Scarf Pipes

James, on another sleepless night, sat up in bed beside his relatively healthy wife of forty years, and noticed, to his disappointment, that she was still breathing. There he was, ruminating again, knowing exactly what he’d do once she was gone. Sometimes, if he placed his head back on his pillow and focused on slowing his breath, envisioning himself once she had passed, it calmed him back down, lullabying him into sleep.

He'd dream of doing tasks inside his own home, carefree and weightless almost without her. And he’d fantasize about publishing the post he’d long been drafting, kept safe in a discreet location on his laptop.

James craves sleeping. His dreams are his favorite; they feel entirely real, until he wakes up in this shared bed, leadened by disappointment and grief.

Once, James dreamed he was a young father again. His kids were little, still holding his hands and wanting to be held, needing him. He’d taken them to the children’s museum, where patrons smushed their faces into kaleidoscopes, wobbled on rope bridges. Or ran to the crowd favorite: the scarf pipes. James watched as his children joined others, jumping up to catch airborne scarves, running to open valves, sending fabric back up. It was joyful, really. Then his oldest, his son, started gathering all the scarves, twisting them together, and announced he’d send them all up at once; watch and see.

James lurched towards his son, his voice erupting from within. He demanded his son stop. Now! His echo boomed off the walls.

Startled, his son stalled. One of the smallers asked James, looking up at the clear pipes: but why?

It’ll jam, James explained. We can’t do anything if they get jammed like that.

Then he woke up again, avoiding confronting a memory much less jubilant, wherein his children turned awkward and quiet having heard James shout for the first time.

Or so he dreamed.

***

When he first dated his wife, people joked. You’re so similar it’s freaky, friends would say after a dinner or outing together. James and his wife would laugh. Sure, they could finish each other's sentences and read books, wake at the exact same time after a lazy weekend, and order for the other without menu hesitation.

In the beginning this felt like a blessing. Compatibility! Nothing to fight over! Why, even their manner of confrontation was identical: nonexistent.

Of course, time itself has a way of confronting life directly, changing things. His wife’s body, spirit, and fuse shifted after having children; James altered after being rendered redundant at work more than once; both tired of the monotony of their themness. There’d been so much they could’ve released with a little quarrel here or there. But no, they went about their routines. At night, they’d sit on the grey couch together after the children went to sleep. James would pour them each a glass of wine, his wife would pour a shareable snack into a bowl, and they’d turn their attention to a show, killing time together before bed.

One night about fifteen years into their relationship, she’d poured jelly beans.

Oh I haven’t had these since I was a kid, he’d said, reaching inside the bowl. Distracted by his flashback, he didn’t even clock how peculiar her pouring an unexpected snack was.

Jelly beans reminded him of his life before, back when the only person he’d ever loved had been his little sister. Before they played in cardboard boxes imagined into boats and shops, or ran around playgrounds and children’s museums themselves, gonging xylophones and cranking gears and shooting rainbow scarves into the sky, there had been their first encounter.

James had been only two when his sister was born early, but somehow he remembered it. He first met her weeks after she’d been born, when he was finally permitted a visit. He encountered her lying in a plexiglass box, with little tubes and wires taped to her bare, pink skin, mapped with tiny blue rivers beneath. When he touched near where her hand had been laying, a beep went off on the black machine beside them, little red lines squiggling.

James look, his parents exclaimed, breathless as they both held on to him. Look at her hand James.

His little sister had raised her tiny hand up towards his, touching him through the other side.

Later, after his sister made it out of the box and into their home, his parents would playfully retell the story, adding a detail James didn’t recall.

But why’d I pack a scuba mask for her? He asked.

You said you thought it might help her, they explained. So she could breathe.

***

Sometimes, James dreamed he lived in a home that was filling up with water.

***

That night on the couch, they didn’t finish the jelly beans James' wife had poured. All that remained were some reds and browns. Purple ones, mostly.

I’ll take the reds, his wife offered, expecting James to finish the rest, her having sacrificed herself to tiny cinnamon bombs detonating in her mouth.

James pinched for browns and yellows, popped the couple anisey blacks. He didn’t touch the purple ones.

I don’t want those, his wife said, shoving the bowl back towards him, rattling the unwanteds.

Me neither; never have, he replied, avoiding the bowl, stern eyes on the glowing screen.

James, just finish them, his wife said, almost sounding as though she was snapping.

He took the bowl and set it on the table behind them.

The next day, the bowl was still there. And the next day, and the next.

***

James had many recurring dreams. Sometimes, he dreamed she died. Sometimes, he dreamed she was still alive.

***

Oftentimes, James dreamed about his earliest days with his sister, playing together, conspiring against the world, letting her sleep in his bed. They were so different, and constantly ended up squabbling over the smallest of details, their let’s pretendas. What to name their castle fort, who has the babydoll when playing house, what goods their bake shop would sell. But they always made up, as though gently untangling a pretenda snarl, because playing together was better than not.

James would eat the pepperoni cups she pulled off her pizza; she would eat his mushy grapes, vacuuming them into her mouth with a smacking sound just like he did. He’d take the yolks of a fried or hard-boiled egg; she’d take the whites. They’d divvy up trail mix and MnMs. Jelly beans.

I don’t like the purple ones, he’d say, bogarting the yellows and greens at first.

I don’t think I like the purple ones either Jamesy, she’d say, sliding oranges and pinks her way. But I’ll eat ’em, cause I love you, she’d say, and he’d remember this over and over years later, upon reflecting how he’d taken much for granted, over and over, with a pain in his chest.

***

Sometimes, James dreamed about what he’d do his first morning as a widower. He’d go about his usual routines, brewing coffee and cracking eggs over a hot skillet, reading the paper and cleaning himself up in the bathroom. Then he’d dress in the comfortable clothes he’d always liked most, and go downstairs to start cleaning. He’d begin by gathering all the bowls around his house, like the excess books denied occupancy on an already bursting shelf: piled, stacked upon themselves, stashed in nooks and crannies. He’d dump the bowls, ridding them of their sticky, dusty contents. He’d cleanse everything: filling boxes; opening valves; releasing tensions, ghosts perhaps. And then, once his house felt right, he’d sit at his laptop, and access the secret document he’d been drafting and rereading for years. He’d open Craigslist, finally making the post he’d been dreaming of, copying and pasting his most precious draft.

He’d post it in one seeking category, and if that proved unsuccessful, perhaps he’d try another. And another, and then another. All he knew, while dreaming this dream, was he’d type into the subject line, “Purple Ones” and, finally lightweight and free, click publish.

And so James, on another sleepless night, would lay his head back down on his pillow and dream about her dying, about seeing her inside a box for the final time.