Page 10 of Man of His Dreams

Flip didn’t notice when the storm ended. He didn’t notice anything outside the world of his story until his eyesight grew so fuzzy that he could barely read the screen. He gasped when he saw his word count. Seven thousand words. He’d never written anywhere near that many in one day, but tonight they’d flowed effortlessly, as fast as runoff rain gushing through a downspout.

He gathered his still-damp clothing from the floor and carried it into the bathroom, where he tossed it into the tub. He’d deal with it in the morning. Still naked, and after a minimum of nighttime ablutions, he climbed into bed.

“I like how the rain cleans the streets,” said Scratch, holding and toying with the folded umbrella.

Flip sat up and blinked rapidly. He hadn’t even realized he was falling asleep, but now here Scratch was, sitting on the edge of the mattress and grinning at him. Scratch wore charcoal trousers, a white shirt, and a striped tie, as usual, but tonight he didn’t have a vest or jacket or hat.

“We don’t usually get big thunderstorms on the West Coast,” said Flip.

“That’s right. You’re from California.” He drew the name of the state out, making it sound exotic. Then he cocked his head and stared at Flip’s bare chest. “Y’all don’t wear pajamas in California?”

“Sometimes.”

“My mama used to remind me to wear something decent to bed. ‘What if there’s a fire in the middle of the night?’ she used to say. ‘Y’all want the neighborhood to see you in all your glory?’”

“Did you follow her advice?”

“Depends on whether I had company. I figured if there was a fire and there were two of us with no clothes on, folks wouldn’t know which of us to stare at.” His smile faded. “There’s a lot more she said that I should have listened to. Mama’s been dead now for a long time, but she outlived me. I caused her and my daddy so much grief.”

“Are they ghosts too?”

“Nah. How about you? Do you do what your mama tells you?”

That made Flip squirm. “I haven’t talked to her in years. And even when we were in touch, she wasn’t much for imparting guidance.”

“Sorry to hear that. You have other relatives you can lean on when you need it?”

Flip shook his head.

“Sorry to hear that too. I got—well, I had—a big family. Aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, cousins. I could hardly do anything without one of them noticing and reporting back to my parents, even after I was fully grown. But they were all there for me whenever I got myself in a bind. Up ’til that last time, that is. None of them could help me when I got shot.” He looked down at his chest, where a crimson stain suddenly bloomed like a terrible flower.

Flip cried out in alarm and the blood disappeared.

Scratch patted Flip’s blanket-covered knee. “Sorry ’bout that.” Then he set the umbrella on the floor with great care, as if it were valuable, and twisted around to face Flip more directly. “What’d you do today besides writing?”

“Shopped. Ate. Walked.”

“I used to walk a lot too. Partly out of necessity—didn’t have no car back then—but I also liked it. I miss it. Wish I could see what the rest of the city looks like now.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Can’t go more than a couple blocks from the spot where I died.” Scratch raised his eyebrows and spread his arms, his message clear. He’d died right here.

It wasn’t something that Flip wanted to think about, so he changed the subject. “I’ve been taking a lot of photos during my walks. Want to see them?”

Joy illuminated Scratch’s face and made his eyes sparkle. “Can I?”

So Flip lifted his phone off the nightstand and gestured for Scratch to sit beside him, both of them with backs against the headboard and legs stretched out straight, Flip under the blanket and Scratch above. Flip scrolled slowly through his recent pictures. Sometimes he paused to explain something, but other times it was Scratch who explained. “That’s Congo Square. I used to go there on Sundays to listen to the bands,” and “My sister, Delphine? Her husband’s people are in that cemetery. Dunno if she ended up there too,” and “That restaurant was around in my time too. One of my cousins waited tables there.”

Flip wondered about the accuracy of some of the details Scratch shared. Maybe those things were true, and Flip had heard or read about them at some point and then forgot. Or maybe his subconscious was simply creating plausible fictions. That’s what he did for a living, after all.

In any case, it was an enjoyable experience, with Scratch pressed against his side and clearly delighted with the photos, and with Flip’s head feeling clearer than it had all day.

When they ran out of recent photos, Scratch took control of the phone and started scrolling backward. “No wonder you people spend so much time on these things. Hey, who’s this?”

Flip fought the impulse to snatch the phone away. “Nobody.”

“Don’t look like nobody. Two of you are scrunched up together and all smiles.”

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