The Long Wait for Tomorrow (5 page)

s far as Patrick was concerned, there were three types of police officers: the kind who had better things to do, the kind who had nothing better to do, and the third bowl of porridge, which was always just right.

The two officers in Kelly’s kitchen were of the first order. While both their features varied slightly—from age to eye color, build to facial hair—their attitude made them fraternal twins. It didn’t matter that they had just started their shift, aftershave and deodorant still fresh under matching uniforms. It was of little importance that Patrick had shown them the utmost respect. Even with a naked Kelly McDermott, now thoroughly under wraps as he sat at the kitchen table, this pair of policemen was already watching the clock. Uninterested eyes floating about like overfed manatees; both had pulled out matching citation booklets, pens, and yet neither bothered putting one to the other. It was as though they hadn’t even found the energy to agree on which one would be faking any interest in the situation.

And Patrick couldn’t have been happier about it.

What would have ordinarily offended the slight sense of civic pride he had, Patrick now welcomed as a brilliant bit of luck. After all, these two had better things to do. A couple of little white lies,
seasoned with a dash of big fat ones, and everything would turn out just fine.

“So.” The mustached officer absently picked at his bristles. “You have a history of sleepwalking, Kelly?”

“I’m not sure …” Kelly’s earlier excitement had abated, though none of it seemed to be out of respect for the situation. He remained with the paper clutched in his arms, blanket wrapped snugly around him. Tousled blond hair covering eyes that glanced over in Patrick’s direction. “Do I have a history of sleepwalking?”

Officer Mustache turned to Patrick, raised an eyebrow.

“Well, there you have it, Officer …” Patrick did what he could not to take the officer’s look and throw it in Kelly’s face. “How’s a guy going to know he’s got a history of sleepwalking unless he’s awake, am I right?”

“So does he, or doesn’t he?”

“Not officially.”

“Not officially,” echoed the clean-shaven officer, eyes bowed slightly as though writing it down. He had remained with hat planted firmly on head, perhaps to detract from gray streaks infiltrating his sideburns. When he looked up, his eyes shot over toward Kelly. “And your parents are where?”

Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know—”

“Hilton Head Island,” Patrick interrupted.

“Hilton Head,” Kelly repeated, nodding his head slowly.

“They’re visiting a client,” Patrick added. “Kelly’s parents are lawyers.”

“You seem a little out of it, Kelly …” Officer Mustache made
his way around the table. “Eyes looking a little red there. You been doing any kind of drugs this morning, late last night?”

“No sir, Officer, sir,” Kelly replied, appearing somewhat surprised at his own certainty.

“Seems like that’s the only thing you
are
sure of.”

“Yet, you don’t even know where your parents are.” Officer Sideburns rounded the other side of the table. “You sure you haven’t been doing any drugs there, son?”

“I’m positive,” Kelly affirmed, with a less-than-positive frown.

“He doesn’t
do
drugs,” Patrick volunteered, addressing all he could to Officer Sideburns. “Period. I mean, he’s in great shape, just look at him …”

“We got a good enough look outside, thank you.”

“If he’s acting a little strange, it’s because you woke him up,” Patrick told them, all the while still wondering why Kelly was acting
beyond strange.
“I don’t know if you know this, but waking him up in the middle of something like this can result in permanent brain damage. Some somnambulists have been known to die of shock.”

Officer Mustache frowned. “Somnambulists?”

“Sleepwalkers.”

“All sleepwalkers, or nonofficial ones like Kelly here?”

Officer Sideburns chuckled.

“Look, please …” Patrick felt circumstances tilting in an uncomfortable direction. Kelly’s behavior was making attentive cops out of previously bored ones. Once interested in the situation, these two officers might actually get interested in their
jobs
, after which it was anyone’s guess what they’d do to Kelly. Slap
on the wrist or jail time, Patrick didn’t feel like risking it. And so he reached into his treasure trove of bullshit and began handing out shiny gold coins. “Give Kelly a break, Officers. If he’s not all that comfortable talking about his sleepwalking, it’s only because he’s never been diagnosed. And he’s never been diagnosed because there’s no telling what that might do to his career.”

