Chapter Text
The music’s playing again tonight, faint strains of fiddle drifting among sassafras and hickory branches which arch over the asphalt. Something slow, mournful, fitting for the empty road. It takes Doug a moment to place it, swaying one foot in time against his pickup’s tailgate. He doesn’t smile when he finally catches it, though he does sing along softly to the last lines--
Oh, come Angel Band
Come and around me stand
Oh bear me away on your snow white wings
To my immortal home
Oh bear me away on your snow white wings
To my immortal home
For a few seconds, he savors the notes which still hang in the air, mingling with his cigarette smoke as it floats heavenward. Even after months, he still winces when the sound cuts off. Like always, it ends with that same screech of metal, muffled scream, and sickening crunch of shattering wood.
***
Early morning light pierces Doug’s eyelids, rousing him from sleep. He groans, rubbing a hand over his eyes and burrowing deeper into the folds of his coat. Try as he might to resist it, watery sunlight still beats relentlessly onto his face through his truck’s window. After a few moments, he gives in and creaks back into a seated position. His back twinges from where it spent the night pressed into a seatbelt. With a grunt, he shoves the door open and hauls himself out into the chilly morning, stretching with a series of pops once his feet touch the ground. At least this late into March there’s little chance of another snow, but he still shivers into his coat as he rummages for the small kerosene stove thrown haphazardly into the truck’s bed. Once he finds it, he reaches for a pan to heat water and the tin of instant coffee.
“Shit.”
He’d forgotten to get coffee yesterday. Dammit, he’d forgotten to get coffee yesterday. Briefly, he contemplates heating water anyway, maybe making tea, just something to warm up his hands. His Nana always talked about making tea out of--what, pine needles? He stares blankly at the forest for a minute before deciding against it. Besides, he can’t actually remember whether the pine needles were for tea or for treating constipation.
Now that he thinks about it, he’s almost out of toothpaste as well. There’s maybe enough for another day or two in the tube, three if he doesn’t use much. And cigarettes. Shit, soap too. Shit, shit. Shouldn’t have driven into the mountains without stopping at a store, he realizes that now, but he just wanted to get out , away from Knoxville. Driving through it, he couldn’t help but remember when Kate had insisted on a family trip to the world’s fair. That week had been hot, and crowded, and overwhelming, and perfect. So when Doug saw the Sunsphere’s golden dome peering accusingly down at him yesterday, he’d forgotten all his plans other than driving away, and fast. He hadn’t stopped until he’d almost hit the North Carolina border, where he’d pulled off of I-40 and onto the smaller road he’d spent last night parked next to.
But now, he needs to find a store. God dammit, he needs coffee. Sighing, he tosses the stove and tin back into his pickup. Yesterday evening he’d seen a sign for a town a few miles away, so maybe that’ll have some kind of store. Hell, even a gas station will do. The prospect of an overbrewed cup of coffee and a cheap donut cheers Doug enough to put a smile on his face as he pulls back onto the narrow road.
This early in the morning, the sunlight still has that almost pink tinge which he’s learned to love since he left Texas three years ago. Used to be he wouldn’t see daylight until nearly noon, so it had been a pleasant surprise to discover that he actually liked mornings. Now, he revels in the golden glow dappling the road and the mist shrouding the occasional vistas which appear between the trees. With wind rushing through his open window and new light all around, last night’s music seems almost like a dream, dissipating a little more with every minute that Doug spends in the waking world. He can almost forget how many nights he’s spent like that, trying to ignore his stomach dropping every time the fiddle cuts off.
He’s humming along to tinny strains of the Indigo Girls drifting from the truck’s radio when he finally sees another sign for the town. Wolf Valley, 12 miles. About time. His lack of caffeine has started up a faint throbbing in Doug’s head, dulling the morning’s beauty. The radio fuzzes out into static as he drives into a dip in the mountains, so he switches it off and drives the rest of the way in silence.
***
Wolf Valley, Tennessee is a larger town than Doug expects, though not by much. Just before mile marker 360, the woods give way to a small scramble of trailers and buildings. Doug pulls into the gravel parking lot next to most promising looking one, a cheerily painted store advertising “Quality deli meats, Postage stamps, Live Bait, ART!” in big block letters across its front window. A smaller sign below it reads “Try our famous pies!”
