Authors: John Langan
The strangest thing in the diner, and it’s worth remarking if for no other reason than that I studied it each time I ate there, was a large oil painting that hung above and to the left of the order window as you sat at the counter. This painting was so old, so begrimed with the smoke of a thousand omelets and hamburgers, that only by diligent and careful study could you begin to develop an idea of its subject. The canvas was such a mess of masses of shades and shadows that I half-suspected it was some kind of giant Rorschach Test. Where it hung wasn’t especially well-lit, which didn’t help matters any. You could make out a long, curving, black blotch of something hovering in the middle of the picture over a pale patch, with a wavy white line in the upper right-hand corner. You might think I would’ve looked at the painting, seen that I couldn’t make head or tail of it, and let that be that. But there was something about it, this quality, that I don’t know if I have the words for. The picture fascinated me; I guess because it was so close to showing you what it was, so close to revealing its meaning. Maybe it was a big Rorschach Test. I saw a different scene each time I sat down at the counter. Once, it must have been the first time I stopped at Herman’s, I saw a bird swooping down out of the sky, a crow, maybe. Another time, I thought it might be a bat. Then, since the rest of the diner was done up in fishing memorabilia, I decided the painting must be a fishing scene. Throughout these deliberations, I received absolutely no help from the diner’s staff, who told me they weren’t sure where the painting had come from. Howard had an idea it had been purchased from an inn somewhere in New England—out Mystic way, he seemed to recall—but didn’t know any more than that, except that nobody could tell what the hell it showed. Liz and Caitlin refused to be drawn into discussing it, despite my best efforts.
That morning, when Dan and I sat down at the counter and ordered our coffees, with no help from anyone else I saw a fish in the black blotch at the painting’s center, something long, serpentine, a pike, say. The fish had been hooked, and was twisting as it fought its fate. The more I looked at the painting as I sat there drinking my coffee, the more sure I was that, at long last and after much cogitation, I had solved its mystery. In my solution, I saw a good omen for the day of fishing ahead. I was seized by the momentary impulse to tell somebody my discovery, share my success, but Dan had just stood to visit the facilities, and the rest of the diner was empty. By the time Dan returned, the impulse had released me.
As I glanced around the diner, looking for someone to decode the painting to, I noticed the air outside, which had been lightening with the first traces of a weak dawn, dimming; the first drops of rain spattered the windows a moment later. I didn’t groan, but I felt like it. I’ll fish in the rain—Hell, I’d fish in the snow—but that doesn’t mean I especially care to. I suppose a light drizzle isn’t so bad, but the kind of rain that was crackling on the diner’s roof, the hard, driving kind that soaks you through in under a minute and then keeps on going, that is not my idea of fun. Maybe it would turn out to be a passing squall. But by the time Liz set my corned beef hash and scrambled eggs down in front of me, if anything, the rain had strengthened into a wall of water.
While we were sitting over our breakfasts, Howard emerged from the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee and chat with us. I’d seen him do this from time to time: I’m pretty sure that he owned the diner, and I think this was his version of customer relations. I’d had a brief conversation with him two or three years prior, though I wasn’t sure he remembered. We hadn’t done more than exchange pleasantries about the weather, which was warm and sunny, and how the fish were biting, which they were. After that, he’d nodded whenever he saw me, but I noticed that he nodded at pretty much everyone who walked into the diner. He was a tall fellow, Howard, with long arms that ended in oversized hands. His face was what my ma would have called unhandsome. It wasn’t that he was ugly, exactly, more sort of homely. He had a lantern jaw that made him look as if he were perpetually holding something in his mouth that was too hot to swallow. His skin was pale and had that worn look you see on someone who’s been a steady smoker for most of their life. His voice was low and rumbling, and from conversations I’d overheard him having with other guys, I knew he was reasonably sharp, enough so for me to wonder what he was doing cooking in a diner. I never did find out the answer to that one.
Anyway, Howard stood there, the chunky white coffee cup swallowed in one of his enormous hands, the dingy white chef’s hat he favored tilted back on his head, and wished us both a good morning. When we returned the greeting, he went on, “Some weather we’ve been having.”
