Alexie Aaron - Checking Out

“Why call this place Tear Drop?” he asked the men.

“Don’t rightly know. Every place around here had Drop in it at one time. The inn across the way was called the Dew Drop Inn, that’s D E W not D O. The stuff on the grass in the morning,” the older man explained.

Murphy nodded that he understood.

“We used to have a market called the Cash Drop, but that went bust long ago,” added the sports-attired man. Murphy was interested in the strange hat the man wore. It was a plastic representation of a wedge of cheese. He itched to know why anyone would walk around with a piece a cheese on their head but considered it rude to ask. The last of the trio was dressed in a black mourning suit.

“Tell me about the Dew Drop Inn,” Murphy requested.

“Ah, that place was run by the Brewsters. He died, but the widow carried on with the place. I believe they served breakfast and light lunches to their guests.”

“They all do that now,” offered the cheese-wearing spirit. He pushed back his sleeve and Murphy spotted a Green Bay Packers tattoo on his upper arm. “They call them Bed and Breakfasts. Took the wife to one in Appleton once. It was all flowery and smelled like Grandma’s linen cupboard.”

The black-suit-wearing spirit stayed silent. Murphy sensed that talking about the inn brought up a lot of pain. He knew better than to force communication. If the man wanted to talk, he would do so in his own time.

“They sent the daughter to Chicagee to learn how to make all those fancy pastries. What was her name?” the old man wondered aloud.

“Millie,” the suited man broke his silence. “She was the most beautiful creature I had ever met.”

“Oh that’s right, she married Herb Swanson’s eldest, Peter, no, P something…”

“Paul,” the suited man corrected.

“Yes, Paul. He was captain of the football team. We all thought he was going all the way. He got himself one of them scholarships to Northwestern. But instead of bringing home a pro contract, he brought home Millie.”

“We met by accident on Michigan Avenue. I bumped into her. She dropped her things. I was so taken by her beauty that I mistakenly trod on her lunch bag. I offered to buy her lunch, and she accepted.”

The older spirit turned and took a long look at the man. “Paul? Damn, you look different.”

Murphy reached out a hand to Paul. “Stephen Murphy.”

“Paul Swanson.”

They shook hands.

“Did you really have a pro contract?” the cheese-wearing man asked.

“No, not then, but I was on first string at Northwestern,” he explained.

“You gave it all up for a woman?”

“Not just any woman. The woman,” Paul answered. “Of course the meteorite shower took that all away.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not from around here. Can you tell me what happened?” Murphy prodded and motioned for Mia to come over.

Mia left Audrey’s side and walked up to the bar and sat down. She sensed when Murphy didn’t introduce her that she was there to listen. She ordered a whisky to sip and did just that.

“It was a morning much like all the rest of them that summer. Millie left early to go to the Dew Drop to start the day’s baking, and I headed out to the south field to start the irrigation pump. We’d been having some hot dry days, and the corn was reaching out for moisture.”

“Reaching out, what the fuck does that mean?” the fan asked.

“Allow me,” the older man offered. “The leaves of the corn move out like this.” He demonstrated by pushing his arms to the side, still angled upwards but well away from his body. “That’s so the plant can get as must moisture from that air that it can.”

“Oh, I get it. Never noticed that before. Sorry, Paul, go on.”

Mia was impressed that the cheesehead had manners. Perhaps it was that this part of the country held to the kinder ways even though most of the world had moved on.

“I had just turned on the pump when I heard a whistling type of sound. I turned off the pump, worried that the pipe had a break in it, when a piece of fire flew over my head and landed an acre behind me. The impact flattened the corn and tossed me twenty yards. I got to my feet, ran to the truck and started back to the farmhouse. I had just pulled out of the field onto the road when I heard an explosion. That’s when the Sunoco went up in flames,” he explained. “The warning siren on top of the fire station sounded, calling all us volunteer firemen to arms. I changed direction and headed into town. I regret that. If I hadn’t answered the call, I’d be with Millie right now.”

“You were a volunteer fireman; it was your duty to respond,” the older man said, trying to pat Paul on the back but lacking the solidity to do so. Mia watched as his hand moved through Paul a couple of times before he quit.

“My duty was to protect my wife. We couldn’t stop the fire. We did get most everybody to safety though. After, I drove to the inn to tell Millie all about it, but there was no inn.”

“Was it destroyed?” Murphy asked.

“No, it was just gone. We searched for it. You know, sometimes a tornado will pick something up and drop it a few counties away. So I assumed that the large meteorite had done something like that.”

Mia watched as the cheesehead moved his hands in the air, trying to figure out the science of what Paul was saying, and shook his head.

“All that was left was the cellar and the sign.”

The group was silent. The cheesehead took off his trident of plastic cheese and set it on the counter in respect.

“I waited two weeks for news that someone found Millie or parts of the inn, but no one had. I took down the sign and put it in the barn. My family convinced me to have a memorial service for Millie and her ma. It was a nice affair, although, people didn’t know what to say to comfort me. Many of them had lost their homes in the fire, but still they took out time from rebuilding to come. After the service, I walked over to where the inn once stood and cried. It started to rain, so I took cover here. I sat down at the bar and took my first drink, and I never left.”

“Acute alcohol poisoning,” the old man said. “I saw it a time or two. Usually it’s a teen that doesn’t know when to stop. I’m surprised an athlete like you would be so damn stupid.”

“He lost his wife, old man. He had the right to drink,” the cheesehead argued.

“And how did you die?” the old man challenged.

“An argument broke out while we were watching the Green Bay/Vikings game. I believe a pitcher of beer was involved,” he said, patting the back of his head. He picked up the hat and put it on.

“It seems to me that yellow hat of yours would have saved you from the pitcher breaking your skull,” Murphy observed.

“It did, and it didn’t. I was sitting at the bar minding my own business. I said something rude about Vikings really being Vi-queens, and some purple-wearing monster hit me on the back of the cheese slice with a glass pitcher which pushed my head forward hard, the front of the slice hitting the edge of the bar. The impact snapped my head back fast, and that was that, broken neck.”

“Ouch!” Paul said.

“Didn’t feel it. Death by cheese hat. But I died a fan,” he said proudly.

“Why didn’t you move on?” Mia asked quietly from beside them.

The three turned, amazed that the flesh and blood blonde was talking to them.

“You can hear us?” the old man asked.

“And see you. Why didn’t you move on?” Mia asked the cheesehead.

“I died before the 2011 Super Bowl. I didn’t get to see the game. I’m going to stick around until they win another one.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mia said, winking at a confused Murphy. “Paul, why didn’t you move on?”