A small bell tinkles faintly to announce Doug’s entrance. He’s instantly hit by the smell of cinnamon drifting from somewhere behind a small counter, next to which a short woman with a severe bob stands giving directions to a second woman dressed in a sickeningly magenta sundress.
“...so y’all are going to want to keep on down this road, then hang a left when you get to the bridge. Should be a couple miles down that. Why y’want to go down there anyway? Last I heard there was just--why, good morning dear!” She turns when she hears Doug come in. “What can I do for you?”
“Morning, ma’am.” He nods his head slightly in greeting. “Just looking for a cup of coffee. Nice place you got here.” He gestures vaguely around the shop, which contains a haphazard mix of dry goods, homewares, small carved animals, and a nearly incomprehensible variety of pickles. His gaze lingers for a moment on a quilt pinned to the back wall. It features what appears to be a sasquatch against a field of orange flowers.
The woman nods briskly in acknowledgement. “Thanks, honey. Give me a minute to get Rachel here on the road and I’ll bring you that cup of coffee.” She turns back to the lady in magenta and repeats her directions, then gently bullies her into purchasing a jar of watermelon pickles before waving her out the door.
“Come back soon, honey! And I hope your friend enjoys those pickles! Now, you, sit.” She points Doug to a barstool by the cash register and bustles over to a sputtering coffee pot. Once he’s seated, she brings him a steaming cup and leans across the counter from him.
“What brings you here today, hun? Haven’t seen you ‘round here before.”
Doug sips his coffee, which is hot, strong, and everything that he could have asked for. “Just passing through. Came up through Knoxville yesterday and needed to pick up some stuff.” God, it’s good coffee. He clutches it between his palms, relishing the warmth that’s slowly seeping back into his fingers.
“Well, we got stuff.” She smirks. “Saw you looking at Izzy’s quilt up there. Beauty, isn’t it? Lady who made it claimed she saw that thing coming out at her from the woods one night, scared her half to death. Said she put it on there to protect the store. Can’t speak for anyone else, but me, I wouldn’t want to cross him.” She smiles fondly at the quilt, which Doug can now see has small gold beads sewn into the figure’s eyes. Looking back to the woman, he thinks he can almost catch a sad half-smile on her face before she shakes herself and asks “Want anything besides that coffee, hun?”
Doug considers for a moment. He was fantasizing about donuts earlier...but no. He should buy those other things first, make sure he has still has enough cash after that. He’d meant to busk some in Knoxville, but he fled up the mountain before he had a chance to take his guitar out anywhere. “No thank you, ma’am. Coffee’s fine. Could I actually get a refill, please?”
The woman peers at him as she fills his cup a second time. “Y’sure, honey? I brew this stuff strong, so you might be shaking a bit if you don’t get some food in you too. Skinny little thing like you could probably use a plate of flapjacks or somethin’. Word around town is that I make a ‘righteous’ omelette too.” She grins at the slang for a moment before he waves a hand in dismissal. Up close, she can see deep bags under his eyes, which seem even darker set into his too-thin face. “You know what, you just sit there a second.” Before Doug can respond, she disappears through the door from which the cinnamon smell has been emanating.
When she emerges, she’s holding a plate with a massive slice of apple pie sitting on it. She plops it down in front of Doug. “There, on the house. Just came out of the oven.” She beams at him, waving away his protests. “Nope, can’t turn it away now I’ve cut it for you. Welcome to Wolf Valley. You got a name?”
“Douglas Eiffel, ma’am. My friends used to call me Doug.” He finally relents and takes a bite of pie. “Wow, this is delicious. Thanks.” To be honest, there is no donut fantasy which could have compared to this pie. It’s just the right balance between sweet and tart, with cinnamon and nutmeg dancing little notes of warmth across his tongue.
“No problem, Doug,” she smiles brightly at him. “You can call me Renée.”
***
By the time Doug walks out of the store with a bag full of toothpaste, soap, and coffee in hand, he feels significantly more awake and cheerful about the world. And, he admits to himself, that pie definitely helped. As he’d eaten it, Renée had attempted to quiz him about himself, but eventually relented after his fifth evasive answer. She’d settled for companionably looming over him until every last crumb of pie had disappeared, then drifted off to dust a shelf full of knick-knacks while he shopped.
