The Ferryman Institute (3 page)

He took out his key and reproduced Cartwright's steps with the same deft grace, turning it until he was greeted with a
click
, then stepping into the narrow white passageway that appeared shortly thereafter. The passage was about twelve feet long and reminiscent of an average hallway in its length and shape, but strange in that its walls, ceiling, and floor were all completely devoid of color. Even after centuries of use, Charlie still found traversing
the corridor
, as he called it, a mildly bizarre experience. At the opposite end of the passageway stood a stout brown door, its surface weathered with scratches and nicks of varying shapes, lengths, and depths. It was a wholly unremarkable door, which, thanks to its surroundings, made it actually (and ironically) quite remarkable. Nailed into the door at about eye level was a small yellow plaque made from some indistinct metal or combination thereof. It, too, was simple and, like the door, had clearly seen better days. However, it carried with it a strange sense of stature, as if it had been around far longer than the wood it was attached to. Etched into the plaque's surface were the words:

THE FERRYMAN INSTITUTE

Charlie twisted the key back and removed it from the door, then began walking down the hall. As he moved past the door, it swung silently shut, and the last view of the night sky disappeared behind him.

A
lice hated meatloaf. Detested it. It was the bane of her culinary existence, the kryptonite to her Superman. She wouldn't eat it in a box; she wouldn't eat it with a fox. In fact, she wouldn't eat it trapped in a box with a fox hell-bent on ripping her throat out. She stared at the piece of meatloaf as it lurked menacingly over her dollop of mashed potatoes. Okay,
maybe
she could be compelled to eat it if it meant not getting her throat ripped out, but that didn't make her feel any better about it. She knew it was childish to have such an averse reaction to dinner, especially as a quote-unquote “young adult” aged twenty-five, but there were certain things you just didn't get over in life. For Alice, it was meatloaf. And clowns. But mostly meatloaf.

“You haven't touched your meatloaf yet,” her father remarked before sticking a large forkful of it into his mouth.

When Alice had come down to dinner, she was mortified to find the brick of meat sitting in the middle of the table. Having spent more than a few late nights at the office, Dad had opted to cook tonight for the first time in weeks, and she could sense he felt a certain amount of pride in his work. The last thing she wanted to do was take that away from him. Already a sense of
foreboding began to build in the pit of her stomach, just below where the meatloaf would be digested if she chose to eat it. Maybe she could force herself to eat it, for his sake?

It sat ponderously in front of her, mocking her in all its meaty glory. Her stomach clenched in queasy protest. No, she couldn't. She didn't even want to poke it lest it contaminate her fork and then, by extension, the rest of her meal.

Why? Why, of all things, meatloaf? Her fork began trembling slightly in her hand. Alice immediately set it down and made a show of wiping her mouth.
Calm down
, she thought.
No reason to get all worked up. Dad probably just forgot you don't like it.

Exactly. This was just her sitting down to dinner with an entrée she didn't like. Actually, she loathed it, but whatever—same difference. Everything was going to be just fine. So what if her mother would have never made a plate of her most vehemently disliked meal? No big deal. Who cared if she wanted to scream at that stupid, semiburned meat block until her lungs exploded in violent tatters like a grossly overinflated car tire? That was still a perfectly normal and rational reaction to this situation, right?

Alice picked her fork back up. Unfortunately, she knew the answer to that question.

“It's just meatloaf. It won't kill you.” Alice's younger sister Carolyn had now joined the fray. Carolyn knew of Alice's utter resentment to anything vaguely related to the meatloaf kingdom, yet decided that it was appropriate to weigh in because that's what Carolyn did. Worse, her comment meant that she'd noticed Alice hadn't touched it yet, which just made Alice that much more self-conscious. “It's good protein, too,” she added. A mass of half-chewed mush—about the same color and consistency as the, ahem, contents of a recently used baby diaper—screamed for rescue from inside her sister's mouth as she spoke.

Alice tried to send Carolyn her patented death stare, but Carolyn's consistent lack of table manners was nauseating and Alice simply couldn't bear the sight. Not that she could actually kill anyone with her death stare, but it was known to make people feel very, very guilty, and
guilt stare
wasn't all that catchy.

The end of Alice's fork found its way into her mashed potatoes, and with an exaggerated gusto, she dug in. It was a vain attempt to deflect the attention off her current eating habits, an attention she rather strongly disliked (though, to be fair, she tried to avoid any attention, eating or otherwise). Like a surgeon working near a major artery, she deftly maneuvered her fork around her plate, operating so as to avoid making contact with the hideous baked meat amalgamation.

“Is something wrong with the meatloaf?”

She looked up to see her father gazing at her, his own fork hanging limply in the air as he studied her.

“No, no, not at all. I just . . . had a late lunch.” It was a lame attempt at a save, but it was plausible, so it would have to do. “Yeah, just not, you know, super hungry tonight.” She pushed her plate forward for emphasis.

He raised an eyebrow. “You feeling okay?”

She felt the concern coming off him in waves.
Wouldn't you be worried, too
, she thought,
if your daughter locked herself in her room for hours on end, then didn't eat at all?
She looked again at the meatloaf.
Actually, if I had a daughter and put that in front of her, I'd probably call child services and turn myself in.

The sad part was that he was right to be concerned—she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a full meal. A week ago? Longer than that. If anything, that made her hate the meatloaf more for drawing attention to what she was—or, more practically, wasn't—consuming. Alice's thoughts started to spiral downward in
an unfortunately familiar pattern. She hated meatloaf—honest to goodness considered it an assault on all five of her senses—but more than that, she hated how it was making her
feel
. It was such a stupid, pitiful, downright pathetic reaction to anything, let alone food.