“Career?”

“I don’t want to brag, but you’re looking at the Buckeyes’ starting quarterback come August.” Patrick caught Kelly’s confused expression out of the corner of his eye, charged ahead before the cops could notice. “Ohio State University, division one. Could’ve gone to Notre Dame, Michigan, Florida State, they were all clawing at each other for a piece of Kelly McDermott. Now, would either of you, given such an opportunity, want somnambulism as an official diagnosis? A disease that’s been linked to vitamin D deficiency, hypoglycemia, and bone apoplexy?”

Officer Sideburns winced. “Bone apoplexy?”

“The worst kind of apoplexy,” Patrick added, reminding himself to look up
apoplexy
, first chance he got. “The
worst
kind.”

“Wait a second.” Officer Mustache straightened, thumbs hooked onto his belt. “Did you say Kelly McDermott?”

Patrick swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Kelly
McDermott
?”

“Yeah, we told you that when you brought him in—”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” Officer Mustache smacked his citation book against his hand, followed up with the same against his partner’s shoulder. “Richardson, this is Kelly McDermott! I read about him in the
Observer….
I read about
you
in the
Observer
, young man.” Officer Mustache was focusing on Kelly once again. “Last month! They bumped Arizona to page two, for
high school football.
Talking about you being unstoppable.
Destiny’s child
, that was the joke…. Remember that, Richardson?”

Officer Sideburns scratched his hat, sending it askew. “Well …”

“I
do
remember now!” Officer Mustache took a seat next to Kelly, who bobbed his head at a pacifying pace with everything he was told. “Yes. Yes, I remember you
had
applied to Ohio State, that’s right! And you got in, well, that is
great.
Got the state finals this weekend, against …”

Patrick saw Kelly’s eyes go blank at the sight of fingers snapping and decided to jump in. “Wilson. Going to play Wilson tomorrow.”

“Going to
beat
Wilson tomorrow!” Officer Mustache laughed, stomping his foot and giving Kelly’s neck a robust pinch. “I’m sorry, Kelly, we didn’t know it was you. Did we, Richardson?”

“No, we didn’t,” Officer Sideburns agreed, growing bored once again.

Patrick masked his relief with a quick cough. “I’m sorry, anybody got the time?”

“Oh hell …” Officer Mustache checked his watch, forgot to share. “You boys should be getting to school pretty soon, shouldn’t you?”

“Well …” Patrick smiled best he could. “Don’t think Kelly can show up like this, now, can he?”

Officer Mustache shook the windows with his laughter, giving Kelly a few odd pats on the chest. “No, I don’t suppose
he could, now,” he agreed, getting up and motioning Officer Sideburns toward the back door, laughter trailing behind him in giggly little bursts. He wiped a tear from his eye as Patrick opened the door, ushered them out onto the deck.

“Sorry about all this, Mr. McDermott,” Officer Mustache called over his shoulder before turning to Patrick. “You keep an eye on him, son. Got a big life ahead of him.”

“You bet,” Patrick replied amicably.

“Shit.” The officer grinned. “Time he gets to Ohio, he’ll be
playing football
in his sleep!”

Another burst of satisfied laughter.

Patrick nodded, grinned widely, and shut the door.

Kept his pearly whites on display, cheeks straining, until he saw them safely around the corner. Patrick could almost hear his face creak back into neutral as he let out a shaky breath. Placed his arm against the door, and leaned his head against it. He closed his eyes, trying to get past what had just happened. It was over, done. Probably hadn’t been more than five minutes, from the time the cops had caught Kelly dancing around outside …

Patrick opened his eyes, spun around.

Kelly’s seat was empty.

“Kelly?” Patrick called out, voice cracking.

A muffled response came from nearby.

Patrick walked into the middle of the kitchen, gritty feet scraping against the floor.

