Dreams Inc.: The Novelettes of T. E. Mark - Vol II

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BOBBY BRIGHT

COBBLESTONE STREET – SOMEWHERE

Asmall boy of (4) in a belted tunic and sandals, right from a book of Greek myths, runs quickly up a cobblestone street lined with artfully adorned cottages, then stops and looks up.

Concern crosses his young face as he watches the sky, like a vault of a thousand white suns, darken above him.

He turns to his mates; still running and playing - unconcerned. He waves and calls, but they won’t listen and continue on; laughing and taunting. With indecision in his eyes, he struggles but gives in and drops his head. And turns the other way… and runs.

COBBLESTONE STREET (CONT’D)

With the sky still darkening, the boy reaches the door of an elegant, stone cottage surrounded by gardens, glittering like fine porcelain.

COTTAGE – NIGHT

Inside the light, craftily decorated, cottage, the boy sits on a low sofa with an elderly man who may be (70) or (90), wrinkled and bearded with sharp, searching eyes.

He’s thin, frail and has an unhealthy appearance, perhaps from an illness, but his face is wise and kind.

Dressed in a flowing brown tunic, the man turns from his ornate book and faces the patient child who smiles warmly as the man places his blotchy hands out – obviously a ritual between them.

Dutifully, without hesitation, the boy places his small hands into the elder’s where they disappear – closed in by his ancient grasp.

Together they close their eyes and drop their heads until their foreheads meet.

The room falls quiet and dark but for a soft crackle and red-orange glow from the room’s hanging fire plates.

OUTER SPACE

The majestic blackness of outer space – an ocean of stars, galaxies and nebula.

Nothing but the silent beauty of the Cosmos.

Then, as if from nowhere, a spinning satellite with its solar panels extended moves into view, blotting out a million, million stars with its shiny hull.

THE EARTH FROM SPACE

From the view of the orbiting satellite, the Earth – pale blue with wisps of white drifting over the surface – spins as if to a Bach Minuet or Strauss Waltz.

THE NORTH AMERICAN CONTINENT

Closer, our view from this technological wonder sharpens. The North American continent; its forested eastern seaboard; the vast Midwestern plains.

Closer.

NEVADA DESERT – A REMOTE AIRFIELD

In a southwestern desert, military trucks, Humvees and government SUVs sit patiently, quietly in a small, fenced-in lot.

One hundred metres to the east, men and women, most are in uniform, some business dressed, cluster along a lonely airstrip gazing into the distance.

Many have sophisticated binoculars – some high-powered cameras.

They continue watching as an aircraft, at a phenomenal velocity, far in the distance, comes into view then slices the sky above them.

As they turn to the horizon, to watch the plane disappear, the men and women at this lonely air strip appear jubilant.

They smile and applaud.

Something amazing has just happened.

CUT TO:

THE BRIGHT HOUSE, SEATTLE

Bobby Bright was unlike his peers. He was a puzzle to his teachers, to his friends and especially to his mother who fought the pangs of concern for her remote son who found comfort in his computers; little else seemed to matter, or exist.

In his darkened room with his drapes closing out a clear, cool October morning, the handsome, 17-year-old sat with his head cocked contemplating a problem.

He’d been sitting with his eyes glued to his large monitors since he’d risen well before dawn.

It was now 11:45 and the colours of the wire frame schematic brightened before him as if fired by his mind or enthusiasm.

He dropped his eyes to the potted fern held tight between his legs – his thumbs caressing the ceramic rim as if it were a priceless, Etruscan artefact.

‘Newt? I think I’ve got it. I figured it out.’ He smiled a broad smile as if awaiting a response. ‘Maybe we’ll continue this later, but…’ He stood and turned to his windows. ‘…it’s time for you to get some sun…’ He crossed the cluttered room, sidestepping mountain stacks of books, cables and technology that seemed to be growing up through the carpeting. ‘…and time for me to get some work done.’

Pulling back the yellowed and edge-curled roller-white shade, he squinted from the light and chuckled.

