“No. What?”
“That waitress is the secret witch queen of the island of Nysa.” You’re whispering now, your voice hissing and hesitant.
“Is that so?” I ask.
You nod, your face serious. “This is the entryway to her secret lair. Back in the room where they keep all their ingredients, there’s a secret door behind one of the shelves.”
“Like in Nancy Drew?”
You nod again. “Only better. It only swings opens if you lift up one of the ketchup bottles. There are a thousand steps down into the earth, and at the very bottom is where she keeps her prisoners.”
“Who does she take prisoner?” I ask, feigning seriousness.
“Only people with one name.”
“One name? What name is that?”
“Paul!” You start giggling.
“Paul?” I pretend to be offended, but I’m unable to keep the smile from my face. “Paul?”
“Yeah, Paul!” you say, laughing so hard now you almost can’t speak. “She takes all the Pauls prisoner.” You’re rolling around on the booth, holding your side.
“Why all the Pauls?” I ask, but you can’t answer. You’re laughing too hard. Finally you stop, wiping the tears of laughter from your eyes.
“Oh, Grampy,” you begin, then stop talking.
“You’re a good storyteller,” I say.
You get a strange look on your face, a kind of earnestness that’s akin to pleading. “You know, not all of my stories are made up.”
I reach across the table and place my hand palm up. You put one of your small hands into mine. I stroke the top of your hand with my index finger, and for some reason I’m feeling emotional now, feeling the smoothness of your skin, the tiny bones in your young hand.
“I know, Pearl. I know.”
“Do you really believe me? Do you really believe that some of my stories are real?”
To be honest, I don’t know what to think about your stories. You’re so earnest when you tell them. I know you were making up this one about the waitress, but I still find myself wishing I could search the back room of the diner, check the ketchup bottles, make sure there are no secret passageways to the underworld.
“There’s a lot in this world I don’t understand, Pearl.”
You nod, but you take your hand from mine gently, and I can feel you withdrawing.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” she says. “This is really the same town where you grew up? This is where you met Grandma and where my daddy was born?”
“I don’t know, Pearl, I have to be honest. It’s the same town where I grew up, but it’s not the same. It feels different.”
“How’s it different?”
“It’s quieter, for one thing. People used to take care of things, but now the buildings are falling down.” I pause. “It’s kind of sad.”
You are staring through the window again. I reach up and touch my knot, and I wish I would have sat so that it was facing the wall and not the inside of the diner. It seems bigger again, swollen somehow. I wish I could rip it off.
“It’s a nice place,” you say. “It’s quiet, but I like that. It’s not like the city.”
I chuckle. “No, nothing like that.”
“Did you come here a lot?” you ask.
“You mean to the diner?”
“Yeah.”
“Once my friend Tom had his license, we came here all the time. This place was open twenty-four hours. You know your grandma Mary? Well, her mom worked here. I guess she would be your great-grandma.”
I hadn’t thought of that before. Considering all the generations you’ve missed out on makes me so sad I could cry right there in the diner.
“She used to give us free French fries. We almost always came here late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. Usually to this booth, unless it was taken.”
“Tell me about her again,” you say.
The cowbell rings, and everyone’s head swings to see who came in. Another man. I guess he’s about my age, but something about him seems older too. Worn. He has a long face and short hair, and his clothes aren’t business formal, but they’re sharp. A button-up shirt is tucked into suit pants, all held together with a classy belt. He pulls reading glasses from his pocket as he makes his way to the end of the bar opposite us, as far away as he could be from the other three sitting there.
A silence settles in the diner. The three men, who had at some point started chatting, are immediately silent. The waitress comes out, and I see her glance toward the new arrival before spinning around and going right back in, timing the swing of the door. I check to see if you notice the presence the man brought when he came in, but you’re staring out through the glass again.
I can’t shake the idea that I know this man. From high school? But that was a long time ago, and I can’t get a good look at him anymore—where he’s sitting, a shadow falls across his face.
“That man?” you say to me.
“Yeah?”
“He’s in league with the witch waitress. Together they rule the island of Nysa. You’ve been brought back here to overthrow their evil kingdom.” The whole time you’re saying this, you’re gazing out through the glass, out into the town.
I shake my head and sigh. The thing about you is, you don’t really know when to stop. When to come back to reality.
“Nothing happens in Nysa, not really,” I say unconvincingly. I remember that icy vein of fear we all felt after the drowning of Gillian Hudson, the rush of adrenaline I felt the night Mary saw the woman in the field, the way anxiety gathered in me when I saw Tom and Shirley paddling home without Mary. Those things happened. They happened here, in Nysa. How can I tell you that nothing ever happens in Nysa?
“I saw the woman again,” you say. “On the drive here.”
“The one with the silver hair?” I try not to sound dubious.
You nod slowly. “The one who helped me with the map. She was walking across the bridge as we drove over. She was coming here, to Nysa.”
Now, I know for a fact no one was walking that bridge when we drove across. They would have been impossible for me to miss. But I stay quiet.
