Part 26: The 2nd Coming, Diner Edition

Previously in the Vines Inquiry— Blevin recounted how Frank’s ancestors stole Inquiry secrets and were shunned by the other branches of the organization. A good gamble on their part, as the Vines family used that knowledge to become one of most powerful branches in all the Inquiry. With his daughters, and hunky grad student Richard, sr., in tow, Rochester Vines was the first Inquirer in generations to successfully perform a Beckoning.

All the more troublesome, Frank realized that his family might be performing these gruesome rituals again, working to bring Feenuín to the mortal plane. But, if he could figure out how to do one himself, if he could perform a ritual and resurrect someone… Well, then he could stop them in their tracks and fix his mistake. He could bring Dick back.

“Twice in one day, Frank?” said Jean, the waitress. She didn’t try to hide her sneering this time. “You must have really missed us. No good diners in the city, huh?”

 “Thanks for saving us a booth, Jean,” said Harlow. “I’ve never seen it this crowded.” 

Jean leaned in, whispering and gleeful. “The snow trapped all the day-trippers here. Plus, they tip like there’s no tomorrow.”

Frank did his best not to take that as literal, all demon-worshipping secret societies considered.

“Let me know when you’re ready to order, okay hon,” She sauntered away, face glazed by two-finger Christmas coffees.

“What does Jean know that we don’t?” 

“How to leave a conversation gracefully?” said Harlow.

Frank stuck his nose back into Grandpa Rochester’s book. He had it cradled in his McCroy’s menu after reading the foreword on the walk over. Objectively, So You Want to Raise Feenuín? Practical Advice from a Practicing Inquirer had good prose. It lit up his grandfather’s history, bringing the story to life as much as any midnight Queen.

Rochester, his wife Carmilla and their trio of daughters had been quite busy in their day. As recounted in the opening paragraphs, the same year Jaws and The Stepford Wives came out, Frank’s mother had completed her first inquiry. In the present, he tried not to focus on how the two divergent works met in his mother.

Rochester wrote, with concern towards Rosalind: 

The further Frank read, the more it became clear that the volume was a way to get claws into potential members masquerading as an academic text. As much as he loathed the thought, Frank had to admit he could see it working. The things Rochester and the Inquiry promised could entice most anyone, let alone the ‘modern teenager’ Practical Advice was written for. 

He skimmed further in the book, eager to find a solution to their predicament though less-than-hopeful his grandfather had laid out how to defeat his beloved organization in chapter five. 

But just in case…. he’d flipped to the penultimate chapter: A Day Night in the Life of a Junior Inquirer. 

Rochester stood in the middle of a photograph dated October 1977. Flanked on both sides, dressed in a casual partywear—light wool suits, comfortable dresses—a crowd of thirty or so smiled. Certain duos stared into the lens, the photo a boring or unwelcome interruption to romantic bliss. Others, with beaming grins, looked positively giddy to be in the same room as so many like-minded people.

Inquirers.

There was a relief in the photo; an exhale after something hard (a dense lecture?) and just before the party started. Everyone looked like they were only halfway through their first glass of illicit spirits. 

The photo was clear enough, and should have been in color. A budget constraint, he guessed, but the way the people in it posed. The excitement in their eyes, even those romancing couples. It should have been in color. 

The caption read “Chief Inquirer, Rochester Vines, pictured with the newest class of Junior Inquirers, from L to R.” 

Some names were family. Others Frank vaguely recalled, neighbors that had moved away.

Suddenly, he thought. He didn’t recognize a few, of course, but one pair stuck out to him like it had been bolded. 

Frank choked and pointed at the photo.

“What?” said Harlow.

“Your parents.”

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 Lillian and Thomas Voorhees. Ages seventeen and nineteen, respectively and dressed in their 70s best. Frank recalled Lillian telling him and Harlow how they used to get their clothes when Harlow had been arguing that she needed a 2-in-1 halter/spaghetti strap top. 

“Thomas’ aunt from Cleveland used to send up taped music videos,” Lillian had said. “And then my mom and his would help us make our versions. Things came out slower back then, so we usually kept up. ‘Cept for with Diana, of course.”

“Of course,” said the kids. 

Back in the diner, Frank showed the book to Harlow. “They were in the class of ’77 with mine.”

She snatched it. “Or they just took an innocent photo at a party that’s now being used for propaganda. You know how much my mother likes getting her photo taken. What? I had to get it from somewhere. The Inquiry’s just trying to look diverse.” Harlow snapped towards Blevin. “Hey, any encyclopedic Voorhees knowledge in that oversized melon of yours?”

He looked up from his menu. “I’m just so excited you both are here. I’ve wanted to come to McCroy’s for ages, but never had anyone to go with. I tried once, just to sit at the counter, but they told me I exceeded the height limit for their stools.” 

Jean walked backed over, pad in hand. 

“Hi Jeannie!” Blevin beamed at the mere prospect of being a regular. 

“No,” she said without looking up from her pad. “Harlow, what can I get you, hon?”

Blevin hunched into the worst posture Frank had ever seen while Harlow was still caught up in the photo of her parents. She stammered out the order she’d gotten a hundred times. 

“Oh my gosh,” said Jean. “Is that your folks?” 

She leaned over Harlow’s frozen shoulders and pointed at the picture. Harlow threw her forearms on the book like it was a grenade, doing her best to cover everything but the photo. 

“Yeah, there’s Ron and Lucy Kerkovich,” said Jean. “She passed, what, five years ago now? Some sort of rose garden accident. And there’s Wynette Jordan, the mailman’s wife. ‘Course she died up at Hughes House last spring. Fell off a ladder working on the gazebo in the square and knocked herself out. They took her all the way up to the hospital. Can’t tell you why. Dr. Brattle’s office is right across the way. But, anyway, she died. Shock, they said.” Jean pointed at Lillian and Thomas. “And there they are, Harlow. Cutest Couple, class of ‘77. And even now, huh?” 

Harlow nodded, doing a flimsy approximation of her mother’s gold star smile. 

“You kids weren’t even a twinkle in your parents’ eyes back then, I bet.” 

“I’m actually from—,” started Blevin.

“Not you,” said Jean. “To be able to go back. All the experience, none of the scabs. What I wouldn’t give. But I guess we’re all getting a taste of that wish, aren’t we?” She laughed to herself and took her pad back out. 

“What do you mean?” said Frank.

She pointed out the window with her ballpoint. 

“The storm. Third one of my lifetime, so far. There was one that year, ‘77. It was the year me and your folks all graduated.” She tapped the back end of her pen on the photo. “And then another, gosh, more than ten years ago now. When all you kids were in high school. This though, it ain’t as bad as those other two yet. But I figure we’re not even halfway in.” 

The trio looked out through the plate glass window to the world beyond, already full dark. The string lights bordering the diner’s windows speckled the snowy parking lot like a sheet of candy dots. Beyond, they could only see a vague idea of the lights that marked the edge of McCroy’s property. The snow had created a thick screen, like hessian cloth, between them and even five feet forward.

“Christmas coffees?” said Jean, with a wink. 

“Better not,” said Harlow. “I think we’ve got a long night ahead.”

Happy new year, from our family to yours! Thank you all so much for joining this ride with me. Much more to come in 2025 including an ad-free experience for our paid members, more questions, more answers and of course, more Inquiry!