“I don’t know,” Wallace said, picking at a string on his jeans. He hadn’t worn anything close to a suit since he’d been able to change clothes. It made him feel better, like he’d shed an outer shell he hadn’t been aware he’d been carrying. “Things got in the way.”
“I loved my wife,” Nelson said, and anything else Wallace had to say died on his tongue. “She was … vibrant. A spitfire. There wasn’t anyone like her in all the world, and for some reason, she chose me. She loved me.” He smiled, though Wallace thought it was more to himself than anything else. “She had this habit. Drove me up the wall. She’d come home from work, and the first thing she’d do was take off her shoes and leave them by the door. Her socks would follow, just laid out on the floor. A trail of clothes left there, waiting for me to pick them up. I asked her why she just didn’t put them in the hamper like a normal person. You know what she said?”
“What?” Wallace asked.
“She said that life was more than dirty socks.”
Wallace stared at him. “That … doesn’t mean anything.”
Nelson’s smile widened. “Right? But it made perfect sense to her.” His smile trembled. “I came home one day. I was late. I opened the door, and there were no shoes right inside. No socks on the floor. No trail of clothes. I thought for once she’d picked up after herself. I was … relieved? I was tired and didn’t want to have to clean up her mess. I called for her. She didn’t answer. I went through the house, room by room, but she wasn’t there. Late, I told myself. It happens. And then the phone rang. That was the day I learned my wife had passed unexpectedly. And it’s funny, really. Because even as they told me she was gone, that it had been quick and she hadn’t suffered, all I could think about was how I’d give anything to have her shoes by the door. Her dirty socks on the floor. A trail of clothes leading toward the bedroom.”
“I’m sorry,” Wallace said quietly.
“You don’t need to be,” Nelson said. “We had a good life. She loved me, and I made sure she knew every day I loved her, even if I had to pick up after her. It’s what you do.”
“Don’t you miss her?” Wallace asked without thinking. He winced. “Shit. That didn’t come out like I meant it to. Of course you do.”
“I do,” Nelson agreed. “With every fiber of my being.”
“But you’re still here.”
“I am,” Nelson said. “And I know that when I’m ready to leave this place, she’ll be waiting for me. But I made a promise that I’d watch over Hugo for as long as I was able. She’ll understand. What’s a few years in the face of forever?”
“What will it take?” Wallace asked. “For you to cross.” He remembered what Nelson had told him when they’d stood below the door. “To rise.”
“Ah,” Nelson said. “That’s the question, isn’t it? What will it take?” He leaned forward, tapping his cane gently against Wallace’s leg. “To know he’s in good hands. That his life is filled with joy even in the face of death. It’s not about what he needs, necessarily, because that might imply he’s lacking something. It’s about what he wants. There’s a difference. I think we forget that, sometimes.”
“What does he want?” Wallace asked.
Instead of answering, Nelson said, “He smiles more, now. Did you know that?”
“He does?” He thought Hugo was the type who always smiled.
“I wonder why that is,” Nelson said. He sat back in his chair. “I can’t wait to figure it out.”
Wallace glanced at Hugo behind the counter. He must have felt Wallace watching him, because he looked over and grinned.
Wallace whispered, “It’s easy to let yourself spiral and fall.”
“It is,” Nelson agreed. “But it’s what you do to pull yourself out of it that matters most.”
* * *
The second hand on the clock began to stutter a half hour after Charon’s Crossing closed for the evening. Hugo placed a familiar sign in the window: CLOSED FOR A PRIVATE EVENT. He told Wallace it was just a precaution.
“We’re not here,” Hugo said. “Not really. When the clock begins to slow, the world moves on around us. If anyone were to come to the shop during a time such as this, they would see only a darkened house with the sign in the window.”
Wallace followed him into the kitchen. His skin was itching, and the hook in his chest was uncomfortable. “Has anyone ever tried to get in?”
Hugo shook his head. “Not that I know of. It’s … not quite magic, I don’t think. More of an illusion than anything.”
“For someone who’s a ferryman, there’s a lot you don’t know.”
Hugo chuckled. “Isn’t it great? I’d hate to know everything. There’d be no mystery left. What would be the point?”
“But you’d know what to expect.” He realized how it sounded the moment he said it. “Which is why we unexpect.”
“Exactly,” Hugo said, as if that made any kind of sense. Wallace was learning it was easier just to go with it. It kept his sanity mostly intact. Hugo went to the pantry, frowning at the contents as he stood in front of it. Wallace looked over his shoulder. More jars lined the shelves, each with a different kind of tea inside. Unlike the ones behind the counter in the front of the shop, these weren’t labeled. Most of them were in powder form.
“Matcha?” Hugo muttered to himself. “No. That’s not right. Yaupon? No. That’s not it either, though I think it’s close.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to find what tea will best fit our guest,” Hugo said.
“You did this with me?”
He nodded as he pointed toward a dark powder toward the top of the shelf. “You were easy. Easier than almost anyone I’d ever had before.”
“Wow,” Wallace said. “First time anyone’s said that about me. I don’t know how I feel about that.”
Hugo was startled into laughter. “That’s not—oh, you know what I meant.”
“You said it, not me.”
“It’s an art,” Hugo said. “Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Picking the perfect tea for a person. I don’t always get it right, but I’m getting better at it.” He reached for a jar, touching the glass before pulling his hand back. “That’s not it either. What could—ah. Really? That’s … an acquired taste.” He took a jar from the shelf, filled with twisted, blackened leaves. “Not one of mine. I don’t think I could grow it here. Had this imported.”
“What is it?” Wallace asked, eyeing the jar. The leaves looked dead.
“Kuding cha,” Hugo said, turning toward the opposite counter to prepare the tea. “It’s a Chinese infusion. The literal translation is bitter nail tea. It’s usually made from a type of wax tree and holly. The taste isn’t for everyone. It’s very bitter, though it’s said to be medicinal. It’s supposed to help clear the eyes and head. Resolves toxins.”