Falling Stone
Amy Stilgenbauer
Copyright © 2014 Amy Stilgenbauer
All rights reserved.
Cover Image: "The Little Restaurant" by Édouard Vuillard. This work is in the public domain in the United States, and those countries with a copyright term of life of the author plus 100 years or less. This work has been identified as being free of known restrictions under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to my dear friends Jillian and Reno for all their support.
“From the moment absurdity is recognized, it becomes a passion, the most harrowing of all.”
THE MYTH OF SISYPHUS. Albert Camus
1.
Paint Township, Ohio. September, 2013.
Corn.
Corn.
Corn.
The damnable grain stretched out from horizon to horizon. There was nothing else for miles: just corn and the winding narrow road Henry found himself upon. He had come out to this wasteland of fly-over country to accept an invitation, a challenge really, from an irate Amish man, but since he had pulled off Route 250, he hadn’t seen a single landmark. Unless, of course, corn counted.
An 18 wheeler laid on the horn before zipping past on the two lane road. Henry swore, no small amount of road rage bubbling up inside him. For a moment, he considered trailing the truck or at the very least calling the “How’s My Driving?” number plastered to the back, but after a few deep breaths, the anger dissipated.
It didn’t last long. A horse and buggy pulled into the road a mile or so in front of him, forcing his own car to a plodding pace. Henry made several mental notes to warn people about all of this in his review of the restaurant.
He swore once again, in a different way, when The Dutch Kitchen Inn rose out of the landscape. At first, he mistook it for a mirage in the desert of corn, but as he pulled into the small, gravel parking lot and twitched when he pinched himself, he felt more certain the place was real.
“Credit where credit is due,” Henry muttered to himself as he took in the sight of the massive, repurposed old barn. It was painted that faded crimson with crisp white trim only seen in issues of National Geographic or movies about the “old frontier”. Under normal circumstances, he would have found that trite. He almost did, but strung ivy garlands around the door stayed him. He didn’t know why. He had certainly never been a big fan of ivy. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes from it. He shuffled forward, approaching with a sort of uncertain reverence. The landscape around him transformed, and Henry Danvers felt as though he had fallen under a spell. Even the fields of corn had ceased to irritate him.
2.
Raymond Mooreland felt like he had swallowed a hedgehog. Ever since the Manhattan food critic had agreed to come visit his restaurant, a tiny barbed-wire feeling had nagged at the lining of his stomach, but today he was supposed to arrive. The prickly sensation had turned to stabs of nervous anticipation. It had all been a mistake. He knew that now, but it was too late.
Too late to take back the angry letter. “If you call Ohio a cultural wasteland without at least a visit to the Dutch Kitchen Inn, you are a hypocrite.”
Definitely too late to not use words like “East Coast Elitism” which made him nauseous to remember.
“You couldn’t have just let it lie?” He asked himself bitterly, pacing the store room. He wasn’t the sort of man that got angry about these things. He was the sort of man who ran a comfort food restaurant in Ohio Amish Country; one that had a breakfast buffet. Breakfast buffets didn’t often bring smiles to the faces of Manhattan food critics, but, if they were good enough, they did bring in tourists for miles. That was what mattered. He knew that. What did he care what some stranger thought about the state of Ohio?
The front hostess peered in. “Mr. Danvers is here,” she said, her voice a combination of joviality and apprehension.
Raymond nodded. Time to deal with the consequences of what he had done.
*
When he saw Henry Danvers, he knew those consequences would be dire. The man looked haggard and travel worn. His hair, so pristinely combed and polished in publicity photos, hung limp and tousled. Small frizzy bits stuck out near his part line. The stubble on his chin was in that weird in between stage of not quite on purpose and his suit jacket looked as though it had been fished off the floor of the car quite recently.
“The rental car did not have air conditioning,” Henry said without introducing himself.
Raymond tried not to bristle. “That must have been uncomfortable,” he said instead. “Can I get you a glass of water? Though, you look like you’d prefer a beer...”
