Bagdonas, John

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The Prairie Light ReviewVolume 2 | Number 3 Article 8Spring 6-3-1983The Dreams of Vernon LloydJohn BagdonasCollege of DuPageFollow this and additional works at: https://dc.cod.edu/plrThis Selection is brought to you for free and open access by the College Publications at DigitalCommons@COD. It has been accepted for inclusion inThe Prairie Light Review by an authorized editor of DigitalCommons@COD. For more information, please contact orenick@cod.edu.Recommended CitationBagdonas, John (1983) "The Dreams of Vernon Lloyd," The Prairie Light Review: Vol. 2 : No. 3 , Article 8.Available at: https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol2/iss3/8Prairie Light Review. Page 4THE DREAMS OF VERNON LLOYDby John BagdonasShadows fluttered in the doorway. He heard water fallingand a warm draft surrounded him; curiosity urged him to findwhat was at the top of the stairs but he couldn’t move. Hepulled his shoulders back to throw himself forward when thedream vaporized, and he found himself upright in bed, eyesopen and chest pounding.Vernon Lloyd, 79 years old, had just begun another day atthe Silverburg Nursing Home.Falling back, he propped himself on an elbow and viewedhis reflection in the mirror. The deep wrinkles and white hairwere out of place in contrast with the clean cinderblock wallsand cold, shiny floor of the small oblong room.As he lay in bed, the knotted fingers of his hand trembledagainst the sheets. They had shaken with similar convictionseventeen years ago when he stood before the school board toappeal a mandatory retirement. It was a dead giveaway. Hewas old.Advancing age had eaten into his wholeness as a vulturegouges carrion. His job, his wife, the house — all gone,gobbled down by a famished scavenger, old age.The door opened and a woman walked in. Her stomachpulled painfully at the buttoned white uniform. “Morning Mr.Lloyd” she said with an absent tone. Her pudgy hand tuggedthe cord of the blinds. Bright sunlight broke into the room.He squinted as she stood with her back to the window.“Might you knock before you come in?” he said. There was nolock on the door of the room, nor the bathroom nor anyplacethe residents were allowed.The nurse looked at him without expression and said, “Youhad better get your breakfast, your daughter will be heresoon.”He moved to the edge of the bed and stood. Mean-while the attendant made the bed. Finished, he joined her atbedside while she laid out his dayclothes. Next to his slackssat a pair of unfamiliar green socks. Vernon stared at themand said “Those aren't mine.” The nurse sighed deeply andsaid Certainly they are Mr. Lloyd, I took them from yourdresser.”“They never get the damn socks right,” he mumbled tohimself.“Can I help you dress now?” the woman said with a hint ofimpatience. He sat down and she began to remove his clothes.Her meaty hands gripped his arms and pulled on the clothingstrongly. “You must be behind schedule,” he said.“If we don’t hurry, your daughter will be here beforebreakfast,” she said with another tug.Denice came to visit at nine am every Thursday. She washis youngest of four children and the only one that visited.The others were spread across the country and rarely cameto see him.Denice had been close to him. She had come late in his lifeand lived at home too long before marrying and moving out.He knew the weekly visits were a strain on her. There werethree children, whom never accompanied her and a husbandthat protested any inattention brought on by his aged fatherin law.Denice always looked haggered when she came to visit.Vernon knew about Denice’s problems because, despite hisfading senses, he was sensitive and listened to her. It wasalways small talk, like that exchanged by strangers on anelevator. Occasionally, he tried to reach her with his pro-blems, but she didn’t listen. She would patronize him to apoint then abruptly change the subject. He would lamentover the memory of the close relationship they had when shewas a child.Fountain in a Shopping MallTossedpenniesnickelsdimesplummetdivefor luck.Rhythmic water consumes,buries with constant design..Ripples dissipate.Women with blue hair & men with jaggling pockets bribe fate.— Kimberly J. KypDEATH(A tribute to John Lennon)Time is ended, life is stillIt can’t be corrected with a pillSouls are lost, some are saved.Life is hell in a way.Drugs are took to escape the pain.Eternity will still remain;Life is short and lived too fast.The only hope was in the past,God is right in His way —No matter what people say.The void marches onward,and never will end —For once you 're dead.Sins won't mend.— Warren James FlammA tenseness existed between them now that couldn’t beerased. If he aggravated it, she became frightened and herguilt began to show.Leaning heavily on the cane, he walked slowly to the diningarea. When he passed through the hall, the grim faces of theresidents bothered him. Nobody smiled until their mindbegan to go and sometimes not even then.He no longer had friends at the home. When first moving inhe associated with a group of men that ate together, playedcards and talked. As the years passed several of them diedand the group broke up, each death disturbing the remainingfriendships.They became isolated from each other by the fear ofseparation. They saw each other from across a chasm of lone-liness and drew within, hiding from the look of waiting deathmirrored in each others eyes.He sat at a cafeteria table, his breakfast in front of him.The attendants wheeled chairs filled with sunken, unfed facesto the table and rolled them away once fed. A bald mansnored loudly and was awakened. Vernon began to thinkabout the dream.1Bagdonas: The Dreams of Vernon LloydPublished by DigitalCommons@COD, 1983Prairie Light Review, Page 5It had been a long while since he first had dreamed aboutthe staircase and the doorway. He didn’t sleep well and spentmost nights dozing and waking. Sometimes he couldn’t sleepat all and would lie awake and listen to the night sounds. Inthe quiet darkness he heard the ventilating system hum animperceptable tune, the gentle vibration touching him every-where at once. A door close and a toilet flushed, both soundsmuffled by the thick walls. An occasional