Outside, the sun has finally risen high enough in the sky for Doug to shuck his coat into his truck. He revels in the warmth for a moment, gazing around him at the forest and scattered buildings. Gold-green clouds of foliage dust the trees, still sparse enough to allow Doug to see through them to the next hill over. It’s beautiful. Nice enough to stop a moment, actually. He’s far enough out of the city that he doesn’t mind sitting around a bit, and here’s as good as anywhere else in town.
He clambors into the truck’s cab to gently remove his guitar from its nest behind the driver’s seat. He places it on his tailgate before hauling himself up next to it. Scratches and dents cover its surface, but it still shines from recent polishing.
He’s just finishing the last chords of American Pie when Renée appears in the parking lot. “Douglas Eiffel,” she calls at him. “That guitar sure sounds nice. No place better to be than my parking lot on this beautiful day?”
“Sorry ma’am, I can move. I’ll go play somewhere e--”
“No, no, you stay right where you are! You don’t know anything from Pirates of Penzance, do you?” She wanders over towards his truck, then stops abruptly when she catches sight of the mound of objects and boxes in its bed. Up close, she can see that Doug is leaning against what looks like an old steamer chest as he strums his guitar.
“What’s all that stuff you got there, honey?”
“Oh, this here’s nothing, ma’am, just some odds and--”
“Lord above, what are all those wrappers in the back seat?” She peers into the back window of his truck. “And dare I even ask about the state of that there blanket?”
“Ma’am, really, it’s ok, you don’t need to--”
Before Doug can finish his thought, Renée whirls around to scowl at him, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Douglas Eiffel, are you living out of this vehicle?”
He sputters at her for a moment. “Well, you see, it really isn’t that bad--it’s just temporary, and I’ve got all this--” he gestures at the clutter in the truck bed “--stuff that I might want, and you really do see some beautiful things out there, and, and--” He flails for words before jumping down from the tailgate and finishing “Besides, Hephaestus is a good old girl. She hasn’t let me down yet.” As he speaks, he pats his hand heavily on the truck’s side, setting off a dull metallic creaking. He and Renée both jump when the car’s bumper crashes onto the ground.
“So, uh, ma’am, you see I’m fine.”
She doesn’t say anything at first, just stands there staring at him with a look halfway between rage and compassion. When she finally speaks, her drawl has hardened into short, clipped words. “You are going to wait here for the next two hours until I close for lunch. You will help me if you can, or you will play that guitar. Then, when that is done, you will come with me--uh-uh, no talking, no arguing. When that is done, you will come with me to my home, where my husband and I will get you a decent, god-fearing meal. You will take a shower, because, bless your heart, you stink --again, no arguing. You will take a shower , and then I will get you sorted out.”
“Ma’am, that really isn’t necessary, I’m great, I’m tubular, I’m excellent, I’m--”
“Going to wait. Right. There.” And with one last menacing glare, Renée subdues Doug into sitting back down on his tailgate before moving back towards the door of the store. “And you will be there, waiting for me, when I close up in two hours.” Thoroughly cowed, he picks up his guitar and resumes strumming. He can’t remember any of the songs from Pirates of Penzance, so he settles for his best approximation of the opening theme from Cats.
***
As promised, when Renée returns at noon, Doug is still sitting in the parking lot, absentmindedly fussing with his car’s radio. He springs out of the cab as she approaches. “Ma’am! Sorry, I should have come to help.”
“No problem, at least you had the sense to stay put like I said. Now, is that thing road-worthy enough for you to follow me in it?” She eyeballs the bumper which has now been added to the pile in the truck’s bed.
“Hey, she gets me from point A to point B, don’t see why she’d stop now. Though speaking of sense, doesn’t it occur to you that it might not be the wisest to just invite a strange, car-dwelling man into your home?” He grins at her. “I might be dangerous.”
“Douglas Eiffel, we may have just met this morning, but I like to consider myself a good judge of character, and I judge that you could only maybe hurt a fly if you took a moment to cry afterwards. And, if I happen to be wrong about that, I’ll have you know that I’ve got a loaded 10mm tucked in my glove compartment and I know damn well how to use it.” She smiles sweetly at him as she continues “So, you ready to go now?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Doug follows Renée’s significantly nicer pickup out of the parking lot and through Wolf Valley’s meager downtown. A few miles past the last building, she turns down a dirt road leading into a small cove. Doug’s truck rattles ominously as he drives over potholes and loose stones, and at one memorable moment, an overflowing creek. Shit , he thinks. Maybe I’m the one who should be worried about the crazy person, not the other way around. Lady said she had a gun, now she takes me way out in the woods, I could be done for.
