Dancing in Dreamtime by Scott Russell Sanders Page A

welling in my eyes. Hoping she won’t notice, I turn away to blink at my reflection in the window.
    â€œA Chinese missile blew up his ship in the Indian Ocean,” the old woman continues. “Where is the war now? I can’t keep track. It’s been going on since before I was born. Took my father, both my brothers, and my husband.”
    I want to ease the hurt I hear in her voice, but I can’t speak. So I put on my knit hat and gloves in preparation for my stop.
    She lays a hand on my forearm. “Here, let me give you a pomegranate for your wife.”
    â€œThat’s kind of you, but really—”
    â€œIt’s full of vitamin C,” she says, drawing the plump red fruit from her grocery bag.
    â€œFor good health, then,” I say, accepting the pomegranate and stuffing it in my coat pocket.
    As she turns in the seat to let me slip by, she adds quietly, “It also brings fertility.”
    I mutter thanks and hurry down the aisle. From the sidewalk, I watch the bus drag its rectangles of light into the darkness.

    The snow on our street sounds brittle under my boots. My breath fumes, glistening with daggers of ice. The winter’s chill will not let go, nor will the sense of
déjà vu
. I can read the script but cannot change it. Our front door opens without my key, and I am upset with Sharon for leaving it unlocked. I take off my hat and gloves and boots in the hall before going to the kitchen, where I know she is sitting at the table over a mug of tea.
    She flashes me an anxious look. “What did the doctor say?”
    â€œI’m fit for war.”
    Her lips crimp tight.
    I shrug free of my coat, drape it over a chair back, and lift the pomegranate from the pocket. “A woman on the bus gave me this,” I say, offering the fruit.
    Reaching out hesitantly, Sharon cups it in her palm. “A woman on the bus?”
    â€œAn elderly lady, returning from the grocery store.”
    â€œWhy would she give you a pomegranate?”
    â€œShe said it brings fertility.”
    â€œDid you tell her I’m pregnant?”
    â€œOf course not.”
    â€œHow odd.” Slowly a smile breaks over Sharon’s face. “How lovely.”
    Before she has a chance to ask, I fetch a bowl and knife and spoon, and set them before her. She slices the pomegranate and spoons out a mouthful of seeds, each one coated with ruby pulp. Her lips take on the color of the juice as I tell her about my sense of prevision, how it began as brief episodes and eventually became an unbroken awareness.
    â€œEven now?” she asks. “You know what’s going to happen next?”
    â€œYes. Each moment is already laid out. I see the two of us here at the table, watch you lift the spoon, hear our voices, as if we’re speaking lines in an old film.”
    â€œWell, get up and dance. Stand on your head. Do something crazy to snap the illusion.”
    â€œI’ve tried. But every time I think I’m doing something truly free, I realize it’s what I’m required to do.”
    â€œRequired by whom?”
    â€œBy whoever wrote the script.”
    Although Sharon faces me across the table, her chestnut eyes don’t look straight at me. All day other people have focused their gaze a few degrees away from where I imagine myself to be, as if I really am split in two, and my second self is drawing their attention.
    There is caution in her voice as she says, “Gordon, this is a textbook case of paranoia. Don’t you see? For months now you’ve been feeling caught up in the military machine . . .”
    â€œI
am
caught up.”
    â€œBut it’s not a machine. It’s just a big bureaucracy. It’s not running your life.”
    I realize I should try to reassure her. But I feel compelled to insist, “
Something
is running my life. I’ve lived this day before. Maybe many times. In fact, this may be the only day I’ve ever