The Speck and the Spark

1985

Hackensack, New Jersey

Coach House Diner

The gravel crunched under Molly's hooves as we crossed the parking lot. Quarter past eleven, a misty Tuesday night, right off Route 4. I kept my hat pulled low against the glare of that big neon sign.

Molly picked her way around some little Honda, snorted at the exhaust, and kept on. She never did take to automobiles. Neither did I.

I got down right at the front and looped her reins around the black railing by the steps.

“Behave yourself,” I told her.

She blew through her nose at me, which was her way of telling me to hush my mouth.

“That's what I figured you'd say.”

I pushed on through the glass door. Inside smelled like grilled onions and coffee. A jukebox played Top 40 hits by the cigarette machine.

Brandi had been behind the counter stacking glasses, but she'd spotted Molly through the window while I was tying her up. By the time I got the door open, she had a carrot from the pie case dropped into a bucket of water, greens and all.

Worked nights around her college classes, down the road a piece. She'd told me that much herself, though I never did ask what she studied. Didn't seem my business.

“Molly says thank you kindly, Brandi.”

“Figured she'd be thirsty.” She was already headed for the front door with the bucket.

That was Brandi. Always half a step ahead of what anybody needed.

She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled. “Back booth. You're late.”

I'd never asked how a girl came to work at a diner where half the customers dressed like old photographs, and she'd never asked what I was doing among them. Some things you let be.

I made my way toward the back. Four men were crowded into that big corner booth, three I knew and one I didn't. Seems like even after you're dead, folks with something in common find each other. We'd all been Masons in life, and before long we had ourselves a regular little bunch. Guess I might could tell you who all showed up that night.

Arthur was a big man, heavy mustache, spectacles down low, little leather book beside his teacup. Started out a doctor, then made his living writing books and stories.

Samuel had silver hair, a close-trimmed white mustache, and spectacles. Calmest one at the table, most nights. Practiced medicine in Washington most of his life.

Frank was short, wound tight, black hair slicked back, hands going the whole time he talked. Italian-born Jersey man. Printer by trade.

Then there was the stranger. Big fella with broad shoulders, a weathered face, and a cardigan. 

Me, I made it to eighty-six before I died in 1925. Spent most of those years farming. Oldest one of this bunch.

Course, some of us don't look our age.

I took my hat off and slid into the booth next to Samuel.

Frank frowned at me. “Look who finally showed.”

“Molly ain't much for rushing,” I said.

“Neither are you,” Arthur quipped.

Frank cut in. “Rudyard couldn't make it tonight. Got himself a Spark going in India.”

“Shame. Was hoping for one of his animal stories.”

I turned to the stranger to make myself known. Never was a big man, hair gone thin on top and shaggy everywhere else, more gray in my beard than I liked to admit some days.

I held out my hand. “Marquis Lafayette Delafonte Crews. Alabama. Folks just call me Fox.”

He took it in a hand the size of a dinner plate. “John. Nice to meet you, Fox.” He talked low and slow, taking his time with every word.

“Not even six years off the mortal coil, our John here,” Arthur said.

“Feels longer,” John said.

Frank couldn't resist. “Don't ask him about the name.”

“Had a sister named Queen Ann,” I said. “That ought to tell you enough.”

John glanced between the two of us and chuckled. “Fair enough.”

“You missed Arthur's book story and Samuel nudging a schoolgirl toward an anatomy class,” Frank said. “Showing up whenever you please.”

Every so often we Kindlers sat down like this, same as regular men might, and swapped Spark stories. Sparks were the little nudges we gave the ones still living. We didn't go picking just anybody, either. Every one of them was kin to us, one way or another. Specks, we called them.

“Sorry I missed it,” I said.

“You don't sound sorry,” Arthur said.

“Frank's only just started his,” Samuel said.

Frank cleared his throat. “First Yankees game. Kid's nine. There with his father. Batter hits the ball.”

I helped myself to the disco fries. “What'd you do?”

“Little adjustment.”

“Interference,” Arthur said.

“Six inches.”

“Interference.”

“Boy caught it.”

John watched them go back and forth like it was a tennis match.

“Kid catches it,” Frank went on, “father loses his mind, whole section's cheering, boy sleeps with that ball on his nightstand ever since.”

“He's mentioned that part twice,” Arthur said.

“Because it's a good part.”

I thought about it. “Good Spark.”

Frank sat back, satisfied as a cat. “Thank you.”

