Carrie Vaughn: Discord's Apple

Evie still thought of it as her grandparents’ house, a place she went to for holidays and backyard adventures. Her father hadn’t changed it much when he moved in—he took over the furniture, the heirlooms, the pictures on the wall, the shelves full of books. At first, Evie had had trouble thinking of her father as anything more than a house sitter there. But over the last couple years, when she noticed that his hair was gray and that he had started wearing bifocals, he reminded her more and more of her grandparents. He had stopped being a visitor and metamorphosed into the house’s proper resident.

She was his only child, and the house would come to her someday. By the time she retired, there’d be nothing left of Hopes Fort and no reason to be here. Except it had been the place where her grandfather and father had grown up. She supposed that meant something.

Later in the afternoon than she’d planned, she pulled into the long driveway behind her father’s twenty-year-old rusting blue pickup. Out of habit, she locked her car, even though this was possibly the one place in the universe she could comfortably leave it unlocked. The house itself was well cared for, neat if unremarkable. It had a carport at the end of the driveway rather than a garage, screened windows, a small front porch, and an expansive front yard with a lawn of dried prairie grasses. She’d driven by a dozen places just like it to get here.

A dog, a huge bristling wolfhound-looking thing, sprang from the front porch, barking loud and deep like a growling bear.

Evie almost turned and ran. Her father didn’t have a dog.

The front door opened and Frank Walker appeared, looking out over the driveway. “Mab! Come, Mab, it’s all right.”

The dog stopped barking and trotted back to him, throwing suspicious glances over its shoulder.

He scratched the dog’s ears and took hold of the ruff of fur at its neck. “Come on up, Evie. Mab just gets a little excited.”

Cautiously, Evie continued to the porch. She had to lift her arm to show the animal the back of her hand—the thing’s head came up to her waist. The dog sniffed her hand, then started wagging its tail. Evie hoped it didn’t try jumping on her—it would be a body-slam.

“Meet Queen Mab,” her father said.

“When did you get a dog?”

“She was a stray. Showed up on the porch a while back. Since I caught a couple of prowlers last month, I thought having Mab around might be a good thing.”

“Prowlers? Out here?”

“Oh, prowlers, salesmen—you’d be surprised how many visitors I get.”

In fact, someone was standing in the doorway behind him.

He wore a black leather duster and carried a large paper-wrapped package in both arms. Edging around Evie’s father, he looked suspiciously at Evie.

Frank said to him, “If you won’t be needing anything else, you’ll probably want to get going before nightfall.”

“Right. Thanks for your help.” He nodded at Evie as he passed. “Ma’am.”

He had an unplaceable accent, almost New England, almost West Texas. Wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on a long nose. He might have dressed himself out of a studio costume shop rummage sale. Playing the part of the doomed hero in a historical horror film.

The stranger walked down the gravel driveway, the light breeze licking the hem of his duster. There wasn’t another car. No buses ran this way. Where did he think he was going?

“Who was that?” Evie said.

“He came for something in the storeroom.”

“You’re selling Grandma and Grandpa’s stuff?” As far as she knew, the basement storeroom hadn’t been disturbed since her grandparents’ time. The place was dusty and sacred, like a museum vault. She’d never even been in it. As a kid, she hadn’t been allowed in there; then she’d moved away.

“Oh, no,” he said. “He just showed up and asked if I had what he needed. I did, so I gave it to him.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing important.”

Evie looked at her father, really looked at him. She searched for any sign of illness, any hint that gave credence to his announcement of two days ago. His phone call had sent her roaring out of Los Angeles the next morning. She didn’t know what to expect, if she would find him changed beyond recognition, withered and defeated, or if he would be—like this. Like normal, like she had always seen him: a little over average height, filled out through the middle but not overweight, straight gray hair cut short, his soft face creased with age, but not ancient. He wore slacks and a button-up shirt, and went stocking-footed.

“Come in out of the cold.” He held the door open for her. A lonely wicker wreath decorated it, a solitary concession to the holiday.

He might have been paler. Were his hands shaking? Was his back stooped? She couldn’t tell. She went inside.

“Dad. Are you okay?”

He shrugged. That told her. If he’d been fine, or even just okay, he’d have said so.

“Should . . . should you be in the hospital or something?”

“No. I have to stay here and keep an eye on things.”

“What is there to keep an eye on? No farm, no animals—” Except the dog, which was new. Her voice was beseeching. “Are you okay?”

“It’s metastasized. I’ve decided not to undergo treatment.”

He said it like he might have said it was going to snow. Simple fact, a little anticipation, but nothing to get excited about. Evie thought her rib cage might burst, the way her heart pounded. Her father stood before her; he hadn’t changed. Everything had changed. It’s prostate cancer. It’s serious, he’d said when he called her. She wanted to grab his collar and shake him. But you didn’t do that to your father.

So she stood there like a child and whined.

“You’ve given up,” she said.

“I’ve accepted fate.”

“But—” She gestured aimlessly, arguments failing in her throat. He wasn’t going to argue. He was stone, not willing to be persuaded. “But you can’t do that. You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” he said, and he had the gall to smile. “I can’t die?”

She didn’t believe him then. For a moment, she let herself believe that he’d been lying about the whole thing. This was a trick to get her to come early for her Christmas visit. He didn’t look sick, he didn’t act sick, except for a horrible calm that made his features still as ice.

Evie turned away, her eyes stinging, her face contorting with the effort not to cry.

“Shh, Evie, come here.” While she didn’t move toward him, she didn’t resist when he pulled her into an embrace.

“You can’t die without trying,” she said, her voice breaking, muffled as she spoke into his shoulder.

“I’ll hold on as long as I can.”

He made supper for her—macaroni and cheese. He’d never been a creative cook. Comfort food, my ass, she thought. She didn’t eat much. Her stomach clenched every time she looked at him.

They stayed up late talking. He asked her about her work, and she rambled on about the comics business, the stress of deadlines, and the frustrations of markets and distribution. When she talked, she wasn’t thinking about him. She settled into the guest room with the wood-frame twin bed that she’d slept in when she visited her grandparents, the bed that had been her father’s when he was young. She didn’t sleep right away, but lay curled up, hugging the goose-down pillow, feeling small—ten years old again.

He hadn’t asked her to come home. He’d called to tell her he was sick, and she’d just come. That was what you did. He didn’t argue or try to tell her she didn’t have to. Which, when she thought about it, was another sign that he really was sick. He hadn’t yet said, I’m fine, don’t worry about me. Nothing to worry about.