by Chris Castle
“Sure,” Matt said and again wondered if Pa was feeling what he was feeling; the connection to the house. “What do we need to buy in the stores?”
“A few nails, some groceries. No more than two brown bags of stuff, I think.” He came up beside Matt and looked out to the grasses.
“There’s a lot out there, huh?” he said, putting his hand on Matt’s shoulder. It didn’t shake as it had done so many other times before.
“A lot to find, I think,” Matt replied, feeling bold now and braver than he’d felt in a long, long time.
“I was thinking the same, Matty. Feels like there are things to discover out there, doesn’t it?” Matt reached back and put his own hand over Pa’s. “You sleep okay?”
“Good,” Matt replied without hesitation. “Did you, Pa?”
“Better,” he said and squeezed Matt’s shoulder gently, signalling it was time to go. Matt slowly edged away from the window but not before sensing more movement in amongst the trees in the distance. As he turned, he saw Pa’s face squinting slightly and a half-frown forming over his brow. Matt realised he had seen it too.
*
Pa went through each aisle of the hardware store, carefully picking out nails and screws as if each one were a jewel. Matt followed him for a while but then began to look out the window to the small strip of shops. In the cold light of day, he noticed that the sidewalks did seem oversized. He also noticed the hardware owner kept stealing glances back to them and Matt wondered if Marcus, or his daughter, had been gossiping about them since the night before. The man, Mr. Nightweather, seemed polite but almost timid, as if customers were out of place in his shop. He wore bottleneck glasses which made his bright blue eyes seem to be constantly agog. Matt noticed that Pa kept blowing dust from whichever nail he scooped out of the box. For a moment, he looked down to see if their footprints were interrupting the coating of dust on the floor. Fortunately, it wasn’t quite that thick.
After the hardware place, they made their way to the local grocers-Mrs. Bumblecoater, the clothes shop-Mr and Mrs Tarbuncle, the bakers-Mr. Wurlitzer and finally the post office, which was run by a friendly old woman by the name of Emily Slurpslacker but who insisted they called just ‘Em.’ Finally, their jobs done, the two of them stopped by the diner and saw only Marcus behind the counter. He waved them in from the window and Matt could almost feel the stare’s of the other shop-owners on their back as they stepped through the door, causing the bell to ring overhead.
“My daughter works in the next town over, like most folks here. She just helps me out on weekends,” Marcus said as he offered up seats for them both. “What will it be? Be warned, everyone’s peeking out from their curtains to look at you, so make it a good choice.”
“Well, we’d better go with the chef’s recommendation, then, I guess,” Pa said, handing him back the menu. Matt copied him and watched as a smile spread over the old man’s face.
“Smart man. Leave it to me,” he said and wandered back behind the counter.
“Did you notice all the eyes on us today, Matty?” Pa asked. Matt nodded and both of them suddenly broke into relieved smiles.
“Good. I thought it was just me. Well, I guess its natural enough, in a small town but it does seem a little odd.” He shrugged and Matt felt oddly reassured seeing Pa do that. He did the same and then before they could say anything else, Marcus came back with their order. He set out each item, stating what they were until there was only one plate left in his hands. It seemed to almost glow and Matt couldn’t help but peer over a little, curious to what it was.
“And last but not least, for young Matt,” he said, his voice suddenly taking on a crisp and clear tone. He sounded no longer like a waiter but more like a ringmaster. “A blast from the past and a one slice only kind of deal. Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to, the one, the only, Star Ship Pie!”
The plate arrived on the table and Matt almost gasped to look at it. It was a traditional triangle of pie and the crust was a light, dusty cream-brown like any other but inside, magic sat. Layer upon layer of thick, ripples of colour, like strips of far-out, alien toothpaste made out of sugar and milk and other, unknowable, flavoured things. Matt looked at it from the left and then the right and by the time the plate came towards him, he didn’t know it he should eat it or frame it for a rainy day. Even the china seemed to hum with what sat on top of it.