The door to the walk-in pantry opened, and out came Kelly. The quilted blanket now wrapped around his waist, he
held a box of coffee filters in one hand, a bag of Starbucks Italian Roast dangling triumphantly from the other.

“I
thought
I remembered my parents as big coffee drinkers,” Kelly announced, pleased as a toddler with a block of wood. “I hope this coffee tastes as real as the rest of this feels…. Crazy, baby.”

“Kelly …” Patrick followed Kelly with his eyes, over to the coffeepot, where Kelly scooped up the plug, holding the cord in his fist like a dead black flower. “You don’t drink coffee.”

Kelly searched for an outlet. “You want some?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“Why the hell don’t you drink coffee?”

“Because
you
don’t, Kelly.”

Kelly found an outlet, stuck the plug in. He paused, leaning against the counter, frowning. “And why the hell don’t
I
drink coffee?”

“Because it’s unhealthy.” Kelly found himself repeating what Kelly had always told him. What Patrick, as a result, had always been proud to tell others. “Caffeine is addictive. It raises your heart rate, causes dehydration, which in turn can lead to gradual muscle damage. Not to mention that, as a stimulant, it keeps people from sleeping in ways that perhaps, you know … we shouldn’t be doing to ourselves….”

Kelly nodded thoughtfully. “This is all true. However, it does bring up an interesting question, doesn’t it?”

“It does?” Patrick watched with disbelief as Kelly proceeded to prep the coffeemaker. Filling the pot, three scoops in the filter, smacking open the basket, plopping the filter in as he
transferred water from pot to reservoir, all with the efficient speed of a lifelong coffee drinker.

“And that question is …,” Kelly continued, smacking the basket back into place and snapping the power on with a swift flick of his thumb. “What happens when dreamers drink coffee?”

Patrick desperately wanted to figure out what was happening to Kelly, only Kelly didn’t seem to be giving him any
opportunity
, and so he entertained the question as best he could. “What do you mean?”

Kelly lifted himself up onto the counter. The ease with which he did it seemed to fill him with pleased astonishment, and he glanced down at his biceps. “Hey, check me out, I’m not half bad.”

“Kelly, dreamers, what were you—”

“Shit, that smells good,” Kelly said, leaning in close to smell the brewing coffee. He straightened, hands pressed against his thighs in a casual manner. “What I mean, Patrick, is what you yourself said. Coffee keeps you awake. That being the case, when we dream, and dream of drinking coffee, what then? I mean, it’s been a while since I’ve dreamed. The shit they’ve got me on, side effects won’t even let me dream, I still don’t know how all this is happening but …”

Something caught his eye, and he turned to the row of windows behind him.

Patrick followed his gaze, tried to. Caught sight of a robin hopping around on the table outside. Chest an orange-rusty color, it cocked its head a few times with a 570 heartbeats-per-minute enthusiasm, let out a chirp.

Kelly raised his hand to the window. Caressed the spotless surface, as though patting the robin itself through some untold agreement with space and perspective.

Patrick leaned to his right, tried to catch Kelly’s expression in the window’s reflection.

Daylight. Too bright.

Though Kelly must have sensed it, and he turned back to Patrick with a sad smile.

At least, Patrick thought it was a sad smile. Seeing it on Kelly’s face made him wonder. It was very much like trying to pick a professional acquaintance—the guy at Blockbuster, Waffle House, BP station—out of a lineup. Without the right environment, some people were simply unrecognizable. Members of the workaday world just walked on past each other on the streets, in parking lots and stores that weren’t their own.

All like Kelly’s displaced smile, suddenly gone as he continued to lecture. “Point is, to the best of my recollection, dreams elicit emotions. Right? You run into a monster, you’re scared. Fall off a cliff, your stomach does a jig and the breath gets sucked right out of you. Kiss a girl, your heartbeat quickens. Hell … screw some pretty lady in your dreams, you
wake up
with a mess in your pants.”

Patrick gave an awkward half nod.