Asylum (31 page)

            Seth! 
His arm was under her head.  He still slept, breathing evenly in and out.  She
watched his chest rise and fall for a moment and then gently placed her hand on
top of it. 

            Seth. 
In his boxer shorts…warm…sleeping…solid Seth.  She was suddenly conscious of
the fact that she still wore her clothes from the night before.  They felt
dirty and rumpled.  Sam slept somewhere close by, Chloe could hear the light
snore she had grown so accustomed to.  She was the only one awake.

            Slowly
she lifted her hand and traced one finger down his chest, across a hard
stomach.  Not a muscled stomach, but lean, much harder than hers.  She had
never had the chance to touch another body, not in the whole life that she
could remember.  It was strange, comforting.  She wished again that Sam had
stayed in Birch Harbor.

            Seth
flinched in his sleep and curled the arm under her down and around her waist.

            “Good
morning,” she whispered.

            He
grunted.

            Chloe
rose on her elbow and looked across his body.  In the next bed, Sam was
restless.  She snorted once and rolled onto her side.  Usually, this was a
signal that Sam would begin her slow process of waking up.  Chloe lay back down
and snuggled against Seth’s side, throwing an arm across his chest.

            “Uhhhhhhhh,”
Sam groaned, announcing her return to the world of the living.

            Next
to her Seth opened his eyes a crack.

            “Still
tired,” he breathed, shutting his eyes again.

            Chloe
rolled away quickly and launched herself off the side of the bed.

            “I
need a shower,” she said to the two still fighting to stay asleep.  She grabbed
her backpack and made for the bathroom.

            “I
need a couple more hours of sleep,” she heard Sam mumble behind her.

            The
hot water felt good.  She scrubbed the night off and toweled dry in the steamy
bathroom.  Her clean clothes felt cold and clammy against her skin.  She ran a
brush through her hair and carefully applied make-up.

            Sam
poked her head in while Chloe was putting on the finishing touches with a
mascara brush.

            “Breakfast?”
Sam asked hoarsely.

            “Sounds
good,” Chloe agreed.

            Out
in the room, Seth was already in his jeans, pulling a black knit sweater over
his head.  He tugged his fingers through his hair a few times and checked the
mirror, rubbing his hand thoughtfully against the stubble on his jaw.

            “So
where to?” he asked, seeing Chloe’s reflection emerge from the bathroom.

            “The
place is called Odd Ends.  Dr. Willard wrote the address on the check,” she said,
“We can ask at the front desk where it is.”

            “But
breakfast first,” Sam chimed in, she was dressed and standing in front of the
full length mirror applying another layer of make-up over the previous nights’ 
“I know a pretty decent place.”

            Chloe
followed Sam and Seth into a bright, cold morning and gasped.  Her mouth fell
open.

            Across
a busy two-lane road, Traverse Bay spread out before them, glinting,
shimmering, endlessly moving.  Yachts and sailboats glided slowly across the
waters.  The arms of land that cradled the body of water on either side were
sleeved in the rustling oranges, reds and yellows of Fall.  It was so brilliant
in the morning light that she had to squint.

            “Wow!”
she breathed.

            “Traverse
City is one of the best kept secrets in the world,” Seth said.  “It’s beautiful
and even though it’s big, it still feels small.  If you’ve got to live south of
the bridge, I don’t see why anyone would chose anywhere besides here.”

            “Because
it’s too close to nowhere,” Sam grumbled, giving the bay an unimpressed glance,
“and don’t forget the winters…and the cost of living! Gah! I could go on and
on.  What about breakfast?”

            The
three piled into the truck and, with Sam navigating, they found a shabby and
unassuming greasy spoon with a faded sign that read ‘Mabel‘s’, where there was
almost no parking to be had.  Inside, it reminded Chloe of the Eat, except that
at eight in the morning every table was full and people stood around the door
craning their necks to find an overlooked seat.  There was no hostess.  Getting
a seat seemed to be by one part luck, one part aggression. 

            They
got lucky and happened to be standing by a table of old timers waiting for
their change.  Sam sat down before all of the grizzled, flannel-coated men had
left the table, and waved Seth and Chloe over impatiently.

            “Best
cherry pancakes you ever had,” Sam contended, “Or get the Belgian waffles with
cherry toppings.  They also have an omelet with cherry salsa in it-- I’ve never
been that brave-- but the french toast with cherry syrup is phenomenal!”

            “Does
everything have cherries in it or on it?” Chloe wondered.

            “It’s
Traverse City!” Seth and Sam said in unison, as though this explained
everything.

            “Well…what
if you don’t
like
cherries?” Chloe asked.

            The
chattering of other diners around them stopped.  People turned in their seats
to look at the three accusingly, with many raised eyebrows.

            “She’s
a riot isn’t she?” Sam laughed forcibly, “Who in their right mind doesn’t like
cherries? Funny!”

            Conversation
resumed and Sam shot Chloe a disgusted look before flipping open her menu.

            “Cherries
are kind of a big deal here,” Seth tried to smooth over in a low voice. 
“Something like 75% of all tart cherries sold in the U.S. are grown right here,
and a lot of the sweet varieties too.  It’s the cherry capital.  Restaurants
round these parts are famous for finding really unique ways to use cherries in
cooking.  There’s cherry burgers, salads with dried cherries, chicken-cherry
salad sandwiches, turkey in cherry sauce, cherry wine-”

            “I
think I had a cherry soup one time,” Sam added straight-faced.

            “Order?”
barked a sweaty-faced waitress, holding her pen poised above a pad of paper.

            “Cherry
pancakes with maple syrup and a glass of cherry juice,” Sam said folding her
menu.  The waitress scribbled it down.

