deep blackness through the window. The sun would be up soon, but, for now, the nighttime backdrop and lighted windowpane formed a dark, shadowy looking glass. I could see his faint reflection. He held a menu but was clearly looking above it in my direction. It was the kind of scrutiny I anticipated as a stranger in a small town. I knew it well, the suspicious glances, the whispered disapproval, the blatant glares.
I glanced down at my menu. Eggs, bacon, sausage, and pancakes. The prices seemed fair, but no price is a good price when you're broke. My hands began trembling. I laid the menu on the table and placed them on either side, applying pressure to try to calm them with little success. Worthless hands! I needed to see how much money I had, but my hands were useless. I laid my messenger bag on the table. The once lighter gray nylon was now dark and stained from long hours on the road. The material frayed in fuzzy tufts around the edges and my random jumble of possessions peered out through small holes that formed near the gaping seams. Fighting the tremors, I tried to sort through the odd collection of items and fish out what little money I had left. It was useless. My hands wouldn't cooperate. I dumped the side pocket of the bag on the table. The contents clattered out, some scattering onto the floor. I glanced up. The old man and polo shirt were both glaring at me.
The door behind me banged open and a booming voice announced, Babe, your lover boy is back!
The booming voice swaggered past me wearing a brown deputy's uniform. He was a large man. Probably played football in an earlier life, but his current heft wouldn't qualify as football worthy. Too many years of sitting in a cruiser. He strode past me, polo shirt, and the old guy as if we weren't even there. I caught the distinct aroma of alcohol as he passed. He glanced around without seeing the three of us. Where are you, babe?
He plopped down on one of the stools at the end of the counter. The edges of the seat disappeared under his cruiser-trained rump. He boomed again, What does a fella have to do to get service around here?
An attractive woman, late twenties, maybe early thirties strode out of the kitchen area. She was tall and shapely but not cartoonishly so. She wouldn't be one of the scantily clad women in popular beer commercials. Nor would you find her adorning the pages of swimsuit calendars. But her gently curving figure was attractive. With hands on hips, she glared at the deputy. Then in surprise she looked beyond to where I sat and then over at polo shirt. Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't hear ya'll come in. I'll be with you in just a sec,
I rushed to pick up the things I had dumped from my bag. My hands worked as well as mittens picking up toothpicks. I struggled to put everything back in the bag. Reaching items strewn on the floor was even more challenging. I left the money on the table – two dollar bills and some loose change.
As the waitress slipped from behind the counter and headed toward me, the deputy shouted, Hey, how about me?
She made no reply but approached with a weary smile, more show than substance. This was probably a smile practiced day after day for perhaps years on end, asking the same tired questions only to hear the same tired responses. This diner seemed frozen in time, a place where each day was like the one before, and she was the silent witness to the mundane comings and goings in other people's lives.
As she slid up to the table, she was apologetic. I'm so sorry. What can I get you this morning?
I placed my hands under the table, grasping my knees, so that she wouldn't notice the trembling. I pretended to study the menu. I'll just have coffee, black.
OK, hun, I'll be right back with your coffee.
She moved off to help polo shirt, and I felt relieved. I exhaled and placed my hands on the table, applying downward pressure, willing them to be still. Eventually, she drew a cup from the large brewing pot near the end of the counter and brought it to my table. By the time the coffee arrived, the trembling was mostly gone. I raised the cup with both hands to steady it and sipped slowly.
The waitress found her way behind the counter, busying herself loading napkin holders and preparing silverware.
The deputy called out, Come on, Babe. Is this any way to treat the man you love?
The waitress continued with her back to him.
He stood. How about my order?
The waitress turned slowly, her head cocked to one side, a dead expression on her face. OK, Jeb, what do you want?
Babe, I want YOU," he cackled. This was all some funny game for him.
The waitress shot back with a dead voice that matched her expression, I'm not on the menu.
She turned back to her work.
Something snapped in the deputy. Where there was once sadistic laughter, there was now rage. Don't turn your back on me,
he threatened. In the next few empty seconds, you could feel a violent eruption building. It was like watching the frenzied spikes of a seismometer just moments before a sleeping volcano explodes. I said, don't turn your back on me!
He reached across the counter grabbing her with his left hand and spinning her around so violently that she fell into a stack of dishes, sending them crashing onto the floor.
She screamed. Jeb, let go! You're going to break my arm! Jeb, stop!
The more she wailed, the harder he wrenched her arm. She buckled and twisted trying to free herself. All the while, she uselessly flailed at him with her free hand. Each time she swung, he would apply more painful pressure. She was screaming and crying.
The old guy at the counter yelled, Jeb, leave her alone.
Jeb shot back, Shut up, old man!
never turning from his tormenting.
I gulped down the last of my coffee. This was a good time for me to leave. I didn't know these people and didn't want to know them. This was their problem not mine. I left the two dollar bills on the table, and shoveled the change into my bag. I figured that she deserved a tip after a morning like this. I stood and hurried toward the door while the chorus of wails accompanied by shouted curses from her tormentor rose. My hand was on the door when it happened. I hated it, but couldn't stop it. I had been an empty man for months, dead inside. But now, with my hand on the door, I felt a growing anger. Every emotion that I had buried deep within me came rushing out in a torrent. I spun around and strode toward the deputy. My brain was screaming, NO, NO, NO, don't do this! He's got a gun! You're going to get yourself killed! But at that moment, there really wasn't much left of my life. I literally had nothing to lose.
The deputy had his back toward me completely engrossed in his torture. He was leaning across the counter. His left hand shackled the waitress in its grip. His right hand on the counter was supporting his upper body. I guessed he had me by about fifty pounds, but most of that wasn't muscle. As I reached him, I grabbed his right hand with mine and pulled it out from under him twisting up behind his back. At the same time, I grabbed his hair with my left hand, shoving his head downward toward the counter as he fell forward. My adrenaline must have spiked because his head hit the counter with a sickening thud. Dazed, he went limp, releasing the waitress and slumping onto the counter. I had to move fast. I unsnapped his holster and removed his gun. The waitress stood frozen, mouth open and eyes wide, a look of horror. My eyes darted around the restaurant. The large coffee pot stood next to me. I removed the lid and dropped the pistol into the hot coffee, splashing the steaming brew all over the counter. I let the deputy slump to the floor, removed his handcuffs from his belt, and cuffed his right hand to the foot of one of the stools. Panic struck me as he began to moan. I struggled to remove his key ring from his belt. The tremors had returned, and I fumbled to free the ring. His eyes opened briefly and then rolled upward. His hand clawed at my arm and then went limp. Jerking and twisting, I finally came away with the collection of keys. I was banking on the handcuff and the cruiser keys being on the ring. I stood and dropped them into the steaming coffee pot, and then took a deep breath.
I looked up at the waitress who was still frozen, mouth wide open and eyes as big as the full moon hung just above the summer horizon. The fear was gone from her face replaced by bewilderment. The deputy was moaning again and beginning to stir. It was time for