Chapter 6: The Comfort of Sacred Places

Akewillow Chapter 6 The Comfort of Sacred Places At what point do you have such a horrible day that you stop seeing the line between your imagination and reality? Because I've had one hell of a day, and I'm pretty sure that, at this point, no one would blame me if I started seeing things. Which is, I think, the only possible explanation for what's happening.

Far in the distance, cloaked in the fading light of a dying day, I witness an apparition. It looks like the same homeless man I saw last night, but this time it's closer. Close enough that I can get a better look at it. I keep saying it because I'm not sure what it is that I'm looking at. Is it a revenant? A ghost? The symptoms of an exhausted mind? It can't possibly be that last one, though.

The raccoon sees it too. I'd chuckle at the thought that vermin is where I seek confirmation of my own sanity, but the sight that shambles between the shadows is nothing to laugh at. For all intents and purposes, It looks like a man. Maybe 5'10 or 5'11 with thin limbs and a dark complexion. Not dark like what you get from a tan or generations in the sun. Dark like ash or the veins of moldy cheese.

Its chest looks sunken and its abdomen compressed to damn near nothing, yet its face and neck are fat like a bloated corpse or a malformed pumpkin. There's something familiar about the thing dragging its feet towards us. I've decided to embrace my raccoon companion for the time being. I've seen this unique and revolting configuration of body before. Or something like it. The wind whips up a strand of discarded yellow tape, bold black lettering undulating along with the plastic strip.

It brings back the woman whose corpse I saw this morning, lying bloodless and motionless where I stand right now. Whatever is shambling between the trees ahead shares a distinct lack of midsection with the poor girl. Two more raccoons poke their heads out, one with the sun-faded red tag on its right ear. The big one growls at them and they scamper back into their green refuge. I guess you're the boss then, eh?

Hearing my own voice reassures me a little. It grounds me, breaking the spell of silence, shadows, and fear. When I turn back to the apparition in the trees, it's nowhere to be seen. At first I freak out a little. It's like spotting a spider in your bed and losing sight of it. As much as I hate the idea of seeing some bug on my pillow, it's even worse when I know that it's there, but I can't see it. Where did it go?

I whip back to the dumpster, somehow hoping for an answer from the trash vermin, but he too has disappeared. Traitor, I mumble, leaning down to pick up my box of salt.

I'm talking to raccoons about the hallucinations I'm suffering. I really need to rest. Oldwood creaks and complains under my slow steps as I walk up to the apartment above the aquilo. I feel almost drunk trying to stuff the boring little silver key Helen Edna gave me for it. My aim is off and it takes a couple of tries before I figure out which direction to twist the knob. I should have come up here earlier.

This isn't a hotel room, prepared in advance for my stay and freshly cleaned for my convenience and comfort. This is a dead woman's home. Sheets have been taken off the bed and neatly folded onto the naked mattress. Closets have been stuffed with mothballs and linen sheets tossed over furniture to protect it from dust. Otherwise, everything else is left just as it was the day Doris died. But this doesn't look like an old woman's apartment. At least...

Through my weary eyes, it looks like something much older. How did Helen Edna put it? Doris was my great-grandfather's sister? No wonder her home looks like something that should only be seen in shades of sepia or behind velvet ropes in a museum. Framed photographs line the wall of her corridor like boxes in a comic book, each telling a fragment of a continuous story. You'd think the woman a narcissist, as so many of these photos feature Doris. But they aren't...

Of Doris. Instead, they all represent some important emotional moment. Sure, she's there, smiling from ear to ear, wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. But she's never alone. In a way, Doris is only there to share in someone else's joy. In one of the older photos, she's holding a tray of cookies in the middle of a crowd of graduating students, each wearing their gown along with raw pride on their faces.

The cookies are iced in beautiful, complex patterns that resemble lace. In another, more recent photo, Doris is next to a mind-boggling three-tiered white cake. surrounded by men in fancy suits and women in beautiful dresses. Her smiling eyes are full of tears while, next to her, a man in a tux passionately kisses a woman in a wedding gown. If I were to place a bet...

I'd swear the man was Henry Figg. Everything I look at feels like voyeurism. Everything I touch is sacrilege. For the second night in a row, I have to sleep in a strange bed.

This one smells just as old, but a lot less musty, which I guess is the reward for having to put the sheets on myself. Doris wasn't the type to surround herself in creature comforts. The queen-size bed is comfortable but modest and the rest of her bedroom is small and cozy. The alarm clock on her doily-covered nightstand is analog with big red numbers marking the time.