But, eventually, the trees give way to pastures and a welcoming row of white fence posts appears on the side of the road. Once their trucks crest a small hill, a squat white farmhouse comes into view, flanked on either side by azalea bushes dripping with white flowers. A couple of chickens peck around the base of a massive hickory tree which rises above the house’s front lawn. Renée pulls her truck onto a small patch of gravel in front of the house, so Doug follows suit. She gets out, stretches contentedly, then yells:
“Nik, honey, I’m back! Got another one for you!” She beckons Doug out of his truck. “And you, get on inside. Body needs more than pie and coffee to keep itself going.”
As she’s gesturing Doug into the farmhouse, a lanky bearded man appears through a gate next to one of the azalea bushes. “Renée Minkowsky, if you keep bringing strays into my home, I swear to our lord Jesus I’ll--”
“Love me dearly, till death do us part.” She smirks for a moment, before jogging over to him and kissing him on one dirt-smudged cheek.
“God dammit woman, you’re right I will. But I thought the first chicken was going to be the whole of it. Folly of man will be the downfall of us all.” He heaves a long-suffering sigh before catching his wife in his arms and returning her kiss. Smiling, he adds “But I suppose I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
After a moment, the two of them break apart and Renée waves Doug over from where he’d been shifting from foot to foot on the porch. “Doug, this is my husband Dominik. Nik, this here stray happens to be called Douglas Eiffel.”
“Nice to meet you, Douglas!” He clasps Doug’s hand in a calloused handshake. “Sounds like you’ve fallen victim to my wife’s bleeding heart, so welcome to the club.” He grins fondley at Renée.
“Hey, nice to meet you too. Doug’s fine.”
The three of them trek into the house, which is furnished in a ragtag collection of heavy wooden furniture and mismatched fabrics. On the way into the kitchen, Renée restures for the two men to sit at a large oak table. She emerges with several plastic containers and three plates, which she sets between them.
“There, leftovers! Most of it should be fine cold, but if you want a microwave there’s one in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
As they eat, Dominik asks Doug a few cursory questions about himself, which he answers with the same short or evasive answers he gave Renée earlier. Dominik seems accustomed to this, and doesn’t press for more, but instead turns the conversation towards his garden.
“Just put in another row of peas today, and we can probably dig a few of those new potatoes in a couple of weeks! And, of course, these” he gestures proudly at one of the deviled eggs sitting in front of him. “Are from the chickens! That new batch just started laying, so we should be all set for the market on Saturday.” He chatters on for a few moments more before his gaze fixes on Doug and he pauses, thinking. “Actually, I could use some help out there this afternoon. Ever worked on a fence row before, Doug?”
Doug hasn’t, but thinks he can learn quickly. Least he can do, given the couple’s hospitality. He agrees, and after lunch he follows Dominik outside. They walk along the edges of the pasture in companionable silence, punctuated by Dominik’s instructions on how to mend fences. It’s a pleasantly mindless task, and Doug appreciates how the other man avoids prying too much into his life story.
By the time the sun starts to sink low in the sky, both men’s backs are aching from bending to replace and mend fence rails. Before going back inside, they pause so Dominik can gesture proudly at tidy rows of potatoes and baby pea plants rustling gently from a huge garden behind the house.
“Don’t those look great out there!” He grins at Doug. “There’s this old coot down the road who Renée keeps bringing pies to. Gave us some seeds this year, so I guess the pies are paying off. Said they’d sprout faster and stay longer than any pea we’ve seen before, and I can’t say I’m disappointed with them!” They stand admiring the garden for a few minutes before Renée appears from inside the house and beckons them inside.
“Hoo-ee, and I thought you needed a wash before!” She wrinkles her nose at Doug. “You best get clean, then I’ve got some food in the oven. Fixed up the spare room for you too, though I hope you don’t mind a few boxes stacked around. Figured it would treat you better than another night in that truck of yours.”