I Dream of Meenie

By Carol Wakefield

For Catt Russell, weird is the new normal. So, when she accidentally blunders into someone else’s dream, involving an apparition that seems to have stepped out of a film noir script, no one is surprised – least of all her. Meanwhile Catt finds herself volunteering at a time-line re-enactment at the local art and history museum, where her society-snob sister Micky is curating a commemorative exhibit of artist Toussainte Tortisse, who mysteriously disappeared at the height of his popularity in the 1950s. Joined by her dysfunctional brother, Art, a wannabe private detective who claims the specter is his client, and his circus side-show family, Catt and her best friend, Jilly, become entangled in perhaps the most wildly improbable mystery of her unchosen career, involving a dubious cast of memorable characters, including ‘George Washington’ and two Roman centurions. You know what Sherlock Holmes had to say about the improbable...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carol Wakefield
• Release date: Feb 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777490836

Carol Wakefield

As far as biographies go, I am probably like you, the reader - a suburban housewife, who loves a good read to pass some spare time. If you want to know my whole story, go to www.carolwakefield.com but the short version is I live a pretty ordinary life in Richmond Hill, Ontario, with my husband and son and a whole lot of cats and I love to write about adventures that I hope I never experience for real (except for the fact that I really wish I could do the things Catt does).

Book preview

Chapter One

Aaagh! I yelp, leaping bolt upright and landing three feet from the bed. I would be impressed if I weren’t so freaked. I never was much good at gymnastics.

My heart decides to roar into my tonsils for a few rounds of pure panic, until gravity coaxes it back to its rightful spot. It hides there under my ribs, glaring out at the world with distrust, before dispensing fitful noncommittal beats.

Wha—? Jack says. Then he rolls over and snores.

Terrific. I’ve just had the mother of all nightmares, and Jack, my husband, my knight in shining armor, my protector, the guy I depend on to rescue me from scary things in the night, is down for the count. Of course, considering how helpful he was with the last ‘bump in the night’ we’d encountered, what was I expecting?

But, really? The very least he could do is offer appreciation for the astounding act of gymnastics I’ve just demonstrated. Well, I’m impressed. And a little – okay, a lot freaked.

I’m Catt Russell and, usually, the things that happen to me are pretty weird. But those I’ve mostly gotten used to, because they normally happen when I’m awake. For this I have my father to blame. Bad genes. Crazy chromosomes. Bizarre psychic abilities. Whatever.

But now? When I’m fast asleep? And without any warning? What’s with that?

And, to make matters worse, now they’ve involved my brother. I’m going to be needing a major explanation. And maybe an apology.

My brother, Art, lives with his wife and kids on this really tiny island in the Pacific North-West. He has a housekeeper/nanny totally freaking weirdo landlord named Booger, and a stupid idea that he is some kind of private detective. This is what I mean by crazy chromosomes.

But what on earth is he doing interrupting my sleep when he’s a couple of thousand miles away? That’s got to be a first. And, if I have any say in the matter, it’s going to be the last.

Art? I yell into the phone, completely disregarding the fact that it is three hours earlier where Art is, because, well, face it, I’m still more than a little steamed, and I subscribe to the theory that if people are rude to you, you sometimes have to bite the bullet and be rude right back. The next few minutes will be the judge of how well that goes over. "What are you thinking?"

Art is his normal cerebral self.

Huh?

Then he yawns and hangs up the phone.

Well, now I’m really steamed. But I don’t have his number on speed dial for nothing, I think, trying desperately to remember which number it actually is. I sure don’t want to dial the fire department again. They weren’t really happy with me the last time I mistakenly called them and somehow I don’t think they’d appreciate hearing about Art’s dream either.

Wake up! I yell this time. I hope it’s not the fire guys because, logically, they should be already awake and probably wouldn’t appreciate this admonishment.

Wha—? Art says this time. Okay, good. I’ve got his attention.

He hangs up again. Grrr.

This time, when I redial, it goes straight to voice mail. I don’t want to leave a message. I want to talk to him. Face to face. Right now!