There's a television on the dresser across the room, but it's a small CRT with a bulging screen barely 10 inches across and thin chrome antenna sticking out its back. I'm overwhelmed with gratitude to find a washer and dryer, along with some detergent. I borrow a nightgown while my clothes wash, and I continue my visit through the apartment. I can't bring myself to walk into the kitchen. Somehow, the place seems sacred.

Every time I get close to it, I can almost feel Doris's presence. The red metallic gleam of copper pots and the obvious shape of an old gas stovetop are certainly inviting, but this feels too much like a sanctum. Instead, I spend my time waiting for my clothes sitting on the couch in the living room, texting people back in Montreal to let them know I might be a few more days before I can make it back.

I ask Laura at work to give my hours to someone else until next week, and I let Trevor and Cindy know that I won't be home till Monday. Trev doesn't bother to answer, but Cindy drops half a novel to bring me up to speed on what's going on in her life. They don't need a part-timer at her workplace after all, and wish me all the luck in the world with the estate. God, I hate her. I hesitate for a full ten minutes, but eventually, I send a message to my mom.

I sit on the razor's edge of telling her about great-grandaunt Doris, but chicken out at the end, mentioning only that I'm out of Montreal for a little while. Hopefully that won't cause any follow-up questions.

The washer startles me with a loud mechanical buzz, and I drag myself to the small laundry room off the dining room. Everywhere my eye lands, I find another souvenir or oddity that further defines Doris. I can almost see what Gulliver meant by a familiar look. He's right about the crow's feet, though mine are more like laugh lines, where hers are definitely wrinkles.

We have the same general height and body shape, and despite my hair being a dark brown and hers a sunny blonde, they have the same curl and bounce, and in some of the photos, almost the same cut. More importantly... In almost every photo of Doris, she wears her smile, and it looks so terribly familiar. It's my smile, the one I had when I got accepted to cooking school or on my first day in my own apartment in Montreal.

It's a smile that's almost omnipresent here, but one I haven't seen on myself in too many months. Behind the door to the laundry room, I find the only obvious reminder of the Aquilo Cafe. white and thick with an embroidered stylized tree and shiny green thread, hangs an apron. I pick it up off its hook, carefully spreading the garment in front of me. It's clean, but used and stained.

Of all the items I've seen so far in the apartment, even compared to the ancient register and incomprehensible coffee machine, this is the closest thing to an heirloom I've seen so far. Doris must have worn this apron. every single day of her life i wander back into the corridor still clutching the white fabric in my hands

It's here and there, adorning Doris's body in half the photos, a perfect compliment to her joyous smile. The soft mattress of the bed welcomes me as I lie down, allowing me to go sink into its embrace. Sleep is quick to join in, wrapping me up in comfortable warmth, even though I neglect to get under the comforter. The apron is still close to my heart.

My fingers refusing to let it go even as my eyelids abandon the fight to stay open. Welcome home. My eyes snap open again. It takes a while, but I convince myself that I imagine the voice, and finally try to get some well-deserved rest. The night is fitful, and whatever sleep I can find feels watered down and diluted.

I wake up a half-dozen times, and on each occasion it's a struggle to slip back into any form of slumber. The dryer is the first to wake me up, announcing it's done with its task with a loud, obnoxious buzz. Then it's the auditory hallucinations, fueled by fear and paranoia, that stand before me in sleep. It's not so much the thought that Gulliver might be as terrifying a serial killer as his given name implies,

Or the vision of a ghost or walking corpse behind the cafe. So much of the ever-present feeling that I'm not alone in the apartment. Floors creak and windows rattle and at some point I could swear the bedroom door closed itself before my very eyes. Strangest of all is that none of it feels aggressive. Voices on the edge of hearing startle me with words of comfort, and closing the bedroom door put an end to a cold draft that would have surely given me a nasty sore throat in the morning.

When the sun begins to filter through the lace curtains, slowly warming up the room with a soft, golden glow, I give up on sleep entirely. Bright red numbers tell me it's still a few minutes to six in the morning. My joints ache and my eyes burn, and between my fingers I find that I'm still clutching Doris' apron. My clothes are warm from the dryer as I put them on.

The daze of trauma and shock of yesterday is replaced by a drowsiness pulled over my brain like a thin, wet rag. It obscures my sight and hearing and suffocates me all at the same time.

I get a better look at Doris's kitchen, still too intimidated to set foot on the warm beige tiles that cover its hallowed ground. It's enormous. Almost as big as the Aquilo's cooking area, but much more welcoming and lived in. Why would someone who already owns a comfortable, professional kitchen also need to have such a vast playground literally one floor above?