Dan grunted from his cup. I said, “You can say that again. Streams’ll be running pretty high, I imagine.”
“Lot of flooding,” Howard said. “Pretty bad in places. You fellows planning on fishing?”
“We are,” I said.
Howard grimaced. “Can’t say it’s the day for it. Where you headed?”
“Dutchman’s Creek,” I answered. On impulse, I added, “Ever hear of it?”
Probably, I could count on one hand the number of times something I’ve said has caused a person to turn pale. Most of those cases would hail from my childhood, when I told one or both of my folks a particularly worrisome piece of news: that I had stepped on a nail in the basement; that kind of thing. Well, add that Saturday morning in early June to the list. Howard’s pale skin went paler, as if you’d poured a glass of milk over a bowl of oatmeal. His eyed widened, and his mouth opened, as if whatever he kept in there couldn’t believe its ears, either. He raised his coffee cup to his mouth, finished its contents, and went for a refill. I looked at Dan, who was staring straight ahead as he chewed a mouthful of Belgian waffle, his face formed to an expression I couldn’t get a purchase on.
Howard poured a generous helping of sugar into his refill, and, without stirring it, turned back to us. His voice calm, his face still pale, he said, “Dutchman’s Creek, huh?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Not many folks know about the creek anymore. How’d you hear about it?”
“My friend here read about it,” I said.
“Is that so?” Howard asked Dan.
“Yeah,” Dan said, chewing his waffle.
“Where would that have been?”
“Alf Evers’s book on the Catskills.” He did not look at Howard.
“That’s a good book,” Howard said, and I noticed Dan’s back stiffen. “Good history. I don’t recall anything about the creek in it.”
“It’s in the chapter on the Reservoir,” Dan said.
“Ah—that’s where it would be, wouldn’t it? I must’ve forgot,” Howard said, the tone of his voice telling us there was no way he’d done any such thing. “I’ll have to have another read of old Alf’s book. It’s got some good stories in it. Since my memory obviously isn’t what it used to be, maybe you can tell me what else Alf says about the creek. Does he tell how it got its name?”
“No,” Dan said, finishing his waffle. “He doesn’t mention that.”
“What about the fellows who died there. Does he mention them?”
Dan’s head jerked up. “No.”
“Hmmm,” Howard said, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. “I guess Alf Evers wasn’t as thorough as I thought.”
“Died?” I asked.
“Yes,” Howard said. “Been a few folks met their maker up at the creek. Seems the banks are steeper than they look, and the soil’s pretty loose. On top of that, the creek’s deep and fast-moving. All of which means it’s easier than you’d think to take a tumble into the water and not come up again.”
“How many have drowned?” I asked.
“Half-dozen, seven or eight, easy,” Howard said, “and I’m just talking about in the time I’ve been here,” he gestured to the diner with his mug, “say, in the last twenty years or so. I don’t know what the exact total is beyond that, but I understand from some of the old-timers that the creek’s taken enough men to put much bigger streams to shame. Mostly out-of-towners, folks from down the City come up here for the weekend. The locals tend to know better than to try the creek, though every now and then some high school kid’ll decide to prove how brave he is to his friends or some girl and go tempting the waters. When he does—well, the creek isn’t all that discriminating. It’ll take whatever’s on the plate, if you know what I mean. The old-timers say the creek’s hungry, and from what I’ve heard, I’d agree.”
“How did it get its name?” Dan asked.
“Beg pardon?” Howard said.
“You asked if we knew how Dutchman’s Creek got its name,” Dan said, “so I assume you do. Right?”
“That’s right,” Howard said. “It’s quite the story. Some’d call it local legend, but there’s more to it than that. It is long…longer than you’d think.”
“I’m curious,” Dan said. “I’m sure Abe is, too. Aren’t you?”
