In Parched Gardens: Book 1

An Introduction: Not All He Had Known

He looked at the signs and posters on the far wall. They were all retro, but different shades of retro. World War II era metal posters, 60s' movie advertisements, 70s' and 80s' music and concert images. The diner was quaint, but for this town, it was often lively. Not tonight though. There were of course other patrons, just not many. A trucker or two passing through. Some highschoolers laughing, and probably flirting, in a corner booth. A handful of loners, sitting and watching one of the few TVs around the diner or scrolling lazily through their phones.

"Here you are," he heard over his shoulder as his waitress slid his food onto the slightly worn table before him. He immediately took in the smells of pancakes and bacon. This was not an only-breakfast diner, but it felt right tonight. It didn't take long for him to begin eating, but he took his time, scanning the diner nonchalantly, occasionally glancing at the TVs as he ate.

Just as he was getting to the bacon - he always saved it until last when he ordered breakfast foods - he heard the slight ring of the copper bell against the front door to the diner. He looked up, taking his first bite of bacon as he did, and then he saw her. Hadn't he seen her come into the grocery store a few times lately, he wondered. She looked familiar. As he watched her, she sat down, gently, almost gliding, into a booth near the far wall of the diner. Just for a moment he thought he saw her looking at him as she slid into the far corner of her booth, out of sight. Just for a moment, he looked forward to seeing her again, if in fact it was her, in the grocery store. And then he remembered, not that he had forgotten, but it flashed into his mind sharply as if a sudden flare ignited in the dark. Yes, he could not forget that. And then he ate another fork-full of bacon.

-          -          -

It felt like never-ending boxes. He hated to move, but who doesn't, he figured. He opened the box before him gingerly, not sure which boxes contained relatively unimportant and unbreakable items and which boxes carried dear and precious cargo. Kitchen wares, he discovered quickly - the unbreakable kind. He slid the box through the doorway of the large front parlor - he imagined that's what it once was - down the length of the room, into the kitchen. He was too tired, and his back was too worn, to pick up any more boxes tonight. Thankfully, he found solace in the thought that tonight was not an unpacking kind of night. Tonight was a moving boxes into their proper rooms kind of night.

But he was nearly at his limit. He could probably do more, but he wasn't in a hurry. He'd moved more boxes in the past couple of nights than he had in, he dare not think how long, in his last apartment. Of course there were mitigating circumstances. But there always are.

Thus, feeling relatively accomplished, and objectively exhausted, he made his way to bed. He loved his new bed. He had expected to have to move his old bed into this new home, but was immensely grateful that the master bedroom came furnished with a bed already. The Richardsons had intentionally bought a new bed when they moved. Too soft now, or something like that. He disagreed robustly.

Laying there he listened intently. He didn't mean to, but he couldn't help it. He heard the crickets and the night insects distinctly, and their chorus was comforting. He heard a few dogs barking, clearly setting each other off in a chain reaction. He heard a foghorn, low and deep, rumble across the water and the dark. There was a slight breeze that night, nice in the summer heat, and he heard it rustling and dancing in the leaves and the bushes around the house. He heard a few creaks from the old house itself, almost like yawns of the aged edifice. And he himself yawned in return, subdued to sleep by the quiet noises of the house and the small town around him. And yet, bordering on the twilight of sleep, he still listened intently, as if almost a compulsion. He didn't only listen, but strained to listen. Nothing, nothing but peace and even some happiness had been with him since he had moved into this house - had moved back into this town. Yet - yet even the thought of noises gripped him, like cold hands in the dark. Peace, peace is all he had known here, now. But it was not all he had known.