‘I’m glad you like this, but…’ He placed the plant on the sill, turning it. Turning it again then turning it once more. ‘…it’s too much for me.’ He smiled. ‘Enjoy. I’ll be back for you in three hours.’

He gently returned the blind and found his way back to his chair.

‘And now…’ With the mouse in his slender fingers and mind ready, he selected two outlined components. They brightened on the screen in sky blue and sea-coral lavender. ‘…let’s see if I can make this work.’

Now sharp and focused, he began typing making fantasy and industry and fireworks and miracles happen. With the confident look of a sultan or King Nebuchadnezzar or the Prophet, he typed. His eyes were glowing biscuits of fire and his fingers the handiwork of Michelangelo.

There was no disturbing him now. No distractions lived in his head. Nothing but deep concentration, pure creativity and the promise of something wise and wonderful and satisfying.

He was supremely happy.

THE BRIGHT KITCHEN

Bobby’s mother, however, was less than happy as she sat in her breakfast nook peering out through the window into her moist autumn garden.

The mug she held, held coffee and cream, and her morning green eyes were showers of her mounting concern.

‘What is it he’s working on Clarisse?’ asked her friend Semele who lived next door but came over more often than invited. ‘Have you any idea?’

Clarisse Bright, a not unintelligent woman, frowned and shook her muddled head.

‘Architectural design, I think.’ This was her typical reply. ‘And other things.’ Her more-often-than-not follow up one. ‘It looks technical.’

The truth was Clarisse had no idea what her son was working on in his room. A room he left for school and seldom for anything else.

It was technical, and she wasn’t. And whenever she’d questioned him wishing to understand, after being granted audience in his room – a room so overgrown with books and technology there was nowhere to sit but the edge of his bed or the floor, she would find him virtually, if not entirely incomprehensible. And would come away more concerned and no better for having asked or intruded upon his domain.

Over time, she’d grown to accept that, he was smarter than she was, and there was little point in denying it. But she still had her concerns.

And, being the boy’s mother, with the adoption papers as proof, she held the right to proclaim them. To anyone who would listen.

‘A handsome, fit, educated boy should have more in his life than computers.’ Semele saw no reason to deny or abridge her well-prised, oft-delivered opinion. ‘What about girls?’ She asked throwing caution to the wind. ‘Surely, he has an interest in girls.’

Clarisse listened to Semele. Semele had a master’s degree in something or other. Europe, she thought. Do they really give out Graduate degrees in that? Maybe it was European languages. Perhaps history or art.

Still, Semele, who was a good-hearted, good-natured, candid, and frequently good friend, besides having collected a master’s degree… something to do with Europe, appeared to share her friend’s concerns. And she wasn’t the type to conceal or decorate them. And it was partly because of Semele’s concerns that Clarisse Bright sought the help of Doctor Annabeth Bachman, who, based on the string of letters after her name, held at least a master’s degree. And it almost certainly had nothing to do with Europe or European languages… she thought.

ANNABETH BACHMAN’S OFFICE

‘You’re aware, I’m sure, that your mother and others are concerned about you.’ Doctor Bachman tried making eye contact with the boy during their first session on 16 October in her University District office. It was a Thursday. Cool but not cold or rainy. The way autumn mornings are supposed to be. Especially in the Pacific Northwest. ‘Are you bothered by that?’

Bobby shrugged and looked up from his seat in the young woman’s small but finely appointed, contemporary, Ikea-furnished office – fully bricked in with fabulously heavy, impressively organised books.

‘Everyone has a right to their concerns. Why should it bother me?’

Bobby was casually dressed in a heavy brown, collarless shirt and jeans. His thick brown hair was long – almost to his shoulders, and his eyes were large chocolate-dipped search lights sheltered beneath a set of indecently long lashes. The kind most women would kill or die for.

He was a boy, older looking than his 17 years, who unnerved you with a glance and owned your insecurities when he spoke. Almost too articulate, thought Annabeth. Too precise with his delivery. Too… prepared.

‘Would you like to know their concerns?’

‘Will it benefit me if I know them?’

He squinted from the light leaking in from the blinds and shielded his eyes with a hand.

