Discord's Apple

He wore a black leather duster and carried a large paper-wrapped package in both arms. Edging around Evie’s father, he looked suspiciously at Evie.

Frank said to him, “If you won’t be needing anything else, you’ll probably want to get going before nightfall.”

“Right. Thanks for your help.” He nodded at Evie as he passed. “Ma’am.”

He had an unplaceable accent, almost New England, almost West Texas. Wire-rimmed spectacles rode low on a long nose. He might have dressed himself out of a studio costume shop rummage sale. Playing the part of the doomed hero in a historical horror film.

The stranger walked down the gravel driveway, the light breeze licking the hem of his duster. There wasn’t another car. No buses ran this way. Where did he think he was going?

“Who was that?” Evie said.

“He came for something in the storeroom.”

“You’re selling Grandma and Grandpa’s stuff?” As far as she knew, the basement storeroom hadn’t been disturbed since her grandparents’ time. The place was dusty and sacred, like a museum vault. She’d never even been in it. As a kid, she hadn’t been allowed in there; then she’d moved away.

“Oh, no,” he said. “He just showed up and asked if I had what he needed. I did, so I gave it to him.”

“What was it?”

“Nothing important.”

Evie looked at her father, really looked at him. She searched for any sign of illness, any hint that gave credence to his announcement of two days ago. His phone call had sent her roaring out of Los Angeles the next morning. She didn’t know what to expect, if she would find him changed beyond recognition, withered and defeated, or if he would be—like this. Like normal, like she had always seen him: a little over average height, filled out through the middle but not overweight, straight gray hair cut short, his soft face creased with age, but not ancient. He wore slacks and a button-up shirt, and went stocking-footed.

“Come in out of the cold.” He held the door open for her. A lonely wicker wreath decorated it, a solitary concession to the holiday.

He might have been paler. Were his hands shaking? Was his back stooped? She couldn’t tell. She went inside.

“Dad. Are you okay?”

He shrugged. That told her. If he’d been fine, or even just okay, he’d have said so.

“Should . . . should you be in the hospital or something?”

“No. I have to stay here and keep an eye on things.”

“What is there to keep an eye on? No farm, no animals—” Except the dog, which was new. Her voice was beseeching. “Are you okay?”

“It’s metastasized. I’ve decided not to undergo treatment.”

He said it like he might have said it was going to snow. Simple fact, a little anticipation, but nothing to get excited about. Evie thought her rib cage might burst, the way her heart pounded. Her father stood before her; he hadn’t changed. Everything had changed. It’s prostate cancer. It’s serious, he’d said when he called her. She wanted to grab his collar and shake him. But you didn’t do that to your father.

So she stood there like a child and whined.

“You’ve given up,” she said.

“I’ve accepted fate.”

“But—” She gestured aimlessly, arguments failing in her throat. He wasn’t going to argue. He was stone, not willing to be persuaded. “But you can’t do that. You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” he said, and he had the gall to smile. “I can’t die?”

She didn’t believe him then. For a moment, she let herself believe that he’d been lying about the whole thing. This was a trick to get h

er to come early for her Christmas visit. He didn’t look sick, he didn’t act sick, except for a horrible calm that made his features still as ice.

Evie turned away, her eyes stinging, her face contorting with the effort not to cry.

“Shh, Evie, come here.” While she didn’t move toward him, she didn’t resist when he pulled her into an embrace.