This is when my crazy brain kicks into overdrive.

I’m suddenly outside, in my pajamas and bunny slippers. In the dark.

In the middle of the night.

And it’s cold.

This is when I get another shock.

Shh! Art clamps a hand over my mouth.

The last time he did this, we were hiding in the undergrowth on an island in the Pacific North-West.

That was then. This is now.

Well, okay, Art still lives on that island so maybe he does this a lot. But he’s got another think coming if he expects me to be happy about it.

This is so inappropriate sibling behavior.

He leaves me no choice. I bite him. Then, to make sure he gets the message, I knee him in the nuts. Correction. I try to, but he jerks me into the shadows and I’m left kicking air.

Shh! Art says again. Crankily. Okay, he more like hisses. "She’ll hear."

Who? I say, confused. It is the middle of the night and, as far as I can see, there’s just me and Art. Emily?

Then I think to myself, that’s just dumb. Of course, Emily. She’s his wife. His soul mate. He tells her everything.

No-o. Art shoots me a weird look. "Why would she be here? She doesn’t even know about her."

Hmm. There’s that ‘her’ again. Okay, so if it’s not Emily…I mentally run down a checklist of possible females in Art’s life. It’s a very short list.

Mom? I try.

Art just glares at me. He has a point. Our parents have been ‘finding’ themselves for all of our lives, yet always seem to be one ashram away from total metaphysical discovery. And there’s not a chance she’d be anywhere near Stockton. Not again.

This is when I realize something else. If I hadn’t been so rudely interrupted it probably would have occurred to me before. Oh, jeeze, better late than never.

I narrow my eyes.

"What are you doing here? I demand. Then I go for broke. And just who is ‘she’?"

Art looks like he needs to phone a friend, but even that wouldn’t help. So he does the only thing he can. He makes it my fault.

"You should know, he says. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. And— He drops his voice, Meenie."

Chapter Two

This is when I take a good look at my brother. He’s wearing pajamas too, though his have teddy bears on them, interspersed with little red hearts. His feet are bare.

I giggle inappropriately as I think this. Bear. Bare. Okay, so you had to be there.

Which I am.

Father’s Day, Art offers in an embarrassed tone. I have to wear them. He looks at my feet. At least I’m not in bunny slippers.

Mother’s Day, I say. We both nod acknowledgement. Been there. Still paying for it.

Then I wheel my brain right around to the current situation.

We are both standing outside on my front porch. In our pajamas. In the middle of the night. What’s wrong with this picture?

Hmm. Well, for starters, Art is looking exceedingly grumpy. This in itself is not unusual. I think Art was born with a frown on his face, to go along with his generally cranky temperament. Me? I was the perfect baby.

But this time he might have a point.

Um, I say, as though the thought has just occurred to me – which, okay, it actually has. This is what comes of waking me up in the dead of night. Nothing good. Whatcha doing here?

I don’t say ‘in your pajamas’. I figure he’s got to know this is inappropriate, even if he is my usually unobservant brother. I look around for Emily. Nope. We’re definitely alone.

"I told you," he retorts, his sudden angry breath actually steaming up his glasses so that he has to take them off and wipe them on the hem of his pajama shirt.

"Wait a minute. You sleep in your glasses?" I say.

What? No! Art says, sounding aggrieved. "I was awake. Somebody— He levels a top grade scowl my way, —kept phoning me."

Uh-oh. But he’s not getting off the hook that easily. I had my reasons. "I thought you were at home."

This is when Art does this very scary impersonation of a rabid animal. "I was," he says. Then he zips his lips shut. This is probably a good thing. It means he’s not going to flip out.

He was at home?

Double uh-oh.

At home? On the island? I try. Art nods. Oh.

"That’s all you can say? he explodes, forgetting to keep his voice below the level of a sonic boom. I hope all the neighbors have their earplugs in. It’s not bad enough that you wake me up, you then have to do your weird brain thing and transport me across the country? In my pajamas?"