The John Deere ball cap man stands up. He pulls out his wallet, retrieves a single bill, and lays it down on the counter. He pats the man wearing the loose tie on the back and walks out. The man in the tie shakes his head, clears his throat, closes his paper, and also puts some cash on the counter. He shakes the hand of the happy one who had made everything feel lighter.
After the man wearing the tie walks out, the lighthearted man stands up and seems to think about leaving but has second thoughts and comes over to you and me. His eyes are quizzical, his hands fidgety and restless. What I first mistook for glib happiness when he walked in? It’s more of a nervousness, a jittery sort of pep.
“I’m Gerald Mills,” he says, holding out his hand, which I shake.
“I’m Paul. This is my granddaughter, Pearl.” At the mention of the word “granddaughter,” he visibly relaxes. Maybe he thought I was a kidnapper or something. I don’t know.
“Hi, Gerald Mills,” you say. Your happiness and the enthusiastic way you shake his hand seem to bathe him in a second round of relief.
“What are you kind folks doing here in Nysa? That is, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“Of course not,” I say. “I grew up here and wanted to show Pearl my old homeplace.”
The man who came in last, the one who sits in the shadows, seems to shift in his seat. I can tell he’s listening to us.
“Is that right?” Gerald says, now appearing genuinely interested. “What’s your last name? That is, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Last name’s Elias. My parents had a place outside of town on Vintage Road. You know, the house up the hill, past the bridge.”
Now I can feel the man across the diner staring at me.
“Up on the top?”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
“Well,” he mutters. “I’
ll be. I know it well. I used to live down that way a little further, over on Pendrick.”
It’s a road name I’ve not thought about in forty years, but I can see it now. I know how it moves with the countryside, the bends, the dips, as it follows one of the streams.
“It’s been years since I’ve been here,” I say.
“Your folks still here?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No, sir, they are not. They both passed quite a while ago.” A sharp regret stabs me in the chest. I never came back for their funerals. After Mary died, I left everyone behind. Everyone except your father.
“May their souls rest in peace,” he says, the superstition thick in his voice.
I nod, not knowing what to say to that.
He stands there awkwardly while the waitress brings our grilled cheeses. Still he stands there, more than a little bit in the way as she tries to unload her tray.
“Need anything else?” she asks, and I glance at you but have to look away quickly so I don’t start laughing. I know you’re sizing up the woman for real now, wondering if it’s possible she might actually be a witch or a sorceress.
You clear your throat and speak in an even voice. “No thank you, ma’am.”
“We’re fine. Thanks,” I say.
She walks over to the bar and talks to the man in the shadows in hushed tones. I have a sneaking feeling they’re talking about us, and I want to stand and walk out calmly and drive away, back past Junior’s, back over the bridge, back to somewhere that isn’t here. But I don’t. We’re both hungry. And I have no other plan for you—it’s Nysa or bust.
I lift the grilled cheese and take a bite. It’s delicious. The melted cheese is hot and the bacon crunches between my teeth. I close my eyes in ecstasy.
Gerald Mills is still standing there beside the table.
“I’m sorry?” I say, not sure what he’s waiting for.
“Of course,” he says. “I should be going.” He hesitates.
“Is there something . . .” I begin, but again it all feels awkward. Why is he still here, staring at us? At you? What does he want to say that he’s not saying?
He looks nervously over his shoulder, in the direction of the man sitting at the bar. “We don’t get many visitors.”
“In the diner?” I ask, wiping my mouth with a napkin.
“In the town.” He whispers the words, and something about the faintness of his voice makes my mouth go dry.
I reach for my water. Your eyes are wide.
“What year did you leave, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“1979,” I say.
He nods slowly. “That’s about when everything started happening. It’s strange you’ve come back now.”
“When everything started happening?” I ask.
“Out at the lake,” he says, sort of coming back from wherever his mind had escaped to. “That’s when all the drownings started. I wouldn’t go out that way if I were you.”
An Unexpected Encounter
Gerald Mills walks away, out through the door, and the cowbell rings. I turn back to see how you took the odd message, and I widen my eyes to emphasize the strangeness of the situation. You give an excited kind of grin, anticipating some new adventure.
“That was weird,” I whisper, and you lean in.
“He’s in on it too.”
“In on what?” I ask.
“He’s in cahoots with the witch queen. Except he’s been in a feud with that man over there for a long time.”
“Cahoots?” I laugh. I can’t help it. Your imagination is running wild now. “So why did he tell us, ‘We don’t get many visitors’?”
“He’s trying to warn us,” you say in a serious voice, all the joking gone. “He’s trying to tell us to get out while we still can.”
I feel it again, that sudden rush of saliva to my throat, a swelling of something in my gut, something that wants out. I think I’m going to vomit right there on the table.
“Sorry, Pearl. I need to use the restroom.”
I assume it’s where it always was, through the swinging kitchen door to the right, more of a closet than anything else. And I’m right. I catch a glance of that old kitchen before I go through the bathroom door, and it’s not changed at all. Except nothing’s quite as shiny as it used to be—the stainless steel is clouded over, and the large stove has rust patches down around the bottom corners. I doubt the health department even comes out to Nysa anymore.
