Dinner with old friends

The invitation was curt.

Dear Sir.

Dinner at 6pm prompt.  

Your attendance is mandatory.

-The Circle

Damn. I was hoping for a quiet evening. Now, I’ll have to leave the solitude and safety of my home.  

“The Circle” is the name given to my friend group from our college days. We had all met as freshmen at Miskatonic University and graduated simultaneously. On graduation day, we made a blood pact that would honor such an invitation without question, and any of us could initiate such a request.

We did not go to the iconic Miskatonic of Old in Arkham. No, Miskatonic had opened up a satellite branch in the sunny state of Florida in a tiny burg named Arcadia. Arcadia was located in what was reclaimed swampland on the west coast of Florida. The story was that Miskatonic had found interesting energies worthy of further investigation. My assumption was that the land was cheap, and the elders could court new donors from the retirees of Florida.

Arcadia was a tale of two different towns. The coastal town was where the folks with more resources could afford houses or they had bought at the right time. Either way, they were the blue blood of Arcadia. These were seemingly built to worship the sun and the water. Boat docks adorned the backs of every house; even the houses without a boat still had a dock. The water was brackish, and the canals were carved into the swamp and connected to the Arcadia River in the 50s. Those with boats had access to the Arcadia River and the Gulf of Mexico. On the weekends, the boats would leave early in the morning before sunrise and return in the late afternoon with their hauls of Redfish, Tarpon, or Trout.

Then, you had the downtown and the surrounding neighborhoods. The population was a little more dense there, but for the most part, the homes were modest, and the hard-working folks of the town kept their yards tidy and neatly groomed as a point of pride. Mossy oak trees provide respite from the brutal sun of the Florida summers in these neighborhoods. Sunlight dappled occasionally through the canopy like an intruder, but this was the home of shadows.  

One of the members of “The Circle” was Gil. Gil was a native Arcadian; while at Miskatonic University, he stayed in his ancestral home instead of living on or near campus. He shared his house with his mother and aunt. His mother, Eunice, was a widow and had never remarried. She was content as one of the eighth-grade English and literature teachers in town and enjoying her son’s company while she could. His aunt, Ida, had never married but bristled at the mention of being labeled a spinster. She was an artist by trade and by spirit. She didn’t need the company of a man, or woman for that matter. She had her art, her jazz music, and her marijuana cigarettes. According to her, all her needs were met.

Every Friday evening on his back porch, we would listen to music, sip absinthe, hold the occasional seance, or try to commune with some poor soul via a spirit board. These attempts were never that successful. Occasionally, the wind would blow out a candle, or someone would feel the planchette twitch or scurry to “yes” or “no”, but it was never enough to convince me.

I had never left Florida after graduating from Miskatonic. I found a job teaching in the young city of Gainesville. Being in the same town as the University of Florida gave the city a youthful vibe and kept things fairly grounded, as compared to Arcadia. Those days felt long behind me, almost like it was another lifetime ago. At least, that was before I headed west out of Gainesville to my evening dinner plans in Arcadia.

Arcadia is about 2 hours more or less due west from Gainesville. Once you get out of Gainesville, the drive is mostly rural but fairly scenic. It makes for a pleasant drive, but there is always one part of the road that gets a little hypnotizing. While Florida is mainly flat, there are some spots where there are some gently rolling hills. This undulating landscape, which is mainly farms, sort of lulls you into a trance, and before you know it, about 30 minutes have gone by, and you are in the out parcels of Arcadia proper.

I arrived at Gil’s house by 5:45 p.m. I had heard an old adage by a random taskmaster, “If you’re not 15 minutes early, you’re 10 minutes late,” or something to that effect, which has had a lasting effect on me and my sense of schedule. I’m not a stickler about many things, but I do take pride in always being early, if not prompt. I parked my Volkswagen Convertible a couple of houses down, grabbed my wallet and keys, and walked over to the house. I do enjoy my convertible; while most summers can be dreadfully hot, the fall and spring, what little of it Florida does get, is the best time to drive with the top down. While I locked the car door, I left the top down. The absurdity of this practice isn’t lost on me, but I remain a creature of habit; I always lock the car door.

The evening air was cool and crisp. It was unusual for early October, but it’s what we Floridians call “Fake Fall”. We’ll be back to sweating again in a couple of days, but I’ll enjoy the respite while I can. As I approached the house, I could hear laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional waft of a lit cigarette. Oh, how I miss the days of smoking. I gave it up a couple of years ago, but I do indulge in the occasional cigar or cigarillo, almost always with instant regret.

