by Daniel Webre
The dreams were never the scary part. It was Allison’s interpretations. Even these weren’t terrifying in a conventional manner. It’s just that Allison’s mind could make connections no one else would ever think of, and though most of these made no sense, once they were in her head, she’d become so convinced of their reality that a part of me was never quite sure anymore.
Let me give you an example. Once I dreamt of my cousin Fred. Fred and I were picking pineapples with a machete, reaching carefully inside the palm fronds and cutting just below the ripe fruit. I had not seen Fred since my childhood, and this was a grown man with a Hemingway beard. But in my dream I knew the man was Fred in the same way you can tell in the movies when time passes and someone has aged and maybe isn’t even played by the same actor. This was Fred all right, and the thing was, even though we were out in the tropical heat and there were a lot of these pineapples to harvest, we were having a wonderful time. It wasn’t competitive at all. In fact, in some cases, one of us would hold down the leaves of the plant while the other would remove the pineapple. Then we would put the pineapples in a large wheelbarrow and roll them over to a big pile we had started. In the dream, Fred and I were both smiling and laughing about everything, which was a real change for Fred—he had always been very serious when we were kids.
As you might guess, this dream was really pleasant for me, and that’s why I shared it with Allison. But when I told her, she grew concerned and said to me, “Salvador, you need to return those D cell batteries you bought yesterday.” And I said, “Allison, weren’t you listening at all? I was telling you about my dream.” And she said, “I know. That’s why I’m telling you this. I’m interpreting your dream for you.” And I said, “What’s that got to do with anything?” And she said, “Everything.”
Well, I got so frustrated and even kind of mad about it because I couldn’t see how these batteries I bought that were on sale and a really good deal could be connected to this dream about my cousin Fred. But after a couple of days of Allison asking me if I’d returned them yet and seeing her clearly worried about it all, it started to weigh on me until I couldn’t look at those batteries in a positive light anymore, and I’m somewhat ashamed to say that I returned them. Or should I feel more ashamed about the sense of relief I experienced after I had done so? Anyway, that’s the sort of thing I’m talking about.
Now you might be wondering, then, why not just keep my dreams to myself? Well, I kid you not—Allison can tell whenever I’ve had a dream or not. Don’t ask me how she does this, but she’s something like ninety-nine percent accurate. What throws her off sometimes is if someone else has told me about their dream that day, which can be a real test for both of us because she’s not always convinced right off I’m telling her the truth. After all, there are times that I really don’t want her to know I’ve been dreaming again.
What gets under my skin the most, though—more than I’d care to admit—is she never tells me any of her dreams. I wouldn’t know how to begin interpreting them if she did. But I can’t help perceiving this somehow as a shortcoming, a real imbalance in our relationship.
Daniel Webre’s work has appeared recently or is forthcoming in LIT Magazine, The Coachella Review, Pinyon, Paper Dragon, Permafrost Online, Emerald City, and other places.
Hawaii Pacific Review 