I stand over the toilet and wait, but whatever it was that stirred up my stomach starts to settle. Maybe moving around was the cure. I think getting outside for some fresh air might be a good idea, so I flush the toilet, wash my hands, and walk back out.
Standing there by our table is the man from across the diner. The man from the shadows. The first things I notice are his expensive shoes and how his pants are pressed in a perfect crease. The sunlight glares off the shined leather of his belt, and the brass buckle nearly glows. Every line of his shirt is sharp, he is clean-shaven, and his eyes . . .
That’s when I realize who he is.
“Tom?” I whisper, barely able to formulate the name, and when I do, so little air escapes that it’s more me shaping his name with my mouth than actually saying it.
“I thought it was you when I heard your voice,” he says, but the words barely register because his tone is unexpected. There’s no joy there at seeing a long-lost friend. He seems somehow flat, like the old Tom I knew had been pressed out when his shirt was ironed.
“I thought to myself,” he continues, “‘I know that voice. Where have I heard it before?’ And it’s really you, right here in front of me.”
Here I am, standing in front of Tom, a friend I haven’t seen for forty years, shortly after Mary died. And because his voice sounds so vacant, I’m not sure what to do—hug him? Shaking hands feels too formal. Standing here feels like the worst option, but that’s what we do—stand in the narrow diner aisle and stare at each other.
“It’s me,” I say, putting my hands in my pockets. Why is he so emotionless?
“I never thought I’d see you again,” he says, his words more a statement of fact than any kind of accusation or relief.
Is he angry at the sudden way I left Nysa all those years ago? That fits. That seems to make sense, and I consider apologizing. Should I say I’m sorry for how I left things? Should I take the conversation in that direction and see if that’s what he wants? An apology?
That’s when I hear you sliding out of the plastic booth. You stand behind me.
“Tom,” I say again, and I don’t have to pretend that I’m shocked, because I am. I don’t know why I didn’t consider it before, the fact that I might run into people from my childhood. “I can’t believe it’s you. I can’t . . . This is my granddaughter, Pearl. This is John’s daughter.”
You hold out your hand, and he stares at it, turning his head to the side, examining it. He crouches down so that his eyes are level with yours, and he finally reaches for your hand.
“You look exactly like your grandmother,” he states, and a recognizable softness is there this time, something creeping through the flat exterior.
Time has treated Tom well—he seems like he’s in good shape. He dresses like someone who has found a great deal of success. I angle my head so he can’t see the knot that’s growing. It’s suddenly embarrassing, this weakness. I raise my hand and pretend to scratch my scalp, cupping the knot in my palm.
“Join us?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says, his voice still sounding like it’s coming through gauze. “Of course.”
I sit back down and slide over, but he walks over and sits in your side of the booth. You slide all the way to the wall and stare up at him with something like amazement.
“Where do we even begin?” I ask, trying to keep it light but not succeeding. We sit there in the quiet, the warm sunshine radiating in on us, you staring up at him, the waitress bustling around in the back room. There is the never-ending clatte
r of dishes and silverware, and something sizzles on the grill.
“Why’d you come back?” he asks, and I can sense it—genuine interest.
I shrug. “I wanted to show Pearl where I grew up.” I’ve said this half-truth so many times, it’s beginning to feel true. Perhaps there is no diagnosis, no knot on the side of my head, and this is only an innocent trip in which an older man wants to show his granddaughter where he learned how to ride a bike or catch his first fish.
I reach up and touch the knot again, to be sure. It doesn’t seem like Tom has seen it—if he has, he’s kept his eyes from wandering back to it.
“When did you get in?” he asks.
“We drove across the bridge, oh, about an hour ago.”
He nods, taking it all in. “Where are you staying?”
I give a half-hearted, wry smile. “No plans. Any recommendations?”
He glances down at his expensive watch, grabs on to it, and turns it this way and that on his wrist. “You should come stay with me,” he offers, and his voice is still so neutral I can’t tell if he’d genuinely like that or not.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, looking out the window, squinting in the sun.
“You’ve got no other options. Trust me. Not anymore. Unless you want to go back out to the highway.”
I glance over at you. Your plate is empty, the grilled cheese polished off long ago. You nod eagerly, smiling first at me and then at Tom. “I’d like that.”
“There you have it,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “I guess you have houseguests.”
There’s a banging in the kitchen, someone swears loudly, and someone else complains.
“What about Shirley?” I ask suddenly without thinking. “How is she?”
But Tom doesn’t hear, or pretends not to. “Jenny!” he calls into the back.
“Jenny?” I ask.
“The waitress.”
“Oh.” I glance over at you. “Pearl thinks she’s a witch queen.”
Tom gets a peculiar expression on his face, and it’s the closest he’s come to a smile since we first saw each other. “Is that so?”
You nod, your eyes wide, eager to see how this adult will respond to your imagination.
The Weight of Memory Page 9