Okay, so I was wrong about him not flipping out.

Me? Weird brain thing? Okay, so now I’m feeling a bit testy. This, after all, is a family thing.

"Correct me if I’m wrong, but we both do weird brain things! I hiss back. And keep your voice down. I have to live here!"

Art just shakes his head. Then a thought occurs to him and he says, How am I going to explain this to Emily? She’s going to be awake soon and it’s my turn to bathe the kids. Maybe I should call her.

That can probably wait a while, I say. Sure, like a decade or so. Then the kids will be old enough to bathe themselves. This I don’t say. She probably needs her sleep.

And we need time to come up with a really good excuse for how Art got here and, worse, why he never mentioned he was planning to leave in the middle of the night. Emily has seen some odd things from us, but never this odd. But I’m absolutely almost completely convinced we can smooth this whole thing over. Sure, no problem. Emily will forgive him.

She’ll never forgive me, Art moans. Then he says something that makes absolutely no logical sense. I never should have taken the case.

You’re on a case? I say. I look doubtfully at his teddy bear pj’s, and try to imagine a client desperate enough to hire a private detective with no sense of style.

Art stares at me.

What? I say. Do I have a major zit on my forehead? Have my eyes changed places with my ears and now I can see 360 degrees thanks to peripheral vision? Crap! I squelch that thought before it can become reality. Hey, lately anything is a possibility. Look at Art.

You don’t know? he says. Then he scratches his head. Then, what were you doing? Why were you there?

Okay, so now he’s got me stymied. I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about. Maybe this is the downside of cross-nation travel. Or maybe it’s just what happens when there is no logical answer for things that happen right before your very eyes. This is when I remember what else he’d said. I start to get a very bad feeling.

So, I say, staring him down, "who is Meenie?"

A-hah! Art says. "So you do remember!"

What? No! I protest. You’re the one who mentioned her, not me. Oh, God!

I am remembering some things. But is this what he’s talking about? No way. It was just a dream. A very strange dream. Right? And she never said her name.

Art nods.

It is all starting to make sense. Strange sense, but that seems to be the only kind we get around here. I stare at Art. Then my lips move of their own accord despite their efforts not to. If there’s anything I’ve learned with all this weird psychic ability stuff, it’s that lips have a life of their own, especially when you wish they would just shut the heck up and pretend to be asleep.

This Meenie? I say, needlessly. She’s your client? The one in the dream?

Art is still nodding. He doesn’t have to say anything else. I’ve gone right to ground zero. Inside his head. What I’m seeing there isn’t making me very happy. I glance at Art. He knows this too.

Before either of us has a chance to break the silence of dawning incredulity, we hear a voice from the dark.

"I can’t take it anymore! Jilly declares. She sounds majorly ticked off. You’ve got to help me!"

She marches up the path and stomps onto the porch. Art shoots me a look. I shrug. How was I to know I was a lightning rod for bizarre middle of the night encounters? I’m new at this.

Jilly? I say, as if I am often to be found catching some refreshing breaths on my front porch at all hours. And hoping Art’s outburst isn’t the reason Jilly is here. I return his look and flash him a stern warning to let me handle this. What are you doing up? It’s the middle of the night.

"Tell me about it! she shouts. He’s driving me crazy!"

Who? Art? I completely concur, but surely he hasn’t been here long enough to really make a dent in inter-neighbor relationships. On the other hand, inter-family relationships are an entirely different matter.

Who? I ask anyway. Art?

Art? Jilly says. "Your brother, Art? Why—?"

This is when she sees Art. He waggles his fingers her way. She blanches.

This is when I remember that for one very brief, very stupid, moment in time, when we were young innocent teenagers, Jilly harbored a very brief, very stupid, crush on Art. Of course, he doesn’t know about that.

Art makes a strange choking sound in the dark. Okay, scratch that. Oops.

Relax, she’s married, too, I flash him. Then I add for good measure, and she’s pregnant.

Well that explains it, he flashes back. Emily was pretty crabby, too.