Arthur had a little grin at the corner of his mouth. “You still interfered with the game.” 

“You move books.”

“I guide attention.”

“You shoved a book off a shelf.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Shouldn't get too proud of yourself,” Samuel told Frank. “You're still waiting on your first Echo.”

“Don't jinx it,” Frank said.

I laughed.

“Still worked better than that Volkswagen mess.”

John grinned. “Sounds like a good story. What happened?”

I went for another fry. “Ain't important.”

Samuel smiled. “Three of Fox's little Specks rolled one into a pine tree at their grandmother's house.” 

“Nobody got hurt,” I said.

“See?” Frank pointed at John. “That's always where he starts.”

“Now I gotta hear this,” John said.

“All right, get comfortable.” I took a drink of coffee. “My girl with a headful of tangled brown curls was seven at the time. She was outside with two girl cousins that day, one ten and blonde, the other was six and had one of them Dorothy Hamill dos. All three would stop for anything with fur and four legs. I called them Curly Q, Goldilocks, and Little Red.

“I had my eye on a young fox hanging around there that week. Wanted to show him to my Specks. Near had him eating out of my hand.

“Girls had already climbed into her daddy's baby-blue Volkswagen Beetle, pretending to be Charlie's Angels. Called it the Doodlebug. Car wasn't even running, just parked on a little slope in the side yard.

“Curly Q's driving. Little Red's poking her head through the seats. Goldilocks asks, ‘How in the world do you drive this thing?’ ‘Like this,’ Curly Q says, and starts working the gearshift and trying to pump the pedals with her toes.

“Then the damn car started rolling.”

“Downhill,” Frank said.

“Yes, Frank. Downhill. Girls started hollering, and that fox disappeared into the trees.”

“What'd Curly Q do?” John asked.

“Got scared and jumped out.”

“Oh, hell. Other two?”

“Stayed in. Doodlebug caught a pine tree on the front corner. Good thing it was a slow roll. Both climbed out without a scratch.”

“And you?”

“Watched my Spark go straight down the drain before I ever got it lit.”

“That fox heard those girls squealing and just.” Frank snapped his fingers at John. “Gone.”

John shook his head. “All that work for nothing.”

“Some Kindler you are,” Arthur said.

John laughed. “I like him already.”

“I never claimed to be quick,” I said.

“Curly Q was squalling by the time her daddy came out. He wasn't mad. Picked her up and said he was just glad she was all right.”

The table went quiet.

“Never fixed the dent, either,” I said.

Brandi came around with the coffee pot and topped off Samuel's cup.

“You want anything else, John?”

“Coffee's fine.”

She poured it slow, looking at him a second longer than she needed to.

“You know, you look so familiar.”

He just grinned. “Do I?”

She studied him a little more, then gave it up. “Huh.” She moved on down the table.

“Where you from?” I asked him.

“California.”

“What'd you do out there?”

“Pictures,” he said, picking his coffee back up.

“Photographer?”

“Not hardly. Other side of the camera.”

I let it be, not pressing it. “Got any good Spark stories?”

“Not yet. Trying Kindling on for size.”

Brandi brought my plate of buffalo wings to the table.

Frank shook his head. “Man died in 1925, and now he won't eat anything unless it burns going down.”

“Picked up a few things since,” I said.

“Anything new from yours?” Samuel asked. “Any new animal stories?”

Frank leaned back like he was bracing for weather. “God help us. You and your damn animals.”

“Been that way since he was a boy,” Samuel said, that dry chuckle of his. “Used to feed a wild fox behind his mama's kitchen. That's where the name came from.”

“That's one telling of it,” I said.

Arthur closed his book. “Ever occur to you that another Kindler sent you that fox, Marquis?”

I held his gaze. He raised an eyebrow and waited.

Truth is, I'd wondered about this more than once. Never had an answer for it, and never much wanted one.

I reached in my coat pocket and pulled out the postcard. A castle and a mouse painted on it.

Frank stopped mid-word. Samuel leaned forward.

“That what I think it is?”

I laid it down next to my plate. “Got an Echo.”

Sometimes a Spark came back around. We called it that when something we'd shown them stuck, and later on they made use of it all by themselves.

“Remember that hognose snake Spark? Curly Q. Couple years before the Doodlebug.”

Samuel thought about it. “Hadn't put those two together. Same girl.”

Arthur adjusted his spectacles. “Remind us how that one went.”

