It was a beautiful, bright summer day and the Shady Hills Cemetery was awash in golden sunlight.  William made his way across the lush green lawn to the Garden of Eternal Rest, the site where his wife’s marker sat.  He felt a pang of guilt, for he hadn’t been here in some time.  The memory of her loss was just too painful. 

     William’s wife, Margaret, had been the world to him.  They had worked on home projects together, gone fishing on long weekends, and later in life, traveled the world.  William had always taken for granted she would live forever, or at least, outlive him. 

     Then she was gone.  A quick diagnosis, a flurry of grim faced doctors, and then it was all over.  It had always struck him as profoundly macabre that the world could move on so casually, like nothing of interest had happened.  Just like that, in the face of someone’s horrific loss.

     Then one day while visiting the cemetery, he met the boy.  The child looked around eight or nine and approached him while he sat on a marble bench by his wife’s grave.

     “Hello,” the boy said, standing a few feet away.

     William tried to force a smile.  He looked around for the boy’s parents but saw no one in the vast, bleached landscape of cemetery stones.

     “Hello,” he said, suddenly feeling sorry for him.

     The boy pointed at the bronze plaque William had been staring at.  “Who’s that?” 

     William studied the boy for a long time.  He was a redhead, dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and a small, black bow tie.  The suit was obviously too big for him, it hung awkwardly around the shoulders and sagged at the waist.  His complexion was a little pale, almost grayish, and he looked far too serious for a boy his age.  The boy made his nerves jump.  He guessed he’d wandered over from a nearby service.

     “It’s my wife,” William finally replied, fighting the urge to cry. 

     The boy nodded grimly.  “Want to be able to talk to her again?” he said in a mischievous, confidential whisper.

     William’s stomach tightened.  “What do you mean?”

     The boy gave him an icy smile.  “I mean, what if I told you she could be reached in your dreams.”

     William suppressed his annoyance at the boy.  He was obviously playing a joke.  He decided to humor him for the moment.  “Really? How?”

     “It’s easy,” the boy said.  “Just do exactly as I say.” 

                        #

     An hour after, William found himself waiting for a table at Ronnie’s, the only place in town the boy said he could get the mysterious Blue Plate Special.  While he waited to be seated, he read the headline from a discarded newspaper on a nearby green cushioned chair, ‘LOCAL COOK RELEASED IN MURDER OF SON, Not Enough Evidence, Cops Say’.

     The restaurant was hot and bustling as he waited by the door for a table to open up.   The stuffiness was oppressive, weighting him down like a red, pullover sweater he often wore. 

     A young waiter with dark hair and a Russian accent told him he would seat him in a moment and brushed quickly by.  He thought of leaving, but knew he’d only come back.  He might as well wait.  He was curious, even if he didn’t believe it.

     The waiter strode back to him holding a soiled menu in his right hand and gestured to a recently cleared table by the front door.  As William sat, he noticed the table was still damp from the wiping.  He accepted the menu and began studying it.

     The place was an anthill with volume, everywhere you looked servers were rushing past each other, some with loaded trays perfectly balanced on one hand.  As each neared the kitchen they yelled instructions into the steel window leading to the grill.  A gruff voice shouted back answers, a hairy arm tossed plates under the heating lamps.

     William searched the menu carefully again, scanning for the dish the little boy had told him about.  Not finding it, he looked up and around for help.  His waiter was there in an instant.

     “Are you ready, sir?” The Russian asked pulling out his crumpled notepad.

William held up the menu and turned it back and forth.  “I can’t find the dish that was recommended to me.  I want to order the Blue Plate Special.”

     The Russian stared at him with eyes that looked like bullet holes.  He wrote nothing and just stood with his pen poised over his pad.  “Not many people like that dish, sir,” he said.

     “Nevertheless, that’s the one I want.  Do you still make it?”

     “Yes, sir, we still have it,” the waiter said, stalking off.

     The plate arrived about ten minutes later, a thick stew of meat with vegetables and brown sauce.  It smelled hot and hearty, full of broth and parsley, and made his mouth water.

                        #

     That night, as William prepared for bed, he was surprised at how disappointed he’d be if it didn’t work.  He glanced at the clock and it read 8:15 pm.  He couldn’t wait for sleep to overtake him.  Although a little early, he lay on his bed thinking of all the fond memories of his wife and how wonderful it would be to talk to her again.

     William fell asleep not long after checking the clock again at 9:10 pm.  Disjointed dreams drifted in and out of his mind as he floated through a kaleidoscope of his real life and an imaginary one.  Then there was bottomless blackness.  That was when the sounds began.