Emily was crabby because you were lying to her, I think to myself. And not letting her eat carbs. I check out Jilly. She doesn’t look as though she’s suffered that particular hardship.

So, I say, just to move things along and maybe try to forget how Art actually came to be here in the first place, who is driving you crazy?

Jilly shoots me an incredulous look. Who do you think? she says, and promptly bursts into tears, a most un-Jilly-like thing to do. Morris!

Morris.

Oh, crap.

Chapter Three

We’re chugging down our third cup of tea, each of us waiting for its recuperative powers to kick in and return everything to normal, or at least make things seem better, when the phone rings.

Nobody moves. We all stare at each other.

Then we stare at our phones.

It’s Art’s. Oh, boy. Art groans.

Well, aren’t you going to get that? I ask. I already know the answer but it’s kind of fun to watch him squirm. Sibling rivalry gets its revenge.

The ringing stops. Art sighs in relief.

My phone rings. Art smirks. You were thinking…?

I ignore him. Hello? I say, even though I know it’s Emily. I have call display. Emily! Oh, hi!

This is the point at which I could rescue my brother.

Or sink him. This is the point at which I could cover for him. So this is the point at which I do what I do because I’m me, and he is my brother, and this is not quite his fault and, okay, because I can. Maybe.

…Yes!

"Wha—? Emily says. Then she sees Art. So do Cooper and Dorcas. They squirm to wriggle out of her arms. Art? Emily swivels her head sharply. This is when she decides she must be dreaming and she’s not so sure she remembers going back to sleep. Where are we?"

Oh good. That one is easy. It’s the other question that’s going to be much more difficult to answer. That one I’ll leave for Art.

"Surpri-ise! Art says. Then he deftly plucks Cooper and Dorcas from her and settles them on his lap. We’re having a vacation at Auntie Catt’s house. Isn’t this fun?" he says to them. I notice he doesn’t exactly look Emily in the face.

This is probably a good thing, because right at this moment she’s trying on a really aggravated expression that apparently comes in a funny, unbecoming color.

Jilly downs her tea and pours more. She’s clearly not the least bit embarrassed to be staring. It’s not often she has ringside seats to something this good, and she’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Tea? she says to Emily.

Emily just stares at her like she’s speaking Martian. Or maybe that she has somehow landed on Mars and needs a translation.

Tea, Jilly repeats. Lapsang souchong.

Now Emily does need a translation. I try to keep this as simple and painless as possible. Tea, I say. Emily nods.

Da-Da! Cooper says with enthusiasm, and bonks Art on the nose. Then he laughs. Tea! he shouts. Tea, tea, tea!

Lapthang thouchong, Dorcas says.

We turn to look at her.

Tea, she explains.

We turn to look at Art and Emily. She’s a bit… Art stops and glances at Emily. She shrugs tiredly, precocious.

No way, I think. She’s ten months old. She should still be working on ‘Goo, goo, ga, ga.’

This is when I notice Dorcas has levelled her gaze on me. Auntie Catt, she says, and I just know she’s said my name with two T’s. And then, in the event that I’m not quite with the program, she points a pudgy finger at her chest and says, Dorcath.

Then, showing the proper disdain one does towards inferior species, such as brothers, she points to Cooper and says, Cowpoop.

Apparently some words are interchangeable, even at this age.

Jilly tries valiantly to smother her giggles. Thankfully, she’s finally started to relax.

Please, God, don’t let her extrapolate this situation to her own future child. Dorcas and Cooper are not your average babies. I don’t want to get her hopes up.

So, Emily says, choking down a few gulps of steaming liquid, this is Stockton?

No, mummy, Dorcas says seriously, patting Emily’s hand. Tea.

Tea, Emily agrees weakly. Then she lances her gaze at Art. "You didn’t mention we’d be…visiting…so soon."

I know how you like surprises, he says.

Surprise! Cooper shouts, and bonks Art on the nose again.

Dorcas frowns at her brother.

Cowpoop! she says dismissively.

Dork! he responds. Then he bonks Art one more time for good measure.