“You have alcohol here?” Henry wrinkled his brow, looking incredulous. “I honestly would have thought you people...”
“I'm not really...” Then Raymond stopped. He didn't need to explain his family history to this man. It would probably get used against him, anyway. With a slight scoff, he gripped Henry’s shoulder and led him into the restaurant and toward a table. Though dragging his feet, Henry didn’t shrug his hand off until he had plopped himself into a chair. “So how much research did you do exactly?” Before Henry could answer, though, he looked to the hostess. “Can you get him a birch beer?”
Henry frowned. “You must think I’m an idiot.”
“I already thought you were an idiot,” Raymond said, the words spilling out before he could contain them. He kicked himself mentally.
Henry didn’t appear offended, however. “Yes, your letter made that obvious. What was it you called me? ‘A head full of nothing but shit and east coast elitism’?”
“You called my home a cultural wasteland.” Raymond still regretted his harsh insults, but at least he could claim they were provoked.
The two men considered each other for a long time. The silence was uncomfortable and Raymond ached to break it. He wanted to break down and spill out every desperate love he had for his restaurant and his home and why it was so important to him that other people understand, but he said nothing. There was weakness in speaking first. Raymond’s father taught him that. If you waited, you were the winner.
Once again, Raymond’s father was right.
“I grew up in Pennsylvania,” Henry said just seconds before Raymond was about to break. “This little tiny town. It was...everything was so...small towns...” he shook his head.
Despite not actually saying a full sentence, Raymond gathered his meaning. “Everybody in your business?” He prompted.
Henry nodded his affirmation then rolled his eyes. “And being assholes about it.”
“Is the city really any different?”
Though Henry appeared to ponder this sincerely, he nodded. “It’s so much easier to be anonymous; to fade in and out like you don’t even exist. Not a single one of my coworkers knew about my divorce until -I- told them...over two months later.”
Raymond shrugged. “Look, round here, people don’t really care what I do...except for the fact that I opened a tourist trap of a restaurant. They’re not terribly happy about that.”
Henry smirked and Raymond had the distinct feeling that he had stepped into a snake pit. He wracked his brain, trying to come up with some words that could calm the cobras, but the hostess arrived with a tall, frosty glass of birch beer and saved him the trouble.
“I suppose you’d like to see a menu?” he asked as Henry gulped the drink down and rushed off to gather one without waiting for an answer.
3.
After a dandelion salad, spaetzle, and something called leberknoedel, the exact ingredients of which, Raymond was a touch cagey about, the hostess, beaming, brought dessert. It was a single slice of unadorned pie, molasses brown with a crumble on top, and a voice somewhere deep inside of Henry year
ned for it.
She set it on the table with a knowing smirk. “House favorite.”
Trying all along to quell his inner child, Henry took a bite. The burst of flavor; warm, gooey, and sweet with a tangy aftertaste, transported him back to a Pennsylvania kitchen. His grandmother sat across from him, eating her own piece of pie. She smiled at him for a moment before the vision dissolved.
“God,” he muttered, not looking away from the fork. “Is this pie magic or something?”
“Cultural wasteland, Henry?” Raymond teased.
But Henry didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to stare at the fork and the pie with a newfound desperation. He hadn’t felt that content or comforted in years. He needed to feel it again.
With each successive bite, he was treated to a vision: of his grandmother’s kitchen; his mother cheering after a middle school orchestra performance; his ex-wife, Alice, before everything went wrong, looking beautiful and radiant in her wedding gown. Eating the pie treated him to a litany of small happy moments from the best days of his life.
“What was that?” He asked when the pie had been finished and the last vision still hung like a whisper in the air.
“Shoofly pie,” Raymond said. There was a heaviness beyond his simple explanation. Henry could sense it.
“Not any shoofly pie I’ve ever eaten.”
“I assure you...maybe it’s just been too long.”
