Free Dreamwalker by Russell James Page A

from the law? I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
    â€œNo, Mama,” he responded. “I’m not running from anything. I hope that I am running to something.”
    â€œWell, this is a strange place to stop along the way,” she said. “But it’s none of my business really. I just don’t want the cops breaking in here to arrest you in the middle of the dinner rush.”
    â€œNo trouble,” he said. “I just need to work.”
    Mama smiled. “Oh, Papa will make sure you do.”
    A clang came from the kitchen. Papa was already in the back, cooking. Mama D reached out and patted Pete’s hand.
    â€œDon’t let Papa bully you. It’s just, well, the kitchen, it’s all he knows. Since he came from Italy as a boy, he’s worked in restaurants. First his family’s, now his own. It’s the center of his universe. He assumes it’s everyone else’s.
    â€œAnd don’t let his language skills fool you. He knows what he is doing. God knows he butchers the English, but, tell you the truth…”
    Mama D cupped her hand to her mouth and whispered.
    â€œâ€¦he butchers Italian just as badly.”
    Pete smiled.
    â€œI don’t mind hard work,” he said. “It makes the night go by. I can take what he can dish out.”
    â€œYou’re like our son, Tommy,” she said. “You look like him, too. That’s probably why Papa hired you so quickly.”
    â€œHe doesn’t work the family business?” Pete asked.
    â€œNo, no,” Mama said, crossing her hands back and forth. “That cycle ends with Papa. This is no life for my Tommy. Long days, no vacations, small profits. I sent him to school. He is an engineer, back in the city. He’ll visit this week.”
    â€œLooking forward to it,” Pete said. He really was. He liked the DiStephano family. They made him miss his own a little less.
    â€œYou want some breakfast?” Mama said.
    â€œOh, I’ll go out and get something. I wanted some fresh air and sunshine anyway.”
    â€œPlease,” she said. She took one of the bagels in front of her, divided it with one practiced slice, and put a liberal dose of cream cheese on both sides. “The extent of my cooking.”
    She put the two halves on a plate and slid it across to Pete.
    â€œOh, no,” Pete said. “I really was just on my way out.”
    Mama reached over and slapped the two bagel halves together, put a napkin around them, and forced it up at Pete.
    â€œThen it’s ‘to go’,” she said. “Now eat.”
    He took the bagel. Perhaps Mama missed having Tommy around even more than Papa did.
    â€œThank you.” Pete looked the makeshift sandwich over. “Bagels, huh?”
    â€œWell,” Mama said, “they’re not Italian…” She pointed a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “…but he’ll get over it.”
    A pan clattered into a sink in the kitchen.
    â€œSee you at five,” Pete said, waving with the bagel.
    Mama D’s nose was already back in the paper, and she waved without looking. Pete turned on his heel and headed out the front door.
    The clear, sunny day promised warmth the fall season could not deliver. A sharp breeze brought the smell of salt in off the Atlantic. Pete zipped his coat all the way to the top and flipped his collar up over his neck. He wolfed down the bagel.
    He wanted to see the ocean. The usual anxiety about getting lost raised its ugly head. He could see the bus station at the far end of the street. He could get there without confusion. One straight line. Deep breath. Go.
    As he walked, he crossed Mediterranean and Baltic Avenues. Placing them on a map was impossible, but he did recall the purple colored properties on his old Monopoly board game. In real life, no one built houses or hotels on these sad streets.
    He stopped at Atlantic Boulevard, the barrier that kept the