The Ice House by Laura Lee Smith

Author:Laura Lee Smith [Smith, Laura Lee]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780802189318
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2017-01-10T05:00:00+00:00

Eleven

Johnny had developed a theory that insomnia was really a form of misguided self-preservation, an innate revulsion for the deathlike trance of sleep. How else could you explain it? It made no sense. There you were, stretched out in a bed with every comfort, weariness in every limb, but unable to tip your consciousness over the edge to slumber. He could see it sometimes, the cool soft fabric of dreams, there in the distance, but so often he just couldn’t get there. He tried listening to white-noise recordings through headphones. He tried drinking less than usual. He tried drinking more than usual. He tried pestering Pauline for sex, hoping the release would bring sleepiness. He tried full darkness and nightlights, electric blankets and Benadryl, earplugs and early rising. He loathed sheep, having once hit one of the damn things outside Paisley, so he counted Chevelles instead, saw them prowling under an oak canopy on a Florida back road. One hundred Chevelles. Two hundred. Six hundred. Nothing worked.

When he was at home, after a few hours of staring at the ceiling, he’d often tip up on one elbow to watch Pauline sleep, and though this was soothing and restful in its way, he’d usually end up getting up to watch a movie, or to noodle with some little widget in the garage, or to puzzle over one factory issue or another—investing in a new water treatment system, for example. Or automating the shrink-wrap system to save money but having to lay off three good employees in the process. Or surviving an OSHA fine. And this last would keep him up and pacing even longer.

Funny that sleeplessness seemed to be a purely human concern. He’d never seen a dog or cat suffer with it. Perhaps animals were braver than people, he concluded. Feared death less. One of the most frustrating things about being an insomniac was that he’d fall asleep at long last near four or five in the morning, only to have to wake up a couple of hours later, start the day, and assume that the elusive fatigue would inevitably show up like a Mack truck at some point in the afternoon. Take today, for example. He’d just started awake. He was embarking on a journey to Port Readie to attempt a truce with his fragile and long-estranged son. And he was going to attempt this fool’s errand under three handicaps: insomniac fatigue, jet lag, and one hell of a hangover.

The bedroom was overwarm. A layer of dampness coated Johnny’s chest. He sat up. Across the room sat Corran’s old bed, rumpled from Chemal’s recent sleep. Through the years, on the occasions when he came to visit Corran on his own, Johnny bunked up here with his son, and in this room, he had always felt like a kid at a slumber party. It wasn’t like that when Pauline came with him. Then they would book a room at a little B&B overlooking the Clyde, make a vacation out of it.

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