Wow. Can't even get through dinner without an internal meltdown anymore. Now
that's
pathetic.

Alice centered herself with a deep breath. She hoped it went unnoticed. All she wanted was to get away.

“I'm totally fine,” she said. “Just had a long day of writing and a little drained from it. You know how it is.” That wasn't technically a lie, though she figured most people wouldn't consider rewriting the same three lines over and over again
writing
. “But I'll have some for lunch tomorrow if you leave it in the fridge.”

There were a few heavy seconds of near silence (Carolyn chomped food like a masticating cow, so no dinner was ever truly quiet) before Dad began moving his fork again, albeit warily. “Alrighty,” he said. “Sorry you weren't hungry. Say something next time. I would have saved it for later in the week.”

That was her cue, Alice realized. Casually as possible, she began to push her chair back and stand. All that was left to do was to thank her father for dinner. The sentence formed on her lips, the right tone built in her throat—

“Why would you eat it for lunch tomorrow?” Specks of meatloaf scattered across her plate as Carolyn spoke, her mouth inevitably full. “You hate meatloaf.”

Not knowing what else to do, Alice froze, stuck in an awkward
I really have to pee, but this toilet is gross, so I'll hover above it
pose. The things Alice would have done to Carolyn right then ranged from plain wrong to too-horrific-for-Dante's-
Inferno
.

A brief wisp of anger blew behind Alice's eyes as the urge to
scream at her sister clawed its way halfway up her throat. She instinctively clenched her jaw and swallowed hard.

“You don't like meatloaf? Since when?” her father asked. His voice was inflected with nearly every inquisitive and incredulous emotion humans were capable of. Alice imagined in other circumstances she would have been impressed by that, but for the moment, there were other matters at hand. Before Alice could respond with another excuse, her sister was already speaking for her.

“Alice never liked meatloaf,” Carolyn said. “You haven't eaten it since— How old were you? Like, six?”

“Really . . . ?” her dad said. A tinge of hurt colored his voice. “Why didn't you say anything?”

“Whoa, time out!” Alice said, practically yelling at this point just to interject anything into the conversation. Then the words started coming, anything to avoid further questions and disappointment. “So it's not my favorite or anything, but it's not like I've never had it before, you know—I mean, I would eat Mom's occasionally—well, not really eat it, just kind of nibble on the corners. Not that yours isn't as good, Dad—completely, uh, nibble-worthy—but I wouldn't go out of my way to order it at a restaurant because it's just . . .” She had to catch her breath before finishing weakly, “. . . not my thing.” She dared not rewind that explanation in her head, lest her brain commit seppuku to atone for the abomination of English language she had just unleashed on the world.

God, she was hopeless.

Her father stared at her for a second, his eyes open but unseeing. Then he put his fork down and stood up, taking her plate with him and moving it to the counter. “I'm sorry, Alice. I honestly had no idea. Let me make you something else. I have eggs, and . . . let's
see . . .” He had made his way over to the fridge and began shuffling through its contents. Alice watched him give the inside of a plastic container a brave sniff before recoiling. “Ugh, well, that's no good. Oh, there's bologna—how about a bologna sandwich instead?”

Hoo-ray, from meatloaf to bologna.
“Dad, really, I'm good. Like I said, I had a late lunch. Promise.” She hadn't, but her plan to not hurt his feelings had already backfired—why cause more damage?

Her father's head peeked out from behind the door of the refrigerator. His long limbs and arthritis made it difficult for him to comfortably get down to the lower shelves, but there he was anyway. “Are you sure?” he said. “There's plenty of stuff. I've got fresh tomato soup from Mr. Soup Guy back here.”

Alice nodded vigorously. “Positive. One hundred percent. But thank you for dinner, the potatoes were excellent.” She silently pleaded with her stomach not to growl, hoping that what little sustenance she'd managed to force down would be enough to keep it quiet. “Really good. They should put that recipe on the Food Network,” she added with a laugh, hoping against hope that it only sounded forced to her.

“I'm not sure they do Betty Crocker instant-mash recipes on TV,” he said as he drew himself up from the tangle of limbs on the floor.

She cringed inwardly. “Well, maybe there was a little extra butter in there or something, because I've had instant mash before, and that tasted way better.” Alice wasn't even sure she was making sense anymore.

Carolyn finished up her meal, walked over to the sink, deposited her dishes, and then sauntered upstairs. As always, her sister seemed oblivious to anything outside of her own world. It was a trait
Alice found infuriating at the best of times, but at that moment, she was a touch jealous. Ignorance was bliss, after all. Regrettably, Alice had never received that ability, so she and her father stood there in silence for a few seconds, neither knowing what to say.

“Well . . . ,” her dad finally said, “I guess I should get started on these dishes.” A random assortment of mixed-and-matched cups and plates cluttered up the sink. He strode over to it, his long legs moving in an exaggerated lope before he delicately bent down to get a pair of beaten-up rubber gloves from underneath the sink.

“Are you sure? I can help,” Alice said, but he waved her away.

“No, no, I'm all set here. Why don't you go back to your writing?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he stood there.

“I mean, I'm not in a rush or anything . . .” She hesitated. “Why don't I just—”

“I said I've got it, Alice.” He playfully waved the gloves at her. “Now get out of here before I start beating you with these.” She could see the hint of a smile on his face.

“Horror of horrors,” she said in an exaggerated voice as she walked toward the door. She stopped in the doorway. “If you need anything, just let me know. Please?”