Lincoln's Dreams

“Yes,” he said, looking pleased. “You have been doing a lot of research, haven’t you? Lincoln’s real dream would have been a sequence of unrelated images, a stairway, a memory of Willie Lincoln in his coffin, a cloth of some kind, a napkin or a handkerchief or something. It wouldn’t have to be black or even cloth, for that matter. It could have been a scrap of paper.”

A scrap of paper, a cat, a Springfield rifle. It won’t wash. Dr. Stone.

“… and in the process of bringing the dream up to the subconscious and then telling it, the dream took on a coherence and an emotional importance it simply didn’t have.” He put both hands on the arms of the chair. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to get back to the Institute.”

“What if I dreamed I was upstairs in the White House and heard crying but couldn’t see anyone?” I asked. “What if when I went downstairs there was a coffin in the East Room?”

Broun reached for his cup. Coffee slopped onto his notes.

“I’d say you’d spent the whole day doing research on Lincoln’s dreams,” Dr. Stone said.

“Did you dream that?” Broun said, still holding the cup at an angle. More coffee spilled out.

“No,” I said. “So you don’t think Lincoln’s assassination dream means anything, even though everything in it happened two weeks later? You think it’s all just a matter of what he did that day and what he had for dinner?”

“I’m afraid so.” Dr. Stone stood up and set his cup on the tray. “I know this probably isn’t the sort of thing you wanted to hear, especially when you’re trying to write a novel. One of the greatest difficulties I encounter in my reasearch is that people want to believe that their dreams mean something, but all the research I’m doing seems to indicate just the opposite.”

You didn’t see her standing there in the snow, I thought. You didn’t see the look on her face. I don’t know what’s causing her dreams, but it’s not random impulses and it’s not indigestion. Annie’s dreams do mean something. There’s a reason she’s having them, and I’m going to find out what it is.

“You’ve been a great deal of help. Dr. Stone,” Broun said. “I appreciate your giving us so much of your time. I know you’re very busy.”

He walked Dr. Stone downstairs. I waited till they were almost at the bottom of the steps and then went over and hit the play button on Broun’s answering machine. There still wasn’t any message.

I tried to call Annie. She didn’t answer. Broun’s cat jumped up on the desk and dipped its head into Broun’s Styrofoam cup and began lapping delicately at the coffee. I put down the phone and picked him up by the back of the neck to throw him off.

“I take it you didn’t think too much of Dr. Stone’s theories,” Broun said from the door.

“No,” I said, depositing the cat on the floor. “Did you?”

“I thought he had some interesting things to say.”

“About Lincoln’s indigestion or about taking a cattle prod to his patients?”

“About the real meaning of Lincoln’s dreams being physical.” He sat down heavily in the leather chair. “And about the persistence of dreaming, how we take a lot of unconnected images and make them into one continuous dream.”

Unconnected images. A carpet slipper, a red wool shirt, a horse with its legs shot off. “I thought it was all a lot of hogwash,” I said.

“Jeff, are you all right? You’ve seemed upset about something ever since you got back from West Virginia.”

“I’m just tired. I haven’t caught up from the trip yet,” I said, and then wondered why I didn’t say. No, I’m not all right, I’m worried sick. That young woman you met at the reception is dreaming things she couldn’t possibly know about. I might not be able to tell Dr. Stone, but I could surely tell Broun.

“Have you been sleeping all right?” He was sitting the way Dr. Stone had sat, his feet flat on the floor and his hands resting on the leather arms of the chair, watching me.

“Sure. Why?”

“I thought maybe you … when Richard called from the Institute and wanted to talk to you, I got the idea that maybe you were a patient of his, and then you asked Dr. Stone all those questions about Elavil causing bad dreams. I thought maybe he’d put you on some kind of tranquilizer.”

“No,” I said. “I’m not taking anything. And I’m not having bad dreams.” But Annie was. And now was the time to tell him, to explain my behavior and Richard’s and tell him about Annie’s dreams. The cat made a flying leap onto the desk and right into Broun’s coffee. I dived for the cup and Broun’s notes at the same time. Broun pushed himself up out of the chair and came over to get the cat. I moved the notes out of the way.

“Broun,” I said, but he had the cat by the scruff of the neck and was putting it out the door. He shut it on its indignant yowl and sat down in the chair again.