            “What
do you suggest?” Seth asked, handing the waitress his menu.

            “Number
three,” the waitress said quickly, “The Traverse City Scramble, side of baked
cherries with raisins and brown sugar…real good.”

            “Sounds
fine,” Seth agreed.

            The
waitress glanced at Chloe and made a flipping motion with one hand, indicating
her impatience.  Chloe felt the tiniest bit offended.

            “I’ll
have the cherries with…cherry toppings, and…let’s see…a side of cherries
with…extra cherries?” Chloe ordered.

            The
waitress rolled her eyes, scribbled something on her pad and raced off.

            “What
do you think I just ordered?” Chloe whispered.

            “Oh
I’d say the cherries…with a heaping portion of spit wad topping and maybe even
a side of snot rocket,” Sam snapped.  Seth laughed into the palms of his hands.
“Idiot!” Sam hissed for good measure.

            “Things
are so different down south,” Chloe complained.      

            “Ya’ll
don’t reckon things is just as different here?” Sam drawled imitating a deep
south accent.  “Give it up Chloe, you’re from Michigan, even if you’re a troll,
you should still know better!”

            “You
know how to play Euchre at least?”  Seth teased.

            “In
theory,” Chloe shrugged.

            Sam
and Seth groaned in unison.

            “Well
you can’t marry her then, Seth,” Sam decided, “You know that once you tie the
knot that’s pretty much your Euchre partner for life, right?”

            “I’ve
got a Red Wings t-shirt!” Chloe defended herself.  “And I know the fight songs
for U of M and MSU…and I’ve been to the auto show!  See?  Trolls have their own
culture too!  We go to Greek town in Detroit and eat baklava and we go to
Windsor when we turn nineteen, because it’s the legal drinking age in Canada!”

            “You
got nothing on da U.P., babe,” Sam aped a perfect yooper accent, “we drink as
soon as we can hold our own sippy cups, yah…because it’s so cold no one cares!”

            “Alright,
alright,” Seth said, calming the brewing argument, “So where did the desk say
this place was?”

            “Odd
ends,” Chloe answered, “on State street.”

            “We
should head out to the asylum too,” Sam added, “I bet it’s just ruins by now,
but we might be able to find something out.”

            The
waitress returned, baring a heavily weighted tray.  She unloaded some dishes at
a nearby table and then stopped in front of them.

            “Cherry
pancakes,” she announced, dropping a plate in front of Sam, “Number three…” a
plate landed in front of Seth, “and a cherry bomb for our comedian.”  The
largest plate landed in front of Chloe with an angry cha-chink.  The waitress
was off again before Chloe had the chance to reply.

            “Whew!”
Sam said eyeballing Chloe’s plate.

            A
portion of scrambled eggs smothered in a chunky red goop steamed on one side of
the plate.  A pile of hash browns and greasy bacon, and a red, sticky-looking
baked mass with a crumbly brown top completed the platter.

            “Eggs
with cherry salsa, hash browns, cherry wood smoked bacon and baked cherries,”
Sam explained, “If you’re brave enough to risk eating spit!”

            Chloe
felt her stomach suddenly rumble with hunger.  She picked up her fork and
smiled serenely at Seth.

            “When
in Rome…” she ventured.

            With
uncomfortably full stomachs, they drove slowly down State street trying to see
addresses on business store windows.  Downtown Traverse City was a slice of old
time Main street Americana.  Dozens of tiny mom-and-pop stores with variously
colored awning and carefully crafted display windows were crammed into each
block.  It was Sam that first spotted the cluttered store window with the faded
red awning over it which read: “Odd Ends, Antiques and Collectibles.”

            Inside
there seemed to be more dust motes than breathable air.  A corroded French horn
sat atop a stack of moldy water-logged books, and a wrought iron contraption
with the shape of a woman’s body displayed a stiff and decaying purple dress
that hadn’t been worn in the last century.

            At
the far end of the store, behind a glass counter stuffed with costume jewelry
and mismatched china dishes, sat the obvious proprietor.  He looked exactly as
Chloe would have expected.  He was tiny and bespectacled with white hair, a
sweater vest and a bow-tie.

            “Hello?”
Chloe called, trying to draw his attention away from the yellowed pages of an
aged book,  “Excuse me…Mr. Gold?”

            The
old man squinted at them from behind his glasses, and carefully closed the
book, marking his place with a faded silk strip.

            “You
wouldn’t happen to be the students from Birch Harbor that Reginald called me
about, would you?” the elderly man asked in a squeaky voice.

            “I-I
think so, yes,” Chloe answered.  “We’re students from Dr. Willard’s class.  He
sent us to pick up some old letters from the asylum…for his…for his
collection.”

            “Well
I don’t have them,” he warned them, “I told him so this morning, but he said
you might still come anyways.”

            “You
sold them?” Chloe gasped, “Do you remember who you sold them to?  Was it-”

            “I
didn’t sell them!” he cut her off, “I never had them!”

            “I
don’t understand,” Chloe faltered.

            “What
I told Reginald, last time he came through, was that I could get my hands on
some more things he might want.  I told him
about
some letters I had
seen.  One of my regulars  brought them in.  A man who finds a lot of
memorabilia from the old asylum for me.  He came in with a whole load of old
papers and I bought some…thought about buying the letters, but wasn’t sure that
they were what Reginald was looking for.  I told him what I remembered about
them and he didn’t seem interested, so I just forgot all about it.  At least,
until he called me this morning.  But the bottom line is, I don’t have them,
and I don’t know when I’ll see them again.”

            “But
you just said the man who tried to sell them to you was a regular,” Chloe
argued.  “You must know something about him.  If you know where he lives, you
could call him-”