The house, a character in this tale in its own right, is an older Victorian-style home with a rather voluptuous wrap-around porch that can easily host folks comfortably amongst the tables and chairs that decorate it. The house could use a good painting; the Florida heat and moisture have not been kind to the old girl. Her paint is a bit dingy and starting to crack and peel in places, her shingles look dirty, and the gutters are most certainly full of Oak leaves. What the old girl lacks in cleanliness, she makes up for in character, even if that character emanates a bit of a neglected or even haunted aura.

I come around the corner, and I see in the upstairs window a drawn curtain closes suddenly, but my attention is quickly drawn to Dory, who squeals when she sees me. “Oh. My. God! I was waiting for you to get here!” she runs down the steps, the five of them that there are, a lit cigarette in her right hand and a gin martini in the other. She gives me a huge hug, which I return, and we both step away, silently asking, “How many years has it been?” I’m the first to break the awkward silence and tell her how fabulous she looks. Dory nods, does a little curtsey, and says, “Have I got news for you. Walk with me, dear.” She screws her cigarette into her mouth, puts her right arm under mine, and proceeds to walk me up the steps introducing me. “Look who I just found!” she proclaims and is greeted with uproarious laughter and clapping. Seeing these familiar but older faces does me good; I feel like a burden has been lifted from me.

The first hand that has been thrust in front of me is Gil. I take his hand in my right, and we clap each other on the shoulder awkwardly, but it was genuine. Next is Finnegan, or Finn as we call her. She sticks her hand out for a handshake, but then she pulls it back quickly, running her fingers through her hair. She had to be part leprechaun, albeit the tallest one that has ever lived given her penchant for mischievous antics. Everyone laughed, and we gave each other a solid hug. Next was Marlin; the handshake was genuine, but he always lacked the warmth of Gil. Coral came up behind me, jumping up and putting her hands over my eyes. “Guess who?” in an absurdly gruff voice. I played along for a second and “the one, the only, fiery Coral,” to which she laughed, and we hugged. “Fish, it’s good to see you again,” Gil said. I replied, “I go by ‘Fisher’ these days, but you can call me whatever you want as long as I can get a drink.”

We were finally all back together, the six of us, our circle. Gil and I walked inside while everyone’s conversation picked back up. The house was adorned in dark wood wainscotting that came halfway up the wall, capped off by chair rails and a kind of cream-colored wallpaper; I think it was white, but now has spots of brown, light brown, and yellow. It's an odd mosaic that looks almost like skin but not quite. “How have you been, Gil?” I asked him once we were away from the crowd. We kept walking towards the bar, and without making eye contact, he said, “I’m doing better each day. Thanks for asking, Fish.”  

“They weren’t just your Mother and Aunt. They were all of ours; we’re grieving as much as you are.”

“I know, we’ve always been… a private family, but it doesn’t mean it has to stay that way.”

Gil poured me a double bourbon, neet. The rich, amber fluid smelled of caramel, apples, and cinnamon but tasted like warm butter.  

“Thanks, Gil, I needed that. And look, let's just have some old fun tonight, maybe talk to the spirits, Finn can lead us, maybe we can talk to your mom or aunt.”

“I don’t know, it might be too soon.”

“Gil, it’s been a year. It might be a way for us to all say goodbye”

“Let me think about it. If I decide that we should do it, I’ll make an announcement after dinner.”

“Ok, speaking of, when is that happening?” I take a sip of my drink and say, “I’m famished,” with a wry grin.  

We laugh and embrace each other, and at that moment, the front screened door opens up, and the rest of the group walks in, a cacophony of footsteps clacking on the hardwood floors, chattering, laughter, and someone proclaiming, “So this is where the party moved to!” Dory went over to the record player and thumbed through the records, pulled out a Tito Puente record, “El Rey Bravo,” and put it on, “Malanga Con Yuca” came pouring out through the speakers. Small as they are, the house is instantly filled with percussive notes, flutes trilling, trumpets, and xylophones. The pure joy that comes spilling out seemingly makes you forget that the pictures and paintings on the walls of Gil’s ancestor's eyes seem to follow you as you move through the house.

As “Oye Como Va” comes on, Marlin and Coral start dancing the cha-cha. Gil is in the kitchen making a mojo sauce for his roast pork while he sways to the music. I ask him if he minds if I smoke in the house, and without turning around or losing a beat, he raises his right hand and says, “You take that junk outside!” I laugh, as does Dory, and she says, “I’ll join you”. We walk outside. She lights up a cigarette, and I have a cigarette case of cigarillos. I take one out, and after a couple of strikes, I realize I forgot to fill my lighter. I look at Dory, pleading, “Can you help a guy out?”

