Even As We Sleep

By Paul Machlis

When your life falls apart, and you're left with only self-reproach and resentment, what makes it possible to begin again? For one man, a thirty-four-year-old teacher named Bug, healing comes through remembrance. In twenty concise recollections -- some poignant, some comic -- Bug rediscovers the riches of his boyhood and reclaims in manhood the values he was taught. In the course of his memories, we are privy to a childhood that was not free of tragedy and hardship, but in which Bug never doubted the love and support of his family. Bug's boyhood was filled with culture, fine food, humor, and music, but more importantly, it was rooted in the spirit of honesty and compassion. This book takes you on Bug's journey -- from despondency to a future filled with possibility.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Machlis
• Release date: Dec 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311439031

Paul Machlis

A retired librarian and musician, Paul Machlis has written his first work of fiction as a way of exploring themes important to his life.

Book preview

Naked Dogs

My Aunt Ceci lived just down the street, close enough for Grandma to send me for an onion or a cube of butter. After dinner, if my homework was done, Father would let me join her and Bertha on their evening walk, and in less than a minute I’d have made my way to their house.

It was smaller than ours, but with the same shingle siding. Waiting inside for them to get ready, I’d look at the things on their walls—photographs of quaint cottages in the Cotswolds, a poster celebrating a women’s music festival, and several of Ceci’s paintings, their washes of color like the sea and the sky.

Truth was, I was there almost as much as at home, and many a night they gave me a pillow and blanket for their living-room couch. While Father didn’t altogether approve of his sister and often said her name with eyebrows raised, mostly I think he was just glad I had her, and Bertha too.

Once when I was very young, Ceci and Bertha returned from a trip with an exotic tea; they built a fire and the three of us sipped from hand-painted cups. Seeing Ceci curled up in Bertha’s lap, I had a sudden insight—Are you two sisters? Bertha let out a guffaw and said, Sisters? Nope, just the best of friends. She reached out her hand and said, Come on up, boy. In a moment I was also on the couch, enveloped in their warmth. And although they weren't sisters, I called her Aunt Bertha anyway.

Like my father, Ceci had delicate features and dark brown hair. She wore turtlenecks, boots, and hats that made me imagine smoky cafes and men with mustaches. Whereas Bertha favored flowing African prints, and scarves tied around her cornrows. I know now what a striking sight we must have made each night as we walked the neighborhood.

My aunts had no pets and were not generally fond of dogs, but there was one in our neighborhood that was all charm, a large boxer who rushed up to us, nearly bowling me over each time.

Bozer was also all male. He had an organ of prodigious size that could not be ignored, and he took immense pleasure in its hygiene, lapping noisily with his tongue, much to the amusement of my aunts.

But Mrs. Pimpkins, who lived in the bungalow across the street, was not amused at all. Her little Freda, a white poodle manicured and puffed, adored Bozer, her tail back and forth like a metronome at quick tempo, sniffing and emitting yips of delight. Mrs. Pimpkins found this infatuation unbecoming and tried hard to restrain Freda from flirting with that disgusting brute. She went so far as to say that, in her opinion, dogs should not be allowed out like that—they should be covered-up, for decency’s sake.

Mrs. Pimpkins frightened me a bit, with her starched outfits and haughty stare. Grandma said she was a Daughter of the American Revolution, and this helped me understand, as that sounded like a rough childhood. Be nice to her, said Father. Since her husband died, that dog’s been all she’s got.

When the cold weather came, Freda herself was covered up, in woolens and silks, an orange getup for Thanksgiving, and for Christmas one with Santas and reindeer.

My lord, what will that woman come up with next? said Bertha.

A tutu perhaps, or maybe a lacy negligee? suggested Ceci.

If she keep feeding that dog candies, she'll need dog’s-plus outfits.

One night Bozer was all over Freda, huffing and whimpering and causing Ceci and Bertha no end of laughter. Mrs. Pimpkins did her best to pull Freda away—"That dog is an affront. The way he grunts and groans, the way that—that thing—just thrusts itself in front of you. She pursed her lips in reproach. How can you expose the boy to this? His mother would never have allowed it."

"Perhaps there should be a law, Mrs. Pimpkins, said Ceci. Perhaps you’re right."

Indeed there should. You’ve been to England—certainly dogs don’t exhibit themselves like that there, do they?

Well, maybe not. I don't really recall.

Going home, Ceci said, We could start an organization you know, to address the problem.

What a brilliant idea, darling. Just think of the posters, the bumper-stickers, and...the clothes of course.

