Honeymoon of the Dead by Tate Hallaway

thrown into the mix.
    I smiled. Ah, home.
    Crossing the bridge, I passed an art gallery that featured various, odd, brass Humpty Dumpty-type eggs smiling or grimacing at passersby from their perches atop a small fence.
    Despite all the treats I’d been offered at the consulate, I pulled into the parking lot of the Seward Cafe. The parking lot of the Seward was cobblestone, and the tires hissed and sang as they bounced to a stop in front of the garden. Seward Cafe was across the street from a Holiday gas station and was wedged among a brick apartment building, an asphalt parking lot, and the co-op grocery, and yet it managed to provide a wild oasis of greenery in the summer. Even in the winter, I could sense its lingering glory. I got out of the car and wandered among the handmade trellises overflowing with the remains of last season’s beans, tomatoes, and yellow squash. Yet, despite these careful plantings, mullein and scrub mulberries grew freely, poking above a thick carpet of leaf-littered snow. An icy cedar-chip path wound between the bare trees, leading to a weathered wood structure that looked a little bit like a house with the roof blown off.
    I ducked under a canopy of Boston ivy and Virginia creeper vines into the roofless bricked patio. I stopped for a moment and let the magic of the place soothe me. The chaotic combination of carefully placed stones, random weeds, and odd bits of pottery gave the impression of something primal. It was intentional and fated, planned and wild, organized yet free.
    Magic.
    The cafe building itself was not impressive. A single story with a flat roof, and nearly windowless, it looked like an overgrown box in desperate need of fresh paint. The screen door sagged on rusty hinges.
    The interior was like a sauna. The smell of coffee was so strong that a person could get a contact buzz from breathing too hard. I inhaled deeply and wished Sebastian was here with me. This was one of the places I really wanted to show him.
    The space was divided in two. There was a front area where you ordered, and the other side was devoted to seating. Old-fashioned wooden booths lined a slightly raised platform near the wall, and tables made of thick planks of wood were scattered on the linoleum floor. Over one table hung a wire sculpture of a bird with black feathers; its eyes stared rather menacing out at all the dreadlocks and body piercings that sat at various tables eating dishes with names like Whole Earth and Vegan Fluffy.
    Ordering food was a little like taking part in some kind of art installation as well and wasn’t easy for the uninitiated. Luckily, I felt I was among my own kind here. I knew customers were expected to make their selections from a shared menu that had a permanent spot near the front, write down their choices on a slip of paper complete with prices and totals, and hand it to the cashier. The guy behind the counter wore a T-shirt that expressed hopefulness for the eventual release of Leonard Peltier. I smiled at him as I handed over a request for my old favorite, Super Green Earth, and a cup of regular, plain coffee.
    With a grunt that I took as flirtation, he handed me a mug, which I filled myself from a big, silver urn. Beside it sat a glass mason jar with a handwritten label announcing that refills were fifty cents. Bills and coins nearly spilled out of the top. The honor system seemed alive and well, but, no surprise, given that this place always seemed to me like a throwback to a more trusting era of idealism, like the sixties or seventies.
    While I waited for my name to be announced when my food was ready, I took my graying, chipped porcelain cup and found myself a booth under a slightly less disturbing piece of wire sculpture. This one seemed to be a hand breaking through a canvas. The artist’s description merely said, “Peace on Earth,” which didn’t really illuminate what she’d been going for, in my opinion.
    Shrugging out of my coat, I leafed through a copy of