The young therapist, she’d graduated from the University of Washington 387 days earlier, with sharp green eyes and a warm summer smile appeared puzzled. ‘When people express their concerns about someone, it’s usually a sign of affection. A close tie. Love.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you feel your mother loves you?’ She petted her lip with a finger and leaned forward.

‘She feeds and clothes me. Buys me presents at Christmas and on my birthday.’ He scratched at his nose. ‘Would you say those were signs of love Doctor Bachman?’

‘I would. Yes. Would you?’

‘Hmm,’ he said then dropped into thought. ‘I believe so.’ His voice was soft – contemplative – calming. ‘Based on the circumstances of our relationship and her devotion to my education and happiness, I would conclude, yes, she loves me.’

Annabeth felt odd. She’d read the boy’s bio – knew he was intelligent, his IQ put him in a league with Einstein, actually above, but… this was different. Different from just chatting with an exceptionally smart kid. She felt like a freshman again. A freshman talking with one of her professors about her career prospects in psychotherapy.

‘Tell me something, Robert. Bobby. You prefer Bobby, right?’

‘My teachers call me Robert.’

‘Oh?’

‘But you can call me Bobby.’

She had to think for a minute. There may have been a compliment in there, but… knowing for sure would definitely require additional thought.

‘Thank you,’ she said watching for his reaction. He displayed none.

‘Bobby, apparently you spend most of your time in your room studying… design? Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re extremely skilled with…’ she dipped her eyes into her notes then looked up, ‘…AutoCAD?’

‘Yes. Thank you. I am.’

‘What exactly are your plans?’

The boy threw his gaze out the window into the heavy overcast – still shelving his eyes with a hand. He wasn’t nervous, distracted or disengaged, this was no case of ADHD, he was simply arranging his response and had decided to take a moment.

‘I’m not sure you would understand, Doctor Bachman,’ he said turning.

The devoted therapist shifted in her seat.

‘Could you help me understand?’

The deeply ethereal, strikingly handsome boy took a hand to his chin, stroked it and placed his search-light eyes on the practitioner. A noticeable frown grew on his face.

After a minute, he turned his attention to the spare piece of wall hung with the young woman’s degrees and licenses.

A BA in Psychology from Berkeley. An MA and PhD from The University of Washington. A plaque stating she was licensed by the state of Washington. Another license, California. There were others. All artfully arranged. All in sophisticated frames.

She waited – watching. Wondering, during his little mental departure, what he was thinking. He was like a mathematician or physicist pondering a formula.

‘I don’t think so,’ he said turning – facing her. ‘Not at this moment.’

Doctor Bachman ignited with surprise, and, though wishing to pursue the matter, noticed the blinking light on her phone alerting her that her next patient was waiting in the lounge. She thanked the boy who stood, grabbed his rucksack, gave her a warm smile, opened the door and left.

ANNABETH’S TOWNHOUSE – LATER

‘He said what?’ asked Dolores O’Riordan, Annabeth’s roommate in their rented town home on a street umbrellaed with trees, and houses radiating with clever people – most affiliated with the university. ‘I don’t think so?! Not at this moment?!’

She laughed wildly and shook her head while adding an extra salmon fillet to her friend’s plate. ‘And you just sat there?’

Annabeth appeared embarrassed.

‘What else could I do?’ She took her seat. ‘Besides. I have a strong feeling he was right.’

THE BRIGHT KITCHEN

‘You said what?’ asked Bobby’s mother at dinner in their thoroughly modest University District home on 18th Avenue with blue timber siding, thermal pane windows and a reasonably new roof. ‘And she didn’t swat you?’

She scowled then snickered while shovelling an additional vegetable wrap onto the boy’s plate.

‘I like her more than the others,’ said Bobby scooping wild rice from a pot placing it into a neat pile next to the wrap but making certain no contact was made between the two.

‘Well, that’s good news,’ said his mother pouring them wine. ‘Because you’ll be seeing her again next Thursday.’

‘I’ll look forward to that,’ said Bobby standing. ‘She’s different. Somehow.’

Clarisse watched as he made his way to the stairs with his meal, feeling, as usual, dismissed for the night.

