Such Are The Dreams

SUCH ARE THE DREAMS

He came home from work each day at five-o’clock. At night he held her in his arms, and – if he felt like it – made love to her. In the morning he went to work.

She stayed home each day and played housewife and mother and cook, and dutifully kept up with the latest soap operas.

She was a good woman. She rarely gossiped, only drank socially, and kept her language clean – especially in front of her parents and the children. And she only fought with her husband over money and in-laws.

She never threw tantrum (like some other wives she knew) or went on wild shopping sprees spending all of her husband’s hard-earned money.

She had no bad habits to speak of – except, perhaps an occasional quirk when she would sit by the stereo, Indian fashion, and sing and cry – or she would dress up in gaudy clothes and jewelry, and dance in front of the mirror or windows . . .

But only while the children napped, and she was sure not to leave a trace for when her husband came home.

It was small then – the feeling – like a lump, like many lumps scattered throughout. She only came across them now and then – while her husband was at work, or the children napping – and never in the grocery store – she was sure she could control it.

Especially at five-o’clock when he came home from work and ate his dinner, and told of his day. Then he held her at night, and made love to her – if he wanted. Oh, but in the morning when he left . . .

She began to look forward to the morning, for now the children were in school. She rushed to complete the everyday banalities of her existence, then receded to her other world – the world where the lumps grew larger each day, and much more appealing.

She had less control over them now, she wasn’t safe in the grocery store anymore, and the neighbors had long since ceased to borrow coffee or sugar, or to share gossip. And sometimes she lost track and her husband would arrive home to find her dancing and singing hysterically to the stereo – dressed garishly, or not at all.

And sometimes the children would arrive before him, and he would find them cowering in a corner, crying, scared, unable to understand.

And he told them that it was all right, and he ate his dinner, and told of his day, then held her all night, and perhaps made love to her - if he felt like it. Then left her again in the morning.

And it grew inside her until it was whole and tangible, and she could touch it. It was a large feeling, and it was hers, and she was proud of it, and she wanted all of it – always – she didn’t want to share.

And they found her one day – laughing and crying and painting blood on the walls – her blood - in broken china all over the kitchen floor.

And the doctors controlled it for a while and repaired her battered body.

And when she was well he took her home and said they could begin again. Then he ate his dinner, told of his day and held her all night – and made love to her. And in the morning he left for work.

And when he returned that night he found her hanging from the water pipe the bathroom, the sash from his robe tied firmly round her neck.

Now, each day he is removed from his bed. He is placed in a chair by the window where he stares unblinking eyes at the grayness of the walls and the sky. And he smiles each evening at precisely five-o’clock as he – once again – goes home to his wife, and dinner, and tells of his day, and holds her all night, and makes love to her – if he feels like it.