The Ferryman Institute

by Colin Gigl

  A dour smirk flitted across Charlie’s face. Cartwright had a remarkable knack for knowing exactly what Charlie’s mind-set was at any given time. Granted, Charlie also had the poker face of an excitable three-year-old, so maybe that wasn’t as impressive as it seemed. Regardless, while he appreciated Cartwright’s concern, Charlie wanted nothing to do with the topic. There were several things he’d have to be forced to do, and talk about Charlie Dawson was one of them.

  “For the record, that wasn’t a question,” Charlie said. It was a noble attempt at avoiding the discussion.

  Cartwright, however, was not so easily dissuaded. “Your propensity for quibbling over semantics aside, I would wager considerably that you still see my point,” he said.

  Unfortunately, Charlie did. “It’s nothing to worry about,” he replied, trying to sound indifferent. He suspected it came off as anything but.

  “I believe that is also precisely what the Romans said when the barbarians arrived outside their city walls,” Cartwright said. “Except in Latin, naturally, but I digress.” Cartwright smiled, but his eyes still lacked their playful glimmer, as if he’d seen what Charlie had actually been thinking earlier and knew he’d just been lied to. Or maybe that was just Charlie projecting. Lying always gave him a serious case of the guilt trips.

  Cartwright pulled a small white towel from his pants’ pocket and proceeded to clean his used cup, then absentmindedly packed up his various possessions—teakettle and cups, book, pipe—into a small suitcase before closing it shut. “I apologize if I’ve offended, old friend. However, in the two and a half centuries we’ve been acquainted, I cannot recall a time you’ve seemed quite so . . . distant.”

  The remark stung only because Charlie knew it was the truth. While he’d always believed he hid his emotions well, he was increasingly aware of lapses in the great charade. Even Charlie begrudgingly accepted that, based on recent behavior alone, it didn’t take a PhD in psychology to point out what Cartwright had just alluded to. Maybe it was high time he admitted it.

  Charlie picked himself off the ground and stood just as Cartwright did the same. The moon had taken the sun’s place in the sky now. Though not full, it was large and bright enough to cast a pale glow, illuminating the desert in a ghostly light.

  “I know.” Charlie then paused, searching for the right words and coming up empty. With a shrug, he ran his hand roughly through his short crop of hair. “I know.” There was a not-insubstantial part of Charlie’s mind that desperately wanted to open up, to confess, to tell somebody about all the drama it was currently racking itself with. Yet he held his tongue.

  Cartwright, perhaps sensing the moment had whispered away, gave Charlie his neutral smile. “Chin up, my good fellow. You are made of stern stuff, indeed, of that I have no doubt. I will not press you on the matter. A man should be entitled to the sanctity and privacy of his own thoughts. However, should you find a need to confide in someone, I am at your beck and call.”

  “I appreciate it,” Charlie said. He initially felt content leaving it there, but then he quickly added, “Really, I’m fine. Seriously. I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.”

  Cartwright’s smile softened before he gave the hint of a bow. “A more disturbing notion I could not possibly dream of—that is to say, you using your mind.”

  The bow complete, Cartwright produced a golden key from his vest pocket, one nearly identical to Charlie’s own. With an elegant grace suggesting countless repetition, Cartwright thrust the key through the air, twisted it, and let go. A barely perceptible click sounded in the night, and the key, now floating in midair three and a half feet above the ground, remained motionless. A moment later, the silhouette of a doorway appeared around it, shimmering gently in the moon’s light like a heat mirage. With his free hand, Cartwright pushed forward. The outline silently swung open on invisible hinges, revealing a sterile white hallway beyond.

  “’Til next we meet, Charles,” he said as he plucked the key from its floating position and replaced it in his pocket. “Do take care of yourself.”

  Charlie gave a wave. “I will. Be good, Cartwright.”

  Cartwright hefted his suitcase and chair, then walked through the door. As he passed beyond the threshold, the opening swung closed, and the night air of the barren landscape was once again whole.