“She was five. Asked questions about everything under the sun. Hell, her mama even bought the whole Childcraft How and Why Library off a door-to-door man just to keep her busy.”

“Never seen a snake before?” John asked.

“Not once. And I knew how curious she was about every living thing she came across. So when I spotted a harmless little hognose sunning itself in the grass, I thought, well now, here's something she ought to see.

“Her tabby cat was prowling through the yard, and she was trailing along behind it, so I gave the cat a little nudge toward the snake. She went to investigate. Naturally, my girl followed.”

“And the snake?” John asked.

“Flattened its head out wide, puffed up near double, hissed like a tea kettle fixing to boil over. Then it rolled over, tongue hanging out the side of its mouth, still as anything. Pink belly stuck straight in the air.”

“Playing dead,” John said.

“Best trick it had.”

“What'd she do?” Frank asked.

“Ran inside hollering, ‘Daddy, I saw a snake!’ He asked what kind.”

“And?” John leaned in.

“She thought about it. Told him, ‘Ham.’”

John let out a laugh. “Ham?”

“Pink belly. That's all a five-year-old had to go on.”

Samuel shook his head, still smiling. “Well, she wasn't entirely wrong. It was a hognose.”

“That had been the whole of it, far as I'd known.”

I dropped my eyes back to the postcard.

“And then this came.”

The jukebox reached the end of its song. For a few seconds there was nothing but dishes clattering behind the counter.

I unfolded the card and read it out loud.

Thought you'd want to know. That girl of yours, the one with the snake. Fifteen now.

Boy she'd been seeing broke it off a few weeks back. Came round her window late Thursday night, mad over another boy taking a liking to her.

Frank's jaw tightened. “Go on.”

Had him a pocketknife. Held it open where she could see it.

Nobody said a word to that.

She didn't scream. She pretended to faint, went limp, dropped to the floor, taking the table and lamp with her. Raised enough racket to scare him off and bring her mama running. She's all right. Figured you'd know it when you heard it.

I read that last part to myself again before I set the card down. She's all right.

“The snake,” John said.

I nodded. “She copied the snake.”

“But you didn't tell her to. Didn't put it in her head.”

“No.”

He sat back. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“You Spark anything that night?” Samuel asked.

“Didn't touch a damn thing. Wasn't anywhere near her. She did it. Not me.”

“Ain't my survival story.” I tapped the card once. “It's hers.”

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

Frank nodded toward the postcard. “Hell of a first Echo.”

“Reckon so,” I said.

I left the card where it was.

Brandi came around again.

“You guys need anything?”

Frank held his cup out. “Better judgment.”

“Can't help you there,” she joked. 

John watched her walk away. “Does she know?”

“Know what?” I asked.

He glanced around the table and raised an eyebrow.

I grabbed another wing. “Never asked.”

Wasn't my place to ask.

He sat there contemplating that thought, then picked his coffee back up.

Frank stole the last wing off my plate while I wasn't watching close enough.

“Get your own.”

“You weren't eating it.”

“I was considering it.”

A new song started on the jukebox. We sat there awhile, talking about one thing or another.

After a bit, I went quiet. Felt something tugging at me, somewhere beyond the diner. One of mine.

I went for my hat.

Frank groaned. “You just got here.”

“I've eaten. Done my share of talking.”

“You missed half the meeting.”

“Should've waited.”

“We did wait.”

“Not long enough.”

I stood. 

“Where you headed?” Samuel asked.

“Got a little redhead in need of a Spark.”

“Little Red?”

“That's her.”

Frank pointed a finger at me. “You leave the cars alone.”

“Ain't going near the cars.”

“What're you going near, then?”

I pulled my coat on. “Gone and got herself another horse. Appaloosa.”

“And?”

“Two crazy goats.”

Frank shut his eyes like it pained him. “Oh, hell.”

“What about the goats?” John asked.

“Won't give that horse a minute's peace.”

I left enough on the table to cover the wings, and then some.

I settled my hat on my head and started for the door.

“Arthur's next,” Samuel called after me.

I lifted a hand to let him know I'd heard. Arthur's turn meant the pub, same as always.

Frank hollered after me. “What're you gonna do with the horse and the goats?”

I stopped and turned back to the four of them.

“Think it's time they became best friends.”

I tipped my hat to Brandi on my way past the counter. “Keep at those studies, young lady.”

“See you in a few weeks, Fox. Stay out of trouble.”

Then I stepped back out into the damp night. Molly lifted her head when she saw me coming.