“Broiled perch.”
He perked up. “Is there catfish?”
“I’m sure there’s a catfish somewhere, but not here. Walleye pike, perch, bluegill.”
He squinted at the menu again. “What is lefse ?”
“Norwegian tortilla.”
“You’re making that up.”
She lifted her hand as if she were in court. “I swear.”
Bobby felt as if he’d stepped into a jumbled fairy-tale land. Raye resembled Snow White. They’d gone into the woods like Hansel and Gretel. Was the wolf he kept hearing in the distance someone’s grandmother?
“Would you like another old-fashioned?” Their waitress had appeared. She was blond. Big shock.
Something tumbled down the stairs on the other side of the wall their table was tucked against. Raye frowned. The waitress did too. Several customers glanced that way, but no one seemed overly concerned.
Bobby waited for a worker to come around the corner, but none did. Maybe it had just been a box set too close to the top of the steps that had eventually teetered free and fallen down.
But if that were the case, where was the box?
Chapter 8
We ordered—perch for me, pike for him. Lefse for me, rye bread for him. Potato pancakes for both. I had more wine. Bobby ordered coffee.
He pretended he hadn’t heard the thumps on the stairs, which continued across the ceiling and sounded like footsteps. I guess if one didn’t know the history of the place, one might conclude that real people were up there.
Sometimes they were. The restaurant kept dry goods on that floor—paper towels, napkins, things that didn’t need refrigeration and were not subject to rodent infestation. An employee might be sent to get them. Always a new employee. Because it usually only took them one trip to decide never to go up there again.
“This place was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” I said.
“Really?”
He offered me first dibs on the relish tray—olives, coleslaw, cottage cheese, pickles—I declined.
“There’s a story on the back of the menu.”
He glanced up in the middle of scooping a smorgasbord onto his plate. “You tell me.”
“Slaves on their way to Canada stopped here. Probably one of the last stops, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“How close we are to Canada.”
“We’re close?”
“Three hundred and fifty miles, give or take.”
“Still a pretty long walk.”
“They didn’t walk much. Kind of obvious.”
“In what way?”
“Not a lot of black people in the Big Woods even now. Then, there were none. Why do you think people are staring at you?”
He glanced around. Several people quickly looked at their plates. “I’m not that black.”
“Up here there aren’t levels of different. There’s just different. You’ve noticed the abundance of blond?”
He nodded.
“Anything darker than light stands out.” I ran my fingers through my black hair. “I should know. The Thores hid runaways…” I pointed upstairs. He paused with a forkful of slaw nearly to his mouth. “Some died, some survived.”
Bobby set his fork on his appetizer plate and the coleslaw slid off. He didn’t notice. He flipped over his menu, which the waitress had neglected to take with her, read the few short paragraphs. The story didn’t mention the ghosts either.
I’d tried to work here as a teen, had to quit. Some people saw the specters; some only felt them. I heard everything they said, and once they knew that they just wouldn’t shut up.
The ghosts of Thore’s Farm were attached to the house—more specifically the second floor—just as they’d been when they were alive. This meant I could have dinner here and be bothered no more than anyone else by the thumps. I caught an occasional, distant whisper. However, if I went upstairs, I got an earful.
Probably best to avoid the place, except Thore’s was a decent restaurant, and it wasn’t as if we had a lot of them.
We finished our meal, ordered dessert. I could never resist their apple kuchen. Bobby had strawberry
He perked up. “Is there catfish?”
“I’m sure there’s a catfish somewhere, but not here. Walleye pike, perch, bluegill.”
He squinted at the menu again. “What is lefse ?”
“Norwegian tortilla.”
“You’re making that up.”
She lifted her hand as if she were in court. “I swear.”
Bobby felt as if he’d stepped into a jumbled fairy-tale land. Raye resembled Snow White. They’d gone into the woods like Hansel and Gretel. Was the wolf he kept hearing in the distance someone’s grandmother?
“Would you like another old-fashioned?” Their waitress had appeared. She was blond. Big shock.
Something tumbled down the stairs on the other side of the wall their table was tucked against. Raye frowned. The waitress did too. Several customers glanced that way, but no one seemed overly concerned.
Bobby waited for a worker to come around the corner, but none did. Maybe it had just been a box set too close to the top of the steps that had eventually teetered free and fallen down.
But if that were the case, where was the box?
Chapter 8
We ordered—perch for me, pike for him. Lefse for me, rye bread for him. Potato pancakes for both. I had more wine. Bobby ordered coffee.
He pretended he hadn’t heard the thumps on the stairs, which continued across the ceiling and sounded like footsteps. I guess if one didn’t know the history of the place, one might conclude that real people were up there.
Sometimes they were. The restaurant kept dry goods on that floor—paper towels, napkins, things that didn’t need refrigeration and were not subject to rodent infestation. An employee might be sent to get them. Always a new employee. Because it usually only took them one trip to decide never to go up there again.
“This place was a stop on the Underground Railroad,” I said.
“Really?”
He offered me first dibs on the relish tray—olives, coleslaw, cottage cheese, pickles—I declined.
“There’s a story on the back of the menu.”
He glanced up in the middle of scooping a smorgasbord onto his plate. “You tell me.”
“Slaves on their way to Canada stopped here. Probably one of the last stops, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“How close we are to Canada.”
“We’re close?”
“Three hundred and fifty miles, give or take.”
“Still a pretty long walk.”
“They didn’t walk much. Kind of obvious.”
“In what way?”
“Not a lot of black people in the Big Woods even now. Then, there were none. Why do you think people are staring at you?”
He glanced around. Several people quickly looked at their plates. “I’m not that black.”
“Up here there aren’t levels of different. There’s just different. You’ve noticed the abundance of blond?”
He nodded.
“Anything darker than light stands out.” I ran my fingers through my black hair. “I should know. The Thores hid runaways…” I pointed upstairs. He paused with a forkful of slaw nearly to his mouth. “Some died, some survived.”
Bobby set his fork on his appetizer plate and the coleslaw slid off. He didn’t notice. He flipped over his menu, which the waitress had neglected to take with her, read the few short paragraphs. The story didn’t mention the ghosts either.
I’d tried to work here as a teen, had to quit. Some people saw the specters; some only felt them. I heard everything they said, and once they knew that they just wouldn’t shut up.
The ghosts of Thore’s Farm were attached to the house—more specifically the second floor—just as they’d been when they were alive. This meant I could have dinner here and be bothered no more than anyone else by the thumps. I caught an occasional, distant whisper. However, if I went upstairs, I got an earful.
Probably best to avoid the place, except Thore’s was a decent restaurant, and it wasn’t as if we had a lot of them.
We finished our meal, ordered dessert. I could never resist their apple kuchen. Bobby had strawberry
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