I know damn well why. Doris must have loved cooking almost as much as I do. Now there's a resemblance I bet Gulliver never noticed, and one that draws a more solid connection to my deceased great-grandaunt. They say blood is thicker than water, but a good bechamel puts both to shame. I make my way down to the Aquilo, where I'm greeted by a small lineup at the door. Morning, Miss Dufour.

says an old but muscular man with a sort of familiarity that makes me uncomfortable. He's dressed in dusty overalls covered in paint stains, his lips partially hidden behind a formidable gray mustache. The amount of food and drink that thing intercepts during meals must be incredible. Other would-be patrons nod as I pass by, all with smiles the color of anticipation.

I don't get it, but right now, what else do I have to occupy my day? Besides, this time, I'm apparently fully licensed and authorized to operate the cafe, so I might as well keep busy and make a few dollars. I stand on the threshold between the cash register and the kitchen, surrounded by darkness as the sun is only beginning to creep over the rooftops of neighboring buildings. It'll be a few more hours before I can pour down and through the front window.

My fist is still closed on Doris's apron. I realize that not since picking it up from the hook in the laundry room have I let go of it for more than a moment. I steal a glance back at the window. The five or so patrons, patiently waiting for me to unlock the door and let them bask in the warm, coffee-scented bliss, are all staring in my direction. Their anticipation isn't for the opening of the café.

They're waiting for something so much more momentous in their eyes, but banal with a twist of sacrilege in mind. I sigh, and maybe even roll my eyes a little bit. Biting the bullet. I pull the apron's collar over my head and around my neck. The straps on each side are long enough to go around my waist twice and tie up in the front. right over two large pockets that contain scraps of paper, a fancy pen, and a boring little spiral notebook.

There's a soft, rhythmic thump at the glass up front, and I see Mustache Man is gently slapping the window with the palm of his hand while his companions in line applaud. They're all going to be very disappointed by the end of the week, but I let them have this. Morning bleeds into lunch and lunch into afternoon. Amongst my first clients is a contingent of white-robed, braided-haired cultists. They come in and demand their usual, which I have to ask them to describe.

My usual seems to be a very common phrase at the Aquilo Cafe. I don't know if the locals are just too lazy to spell out their orders or too lazy to notice a change in administration. The people in white robes usual is a box of the fluffiest croissants I can make. I don't know if you've ever made croissants, but you don't whip those out in a minute, and I make a point of advising them as such.

but they are more than happy waiting for most of the day while I prepare a batch for them. Meanwhile, all six of them purchase tea and cookies and patiently wait at a corner table. Mustache Man is in more of a hurry, getting some coffee and the first cinnamon roll of the batch before vanishing out the door. The two middle-aged women who shared the split table yesterday come in for a moment, but take their coffee to go.

I spend the lion's share of my morning juggling between making coffee and baking in the kitchen, trying desperately to stock up the display on the counter and anticipate the needs of my customers. My relationship with the steam beast is almost peaceful, and it cooperates enough that I can whip up the first decent, no, delicious cup of coffee I've been able to tease from its copper guts so far.

While prepping croissants for the braided weirdos, I put together an extra few batches. Some for the display, some in case they want more tomorrow morning, and some for myself because I am starving and even the average croissant is great.

Mine aren't average. They're amazing. Thank God you're open, an older lady dressed completely in black says as she walks up to the register. I'll have my usual. The exasperated comment I've been brewing all morning doesn't pass my lips, barely stopped by a sharp intake of breath. I'm sorry, I say instead. What would that be? The same thing I always take, she insists.

I don't want to do this dance. There's a pile of dough that demands kneading on the kitchen counter, so playing guessing games with the local color has zero appeal at the moment. I'm new here. You'll have to tell me what that is. Oh, she seems disappointed by the news. I thought you would have known, that maybe she would have told you. She's the one who prescribed it, you see, and I'm not sure how to describe it.

The lady, who I now notice has puffy eyes and a familiar strain to her features, is fiddling with her black knitted scarf. Like me, she doesn't look like she's had her recommended eight hours of sleep. In fact, she might not even be as old as I thought, lack of rest having sucked out years from her apparent age. It's an orange honey poppy cake, but I don't know how Doris made it.

The pleading in her voice is like that of a child's. Such a simple demand that, through her words, sounds dire and life-threatening. I used to be like that. demanding that the crusts on my sandwich be cut just so, otherwise the whole meal might turn to vitriol. Except I was four at the time. Orange poppy honey cake? Oh, I can make that. I can make that with a hand tied behind my back. Remember? I'm awesome at baking. Even Chef Gagnon says so. Are you sure? She asks.