THE OMEGA CORP

‘He gave her no details?’ said Derrick Marmont staring into his assistant’s sharp blue eyes across his glossy oak desk.

Marmont, an impeccably dressed, distinguished looking 50-year-old with greying hair a thin face and square jaw, gave the woman a severe look.

‘Nothing,’ returned his assistant. ‘He was his usual self. Quiet, candid, remote… thoroughly benign.’

‘I don’t like it,’ said Marmont shifting in his seat with his eyes scanning the austere office walled in with grey metal and glass shelves.

‘I didn’t think you would,’ said the assistant crossing her legs – an elbow to her knee – a fist beneath her chin – a tablet in her lap. ‘The therapist.’

‘The mother.’

‘The mother?’

Marmont frowned. ‘The therapist is a distraction. She’s twenty-six. She’ll lose interest. The mother is a pain in the ass who could ruin this for us.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ said the young woman. ‘The mum has no idea what he’s doing. She gave up trying months ago. She doesn’t even quiz him now. He comes and goes as he pleases.’

Marmont gave her a scalding look. ‘She’s had meetings with his teachers, his career counsellor, the principal, and now she has him seeing therapists.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘What is this, number three? Four? Who the hell else is she going to bring into this kid’s life?’ He let out an exasperated sigh.

‘I see your point, but I still don’t…’

‘…We need to shut her up and get her to mind her own business.

‘Her own…?’ She chuckled. ‘Her own… what?’

‘How many friends does she have? How much family?’ His icy eyes found hers. ‘How many would question her disappearance?’

‘Are you…? What?! What did you just say?’

He gazed off and breathed. ‘Okay-okay. Perhaps that’s unnecessary… right now.’ He stood, walked slowly to the windows and seemed to gaze off into space. ‘What we’re doing here is important Jenna. I’ve spent my life working for this company, and I’m not about to allow this Real Estate agent to ruin what we have here. Do you understand?’ He turned. His eyes were steel grey discs. ‘I won’t allow it.’

‘What would you like me to do?’

Marmont crossed to his desk and sat. He spoke casually – calmly – quietly. ‘Find her a boyfriend. I want that kid left alone.’

‘You want me to…?’

‘…No one with a tech background. Just a…’

‘…Wait… I can’t…’

‘…Just a regular guy. Not too smart. An English teacher. History teacher. Writer. Hell, get her a grocery clerk for all I care. Just see that she leaves that kid alone.’

Marmont’s assistant Jenna was in dismay.

‘You’re serious.’

Derrick Marmont turned to his computer. ‘And I don’t want anyone in his room while he’s in school.’

Jenna exhaled displaying her exasperation. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

ANNABETH’S OFFICE

Over the next three weeks, Bobby met with Annabeth on Thursdays in her office at 45th and Roosevelt. They spoke of many things; school, sports, music, girls, and of course, his mysterious home study initiative.

His design work.

As time passed, Bobby grew increasingly comfortable with the passionate and devoted young woman, appeared relaxed when they spoke, and participated graciously. And Annabeth, though less unnerved by the probing stares and challenging questions and incomprehensible answers to her questions about his private studies, could honestly admit to being just as puzzled about him as she was during their first meeting in October.

At times he was like a quiet scientist working in his head even while they talked, while at others, he was an average 17-year-old with no noticeable abnormalities. She even caught him eyeing her on the day she’d worn fashionably tight jeans and a loose-fitting silk top.

A normal, heterosexual 17-year-old, she’d concluded, felt quietly complimented and thought no more of it.

‘How many hours each day would you say you work? Not schoolwork. Your design studies.’ It was on a Thursday. They’d just begun their 4:30 appointment when she’d decided again to address the work obsession. This seemed to be the basis of everyone’s concerns.

He cocked his head slightly.

‘I don’t require much sleep.’

‘You’ve mentioned that, but… that wasn’t my question.’

She was becoming more adept at countering his evasive answers though never thought of him as being intentionally evasive. She just saw him as unskilled at casual conversation. Though, she also considered that she may have been wrong about this.

Her respect for his intelligence kept her from drawing conclusions. He was a mystery she was determined to solve.