***
The dream changed again. I was dancing in a great, beautiful, brightly lit, ornate, mirrored room. The music was an old-fashioned, expansive, graceful Strauss waltz.
Helen and I were whirling wide and warmly smiling at one another. It was as if we were in a scene from the black and white Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I wore a tailored, dress evening suit and she a dark-green, floor-length satin gown. We held one another close and danced as one. She felt warm and smelled of dusting powder and lemon. We danced with joy and possibility.
The freckles on her creamy pale bare shoulders matched those on her nose and pink cheeks. There was no hint of facial makeup, save a light pink lipstick. Her beauty was real and vibrant. I looked away from her magic blue eyes to admire our dancing image in the mirrored wall, but the couple I saw in the reflection was not us. It appeared to be a young Mr. Jones and a woman, a beautiful, very dark, black woman. Her features were strongly Negro.
The young Mr. Jones' hair was dark and full and matched his groomed beard. His dance partner was taller than he and wearing a striking, scarlet gown. They were intent on one another. Their look duplicated Helen's and mine…ease and delight. The woman's bare arms were dark-chocolate, muscled and her white gloved hands large. Her dignity was a golden aura emanating from all about her. Mr. Jones smiled and held her firmly as they whirled and the music played. And then, as I blinked and whirled, the image in the mirror was again of Helen and me dancing. She nodded at the reflection in the mirror and I followed her questioning eyes. Then Mr. Jones and the elegant black woman were there again. In my dream's realm I heard Helen say, "Well, Doak imagine that!"
***
My dream world shifted yet again. I was looking out the window of what looked like a stagecoach from the old John Wayne, John Carradine, Marlene Dietrich movie "Stagecoach." There stood a plain, remarkably small white woman with dark brown hair parted in the middle with large coils encircling her head. Her eyes were a deep brown and her complexion light. She smiled and waved at me. Holding her hand was a small, blond-headed boy who looked a lot like my son Adam when he was four. But it wasn't Adam and his mother waving at me.
These were strangers. I'd never seen these two before. As the coach rocked away and the woman and boy waving in the distance I turned and sat back on the hard seat. The coach creaked, bounced, and rocked. I was holding what seemed to be a small old fashioned shaving kit or maybe a writing box. On its top was a silver plate, engraved 'G.W.J.'.