I was—curious enough, anyway. Howard’s warning had made me wonder what all the fuss was about. I was curious as well about the currents I felt flowing between him and Dan. Not outright hostility, exactly: it was more like Dan was afraid Howard was going to reveal something he wanted kept hidden, and Howard was annoyed at Dan for whatever that secret was. At the same time, we had come up here to fish. A glance back over my shoulder, though, showed the rain continuing. I sighed. “I suppose so,” I said. “I’m always happy to hear a good story, legend though it may be. But we don’t want to keep you.”
“I guess Esteban and Pedro can manage for a few more minutes. Besides, it’s not as if we’re all that busy.” He nodded at the diner, but for us, still empty. Caitlin and Liz sat together at a booth, Caitlin smoking, Liz reading the paper. “Strange, for a Saturday. Even with the rain, there’s usually some folks come in for breakfast.” He shrugged. “Almost like I’m supposed to tell it to you fellows, isn’t it?” The tone of his voice was casual, but I was suddenly aware of a tremendous, heavy urgency behind it, as if the story he had promised were heaving itself towards us. For a moment, I was possessed by the almost irresistible urge to flee him and his tale, to throw whatever money was in my pocket onto the counter and run out into the downpour. Then he said, “Understand, I can’t vouch for any of this,” and I was caught.
What Howard told us next took the better part of an hour, during which the diner was as still as a church, sealed off from the world beyond by the wall of water pouring from the sky. His story was long, certainly the longest I’ve had from one man at one time. While he was telling it, I couldn’t believe how much he’d remembered, how many details of speech and act, of thought and intent, and a little voice inside my head kept whispering, “This is impossible. There’s no way anyone could have a memory this accurate, this precise. He’s inventing this. He has to be.” And although I’d had some strange experiences myself, the events Howard related made the weirdest of them seem plain as a cup of coffee and a slice of apple pie.
Funny thing is, while he was telling his tale, I believed much more than I would have guessed likely. Only once his voice had stopped was I convinced I’d just been buried under the greatest load of horseshit anyone ever had shoveled. Yet even after Dan and I had paid for our meals and left the diner and were continuing our drive to the creek, it was as if I were still listening to Howard’s voice, as if I were inside his story, looking out at everything, as the story uncoiled around me.
If I say there was more truth to Howard’s tale than I first believed, I don’t suppose it’ll come as much surprise. What I find almost as remarkable is that I can recall pretty much everything Howard said, verbatim. Given what was to happen to Dan and me, maybe that isn’t such a surprise. But I can recall everything Howard didn’t say, as well:
Some months after all this, when the summer turned hot and dry, I sat down at the kitchen table, a pen in one hand, a pad of legal paper in front of me. Howard’s story had been gnawing at me for weeks, and I had decided to write down what I could remember of it. I expected the task would take me an afternoon, maybe a little longer. How long could it take you to write down an hour’s worth of talking, right? I’ve never been much of a writer, and I spent as much time lining things out as I did putting them down, but I wanted to copy down everything I could recall of what Howard had said, get all of it exactly right. By the time the first night had rolled around, my hand was still moving that pen across the paper. For the next four days, I wrote. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, and I understood that the story had passed to me, that somehow, Howard had tucked it inside me.
In the process, it had brought details with it Howard hadn’t included, enough that they would have stretched what he told us through the rest of the morning and right through the afternoon into the evening. All sorts of tangents about the figures whose stories he was relating, Lottie Schmidt and her father, Rainer, as well as stories about men and women he hadn’t mentioned, at all, like Otto Schalken and Miller Jeffries, crowded the pages. And yet, at the same time, every last detail I wrote down seemed familiar. I had the maddening sense that, even though Howard hadn’t related anything like the complete story to us, I had carried it with me out of the diner all the same, had known it—or maybe been known by it, folded into its embrace.
I offer that much longer version of the story here, when and where we were first introduced to its principle players. Doing so means stepping away from my own tale for a lot more time than I’d like. Without what I can’t help calling Howard’s story, however, everything that happened to Dan and me, all that badness that found us out and chased us down, makes far less sense than it does with it. Maybe that isn’t saying so much. You might imagine Dan and me sitting somewhere off to the side of the drama that’s about to debut, while Howard points out to us who’s who and what’s what. Or maybe you should imagine us walking the margins, watching the story unfold across the page.