“Save it until last,” Marcus said, bringing him back from the pie. Matt looked up, almost dazed and felt as if he’d been hypnotised by the colours at his fingertips. Matt nodded and glanced over to Pa, whose jaw had fallen open at the sight of it. He came round and nodded his support at what Marcus had said, but it was half-hearted. Even as they went about eating and drinking, Matt knew both of them had one eye on the bustling, buzzing, shimmering cake plate in the corner.
“Bet you’re trying to guess what’s in it, huh?” Marcus said, his voice back to its low hum. “You could guess every day, in every way, until Doomsday and not come up with every ingredient to this little masterpiece, gentlemen.”
“Could you tell us one thing?” Matt said and was surprised at how small his voice sounded.
“At a push, vanilla…but not just any vanilla,” he said, looking over to the plate. His eyes grew wide and excited, as if he was listening to his favourite piece of summer music being played after a long, cold winter. “It comes from Mount Vesuvius. Some of the white ash hardened and solidified in the air with the pods and bingo-bango, Vesuvius Volcanic Vanilla.”
“And…” Pa said, leaving the words hanging in the air.
“And…that’s your lot for a first time. I’ve had folks wait five years just to find out that one ingredient, so think yourself honoured.” He closed his eyes for a moment and smiled. “Once, we had a competition in the town to guess all the ingredients that went into a Star Ship Pie. Winner got a lifetime’s supply. Old Em from the post office, this was back when she was Emily Drinkwater and the biggest heartbreaker in town, she submitted a list of a thousand and three different spices and flavours. She spent one whole winter writing it out. She didn’t even come close; I gave her a month’s free slices just for her hard endeavours. You ready?”
Marcus pushed the plate to the centre of the table and for a second, Matt thought the pie itself vibrated where it sat. He set down two spoons and sat back. Pa looked over questioningly but the old man shook his head.
“If I help make what I love disappear, I’d go crazy,” he said with a smile. Matt noticed that after a second or two, the grin faltered and shifted into something else, something sadder. The history of the town and the way Marcus told it ran through Matt’s mind and he realised how many meanings words could have when they came out attached with memories.
“Stop right there!”
Matt and Pa dropped their spoons as the door swung open to reveal two burly men with badges. They were almost identical, apart from the fact that one had a broken nose and the other cauliflower ears, as if they’d fought each other inside their ma’s belly while waiting to get out.
“This is not allowed,” the one on the left said.
“By law,” the other finished. Both slipped their badges away at the same time and parted left and right, leaving the doorway open.
What bounded in made Matt gasp, as the cake had done minutes before, but for all the wrong reasons. A man-and it was a man- ricocheted into the diner, dressed in a clown’s outfit. He moved jaggedly and then slowed abruptly; making the last few steps to the table seem as if he were almost oozing out from the costume. A man, sure, but Matt saw how the make-up seemed caked too bright and thick, as if it wasn’t paint at all but a second skin. It had cracked in places, leaving thin strips of pink flesh to poke out, but it was the colour of bacon gone bad and rotten. The colours were coarse and vulgar, the too-bright shades of migraines and nightmares. The clown was too thin, as if he were made of a stack of twisted coat-hangers; arms wiry, legs bandy, a neck that was little more than pins gathered together. All
of that but not skinny, not quite, but lithe, as if he could pull out a slingshot full of ball-bearings, or a bouquet of stinging nettles from his chest pocket, at a moment’s notice. Matt thought the clown stood like a jutting, poisonous, streak of lighting.
“Well, well, well, what do I see here but three fellows’ waiting to tuck in to something naughty-naughty and illegal in this fair land of ours.” His voice was light but full of snap, like a bully giving out orders from a safe place in the tree tops.
“Fellows, I am mayor Cirrus but some say Se-ri-ous and make no doubt about it,” he went on his voice rising to a pitch that was just below a scream. “I am one serious clown!”
“I was just offering up an old recipe,” Marcus said. His voice was strong but even Matt could hear the slight tremor underneath it, just at the back of the throat where fear starts to grow.
