Not Yet for the Loony-bin

The dark window reflects the rooms light as does the tree limb out front beneath the street light, like a halo of goodness holding against the darkest shadows. The night is quiet with only the sound of traffic so far off that it seems to whisper vibrations against the glass where the old lady sits and rocks, then the squeak of the chair stops in mid rock, paused, waiting. Her old eyes narrow as she peers past the glass to catch the tiny movement. Only the stir of leaves in the wind. Nothing has begun. No whistle through the air or siren. Content once more, her rocking chair completes its move down with the familiar squeak and creak of the old wood, its pattern pleasant, hypnotic. Enough to make her doze off and maybe see the hated dream again. “But I must know more,” she told herself, “I must.” Soon, her eyes close again though her feet keep up the motion of the chair rocking back and forth for a little while longer before sleep pushes her back into the hated dream.

The screech of metal against metal combined with the crackling of fire and odor of smoke jerks her whole body awake. She gasps and reaches the old bones of her hand outward in the dim lit room, wrinkled with blue veins making road maps on her hand, stark white against the dark window pane, as if she could clutch at the exploding metal and push it backwards to where it never happened. Eyes wide open now with ragged breath heaving from her chest, she does manage to shove the scene from her mind. “Remember,” she says out loud into the living room, “Hasn’t happened yet, not yet.” As if the sound of her voice could insure the event’s unreality.

But it will soon enough, unless…. With her memory of the dream still sharp, she sees every detail of how the plane aims for the roof of the two story house and crumples like an accordion while it’s metal rips apart and splatters, throwing flames that will consume whole blocks of homes, As if with x-ray vision she sees the parents and children tumbled from their beds as they wake to horror to then don’t wake up forever. But this time she saw a street sign as the plane came down. Oh, what to do?

This is not the first time she had dreamt of the plane crash. How many times now? She’d lost count because her night sleeps and naps sometimes jumbled up into a blur. The same dream yet each time a new item entered into it. Should she phone the police again? Her body quivered in dread at the thought. The last time had not been pleasant.

“Manard Police Station, Officer Jack speaking”

“Hello Officer Jack. My name is Mrs. Charlotte Weaver and I want to report a plane crash.”

“I haven’t heard about any plane crash. Where did it happen?”

“Ah, it didn’t happen. Not yet.”

At the sound of silence on the other end of the phone, Mrs. Weaver added, “You see, my dreams often come true, especially when I dream the same event two or three times. And a lot of the time my dreams are good but this one is bad. Real bad.”

“Ok, lady. Where is this plane crash supposed to take place? When?”

With a small, anguished voice, Mrs. Weaver said, “I don’t know.”

“Lady. If you can’t even tell me where or when this plane is supposed to crash what am I supposed to do? Do you think I could close down the airport because you had a bad dream?

“No. But I tell you, it’s gonna happen. I know it will happen.”

“Don’t matter, lady. Nothing I can do. Sorry.”

With those words the line went dead.

She knew he’d joke to the other policemen about all the crazy old lady who’d just called about a dream.

“Darn the man. But my dreams, when they are vivid ones that I remember, do turn up as real.”

Then she wondered if she dreamt what was going to happen or did the events happen because she dreamt them? Oh, that is too dumb an idea to complete. They would put her in a loony-bin if she ever said such a thing, or maybe a nursing home, which might be worse. No. Dreams can’t do anything but happen and I see it as if I were standing right next to it watching it all happen like a ghost sitting on the plane and then standing near-by as it hits. She knew it didn’t make sense but then there’s a lot of things in this old world that don’t make sense, things young people can’t see.

Some of her church friends believed her dreams. Gloria did.

One day she told Gloria as they sat drinking tea together, “You are going to win a big pot at bingo Thursday.”

Gloria laughed as she said, “Why not Tuesday. I play both days.”

Charlotte said, “I don’t know.”

“Well, what makes you think I will win Thursday?”

“I dreamt it.”

Gloria laughed but not after she won two thousand dollars in the final pot. It happened other times too. Once she told Mrs. Henry that her husband would have a stroke. He did and after that a lot of her friends stopped being friends. Charlotte stopped talking about the bad dreams and only told the good ones to those friends who stayed.

For some reason, a fact almost as perplexing as the dreams, she could turn her head or move around in the dream if she wanted to search for a clock or calendar to learn the date. So far, searching out a date of the plane crash has been impossible. She supposed this was because of the trauma and shock of it. If she did dream the same horrible dream again, perhaps a date would be the new detail. Her body shuddered at the thought and she rocked harder to ease her nerves and take away the fright.

“No, I won’t go back into that dream.”

Instead, she focused her mind back to the last detail of the dream when she saw the street sign. It read “Oak.” She lived on Elm, one block from Oak Street. This time she might be an actual ghost watching her own dream become real. Maybe not; there must be thousands of Oak Streets in America, maybe millions. Still, shouldn’t she leave home just in case?