  Charlie stood alone, out in some uninhabited stretch of the Mojave, and stared at the stars. They seemed different tonight, as if they’d somehow lost some of their luster. He knew they hadn’t—that was easy enough to see—which could only mean that he was seeing them differently. It was not an altogether pleasant prospect. After several minutes, he turned his gaze away and decided it was time he headed back as well. He’d ducked out unannounced again, which he was sure to catch some grief for, but the hell with it.

  He took out his key and reproduced Cartwright’s steps with the same deft grace, turning it until he was greeted with a click, then stepping into the narrow white passageway that appeared shortly thereafter. The passage was about twelve feet long and reminiscent of an average hallway in its length and shape, but strange in that its walls, ceiling, and floor were all completely devoid of color. Even after centuries of use, Charlie still found traversing the corridor, as he called it, a mildly bizarre experience. At the opposite end of the passageway stood a stout brown door, its surface weathered with scratches and nicks of varying shapes, lengths, and depths. It was a wholly unremarkable door, which, thanks to its surroundings, made it actually (and ironically) quite remarkable. Nailed into the door at about eye level was a small yellow plaque made from some indistinct metal or combination thereof. It, too, was simple and, like the door, had clearly seen better days. However, it carried with it a strange sense of stature, as if it had been around far longer than the wood it was attached to. Etched into the plaque’s surface were the words:

  THE FERRYMAN INSTITUTE

  Charlie twisted the key back and removed it from the door, then began walking down the hall. As he moved past the door, it swung silently shut, and the last view of the night sky disappeared behind him.

  ALICE

  * * *

  MEET ALICE

  Alice hated meatloaf. Detested it. It was the bane of her culinary existence, the kryptonite to her Superman. She wouldn’t eat it in a box; she wouldn’t eat it with a fox. In fact, she wouldn’t eat it trapped in a box with a fox hell-bent on ripping her throat out. She stared at the piece of meatloaf as it lurked menacingly over her dollop of mashed potatoes. Okay, maybe she could be compelled to eat it if it meant not getting her throat ripped out, but that didn’t make her feel any better about it. She knew it was childish to have such an averse reaction to dinner, especially as a quote-unquote “young adult” aged twenty-five, but there were certain things you just didn’t get over in life. For Alice, it was meatloaf. And clowns. But mostly meatloaf.

  “You haven’t touched your meatloaf yet,” her father remarked before sticking a large forkful of it into his mouth.

  When Alice had come down to dinner, she was mortified to find the brick of meat sitting in the middle of the table. Having spent more than a few late nights at the office, Dad had opted to cook tonight for the first time in weeks, and she could sense he felt a certain amount of pride in his work. The last thing she wanted to do was take that away from him. Already a sense of foreboding began to build in the pit of her stomach, just below where the meatloaf would be digested if she chose to eat it. Maybe she could force herself to eat it, for his sake?

  It sat ponderously in front of her, mocking her in all its meaty glory. Her stomach clenched in queasy protest. No, she couldn’t. She didn’t even want to poke it lest it contaminate her fork and then, by extension, the rest of her meal.

  Why? Why, of all things, meatloaf? Her fork began trembling slightly in her hand. Alice immediately set it down and made a show of wiping her mouth. Calm down, she thought. No reason to get all worked up. Dad probably just forgot you don’t like it.

  Exactly. This
was just her sitting down to dinner with an entrée she didn’t like. Actually, she loathed it, but whatever—same difference. Everything was going to be just fine. So what if her mother would have never made a plate of her most vehemently disliked meal? No big deal. Who cared if she wanted to scream at that stupid, semiburned meat block until her lungs exploded in violent tatters like a grossly overinflated car tire? That was still a perfectly normal and rational reaction to this situation, right?

  Alice picked her fork back up. Unfortunately, she knew the answer to that question.

  “It’s just meatloaf. It won’t kill you.” Alice’s younger sister Carolyn had now joined the fray. Carolyn knew of Alice’s utter resentment to anything vaguely related to the meatloaf kingdom, yet decided that it was appropriate to weigh in because that’s what Carolyn did. Worse, her comment meant that she’d noticed Alice hadn’t touched it yet, which just made Alice that much more self-conscious. “It’s good protein, too,” she added. A mass of half-chewed mush—about the same color and consistency as the, ahem, contents of a recently used baby diaper—screamed for rescue from inside her sister’s mouth as she spoke.

