The Red Trunks

(continued)

By Timothy A. Faller

I pick up a handful of sand, feeling the grit lodge beneath my nails, and let it cascade through my fingers. So real. Through the fine curtain I see a boy, maybe six years old, sitting alone in the wet sand of the shoreline, digging moats with his plastic shovel and watching them fill in with each crawling wave. He is wearing deep blue trunks with wide yellow stripes down the sides and a distinctive diamond pattern across
the back — the trunks I brought to Mexico, the ones I should be wearing now. He has brown skin and straight black hair, but I can't see his face; it is always turned away or in shadow. I don't recall the boy, though I clearly recall everything else I have lived through today. Maybe that doesn't mean anything. But the boy is wearing my trunks, and that disturbs me.

I woke at 7 a.m., back at Manoir De Jacques. I got out of bed and splashed water on my face, trying not to think about the dream, but the red stain was set in my mind. The dream felt too real. My cherished memories were sinking into a black pit, and I couldn't pull them out.

"What, no smiles this morning?" Laura asked playfully. "Didn't find your way back to the beach in your dreams last night?"

"Cancún," I answered flatly.

"So what's the problem?"

"Red trunks."

Laura's grin dropped from her face. "You're going to be in another sour mood all day because you wore red trunks in a dream again?" She didn't wait for an answer, letting the slam of the washroom door speak for her.

The third day, we covered a lot of ground, finally leaving Quebec, rounding Maine and crossing half of New Brunswick. Laura fumed silently for most of the drive, with the positive side-effect that she didn't call for any sightseeing or shopping excursions. I hated every kilometer behind the wheel, but the only way to get through this trip was to keep moving forward. With only my bladder-breaks to stop for, we made it as far as Fredericton, putting us back on schedule.

That night, at the Fred Rick Tom Inn (Laura thought that was clever, God help me) I lay on a sunken mattress with a spring jutting into my spine, knowing enough not to comment. I felt apprehensive about falling asleep, about dreaming, but the weariness of the long drive overcame me, and I eventually drifted off.

And wake up in Jamaica. Day four of last year's vacation, a very good day, but I feel a panic rising in my throat. I know it's irrational, but I can't swallow the oppressive sensation. Foolish as it sounds, the red trunks represent some ominous curse determined to follow me until I go mad.

But wait, what's this? Green! I am pulling on a pair of green trunks! My new ones, bought specifically for this vacation — dark green with the light green leaf pattern. They are wonderful! So comfortable, so normal, so… not red. I am back on track, ready to enjoy the rich sensations of this day.

A lovely breeze strokes the Jamaican beach as Laura and I lie on lounge chairs under a palm tree for hours, reading and snoozing. My eyes are closed, my book resting on my chest, when a tingle runs up my spine. My eyelids snap open, and I instinctively look at my trunks. Still green. I sigh with relief. Sand kicks up onto my shins as a little boy scurries by. His straight black hair flops wildly as he runs, but I miss seeing his face. No one follows him or even seems to notice him as he disappears into the crowded beach. I stare at the place where he vanished, certain this did not happen last year. A hollow anxiety shrouds me.

The boy was wearing bright red trunks.

By evening on the fourth day we had made it as far as Sydney, Nova Scotia, where we would catch the ferry across to Newfoundland. We stopped in at Harvey's for a fast-food dinner. We hadn't spoken much that day, but this time Laura didn't let my disposition stop her from detouring us with sight-seeing and shopping sprees, reminding me how much I missed an all-inclusive vacation where we never had to leave the hotel compound, never had to spend additional money, never had to wonder where to eat or sleep. I made the mistake of saying this out loud.

"Maybe the red you see isn't trunks at all," Laura said. "Maybe you're reliving that time in Mexico when you tried to tan your milky-white buns out on the hotel balcony and ended up with a tomato-red ass instead."

"That was an accident, I fell asleep. And it's not that anyway. Besides, I wasn't even wearing them in the last dream. There was —"

"Then why are you still sulking! Four days now, Philip. Explain it to me."

I couldn't.

"I'll tell you why: it's this road trip. From the start, you've been determined to hate it, so you keep whining about beach dreams every day. You're being really selfish."
I had to wonder if what she said may be true.

Across the street, the neon sign of Fairbairn Inn glowed in the twilight, and I knew where my next dream would occur. I wasn't looking forward to it, feeling like I'd rather keep driving until I outran… Outran what? Swimwear? What should be so disturbing about a common article of clothing? I couldn't nail that down, but I had a feeling that the only way to shake the shorts loose would be to conclude this driving trip.

Fairbairn Inn turned out to be the most favorable accommodations so far; at least the room didn't smell like a dead cat. Laura turned in early, and though I was reluctant to go to sleep, the 11 o'clock movie was so boring I nodded off watching in bed.