VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 7

“Because you are a person or something? Free will and all of that?”

“I’ve been dead for about twenty-five years and...the free will thing.”

“You’re a ghost?”

“I’m a memory. Your memory. I was a colleague of your father’s when you were just a little thing. Four, I think.”

I study his face and try to remember.

“It’s no use my dear. You were four.”

“Why do I think of you warmly?”

“I always wanted kids of my own— I never saw you or any of your siblings without gifts in hand. I needed you all to like me because I wanted to feel confident that I would be a good father some day. Being the youngest, you were my favorite. I am a little bit ashamed to admit that your gifts were just a little bit nicer than those of your siblings.”

A silence falls between us.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I have another question. What about the others?”

“The others?”

“The men in my stories.”

He...Hardy, for some reason I want to call him Hardy. Is it Hardy or Harvey? No...it’s Hardy.

“I would think that they might be variations of one man.”

“The man of my dreams?”

“The type of man that you think might be the one for you. You’re...figuring things out.”

“They’re all so different.”

“Are you sure?Think about your romantic male characters. Is it possible that you write different backgrounds for them, give them different careers, interests, likes and dislikes but at their core they are all essentially the same man.  They’re all kind, they care for others, and have a great capacity for love.”

“You’re suggesting that my characters are my dream man but since I don’t know the specifics the surface details vary?”

“Something like that.”

"Why?"

“Panic, fear, impatience. You have been working very hard to get it all ‘right’.”

“I have. I never seem to.”

“You will.”

Hardy. I’ve decided to call him Hardy, looks down at the volume that lays across his lap.

“It appears that I have finished with this one.” He says as he closes the book and holds it up.
I can see the spine of it from where I am sitting.
“Many thanks to you Lord Byron.” Hardy says to the book. He looks back at me. “I think I’ll go with an adventure this time. I’ve always enjoyed a good adventure.” Hardy rises from the chair to replace Lord Byron and choose his next bit of company. He stops next to the chair that I am sitting in and says gently. “Do not cry my dear, you’re doing the hard work.”

I look up at Hardy and wipe a renegade tear from my face.

“What did your father always say about the hard work?”

“That the hard work is what gets the best results.” I answer, my voice cracks a bit. “Any more advice?”

His mouth turns up with a gentle smile. "Give your love to the man who will care for your heart like the treasure that it is my dear because you have a beautiful one." He gets a wistful look, the kind smile returns, "You know my mother used to say that men are a little bit like cats. You can call, cajole, cry, and offer goodies all day long, but a man will not show himself until he decides that he wants to be seen, and not a second sooner. There is nothing that you can do to change that.”

Unsure how to respond, I raise an eyebrow.

“She had cats for my entire life. A gentleman friend or two too. The woman would know.” Hardy continues his walk to the bookshelves.

“Is that it?” I ask as Hardy peruses the shelves.

“Is that what?”

“Are we done here?”

“That would be up to you.”

I sit back in the chair and watch the fire for a few minutes.

“Eureka.” He calls.

I turn in my chair and watch as Hardy retrieves his treasure from the its resting place. He holds up the leather bound volume.

“Don Quixote.” He announces. “A wonderful book. A bit difficult to get into at first, but definitely worth the time.” Hardy practically skips back to his chair and settles in.

“Have you read it?” He asks.

I shake my head.

“Please try to make time to my dear. You won’t regret it.”

Standing up, I walk around taking in everything. One long last look before I have to go.

“It was nice to see you again my dear.” Hardy says. “I hope that you come back some time soon.”

“Thank you.” I respond as I begin to walk past the wooden desk that sits directly opposite the fireplace and affords a view of whomever sits in the reading chairs. I see something and stop. The gargantuan desk itself is quite ugly but what is sitting on it, calls to me.

The first thing that I spot are the books. A stack of my favorites. Some copies are very old. An old dance card still lays between the pages of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I assume it is a leftover favor from a young lady’s party as Mr. Darcy’s name is written in for every other dance. A copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte lays in the center. A battered copy of The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett is at the top of the stack.

 Then I spot the writing implement. “A fountain pen.” I whisper. I sit down on the chair behind the desk and grab it up like a greedy toddler. A fountain pen is something that I have always wanted and dream or not I am finally going to get to use one. Without thinking, I put the point of the pen to the thick piece of parchment on the desk in front of me and prepare to write. The surface has already been used.

                                                                             Never Choose Reality

You will waste your life fighting battles that can never be won.

Against demons that never take physical shape.

Eventually disease of the body, spirit, or the mind takes over and you will die alone.

Never finding the happiness that you have been seeking.

It was signed “Vin.”

I look at Hardy. “I wrote this?” I ask.

“You did.”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 6

...will give life to my insanity. It will confirm everything. Or it will scare him away. On the other hand, I can’t sit in this gazebo forever.

I close my eyes and see the library with the French doors leading to the sunny garden just beyond. I watch the fire burning in the fireplace. If I concentrate, I can smell the burning wood, the brewed coffee on the side table, the food. Most clearly, I can see him. I watch in amazement as he looks for me, sees me standing in the entry, and smiles. Taking an unexplainable leap of faith, I close my eyes and describe it all to Earnest.

