HOUNDSTOOTHE

HOUNDSTOOTHE 1.1: The Turning of the Wheel

Houndstoothe 1.1: The Turning of the Wheel

Houndstoothe, MI: Agnes
Imagine a child opening a Christmas present in 1957. Inside the box, the child sees a picturesque model of a small New England town. It has all the staples of small-town America. Twinkling lights, mom-and-pop store fronts, neat little blocks with colonial houses. It's surrounded by a clay forest of pine, elm, ash, birch, and oak. On a little hill south of the lake is a white water tower, painted with the lupine grin of the Houndstoothe Fightin' Gray Wolf. Perhaps the child doesn't notice the other wolf, a figure too large to be in scale with the town, but small enough to go unnoticed for now. It sits in the woods south of the town circle, and it has little pink lightbulbs for eyes.

Sixty years pass. Many things stay the same, but lots of lights grow dim. There are a few corporate faces invading, but this is an idyllic place, so the mom-and-pop places soldier on as well as they can. But the only light that burns ever-bright and ever-constant is Lincoln's Diner.

That is how Agnes Blaire saw her hometown in her mind's eye – old fashioned, small – many things unexplained and unnoticeable, at first. But it was still Houndstoothe. And the diner-light never wavered.

That night, Houndstoothe, the twinkling little town, lay under a blanket of stars and an expanse of night sky like blue paint. Agnes imagined reaching up and plucking one of the stars out of the sky, like a diamond stuck on velvet. She never tried this – she was afraid it wouldn't work.

There were two irrefutable truths in Houndstoothe. First, the cats of Houndstoothe should be treated with respect. Second, there was always a Lincoln in the diner, someone who, when you needed them, would always lend an ear. This Lincoln in particular lent Agnes more than most.

The pavement shone with a recent rain, and the heels of Agnes' boots clattered against it as she walked down Main Street. An orange cat scampered along nearby - it was one of Agnes's cats, and he followed her on walks. She'd barely noticed that he was with her until now. She called him Oscar.

Lincoln's Diner was just a few blocks away. Agnes could see the neon green sign now, a perfect green light in the night. Out of the corner of her eye, it looked like a green traffic light - an invitation to go, to come, to move. Agnes couldn't explain why, but Lincoln's was her favorite place in Houndstoothe.

As she approached, she could see the evening bustle of the diner through the windows, like a live diorama. She could tell the regulars apart from the folks who only dropped in a few times a month. Regulars came for the pie. The other folks were having late dinners of burgers and fries. A few members of the local knitting group were drinking tea in the corner, beginning their projects for the season. Sometime ago they had been nicknamed the Old Hag Knitting Rebellion, and it had stuck. Lincoln himself was behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, white apron tied around his waist, wiping down counters. Light from inside the diner carried warmth. Even through the window, Agnes could smell pie and fresh coffee, and hear something deep and soulful rumbling from the jukebox.

Without looking up, Lincoln said, "Agnes."

Agnes didn't notice the orange cat slip in between her feet.

She didn't remember the last Lincoln that had owned the diner. She had lived in Houndstoothe for a short time when she was small, and she did remember loving the hot chocolate that her granddad bought for her. But when she tried to fill in the space behind the counter with the man that had made the hot chocolate, all she saw was the man standing in front of her now.

This man was a little younger than most Lincolns were; she'd heard one of the older members of the Knitting Rebellion say so. He always seemed to know when she walked in the door without looking.