“As long as it’s just the light, sure.”

“For now, it is,” I reply, winking at her. She coyly laughs and lights my cigarillo. I take a deep inhale and exhale upwards towards the paddle fans. I nod and say thank you, to which she returns the nod. Dory and I dated off and on in our college days, but our attraction never quite made it any further than a kiss goodnight after our dates. Whatever we had wasn’t enough to get us over that step. That was fine with me; she was a good kisser but a better conversationalist and friend.  

“So, has Gil taken in a roommate?” I asked her.

“No, why do you ask?”

“Ah, I thought I saw someone move away from one of the upstairs windows as I walked up, but you quickly distracted me.”

“Don’t go trying any of your old, tired moves on me.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t dare; I have all new, tired moves.”

We both laughed and by the time I finished my drink and my smoke, She had caught me up on all the group gossip there was. The good, bad, and salacious would be a quick and dirty way to summarize everything. But like most gossip, it’s not worth repeating, especially in a small group.

“Who organized this meeting?” I asked Dory.

“I haven’t a clue, it wasn’t you?” she replied.

“Why would I have organized it? Has anyone asked if it was Gil?”

“We all did as soon as we arrived. He said it wasn’t him.”

“And no one else admitted to it?”

“No. We all assumed it was you when we all confirmed it wasn't us.”

This news instantly raised the hair on my neck. Who or what has summoned us?

Just as I realized this, Gil announced that dinner was ready and for us to sit while the food was still hot. I looked at my watch, and sure enough, 6pm prompt. Dory and I walked inside and joined the rest of the circle at the table, Dory sitting on one side of the table and I sitting on the other.  

Gil stands and offers a toast. “A circle has not a beginning nor an end. It is eternal, as will be our friendship and our bonds.” We all return the cheer with “In eternity” in unison as we drink from our wine goblets. We proceeded to tuck in, and the meal was exquisite. The fatty and salty pork with the sour citrus and garlic mojo sauce was delicious, the different flavors complimenting each other much like a Tito Puente song. Tostones provided a crunchy and chewy element, like a thick potato chip, and the black beans and white rice provided a rich and hearty element.  

Eunice and Ida were the cooks, and they were always ready to feed us every Friday night that we would gather. Dinners like this one, or different Cuban, Asian, Mexican, or even plain American dishes, were masters of the kitchen. Looks like Gil has taken over that role. Throughout dinner, we would hear the occasional footstep or creaking floorboard; maybe a door would open or close. But we weren’t scared; we came to realize that it was Eunice and Ida communing with us. Maybe somehow, from the void, they gathered us together; maybe Gil had help in the kitchen after all. No seance or spirit board was needed tonight; the spirits were with us willingly.

The evening left us full, not just from the food or the wine, but from each other. Our social buckets had been filled, maybe overflowing, but you can never have enough of this. We all got in our cars and headed out of town. In the morning, I woke with warm feelings and a bit of a spring in my step. Today was going to be a good day.

Epilogue

“Hello, Dr. Wheatley?” a voice interrupted the silence.

“Yes?” Dr. David Wheatly responded, “And you are?”

“Uh, hello! My name is Dr. Albert West. I am the replacement for Dr. Phillips, at least in the interim, until someone else is formally chosen.”

“Oh, I see. Good. West, West… Are you related to..”

“Dr. Herbert West. Yes, I am afraid so.. He was my great grandfather”.

“Is your area of specialty in …”

“No, sir, purely focused on helping folks get better without all of that nasty business he was into.”

Dr. Wheatley nods approvingly. “Ok, Albert, if I may. Come with me, and I guess, Welcome to Arkham”.

The two men walked down a corridor with doors every six feet. They would stop and talk about a patient, talk about the particulars about the patient in the room, and then move on to the next. The last one they come to, Dr. West picks up the chart and says, “This patient has no name except ‘Fisher’. Has no one claimed him?”

“No. But that’s not the strange part. He was found some 20 years ago, wandering the streets of Gainesville, Florida; his shoes had been walked in so long that his soles were worn out, completely.” Dr. Wheatley continued, “All he had on his person was a crumpled bus ticket from a town called ‘Arcadia’, and a watch with a broken face and dial, but was inscribed on the back ‘Fisher’.”

“Is he violent?” 

“Oh god no, he just sits in there and says over and over again..” Dr. Wheatley takes the chart from Dr. West and reads, “Oh yes, ‘Fthagan. Cthulhu Fthagan.”

The two men peer into the room, and the man known as “Fisher” stares back through them with an empty gaze, with his mouth quietly mouthing the words. “Cthulhu fthagan”.