voice, high pitchedand urgent, would call the name of a child or long deadspouse, and he sensed the torment caused by sleep inducedmemories. He listened hart, identifying each sound preciselyuntil the effort tired him.When night was almost over, and he lay exhausted in bed,sleep would come. And then the dream.The steps were steep and mottled with shadows from anopen doorway. As he climbed up he heard water falling. Thesound was deep and distant and like the mute thunder of a faroff waterfall. It sent a tremor into the ground that he couldfeel. The warm air swirled around him with a pleasant odor; afamiliar, welcome odor. He continued up but the doorwayremained at a stationary distance, its shadow fluttering inthe breeze.He always awoke suddenly before reaching the top.Although he knew it was a dream, it left him with an innerurging that he couldn’t explain.A hand touched his arm. “Hello Dad, how are you today?”It was Denice. “Am I early? I’ve interrupted your breakfast,"she said.He looked at the cold oatmeal, an unopened carton of milkand a glass of orange joice with the pith gathered in a ringaround the top of the glass. “No, I’m finished, let’s go sitsomewhere else." He allowed her to help him up but pulledthe arm away as they began walking.Denice was a small woman thirty-nine years old. Her darkhair was peppered with grey and the center of her bodywrapped in extra flesh. Her clothes were discount storebargains. A large handbag, its bulging vinyl sides boundingagainst her back, hung from the shoulder. Greasy makeupcovered her face and the watery brown eyes watched sadlyas her father hobbled ahead of her.His body was withered. The bones of the hips andshoulders poked at the loose clothing as he walked. Sparsewhite hair covered the shiny, freckled scalp and his armshung helplessly by his side as he shuffled down the hall.They neared the lounge area while Denice looked around.The facility was spotless as a hospital, the antiseptic atmos-phere interrupted only by an occasional green plant beneatha skylight. As they approached an elderly woman in a fadedhousecoat, Denice heard her conversing with herself. Shestopped speaking and stared at Denice as they passed. Theconversation continued when they rounded a corner. Furtheron a man sat outside a doorway in a wheelchair. His thin legswere crossed and looked entwined. A cruelly curved spineforced him to hold his head awkwardly. His lower lip juttedout as he stared at the wall.Denice could not avoid watching the faces of the people herfather lived with. Their expressions were strange, even whenthe; smiled the eyes contained something odd. She thoughtit wjs loneliness or fear of maybe a reflection her appearancestirred.She didn’t know but wondered what her father felt, and itbothered her until she couldn’t think about it. His problemsweren’t real to her, she had substantial, concrete problems ofher own. Children to raise, a husband to care for, a house torun. These things taxed her attention. Father would fend forhimself as he always he. There was no other way, these fewhours were all she had to give, even if it wasn’t enough.The tile beneath their feet changed to carpeting as theyentered an enclave filled with parlor furniture.The old man dropped into an armchair and put the cane ontop of a table scattered with dog eared readers digests.Denice pushed a straight backed chair to the table and satdown. She fidgeted with the handbag and put it beneath thechair after unbuttoning her coat. With a crumpled tissue inhand she dabbed her nose while looking at him and asked,“How do you feel Dad?" His tired eyes met hers while hishands trembled as he folded them,“As well as an old man should, I expect,” he said. Shewasn’t a child anymore even though her features gleamedthrough the middle aged face like a beam of light, remindinghim of her as a girl. He longed for the days when they wereclose and an exchange of hugs could solve any problem,soothe any hurt and send the cares of the world into flight,away from the protective circle of their arms.“The kids send their love. It’s been a busy week for us. Thefirst week of school and all," she said. Her face was flushedand damp with perspiration. She pulled her coat off and let itfall behind her. She continued to speak, offering family newsand other bits of information, held out like a candle to a manin the dark. She hoped they were important to him but hedidn’t hear. Instead the words flowed past him in a wave,and he wished he could tell her. And she would understand,and it would change things. He wanted to blame his miseryon her, but it was his fault, and it would never get better. Thefailure hurt the most. He tried to be happy but couldn’t itwas in a slide down. He had lost control.“What time is it,” he said suddenly. It didn’t matter to himbut Denice was eyeing her watch like-a school kid waiting forthe bell to ring. “It’s after ten Dad, I’ll have to leave soon, thekids will be home for lunch," she said.She kissed his cheek and said goodbye. He watched herwalk quickly down the hall towards the exit.The rest of the day was spent sitting in his room. Theybrought his meals and chided him for not eating, but he didn’tanswer. Thinking of the dream, he sat and watched nothinguntil it was dark.He felt tired and got into bed. He was weary and his armsand legs ached. He fell asleep and began to dream.He climbed the stairs without hesitation, the sound of thewater and the touch of air drawing him up. The stairs dis-appeared behind him and the doorway drew nearer until hestepped into its archway.He stood in a flurry of bright shadows, a gentle tidetouched him with a warm rush and he joined the breeze,moving with it through the door.That morning, the nurse opened the blinds in the oblongroom and walked to the bed. She touched his shoulder towake him, but her hand came back quickly,Vernon Lloyd was dead.People sail through life — like ships passing in the night.Occasionally, a lighthouse appears — that beacon is like afriend.— Mary Ryder-Swanson '832The Prairie Light Review, Vol. 2, No. 3 [1983], Art. 8https://dc.cod.edu/plr/vol2/iss3/8

The Dreams of Vernon Lloyd

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The Dreams of Vernon Lloyd

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