But I don’t think Bozer wants to get dressed up, I said. He likes to chase after squirrels and jump up on things.

I don’t know how it grew from there, perhaps as an April Fool’s joke. But one day I saw a poster on a telephone pole publicizing the Society for the Prevention of Naked Dogs. It gave a post office box which I recognized, the one Ceci used, and it invited correspondence from interested parties.

One night, as Freda sniffed at Bozer’s rear, Mrs. Pimpkins pointed to the poster with satisfaction and said that something was finally going to be done. It would take time, but people were up in arms. Ceci glanced at Bertha with a twinkle in her eye.

Freda died that spring, maybe from eating too much candy. We didn’t see Mrs. Pimpkins on our evening walks after that, but one day Grandma baked a casserole and had me deliver it. I rang the bell and waited a long time. When the door opened, I hardly recognized her. She was so small, and looked like she’d been crying. I could see into her darkened house and there was a stuffy smell, like the windows were always closed. She thanked me, and shut the door.

She died soon after. Months later, I saw an envelope on the kitchen table at the apartment. It was addressed to the Society for the Prevention of Naked Dogs, and the return address was a law office. Later, I could hear Bertha whispering to Ceci in another room.

Oh Lordy. We can’t cash it you know.

I feel so bad. I think my brother will have to sort it out.

My father did sort it out somehow. Ceci was remorseful, Father stern. Exactly what was said behind the closed door of his study I never knew, but at one point Father’s voice rose, What were you thinking, Cecily? A mean joke like that? For a week he didn’t let me visit my aunts, and then things went back to normal.

Occasionally, out walking and encountering a dog or a cat, one of my aunts would make a sly reference to the incident. But each time, my mind went back to the drawn face of Mrs. Pimpkins in the doorway. I imagined growing up in the midst of war, and wondered how many more there were, wounded sons and daughters of that revolution, living nearby, without my even knowing.

Interlude, late August

Write!, says Julia, my therapist. She is rarely so directive. For God’s sake, Bug, isn’t that what you teach?

My students initially resist free writing, the invitation to explore their teenage troubles—parents, girlfriends, depression—no filter, for their eyes only, and without regard to spelling or grammar. Within a month or two, most of them are hooked.

Yet in front of the blank screen, the words that come aren’t about Ruth, whether she’ll return, or whether I want her to. Instead, they echo the voices of Ceci and Bertha, my grandparents, Father, and of the others who graced my boyhood.

Not what Julia has in mind.

***

Even As We Sleep

My grandfather was a force to be reckoned with, Ceci would say. His knowledge was formidable and his memory unsurpassed, allowing him to draw on a wealth of Greek and Latin classics at will, as well as the collected works of Sigmund Freud. He was a large man, given to roaring out demands in a voice that filled the house.

Grandpa had a deep appreciation of classical music, ranging from Pergolesi to Schoenberg. He tinkered at composition, playing the piano with thunderous clumsiness. With a Bach cantata at full blast on the stereo, he would conduct with eyes closed, baton in hand, singing along in ecstasy.

Easily a hundred limericks were lodged in Grandpa’s head, proclaimed at even the most august occasions, lending an element of suspense to dinners that could otherwise be tedious.

There was a young farter from Sparta,

A really magnificent farter,

On the strength of one bean

He'd fart God Save the Queen,

And Beethoven’s Seventh Sonata.

Really! That’s quite enough, Grandma would say, her words almost unheard amidst the laughter.

My father and Aunt Ceci found Grandpa trying. Too frequently, he bemoaned Father’s decision to go into law, and he was baffled at Ceci’s part-time job, chosen to leave afternoons free for her art. However, in his eyes, Aunt Bertha could do no wrong, and the two of them could sit for ages, sipping Scotch and talking about her work at the women’s center.

My aunts were hardly slouches when it came to learning. Ceci’s books, in several languages, encompassed a panorama of literature from many centuries, while Bertha’s collection revealed her interest in politics and feminism. But they were no match for Grandpa, and we would watch in trepidation for him to spring on Ceci.

Who was Epictetus? You can’t mean that? The great Stoic philosopher? He would turn away, always delivering the same parting shot: You're no daughter of mine if you don't know that!

Ceci went home hurt, sometimes crying.

Why can’t I ever be good enough for him?

Don’t mind him, love. He’s just a harmless old blunderbuss.

Grandma also said he had more bark than bite, and that inside was just a poor unloved child. I would sometimes stay clear of him, but there were many times when he softened up. He taught me chess and told me about Winston Churchill. Later, when he lost his sight, I read to him from Melville and his medical journals. By then, even the bark