Henry did not find this answer acceptable, but decided not to pursue it any further. He merely scribbled in his notebook: “shoofly pie = ? illegal substance?” and slammed it shut. “I think I’ve got my story.”
He got up and started for the door. Raymond was trailing after him, babbling on about some artisan Swiss cheese shop down the road, but Henry didn’t want to hear it. He turned and coldly shook Raymond’s hand. “Thank you for inviting me. It’s been a pleasure.” and left before he could hear the directions to any spot other than I-71.
4.
The rental, an ancient subcompact of indeterminate origin, flew over the rolling hills of eastern Ohio at breakneck speed. Henry just wanted to be home. There was a strange sensation, a foreboding, haunting him, but he couldn’t tell if it had more to do with the memories or the clearly drug-induced food poisoning.
Distracted, impatient, his mind still jolting between past, present, and future, he flew past another buggy, right into the path of an oncoming truck. Instinctively, he tried to swerve again. Back into his previous lane or onto the shoulder, his brain couldn’t process the commands it sent to his hands quick enough.
Time stopped.
He saw the car, as if from the outside. It spun wildly and careened into a field of corn. The car had built up too much momentum. The stalks of corn did nothing to slow its progress; they merely bent and gave way. A thick trunked, ancient oak tree loomed ahead. No amount of momentum was going to get through it. Henry cursed, loud and fierce, damning centuries of farmer afternoon rest traditions. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to brace himself for the crash.
He didn’t feel the impact. He felt nothing at all.
*
When he opened his eyes, the air around him seemed full of static, like the world’s tv antenna had not been properly adjusted. He shook his head, realizing smoke had filled the car and scrambled from the vehicle. “Thank God for seat belts,” he muttered.
That’s when he saw her standing in the field in front of him.
The young woman was slim and clearly out of place, dressed in a head to toe royal purple cloak. She peeled back the hood and looked him over appraisingly as he approached. He felt struck by her. Her skin was an odd shade of pale ochre, something like papaya whip gone sour, and jaundiced. A splash of freckles highlighted her already stark cheekbones giving her a fierce expression. Her hair, though, was the truly unmistakable part of her. The tight curls shone a brilliant, unnatural orange that almost blinded him when he first took her in. He couldn’t tell if he found her beautiful or horrifying.
“Hello,” she said in a deep, vibrating alto of a voice.
“Hello,” he replied. He didn’t know what else to say.
“Looks like you’ve made a mess of the car.” Her voice was so smooth and elegant. Henry felt a calming warmth rise through him as he listened.
“Yeah, I probably won’t be getting my deposit back on this one.”
“No...I suppose not.” She started to pace around the car. Henry thought it was dangerous, but something about her stayed him from mentioning it.
“I should probably call the police...or a tow or something.”
“I’m sure someone has handled that.” She gestured toward the truck driver who had pulled off the road. He was some distance away, but Henry could clearly see his frantic gestures as he spoke with a police officer. Then, almost out of no where, flashing blue and red lights decorated the whole area. He hadn’t realized until now how dark everything seemed. How much time had passed? Had he really been out that long?
“Still...maybe an ambulance. I should get checked for a concussion at least.”
At this the woman lost her composure and started to laugh. “A concussion. Oh...I wish you had a concussion, Henry.”
A chill ran through him. “How do you know my name?”
“How could I not?”
The world around him started to shake and bump forward as though he were on an old wooden roller coaster. Now the nearby ambulance became clear and the paramedics were pulling something out of the car, something that looked a great deal like a human body, like his own body.
“Dead on impact,” he heard one of them mutter. “Poor bastard didn’t stand a chance.”
“No!” Henry said with indignation. “I’m not dead. I’m right here. I don’t know who that is, but I’m right here!”
The red haired woman chuckled. “However, so am I.”