  Alice tried to send Carolyn her patented death stare, but Carolyn’s consistent lack of table manners was nauseating and Alice simply couldn’t bear the sight. Not that she could actually kill anyone with her death stare, but it was known to make people feel very, very guilty, and guilt stare wasn’t all that catchy.

  The end of Alice’s fork found its way into her mashed potatoes, and with an exaggerated gusto, she dug in. It was a vain attempt to deflect the attention off her current eating habits, an attention she rather strongly disliked (though, to be fair, she tried to avoid any attention, eating or otherwise). Like a surgeon working near a major artery, she deftly maneuvered her fork around her plate, operating so as to avoid making contact with the hideous baked meat amalgamation.

  “Is something wrong with the meatloaf?”

  She looked up to see her father gazing at her, his own fork hanging limply in the air as he studied her.

  “No, no, not at all. I just . . . had a late lunch.” It was a lame attempt at a save, but it was plausible, so it would have to do. “Yeah, just not, you know, super hungry tonight.” She pushed her plate forward for emphasis.

  He raised an eyebrow. “You feeling okay?”

  She felt the concern coming off him in waves. Wouldn’t you be worried, too, she thought, if your daughter locked herself in her room for hours on end, then didn’t eat at all? She looked again at the meatloaf. Actually, if I had a daughter and put that in front of her, I’d probably call child services and turn myself in.

  The sad part was that he was right to be concerned—she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten a full meal. A week ago? Longer than that. If anything, that made her hate the meatloaf more for drawing attention to what she was—or, more practically, wasn’t—consuming. Alice’s thoughts started to spiral downward in an unfortunately familiar pattern. She hated meatloaf—honest to goodness considered it an assault on all five of her senses—but more than that, she hated how it was making her feel. It was such a stupid, pitiful, downright pathetic reaction to anything, let alone food.

  Wow. Can’t even get through dinner without an internal meltdown anymore. Now that’s pathetic.

  Alice centered herself with a deep breath. She hoped it went unnoticed. All she wanted was to get away.

  “I’m totally fine,” she said. “Just had a long day of writing and a little drained from it. You know how it is.” That wasn’t technically a lie, though she figured most people wouldn’t consider rewriting the same three lines over and over again writing. “But I’ll have some for lunch tomorrow if you leave it in the fridge.”

  There were a few heavy seconds of near silence (Carolyn chomped food like a masticating cow, so no dinner was ever truly quiet) before Dad began moving his fork again, albeit warily. “Alrighty,” he said. “Sorry you weren’t hungry. Say something next time. I would have saved it for later in the week.”

  That was her cue, Alice realized. Casually as possible, she began to push her chair back and stand. All that was left to do was to thank her father for dinner. The sentence formed on her lips, the right tone built in her throat—

  “Why would you eat it for lunch tomorrow?” Specks of meatloaf scattered across her plate as Carolyn spoke, her mouth inevitably full. “You hate meatloaf.”

  Not knowing what else to do, Alice froze, stuck in an awkward I really have to pee, but this toilet is gross, so I’ll hover above it pose. The things Alice would have done to Carolyn right then ranged from plain wrong to too-horrific-for-Dante’s-Inferno.

  A brief wisp of anger blew behind Alice’s eyes as the urge to scream at her sister clawed its way halfway up her throat. She instinctively clenched her jaw and swallowed hard.

  “You don’t like meatloaf? Since when?” her father asked. His voice was inflected with nearly every inquisitive and incredulous emotion humans were capable of. Alice imagined in other circumstances she would have been impressed by that, but for the moment, there were other matters at hand. Before Alice could respond with another excuse, her sister was already speaking for her.

  “Alice never liked meatloaf,” Carolyn said. “You haven’t eaten it since— How old were you? Like, six?”