“Oh. Oh! Oh-oh-oh,” went the clown, cutting him off. “Well, old things are a crime in a new town, just the same way that old ways have no place in a modern metropolis like Moon Dip Falls. You’ll put that offensive offering in the garbage disposal, sir, or else your lease on this building will take its place down the shredding-chute. What will it be?”
“Look, my son and I were just having lunch,” Pa said. He rose out of his seat and immediately the damaged duo of twins sprung up in-front of Cirrus. Even so, he didn’t flinch and Matt felt a surge of pride for Pa that burned almost as brightly as the rainbow cake that sat on the table which had caused all this mess.
“Well, you look like a stranger and you don’t know the rules, do you now. Bartleby!” The one on the left pulled out a sheet of paper and dropped it on the table.
“Those are the rules to live by if you live here,” the clown said, the hysteria suddenly dropping out of his voice. For a moment he sounded as if he were addressing a town meeting about mundane matters. “If you stay, you learn, if you remain ignorant you leave the way you came.”
“We’re not leaving,” Pa said quietly, though his voice was just as clear as the clown’s. “We’re on the top of the hill and that’s where we’ll be.” Matt noticed it then: the clown’s eyes bulged, just for a second, before he recovered.
“Well, well, well and heaven’s-to-Betsy, that old pile, eh? Well, you take care not to choke on all that dust or get lost in amongst all those weeds, won’t you now?” The two men laughed in slow, thudding chunks to the left and right of him. It sounded to Matt like two anchors dropping slowly to the floor, wheezing with rust.
“We’ll be fine as we are,” Pa said and for a moment there was silence. In the next, the clown pulled out a shrunken flap of something from one pocket and a small silver pump from another. In a flash he placed one into the other and a balloon lit into life. In the next moment, the clown drained the helium balloon back to a flap and took a step forward to Pa. He opened his mouth and let out a long, high pitched scream. His tongue was dark at the edges and yellowed at its core. When it was over, he took a step back and looked expectantly to the two bulky guards who both laughed on cue. He turned and left without a word and the men followed him out. It dawned on Matt the clown hadn’t even acknowledged him the whole time.
“You okay, Matty?” he said, finally breaking his glare from the window, as the car screeched away. Matt managed to nod and felt a small surge of Pa’s bravery pulse through him.
“I’m sorry,” Marcus said as he reappeared at the counter. His hands were still shaking and even though he loomed over the counter, he somehow seemed small.
“I’m sorry if we got you in any trouble,” Pa said, waving off the apology. “It was our fault.”
“No, it wasn’t but you watch yourself now, boys,” Marcus answered. “Now he’ll think you’re trouble.” He wiped his hands with a cloth and Matt saw streaks of rainbow appear on it. It was sad and beautiful at the same time. It made Matt’s heart ache.
“Maybe we are,” Pa said and gripped Matt’s hand tightly. Matt saw something new in his eyes now, beyond the sadness of the last few months or the cautious happiness of the road trip and the last few days. Now, with the mayor, it had changed again. Matt saw determination in Pa’s eyes and something else, too: steel.
*
For a few days, Matt and Pa worked on the house. The more they worked, the less they seemed to notice the tilt and Matt was sure the harder they toiled, the more level the place became. With the windows and doors opened, the scent of the breezes drifted in. It was a gentle smell; a mix of freshly spilt lemonade and just cut flowers. Even when Pa brewed coffee or cooked food, the scent didn’t seem to lessen but instead combine make it better and stronger. It reminded Matt of photos he had seen of remote islands, where nothing seemed to damage the cliffs as much as make them more stunning. Matt thought of his ma in those times and how the illness did not make her weak but older and more beautiful, as if she had lived nine lives and had taken only the good from each one of them. Matt wiped his eyes on his sleeves when he thought about her but did not feel bad about the tears he shed.