Well, Emily says, shooting Art a look. I see it land but he pretends not to notice, "I guess you should think about bath time. It’s your turn."

Then she rises and stomps away. She gets as far as the back door, realizes this is not quite what she had in mind, and slams it shut again. Then she resumes her stomp out of the room.

We hear a sudden shriek followed by a muffled yell, and we all turn to watch Gramps stalk into the kitchen. He’s wielding a tennis racket in one hand and a spritzer bottle in the other. His face has been set to well past annoyed.

Catt, what the heck is goin’ on? he splutters. And who in heck was that little missy with the storm cloud face? I hadda spritz her but good. She scared the bejeesus out of me.

Great. This is just what we need. A pissed off Emily.

Correction. A very wet, pissed off Emily.

This is when he sees Art.

He looks from his tennis racket to his spritzer bottle. Neither makes the grade as a suitable ice breaker. Then he shakes his head. If I didn’t know better, he says, I’d think you were my long lost grandson, the one who never writes, or calls, or nothin’.

Uh, hi, Gramps, Art says, and shuts up, like this is some kind of trap, and he’s not exactly sure where to put his feet, or if he’d be better off flying by the seat of his pants. If I were him, I’d stick with airborne.

Gramps raised us kids after our folks deserted us to skip the light fandango, not to mention their parental responsibilities, so I’d guess he has a right to be put out.

Then Gramps sees the babies.

Gamps! Cooper says, and smacks Art on the nose again.

"Grampth!" Dorcas reprimands him. Definitely her father’s daughter. Testy. Superior. Snotty.

Gramps chuckles and puts down his weapons. It’s instant love. Who would have guessed that beneath that crusty, cranky exterior is complete mush?

While Art is trying to locate his tongue and force it to make words, I do the introductions.

This is Dorcas, I tell him, and that’s Cooper.

Cowpoop! Dorcas agrees gravely.

Cowpoop, huh? Gramps says. Dorcas nods. Well, that sounds just about right, He slides a look at Art,"since your Dad’s name is Farout and all the kids used to call him ‘Fart’."

Art winces. He hates to be reminded of the stupid names our folks saddled us with: namely, Cosmic, Farout and Catamaran. We’ve all come to terms with these over the years, since the first thing we did when we moved in with Gramps was change them to Micky, Art and Catt.

"Fart, Dorcas says. She looks at Cooper and then Art and chortles, Cowpoop. Fart. Cowpoop. Fart. Cowpoop."

Well, she’s a real quick learner, Gramps says approvingly. He brightens. "I bet I can teach her a whole bunch of things!"

Uh, we’re not going to be here long, Art says quickly, trying to head Gramps off at the pass. It’s sort of like a vacation. He glances my way. "A sort of working vacation. It was a…sudden decision. I’m kind of surprised myself."

Nothin’ that happens around here surprises me, Gramps says. Then he scratches his head. But you sure picked a funny time to come vacatin’.

Because it’s cold out? Art says.

No, that ain’t it, Gramps says, giving me a weird look, like somehow I’ve forgotten something vital. Because Catt and Jilly are up to their armpits in alligators, that’s why.

Cooper looks interested. He peers around for the alligators.

What is Gramps talking about? I’ve got enough to do with unexpected house guests, and the even more unexpected intrusion of someone called Meenie. And it’s not like I can ask Art about her now. Not with all these other people around.

And then I do remember. Oh, crap.

Chapter Four

Seriously? Jilly sounds annoyed too. What is it about today? Everyone seems to be in a bad mood, and they’re taking it out on me. I’d go back to bed but Meenie is probably waiting for me the minute I shut my eyes. "How could you forget? Don’t you have a calendar?"

Riley ate it, I tell her. Riley eats everything. You know that.

Riley is our huge, largely untrained and with a definite mind of his own, dog. He listens to no one. He tries to eat everything in sight, including each of our five cats. Sometimes I think they just lead him on until he gets into trouble so they can sit back and watch. Riley is only too happy to oblige them.

"And we