and it was like opening the front door to a blizzard. These dreams. There was Chelsea with her black hair all night long in that apartment . . . It all came blowing in. Not Chelsea's hair . . . Julia, too. Julia Hilfgott and Chelsea and rolling tanks, panzers I guess, and marching soldiers and all this furniture all over, which the little dream girl would smash . . . and the girl would chase me, crying out . . . and crying children outside and burning furnaces and smokestacks, and I was making love, or touching Chelsea . . . and my dad standing at the window . . .
Yes, I saw real objects. I saw real things in dreams. European furniture. Specific furniture. The little dream girl would sit in this chair in the corner eyeballing me . . . it was this chair made from a—a needlepoint. Like a medieval tapestry. Lady and the Unicorn . . .
You know it? How would you know that chair?
Oh, the tapestry. It's famous. Yes, that one.
The Unicorn symbolizes Christ's love? Are you kidding me?
The Lady is who?
These were Jews. You think they had some kind of Virgin Mary chair? That's a little parochial of you. I mean . . .? Jews for Jesus in Europe in 1942?
Wait . . . Wait . . . I think you're putting your own spin . . . Listen, Barry. Don't try to use me to prove a point. You can't make this point out of my story.
Fine.
The chair was real. I saw it later. In an Indian's house.
Indian from India, yes. In Antwerp.
We had to go to Europe.
I just did know. We had to go to Europe.
What am I doing here? I was half dead when we started talking, Barry, and now I'm afraid you're going to put me in some Jesus story. What am I doing here?
Why should I trust you?
Letter 18
September 14, 2004
----
Dear Cranberry,
I'm not going to call you Nick Kelly. You are a liar, but I will continue to hold up my end of the ruse. I will still call you Cranberry. But you should know: You've completely broken my trust.
Don't lie anymore, or I will throw you in the ocean. When my father left, I felt lost and hopeless, too, but I did not turn into a big fat whining liar.
I will throw you in the ocean, Cranberry. Do you understand me?
T.
Day Five:
Transcript 3
----
Preparations for Europe were made difficult because of Cranberry.
Of course I forgave him.
I trust Cranberry now. Of course.
I had no choice but to put my faith in the little jackass. There was no one else, Barry.
He did come through for me. I got lucky.
Not only did he lie, he acted like a brat. Before we left he refused to do anything. He wouldn't run errands. He wouldn't make phone calls. We had a contract. But he didn't want to go to Europe, didn't want to support me in my . . . situation, which was in breach of our contract. So finally I told him he could leave. But he didn't want to leave.
Poor kid. He had a lot of . . .
Nobody likes to get caught lying. He was afraid.
What lies? “My mom is a crack addict! Crack whore!” He said stuff like that all the time, which was partly why I felt the need to protect him. “Poor vulnerable kid. So smart for having grown up in such dire straits.”
It didn't make sense that his crack whore mother kicked him out and kept his CDs. Why would she care if he was looking after a . . . another drug addict? I didn't have the best handle on what was happening. He lied and I believed him.
He claimed to have a passport, but would never get it, and the date of our departure was creeping up. It came down to this: I had to get his passport number to complete the purchase of the tickets. I'd already ordered them on the Internet, and I needed to plug his number into the computer.
Right. Why would the poor kid of a crack whore have a passport? Liar.
One afternoon I just lost my mind and screamed at him, and he cried and looked like he wanted to hit me, all red in the face with the new purple hair, and he dove into the couch and kicked the floor. A temper tantrum, like a whiny little . . . teenage cartoon character. So I
Yes, I saw real objects. I saw real things in dreams. European furniture. Specific furniture. The little dream girl would sit in this chair in the corner eyeballing me . . . it was this chair made from a—a needlepoint. Like a medieval tapestry. Lady and the Unicorn . . .
You know it? How would you know that chair?
Oh, the tapestry. It's famous. Yes, that one.
The Unicorn symbolizes Christ's love? Are you kidding me?
The Lady is who?
These were Jews. You think they had some kind of Virgin Mary chair? That's a little parochial of you. I mean . . .? Jews for Jesus in Europe in 1942?
Wait . . . Wait . . . I think you're putting your own spin . . . Listen, Barry. Don't try to use me to prove a point. You can't make this point out of my story.
Fine.
The chair was real. I saw it later. In an Indian's house.
Indian from India, yes. In Antwerp.
We had to go to Europe.
I just did know. We had to go to Europe.
What am I doing here? I was half dead when we started talking, Barry, and now I'm afraid you're going to put me in some Jesus story. What am I doing here?
Why should I trust you?
Letter 18
September 14, 2004
----
Dear Cranberry,
I'm not going to call you Nick Kelly. You are a liar, but I will continue to hold up my end of the ruse. I will still call you Cranberry. But you should know: You've completely broken my trust.
Don't lie anymore, or I will throw you in the ocean. When my father left, I felt lost and hopeless, too, but I did not turn into a big fat whining liar.
I will throw you in the ocean, Cranberry. Do you understand me?
T.
Day Five:
Transcript 3
----
Preparations for Europe were made difficult because of Cranberry.
Of course I forgave him.
I trust Cranberry now. Of course.
I had no choice but to put my faith in the little jackass. There was no one else, Barry.
He did come through for me. I got lucky.
Not only did he lie, he acted like a brat. Before we left he refused to do anything. He wouldn't run errands. He wouldn't make phone calls. We had a contract. But he didn't want to go to Europe, didn't want to support me in my . . . situation, which was in breach of our contract. So finally I told him he could leave. But he didn't want to leave.
Poor kid. He had a lot of . . .
Nobody likes to get caught lying. He was afraid.
What lies? “My mom is a crack addict! Crack whore!” He said stuff like that all the time, which was partly why I felt the need to protect him. “Poor vulnerable kid. So smart for having grown up in such dire straits.”
It didn't make sense that his crack whore mother kicked him out and kept his CDs. Why would she care if he was looking after a . . . another drug addict? I didn't have the best handle on what was happening. He lied and I believed him.
He claimed to have a passport, but would never get it, and the date of our departure was creeping up. It came down to this: I had to get his passport number to complete the purchase of the tickets. I'd already ordered them on the Internet, and I needed to plug his number into the computer.
Right. Why would the poor kid of a crack whore have a passport? Liar.
One afternoon I just lost my mind and screamed at him, and he cried and looked like he wanted to hit me, all red in the face with the new purple hair, and he dove into the couch and kicked the floor. A temper tantrum, like a whiny little . . . teenage cartoon character. So I
Similar Books