Even though it was hard, Matt began to feel stronger in those days of work. Sometimes he looked over and saw what he was feeling in Pa, too. The sweat brought more colour to his cheeks and the little sun there was stayed on his arms. Most of the time they would work in silence and the few words they shared were about the house. It was a good silence and a comfortable one that they both fitted inside. Each day they broke for lunch and sat on the porch, looking out to the fields, watching the long swaying grasses. When they were done for the day, they would take their dinner up to the roof and sit and watch the stars as they bloomed in the night sky. The moon would appear like a spotlight, watching over them; guiding crumbs into their mouths and the glasses to their lips. Sometimes the moonlight felt stronger and more powerful than the weak sun of the day.
Matt still watched the fields.
Each day, Matt saw something/someone moving in amongst the trees. At first he had it down as a deer but then on another day it stood and the silhouette was clearly a man. Matt noticed whatever it was did not move beyond the boundary of the fields; once or twice it reached the edge of the clearing but then stopped violently, as if some rule or penalty was being enforced. It would stutter and then shamble away, as if scolded, back to the folds of the forest and out of sight. Matt had waved, swished a handkerchief and even held up a hand painted sign to be read but nothing seemed to grab its attention. He sensed it was not a cruel thing or something sent to do them harm. Even in the shade, Matt sensed goodness to it, even as it slouched and jutted at odd angles. In a way, the strange thing reminded him of the house, the way it covered itself in darkness but only for protection and not in order to pounce. Over the days, the creature became as much a watchful guardian from the fields as the thick moon had become overhead in the sky.
As the two of them made their way through each room, Matt looked for signs of his ma. At first he searched for photos on the walls but saw the deeply faded marks where they had once sat and then been removed. He found small damages to the beams and wondered if they had been made by her at his age, reckless and clumsy; nothing really mattering until that moment when an adults’ voice brought her back to reality with a sharp word. Even when they made their way to the attic, where Matt had high hopes, they found nothing but dust and the tell-tale signs of a life once lived and now long gone. Matt saw Pa put his hand to the lighter segments of wood where caskets and crates had clearly once rested, as if trying to find a signal, another map to guide them. All that was left were brittle pieces of straw where even the birds had flown the coop.
*
That night, as they sat on the roof, Matt searched the fields for the creature and saw nothing but the swaying branches. As he put his palm down on the slate tile, he felt a ridge that made his skin twitch. Without thinking, he looked down and saw the indent spread into more lines. He squinted and the moon illuminated the clear outline of an arrow under his fingertip. Somehow, he knew it had been carved by his ma; the line was uneven and too careless, lacking a grown
-up’s tired precision. Matt glanced over to Pa, who was preparing the sandwiches and distracted in the best way, by the breezes and the stars. Matt bit his tongue, reluctant to get Pa’s hopes up after the disappointment of the attic. Instead, he carefully adjusted himself and searched for the next arrow. It was behind him and led easily to another and then another.
Matt clamoured after the slates, careful with his feet and even more careful with his eyes. The arrows were carved onto the safest, most central part of the roof; the chimney at the heart of the house. By the time Pa called over to him, Matt already felt his heart roaring with discovery. On the breast of the chimney, his ma’s handwriting glowed in the starlight. An asterisk lit the top of the flue and Matt saw how she had delicately written around the circular chimney pot. One sentence began in a long, looping ring, leading onto the next. At a distance it could have looked like a stripe. Matt heard Pa’s footsteps pad over towards him, as he crouched and started reading.
To whoever should be reading this, welcome! You find the owner of this pen, Amelia Persephone Stephens, of sound mind and willing, on this day, to share her innermost thoughts and dreams with you, said stranger. I leave this gap for your signature---- so we will join as partners for our brief time together!
By the time he had read this first section, Matt had already crab-walked two circuits of the chimney. Pa followed behind him, muttering every word. As he continued, Matt heard his ma’s voice carved on the stone mingling with Pa’s whispers out loud in the air. For a moment, it felt as if they were re-united; his ma’s bubbling energy and Pa’s quiet force linking them back together, unbroken.
I declare, on this chimney document, I will do my utmost to achieve the following: I will…
1.) Have a dream that will stay with me forever
2.) Eat a Star Ship Pie the size of my own head
3.) Sing a song without blushing