I might as well have told her I was capable of making a philosopher's stone so she could have eternal life and maybe turn all that pesky lead into gold. Maybe she's just not that great of a cook. Maybe a humble honey cake is the one thing she can't put together. Maybe Doris's honey cakes are just that damn good. But I bet I can make a better one. Quickly, I run back to the kitchen to make sure I have all the ingredients. And wouldn't you know it, it's all there except the oranges.

But that shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of. I don't have any now, but if you're willing to come back later today, I'll have some made just for you. Just for you? Where did that come from? I don't mind being nice, but I don't even know this lady, and she's really more of a hindrance than anything else right now. She should be buttering me up, not the opposite. The ghost of Doris must be rubbing off on me.

Oh, thank you so much. You have no idea what this means to me. She reaches across the counter and shakes my hand vigorously. Her fingers are cold and clammy, and I can feel every single one of her bones. Oh, the rest. How we've missed the rest.

She mumbles the last few words while pushing the front door open, setting the chimes to dance and sing on her way out. You and me both, crazy old lady. You and me both. The shadow of the Aquilo Café's logo travels slowly across the tables as the day goes by. Somewhere in the late afternoon, it vanishes completely, only to reappear suddenly when the streetlights on Rue Principal turn on.

By that time, the people in white robes have already left with their box of croissants, parting with an ominous see you tomorrow, confirming that they would, indeed, be back for more the next day. I bribe a local kid to get me some oranges from the closest grocery store, and a man comes in and orders a large coffee, the last of yesterday's cookies, and two plates.

He then proceeds to pull a sandwich from a bag, only to take it apart on one plate and reassemble it on the other before eating. During lunch, the two middle-aged women come and sit at the split table again to argue through their meal and coffee. They look like twins from different mothers. Olivia Figg drops by in the evening for a cup of coffee, and it feels good to have someone say, my usual, and know what that means. Though I still have no biscotti to offer her.

They're the mayors, Olivia explains after I bring her coffee with a drop of cream and two teaspoons of sugar. With the cafe winding down for the evening and the closest thing to a friend I have hanging out, I figure I'd get a better understanding of my clientele, starting with the two arguing women. Mayors?

one on the Canadian side, and one on the U.S. side. Do you know if they come here often? Olivia stirs her coffee, the soft clicking of teaspoon on ceramic enamel like a metronome for her thoughts. Oh. I don't know, but I sure wouldn't be surprised. Damn near inseparable, those two. You know they have their offices right across the hall from each other? Damn border runs through the corridor.

The concept seems ridiculous to me, but then again, I suppose it makes sense that there would be a mayor for each national jurisdiction, but that they'd have to work closely together. What about an old lady dressed in black? My desperate customer never did come back for her orange poppy honey cake. It's in the kitchen fridge, waiting for her to return and claim it. It's strange, considering how relieved she was that I could make the dessert. Old lady?

Yeah, pale blonde hair held in a bun, black skirt, black shirt, black woolen scarf, has a hollowed out look to her. Old lady. Girl, that's Julia Remington, and she's at least 12 years younger than me. Oops. I could tell lack of sleep had added years to Julia, but I didn't expect it to have made her look that old. or that Olivia was this sensitive about her own age. How old is Olivia anyways?

I assumed she was maybe in her 50s, but that would put Julia in her late 30s or early 40s, and that doesn't make any sense. The woman looked like she was a decade past retirement. Well, either you're way older than you look or Julia Remington isn't doing well at all. I hope a little flattery goes a long way to winning forgiveness.

Olivia smiles, sips her coffee, and reaches for a biscotti that's not there. There's a flash of disappointed annoyance, but she seems otherwise mollified. I'll have to make some biscottis when I get a moment. You could say that Julia isn't doing well. Not well at all. Poor woman lost her husband a little over a year ago. Don't know if you've ever had anyone that close to you yet, but I know if I lost my Henry, I'd be devastated.

I have a fleeting thought for Trevor, and I have to stifle a laugh at the image of grieving for him. I don't wish him dead, of course. I've yet to become that cold-hearted. But my wounds are fresh, and the scars are still raw, so... If he could be dead for a few days or stub his toe really badly for a few weeks in a row, I wouldn't shed a tear in his direction. I settle for a shake of my head. That's terrible. They must have been close.

Mm-hmm. Ever see these obnoxious couples who can't take their eyes or their hands off each other? That was them, even after years of dating and marriage. I can imagine it all too easily. At my age, it seems like every new relationship is coated in this thick saccharine syrup. With nothing to model our love lives after, we tend to either look to our parents, and who wants that kind of relationship, or to movies and books.

