Cassadaga

CASSADAGA / Philip F. Deaver I'm not going to let 'em catch me no I'm not going to let 'em catch me no I'm not going to let 'em catch the midnight rider. The AIlman Brothers ON A BLUE EVENING Skidmore headed north on the interstate to Cassadaga. He didn't know what to expect, only that he needed to somehow connect with someone who'd recently died. He pulled the tab on a beer and popped in his AUman Brothers tape, "Midnight Rider." It was fifteen minutes before the town finally came into view. Sometime Skidmore would have to find out why this particular town, populated almost entirely by psychics and "spiritual counselors ," was located in this particular unassuming place. He was sure there was a history to it. He stashed his empty beer can under the car seat, opened another one. When he came to the outskirts, he saw scattered, weU-kept Florida tracthouses with long gravel driveways, flower beds freshly set out in clean new mulch. The cars in the driveway were Bronco 4-by-4's and Honda Preludes, sometimes Chevy Vans. Further into town, the houses were older, many of them in white two-story clapboard style, yet small like summer homes and cabins and all of them invariably rundown. There was a transient and depressed feeling in their tentative way of occupying the edges of the alley-like streets—the sense that the circus was in town and the town was it. The porches, with their hanging plants in hanging baskets, sagged, and the tin roofs were roughly patched. Most of the houses had handpainted signs out front. Dr. WUliam Boyle Spiritual Advisor and Certified Medium Serving Humanity since 1958 This was certifiably crazy. Skidmore considered turning back. In a gravel pull-off along one of the streets, he parked and watched the house a while. He wanted to see the people, see who they were. He watched for the flicker of a curtain, a movement in the middle distance in the dark of some room through the last Ught glare of The Missouri Review · 9 a window, or forms moving in the amber-lit windows which were now popping up like stars before him with the arrival of night. Nothing. Cats moved in the yards and slept on the hoods of cars. Behind one house was a broken down panel truck, completely gone to seed, with faded lettering on the side, "Plumber's Friends" and the number to call. To the side of one driveway, there was a rusting white Camaro in the grass on four flat tires. It was the color of bone and covered with pine needles and sap. A cat huddled beneath it. The house where the Camaro was was tall and white, the curtains lace at all the windows. It had a brick add-on room on the front, no attempt to match the rest of the house. The sign in front gave the name of the resident and had the notation Skidmore was looking for: "No appointment needed." He crammed his second beer can under the car seat. A woman opened the door. In her early forties, she was different from what he expected. Her hair was long, dry blond like hay and pinned back, and she wore a shawl. A huge black labrador sat at full attention next to her. "Can I help you?" The door was wide open. Skidmore stared at her and at the dog. She seemed okay, he was thinking. Maybe he could go through with this. "Would you like to come in?" she said. She stood aside, and he stepped by, cautious of the dog, enormous and alert. "This is Moon Unit II. She's very well trained, even though she's just a pup. It's okay, Moon. Go on the porch. Moon. Porch." The dog trotted out of the room. She smiled. "I was watching you out there. I got pretty good intuition. You look dangerous only to yourself." Skidmore didn't know what to say to that. It was either very true or sadly false. The room was lit by a harsh ceiling bulb, and there were a...