  “Really . . . ?” her dad said. A tinge of hurt colored his voice. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Whoa, time out!” Alice said, practically yelling at this point just to interject anything into the conversation. Then the words started coming, anything to avoid further questions and disappointment. “So it’s not my favorite or anything, but it’s not like I’ve never had it before, you know—I mean, I would eat Mom’s occasionally—well, not really eat it, just kind of nibble on the corners. Not that yours isn’t as good, Dad—completely, uh, nibble-worthy—but I wouldn’t go out of my way to order it at a restaurant because it’s just . . .” She had to catch her breath before finishing weakly, “. . . not my thing.” She dared not rewind that explanation in her head, lest her brain commit seppuku to atone for the abomination of English language she had just unleashed on the world.

  God, she was hopeless.

  Her father stared at her for a second, his eyes open but unseeing. Then he put his fork down and stood up, taking her plate with him and moving it to the counter. “I’m sorry, Alice. I honestly had no idea. Let me make you something else. I have eggs, and . . . let’s see . . .” He had made his way over to the fridge and began shuffling through its contents. Alice watched him give the inside of a plastic container a brave sniff before recoiling. “Ugh, well, that’s no good. Oh, there’s bologna—how about a bologna sandwich instead?”

  Hoo-ray, from meatloaf to bologna. “Dad, really, I’m good. Like I said, I had a late lunch. Promise.” She hadn’t, but her plan to not hurt his feelings had already backfired—why cause more damage?

  Her father’s head peeked out from behind the door of the refrigerator. His long limbs and arthritis made it difficult for him to comfortably get down to the lower shelves, but there he was anyway. “Are you sure?” he said. “There’s plenty of stuff. I’ve got fresh tomato soup from Mr. Soup Guy back here.”

  Alice nodded vigorously. “Positive. One hundred percent. But thank you for dinner, the potatoes were excellent.” She silently pleaded with her stomach not to growl, hoping that what little sustenance she’d managed to force down would be enough to keep it quiet. “Really good. They should put that recipe on the Food Network,” she added with a laugh, hoping against hope that it only sounded forced to her.

  “I’m not sure they do Betty Crocker instant-mash recipes on TV,” he said as he drew himself up from the tangle of limbs on the floor.

  She cringed inwardly. “Well, maybe there was a little extra butter in there or something, because I’ve had instant mash before, and that tasted way better.” Alice wasn’t even sure she was making sense anymore.

  Carolyn finished up her meal, walked o
ver to the sink, deposited her dishes, and then sauntered upstairs. As always, her sister seemed oblivious to anything outside of her own world. It was a trait Alice found infuriating at the best of times, but at that moment, she was a touch jealous. Ignorance was bliss, after all. Regrettably, Alice had never received that ability, so she and her father stood there in silence for a few seconds, neither knowing what to say.

  “Well . . . ,” her dad finally said, “I guess I should get started on these dishes.” A random assortment of mixed-and-matched cups and plates cluttered up the sink. He strode over to it, his long legs moving in an exaggerated lope before he delicately bent down to get a pair of beaten-up rubber gloves from underneath the sink.

  “Are you sure? I can help,” Alice said, but he waved her away.

  “No, no, I’m all set here. Why don’t you go back to your writing?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he stood there.

  “I mean, I’m not in a rush or anything . . .” She hesitated. “Why don’t I just—”

  “I said I’ve got it, Alice.” He playfully waved the gloves at her. “Now get out of here before I start beating you with these.” She could see the hint of a smile on his face.

  “Horror of horrors,” she said in an exaggerated voice as she walked toward the door. She stopped in the doorway. “If you need anything, just let me know. Please?”

  “I will. By the way—”

  She looked over her shoulder to find him looking patently ridiculous in his small rimmed glasses and dull yellow rubber gloves, but that was her dad.

  “There are SpaghettiOs in the cabinet if you’re hungry later.”

  “Thanks, Dad. See you tomorrow.” She didn’t bother telling him she hadn’t eaten those since she was six, either.

  Alice took to the narrow staircase quietly, daintily creeping upstairs. The door to Carolyn’s room was ajar, and her sister’s loud voice talking on her cell phone carried into the hallway. Alice stuck her head in the door. Carolyn’s eyes looked up at the intrusion, one eyebrow raised, though her conversation didn’t skip a beat.