“That’s good.” Earnest says. “Why are you standing in the entry?”

“I’m always standing in the entry. I never go inside completely.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not real.”

“How do you know that it’s not real if you never go inside the room?”

“It's beginning to sound like we’re both a little bit off our rockers.”

Earnest smiles.

“I’m not crazy and you’re not either.” He says. “Have you ever wondered why you went to all of this trouble to create this room?” He asks. “Maybe you stored something important in there.”

“What?”

“Your deepest, most secret dream for the future, your purpose, a piece of you that you’ve never let anyone else see. Something important that you want to keep safe. You’ll never find out if you don’t go inside the room.”

“What if I go in and can’t get back out?”

“You’ll always be able to come back out as long as you remember that anything that’s stopping you from leaving is all in your head. I’ll be with you the whole time.” Earnest reassures me. He thinks that he’s reassuring me at any rate.

“How many organs will you be harvesting while you wait?” I ask.

“Do I look like the kind of man who would harvest your organs?”

“No. You look friendly. Serial killers are usually those friendly, quiet men that help out with community events. The ones that no one ever has anything bad to say about and then one day...poof! Twenty bodies are discovered in their basement. What do the neighbors all say? ‘He was such a nice guy. Always kept his trash cans put away.’ You disappear without warning and reappear without explanation. It doesn’t exactly scream boy scout.”

“Close your eyes.” He repeats. “Turn it off. Turn everything off that’s going on inside of your head.”

As I’ve said before this is not a typical day and at this point I’m willing to try anything. I close my eyes. If something does go wrong, I hope that whatever happens to me is quick and that the police find my body right away so Kelly has some sort of closure.

“Turn it all off.” He says again. “The random thoughts, the insecurities, the criticisms. Turn every last bit of it off.” Earnest says. “Have you turned it off?”

“Yes. Most of it.”

“Okay. Now I want you to picture that room.”

I’m still conscious, I don’t feel myself bleeding. Good. I decide that Earnest might be trying to help.

“Where are you?” He asks.

“Standing in the entry, as always.”

“Go inside.”

“What if I can’t come back out?”

“You said that it isn’t real. If it isn’t real then you can’t get stuck inside, can you?”

“Don’t crazy people get lost in their minds all the time?” I ask.

“There’s a difference. Crazy people don’t wonder if they’re crazy. You do. You’re practically obsessing about it. You aren’t crazy. Now go into the room.”

I slowly slide one foot over the threshold.

“Keep going.”

“How far?”

“Far enough that the man sees you.”

“Where are you going with this?” I ask.

“Just do it.”

I stop sliding my feet and step inside. Looking around the room, I don’t see the handsome stranger immediately. Then something moves along my peripheral vision. I turn towards it and see a foot. He must be sitting in a reading chair.

Two deep brown leather wing back chairs sit next to the fireplace.

“Feel free to come closer, it’s your dream after all.” A voice says. It’s gentle, yet deep.

I feel comforted when I hear it. I follow the voice to the handsome man in my dream, sitting in the chair. He is tall, on the thin side, with fair hair and blue eyes.

“So tell me, what have you been up to since we last met my dear.”

I sit down in the matching chair that faces him and calmly tell him everything.

"Earnest, the name of a serious soul." He says.

"Earnest says that I have something important stored in this room and that I should come in even though it's not real."

"What do you think?" He asks.

"I don't know whether it's safe to trust the man."

"You can always trust a man named Earnest to be serious, steadfast, and honest with his pursuits."

"So he's not a serial killer or anything?" I ask.

"I didn't say that. But if a man named Earnest means to do you harm, you can be sure that he will tell you up front. Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Indicate that he means to do you harm."

"He insists that he wants to help."

"Then he must be helping my dear."

“He’s not. Earnest can’t be helping as long as he encourages me to return here. To return to my dreams.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I have to stop dreaming. I spend too much time in my dreams. They’re not real. They’re never going to be real.”

The man looks at me with a thoughtful expression. “No, not entirely.” He admits.

A sound of disapproval crosses my lips. “That’s not the most helpful answer.”

“You wanted me to tell you that you’re wrong to dream. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because you can make it real.”

I look at him.

“Before we get into that, think about this, if you don’t dream what will you write about? Maybe you have these dreams for a reason. To tell stories.”

I begin to argue.

“I’m not finished yet. What about this room, this house? If you always dream of this house and really want one like it, look for a house like this one, when you find it buy it, rent it, lease it...heck build one like it and move in. Put a desk over there,” he says as he makes a gesture with his head. “Put a side table along the entry wall, put two chairs like these in front of a fireplace, plant a garden outside just beyond a pair of French doors. Voila, the dream is real.”

“That would take a long time.” I point out.

“Making dreams come true takes a long time. It’s a lot of work.”

“What about you? You’re in my dreams.”

“I can’t be a part of your reality.”