Henry paused and looked back at her. Death. Scythe-less, yes. But death. It seemed odd to him in so many ways. He had never believed in an afterlife. In fact, he had assumed that when a person died, they simply stopped existing. It had always seemed a peaceful thought: to no longer have to be anything, to just end. That wasn’t the concern he voiced, however. When he opened his mouth again, the words that came out sounded more like, “Death isn’t a woman.”
“No?” She asked, a smirk adorning her disturbingly crimson lips. Henry didn’t think they were that color a moment ago. “Are you sure about that?”
His mind whirled. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure about anything now. “And besides, I can’t be dead yet. I still have things to do.”
She rolled her eyes. “Here we go. Do you think that you’re the first to-”
“Perhaps we could make some sort of deal?”
Her laugh was lighter this time. “That’s never a good idea. I’m cleverer than you.”
“I’m not trying to trick-”
“My father, let me assure you, didn’t plan to be stuck between the two veils, neither living nor dead, but these things do happen when you go mucking around-”
“I just...my wife...ex-wife...we didn’t part well. I don’t want to leave things the way they were.”
“If I let-”
“I did love her. I want her to know that. Even after everything that she did to me, everything she put me through. She was the light of my life and I want to tell her.” He watched as the look on the woman’s face began to soften. He could see the conflict in her eyes, but somehow he knew he had won.
“Where is your former wife?” She asked, a hesitant caution in her tone.
Henry felt a rush of triumph. Women. “New York City. She has an apartment in Queens.”
Cold brown eyes searched him appraisingly and Henry tried to keep his face a mask. “Very well,” she said. “You have forty-eight hours to speak with your wife. Upon which time, I will come and collect you. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” Henry said, hoping he sounded sincere.
Somewhere unseen, he heard a cat meow in a conte
mptuous, almost reprimanding way. Death, as she appeared to be, shushed it. “If you try to trick me, remember what I said about my father.”
Henry was about to nod, but as he did the world rocked again. The roller coaster seemed to have snapped its chain and began hurtling backward toward the gates. He couldn’t help himself. He screamed, an unfamiliar pain rushing through him, and he woke on the paramedic’s gunry.
5.
“I wouldn’t have done that if I were you,” a sing-song voice announced before Jaclyn’s eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light of the Underland’s cavernous halls. “Moira’s not going to be happy with you.”
It took her a long moment to register who had spoken. In front of her sat a petite young-looking woman with a deep dark brown complexion, her curly hair pulled into two pigtails: Aisha. Jaclyn sighed in relief. Of the three Fates, she was the least irritating and, even better, the one least likely to rip into her for a minor transgression. Moira, on the other hand...
“Moira is never happy with what I do,” Jaclyn replied dismissively.
Aisha nodded. “That is for certain. But you have to understand her...it’s hard to forgive and forget when all your magical training has been focused on aspects of memory.”
“Forgive and forget what? I’ve never done anything to her.” Jaclyn snapped her fingers twice and a fat calico cat came bounding into the room. She smiled and held out a small bit of fish, which it gobbled up gratefully. “My mother’s the Harvest witch. Not me.”
“You showed up. And...you and Calu...you’re very close. She has....opinions on how you got the job.”
Jaclyn shuddered. “Not interested. And even if I was...he’s all stuck on some goddess or some such thing.” Carefully, she scooped the cat into her arms and scratched under her chin. The calico tilted her head back and purred. “I don’t have time for all of this. I’ve got-”
A book collided with her knees. It didn’t hurt, but it was jarring. Butterscotch lept from Jaclyn’s arms. Hissing, she arched her back and stood protectively between Jaclyn and the wild eyed woman who had just entered.
Moira didn’t pay any attention to the cat. Instead, she stared hard at Jaclyn, trying to look her in the eye. Jaclyn knew better. Even without eye contact, Moira was capable of bringing up some of her worst memories. One was already floating to the surface: the night her father disappeared. It was recent, easy for Moira to grab onto, and it stung. A private waterfall of guilt crashed over her.
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