The Skylark Diner

THE SKYLARK DINER

Saturday Morning

When Father Ward enters I can tell by his expression that something heavy is weighing on his mind. In and of itself that isn’t unusual. As priest at All Saints Church and Headmaster of All Saints Academy he’s got a pretty full plate. Preoccupied seems his constant mental state these days. If he didn’t love his work so much I’d worry about it a little, honestly.

Truthfully, in spite of how much he enjoys both his vocations, I do worry, but not about him burning out. Father Ward’s got a good head on his shoulders and a healthy dose of common sense. He knows when and how far to push himself, and when to relax. Plus, he served time in Afghanistan as an Army Chaplain. He saw some pretty rough action (though he’s never shared the exact details) and he survived just fine. You don’t manage that without some serious steel in your spine.

No, it’s not Father Ward’s busy work schedule that concerns me.

It’s this town, and the strange things that hide here.

See, for whatever reason—Fate, Destiny, Providence, Blind Dumb Luck, Losing the Cosmic Sweepstakes—my friends and I have been chosen as the ones who get to know all the dark little secrets of this town. We don’t look for them or seek them out. They come to us. Like iron filings to magnets, these secrets and stories and half-truths come to us in many different ways. In fact, one of them is sitting before me on my booth’s table, now.

And this one seems meant especially for Bill Ward, priest of All Saints Church and Headmaster at All Saints Academy.

***

Soon as Father Ward nears my booth that preoccupied look vanishes, replaced by his customary, easy-going smile. “Morning, Chris. Sheriff. You order yet?”

I shake my head, smiling in return, which is almost impossible not to do, despite the occasion bringing us to The Skylark this morning. “Was waiting for you. Figured we could eat after.”

I nod at the plain, black-cloth journal (the kind found in almost any bookstore) sitting on the table. Father Ward’s smile fades slightly as he slides into the booth across from me. “Ah. I see. So this is one of those breakfasts.”

“Afraid so. But it’s been pretty quiet around here lately, so . . . guess we had to expect it sooner or later.”

“True enough. Gavin and Fitzy coming?”

Fitzy-Mike Fitzgerald—is an MD at Utica General Hospital and Gavin Patchett is a mid-list genre novelist turned high school English teacher who only recently started writing again, releasing a collection of short stories through a small publisher titled Things Slip Through. We all met through Gavin. Several years ago one of his students was involved in a shooting. I was the first officer on the scene. Fitzy treated the shooter at the hospital. Father Ward counseled her before she went to The Riverdale Center downstate for treatment. Through that tragedy bonds of tentative friendship formed. We began meeting regularly and soon Poker Tuesdays became a mainstay, as has breakfast or lunch or dinner at The Skylark, schedules permitting.

Unfortunately, not all our gatherings are for pleasure. But such is the way of things, and we’ve come to accept that.

“No. Fitzy just finished pulling a double shift at the hospital, so he’s sleeping. Gavin’s out of town, at a writing convention down Binghamton way.”

Father Ward’s smile widens at this. “Ah, yes. How’s the collection faring?”

“According to Gavin, getting good reviews and selling well. He’s happy. Seems more at peace these days. I think that’s all he cares about, really.”

And that’s the truest thing you can say. Gavin’s full-time writing career ended badly. Too much drinking, too much hype, a near-fatal car accident, and he called it quits seven years ago. He returned to Clifton Heights and for the next five years drifted through a teaching career at the public school, barely getting by and still drinking too much. Two years ago his student was involved in that shooting. Afterward he quit drinking and began writing again . . .

Though not necessarily because he wanted to. Not at first, anyway. Like those iron filings we all seem to attract, he started writing stories about the things that happen in this town when no one’s looking; the things that lurk in the dark corners everyone else would rather ignore.

Do these stories really happen?

There’s no way of knowing. Initially this uncertainty tormented him. He didn’t sleep well for a long while. However, publishing some of them in Things Slip Through has given him a measure of peace. Helped him embrace his . . . calling, if you will, just like we have.

I grapple with cases that can’t be solved. Father Ward hears the strangest confessions, though he can’t share the specifics about most of them. Fitzy—even though he works in Utica—treats John and Jane Doe patients who often disappear afterward.

Gavin? He writes unexplainable stories that may or may not be true. Like I said: iron filings to our magnets.

And unfortunately, it’s time to quit stalling and deal with the latest iron filing attracted our way. I place a hand on the journal and look at Father Ward, trying to keep my expression neutral. “Couple days ago folks living on Upper Bassler Road called in reports of strange lights at night.”

Father Ward’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Bassler House?”

Bassler House is an old abandoned Victorian farmhouse sitting in the middle of a fallow cornfield off Bassler Road, on the edge of town. We’ve heard our fair share of stories about that place. Everyone has. Every small town needs its own spook house, right?

“No. Further up the road, closer to the Commons Trailer Park. Sent one of my deputies—Freddy Potter—to investigate. Turned out to be a high-powered flashlight someone left on, under that old Oriental gazebo out there. The one in that overgrown flower garden near those rows of blueberry bushes. You know where I’m talking about?”

Surprised recognition dawns in Father Ward’s eyes. “Yeah. Mr. Trung’s old place. Nice Vietnamese guy from when I was a kid. Retired. Raised blueberry and raspberry bushes. Everybody picked berries there. His flower garden was something else, too. Sad the way he died, all alone like that.”

He frowns. Glances down at the journal, then back up at me. “Did you find this . . . ?”

I nod, tapping the journal. “I took it home, read it.” I look at Father Ward closely. “You remember a Nate Slocum?”

Father Ward sits back against the booth’s cushions, looking thoughtful. “Sure. Good guy. We weren’t super friends, but we shared the same taste in movies. Always used to watch those old ‘Creature Features’ that played at Raedeker Park back in the day. After college, I guess he came home to live with his dad, right? Been working at the lumber mill since?”

I sigh and push the journal toward Father Ward. “Not anymore.”