Fear quivered in her veins, as much from indecision as anything. They would think her crazy if she walked outside, a 91 year old women walking with a cane on a cold dark night with only the street lamp as guide. Could she even get outside without tripping on something and falling down the stairs. Myra, her day girl usually helped her down the front steps of the porch.

Charlotte signed. No escape for an old lady. Not tonight anyway. Finally, warn out from too many unsettling thoughts, she began to dose off again and was glad. Either she would dream another detail of information or or…she preferred to not complete the thought, so allowed herself to slide back into a deep quiet sleep or a vivid dream state, whichever took hold.

Not for long. She opened her eyes just as the dream began. Stop! She couldn’t watch those babies die in their beds again. “No.” But the moment of dream had given her a new fact. She didn’t know the date but she now knew the time and something else of vital importance. The huge air plane would begin to fall from the sky at 6:20 am because a small Cessna would cross paths with the larger plane. As ghost sitting by the window of the plane, she’d seen it came too close.

She looked at the lighted clock on her table. 4:30 in the morning. Still time to do something. She looked at the pink princess phone that always set next to her clock. A connivance she insisted on so she didn’t need to get up too often. Her children joked about her old fashioned phone, but by darn it always worked and its ring was nice and loud. What she didn’t have was a phone book next to the phone, only a list of important phone numbers written in big block letters, as if she couldn’t see right.

Instead of the police, she thought she’d try the airport. Her fingers fumbled in the holes but soon gave up. She didn’t know how to call information anymore. She looked at the list laying near the phone. The police number was right on top with Mayra’s number just below. She dialed Myra’s number and let it ring six times. No answer. Should she try Gary? But he lived far away in New York. Then she gasped. Wasn’t his wife, Martha, coming in on a flight this morning with my grandson? John’s a teenager now. Haven’t seen him for ten years.

Her mind ran in such circles with the thought, she could hardly dial Gary’s number. No answer there either. Now her whole body was shaking. She gripped the arms of the chair and felt tears on her cheeks. Get hold of yourself. You’re a tough old lady, act like it. She was sure of the date now because didn’t the dreams only happen to people she knew? Now she understood. Now she had do something or her grandson would die.

She put her hand on the phone to dial the police, but just before she did, she forced her eyes to stay dry and her breath to calm down and counted to five. Then she dialed.

“Officer Manard.”

“This is Mrs. Weaver again. I want you to listen to me, young man. I am 91 years old and I know what I am talking about. Now I know the time and place. That huge plane is going to come crashing down a block away from my street at 6:20 this morning. A small Cessna will cross its path. That is why the plane will crash. My family, Martha and John might be on that plane. You must do something.”

“And you know this how?”

“I dreamt it. I have had four dreams of this same event. Do you know how to pray Officer Manard, you should begin?”

“Even if it were true, I can’t vacate whole blocks of the city on one person’s dream. Surly you realize this.”

“This plane is going to crash in less than two hours. Isn’t there something you can do?”

The pause was long before Officer Manard answered. At least he hadn’t hung up.

“Actually, I am leaning towards believing you. Four times dreaming the same accident gives it validity. But I still don’t know what I can do. Even if I wanted to evacuate, there isn’t time. Would you like us to come and pick you up?

“No, I don’t care about myself. Old as I am, what’s a few less years mean. No. I care about those babies in their cribs and my grandson. Please. I am begging you. Please do something.”

“You know, I’ll try calling the airport. Give them a heads up to watch out for a Cessna. Does that make you feel better?”

“Sort of. “

“I promise to see what I can do. You should just go back to sleep.”

“Fat chance,” she said but he didn’t hear because he’d already hung up the phone.

She struggled to get up, grabbed her cane, and was able to walk to the bathroom on shaky legs. Then she sat back down to watch the clock because what else could she do? At least I’ll be awake when it hits, or doesn’t. But she did finally go to back to sleep in the rocking chair and didn’t wake up until she heard Myra turn the key in the front door. She sighed with great relief. Everything must be ok.

When Myra came into the room, a man in a police uniform walked in behind her.

“Oh, lord. Now, I went and done it. Their going to put me in a loony-bin for sure.” Charlotte mumbled.

The policeman came over to where she sat in her rocking chair. He looked tall enough to reach the ceiling.

“Mrs. Weaver, he said, “We thank you. The whole town thanks you.”

With these words, he handed her the morning newspaper. She put her glasses on and looked down at the newspaper. In huge black letters it read, “Close Call—Near collision in sky.”

“They held the presses so they could get the news in today’s paper. Air traffic control was looking out for the Cessna and was able to divert it at the last minute, thanks to you.”

Charlotte breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“And the mayor intends to visit you later so he can thank you himself,” Officer Manard said with a smile.

Charlotte looked up and smiled the nice policeman. She didn’t begin to cry until she saw her grandson, all grown up now and almost as tall as the policeman walk into the room. John reached around the tall policeman, stooped down, and gave her a big, long hug.

“Hi Grandma-ma.

Or…is John my great-grandson?