     At first, he couldn’t be sure what he was hearing.  Then he heard it again, a thunderous door slam and running feet.  He dreamed he was awake in his room and sitting up, trying to make sense of what was happening.  Suddenly, his nerves sparked as he realized the footsteps were approaching his bedroom door.  In his dream state, he knew whatever it was mustn’t get in.  Leaping out of bed, he raced the frantic footfalls to the door to lock it. 

     William seized the door knob a second before he felt pressure on the other side trying to turn it.  He hastily depressed the lock button, letting his breath out slowly.  Sweat dampened his forehead.  “You’re not my wife, are you?”

     “It’s me.  The boy you met at the cemetery today,” the boy’s voice rasped from behind the door.  “Please let me in.”

     The hair on William’s arms stood on end and his mouth grew dry.  “You’ve tricked me,” he said.  Where’s my wife like you promised?”

     For a moment there was silence.  Then the boy exploded in ferocity, banging and scratching at the door in a maniacal tirade.  “Where’s my father!”  He screeched.  “Where is heee…?”

     William forced himself to wake up and was shocked to find he had fallen to the floor.

                        #

     He went back to the diner the next night after work.  By the time he pulled up at Ronnie’s, the place looked deserted.  The lights were on however, and the schedule posted on the glass door said they were open for one more hour.

     He entered, the bell hanging from the door ringing loudly to announce him.  The Russian appeared out of the storage room, grabbing a menu off a counter pile.

     “Where would you like to sit, sir?”  He said, stale cigarette smoke clinging to his skin.

     “I don’t want to sit.  I want to know what you people fed me yesterday.  What was in that Blue Plate Special?”

     The Russian stared at him coolly.  “I tried to tell you sir, not many people like that dish.  Too spicy, gives people nightmares.”

     As they spoke, the cook, dressed in a grimy paper hat and stained white t-shirt, charged from the kitchen and stormed over next to the Russian.  William thought the man looked as though he’d been born angry. 

     “What’s the problem?” The cook said, his baritone voice cracking. 

     The Russian crept off quietly, tossing the menu back on the pile as he disappeared into the storage room again.

     William stiffened and gave the man a hard gaze.  “Whatever was in that Blue Plate Special I ate here the other day has given me nightmares.  What on earth did you put in that?”

     “What kind of nightmares, mister?”

     “I have nightmares about a little red-haired kid, racing around my house looking for his father.  He doesn’t say what he wants him for, but I don’t think it’s out of love.  I saw him at the Shady Hills Cemetery, too.  He was the one who talked me into coming here.  He said if I ate here, I’d be able to talk to my wife who passed.  But the only thing that came through my dream was him.”

     The cook fidgeted.  “Listen mister, I want to talk to you more but I gotta finish something in the back first.  Will you wait over there in that booth for me?”  He said pointing to a nearby booth.  “I won’t be long, I promise.”

     William reluctantly agreed, waiting in the booth for almost an hour.  He caught himself several times nodding off, catching his head as it dropped to his chest, then jerking it back up again, glancing around embarrassed.  Then, before he knew it, the dream came on him like a strong, swift wind.  He dreamed he was still in the restaurant, the boy sitting across from him wearing the same poorly fitted clothes.  Only this time his face bore the marks of a terrible beating.  Great purple and black bruises marred his cherub face, one dark eye swollen shut by an angry red welt.

     “I’m sorry I lied to you,” the boy said smiling with a mouthful of razor sharp teeth.  “But he’s not gonna get away with what he done to me, and all I needed was a way in.”

     William shuddered, dread clutching his throat.  “I don’t understand.”

     The boy shook his head as if he’d heard a great joke, but not funny enough to laugh to.  “The Blue Plate Special is his favorite dish.  In fact, it was the last meal he ate before he killed me.”

     The boy got up from the table and leisurely sauntered over toward the kitchen.  The cook was buried somewhere back there, amid the crash and clang of pots and pans.  Just before going through the swinging doors, the boy turned and said, “Don’t worry mister, your wife wasn’t where I was.  Now, I’d go home, if I were you.  You aren’t going to want to see this.”

     William watched as the boy disappeared behind the swinging silver doors. 

     Then he forced himself to wake up.  He was still there, in that cursed restaurant, the eerie sound of the Russian whistling somewhere deep in the storage room. 

     The harsh, overhead lights flickered ominously, and he thought about calling to the cook, maybe to give him a warning.  But he didn’t.  Instead, he slipped out of the booth quietly and bolted into the warm evening.