So nothing we have as a reference is moderated by any sort of reality. Not everyone acts that way, of course, but in every class and in every social group, there's bound to be at least one couple that makes you want to vomit. Yet, projected over the course of an entire relationship through marriage and beyond the sudden death of a partner, the gooey sweetness circles back to a heartfelt romanticism, and I feel a sharp pain for Julia's loss.

I don't think I'll be charging her for that cake then, assuming she ever comes back for it. So something I say mostly for myself, but aloud so that Olivia doesn't think I'm ignoring her. She ordered a cake, you say? She asks. Orange honey poppy cake. She was very specific about it. And you made that cake? Yeah, but she never came back for it. Hmm.

Olivia mumbles, and I can't be sure if she's surprised by any of this, or the exact opposite. She will be. Don't worry about it. She will be. And she was. though it took a few more days. By then, I'd established a sort of routine. I'd see the same regulars every morning, including Mustache Man and the white-robed croissant lovers.

The mayors would come in the morning for coffee, then again for lunch and to argue. Detective Wilson dropped by, but apart from ordering coffee and retreating to a table, he gave me a wide berth. Four identical days went by before Julia came back. Enough time for me to learn almost everyone's the usual. Most of it is pretty easy. I can remember everyone who orders coffee black. The ones who have special and interesting demands are also difficult to forget.

And they are many. It's those with boring orders that are harder to keep track of. If you come in asking for three cookies stacked together like a cookie sandwich, I'll have an easier time remembering that order than I would how many damn cream and sugar you want in your boring old Americano. You made it! Julia exclaims, incredulous as I set the small dish in front of her.

Pale gray eyes, the cover of an overcast sky, bulge out of her skull and her mouth teeters between a shocked O and a wide grin. I told you. And not to brag, but I bet it's pretty damn good, too. Even if it is a few days old. My brag flies over her head without so much as an acknowledgement. She came in late in the afternoon, just after lunch as the rush is beginning to die down, but I'm glad she's here. Julia's absence was beginning to worry me.

especially after what Olivia told me. I was beginning to think I should ask about the poor woman, but I was already failing at keeping a professional distance from the town. Helen Edna, notary public, still hasn't returned a verdict on whether I could go against Doris's final wishes, and none of the real estate agents I contacted will return my calls.

Thank you so much, she says, reaching out for my hand again, which I give her gladly this time. Can I have it to go? And how much do I owe you? You owe me nothing, I say, immediately worried that she might get self-conscious about it. Consider it my gift for making me feel so welcome in Aquilo. I smile, hoping to better sell the lie. She smiles in return, either deceived or participating in my deception.

Finding an appropriate box isn't too difficult. The same ones I use for croissants work nicely, though I'll have to secure the base of the cake so it doesn't move around and get damaged during transport. There isn't much decoration to it. A thin, mascarpone topping with a zest of candied orange peel spiraling diagonally across. She beams with warmth and gratitude, tossing her scarf over her shoulder before picking up the box in both hands.

Julia Remington almost has a spring in her step as she makes her way to the door. Who knew a simple cake could bring so much joy to someone suffering so badly? If anyone doubted the magic in cooking and baking...

I wish I could show them a snapshot of this moment. I wipe my hands on Doris's apron, more as a gesture of a job well done than to remove anything from my fingers. This short vignette of satisfaction... one that seemed to erase the frustration in dealing with Helen Edna's dictatorial attitude towards Doris's demand, is too short-lived. Before I can fully savor my good deed and the feeling of accomplishment,

The ground beneath my feet begins to shake, and a low, ponderous rumbling fills the street outside. An enormous shadow blots out the sun on Rue Principale as an immense red cab pulls across the window. only stopping once the gray trailer it drags is settled in front of the door to the Aquilo. My stomach drops to my heels. I'd been able to put aside my paranoia and Detective Wilson's implications for almost a week now, but he's back. Gulliver walks into the cafe, making the chimes jingle noisily.

In his arms are two boxes marked with the black logo of suppliers. Unsuspecting of my mounting paranoia, he's all smiles and bright demeanor. Well, look at you. He says, looking me up and down with what might pass as pride or satisfaction. The apron's a perfect fit. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot.

narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoyed this podcast and would like to hear more, please rate and review us on Apple Podcasts, Google Play, or your preferred podcast platform. You have no idea how much it helps. Questions, comments? Email us at akewillow at gmail.com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username Akewillow.