Free Stones by William Bell Page A

to cook. I can’t boil water without burning it.”
    “Old joke. Old bad joke. You sound like my father.”
    When the water was rolling, I put in the spaghetti. I peeled an onion, squinting against the tears as I chopped it in half and then sliced thin half-moons off each half. Next I cut florets off a stalk of broccoli.
    “Do you like garlic? I forgot to ask.”
    “Yes.”
    “There’s only one rule about cooking with garlic,” I said as Raphaella began to set the table. “You put it in everything.”
    I peeled three fat cloves and chopped them up fine, then grated Parmesan cheese into a small bowl. I put a wide skillet on the stove over a medium heat and when it was hot, poured in olive oil, adding the onion, then the garlic. Immediately, a sweet, savory aroma filled the small kitchen. I tossed the ingredients slowly in the skillet, earning applause from Raphaella. Iput in the broccoli, followed a few moments later by the pasta.
    Raphaella stood next to me with her arm around my waist. “You’re frying the spaghetti?”
    “Not frying,” I said, tossing the ingredients with a pair of tongs. “Sautéing. Only barbarians fry their food.”
    “Oh, excuse me. And what does sauté mean, may I ask?”
    “Don’t be technical.”
    I transferred the pasta to two bowls and put them on the table, and we sat down to eat. It was Raphaella who raised the subject first. “Tell me about that place,” she said.
    “Have you ever been there before?”
    “No. Never heard of it.”
    “You seemed to, well, know something — from the way you reacted, I mean. Your face went pale.”
    “How could
my
face go pale?” she joked. “No, I’ve never been there. But the aura of the place is almost physical.”
    “And scary.”
    “Terrifying.”
    I nodded. “That makes me feel better. I was beginning to think I was a bit nuts.”
    We ate in silence for a few minutes.
    Then I asked, “Are you bothered by graveyards in general?”
    Raphaella shook her head. “Not in the least.”
    “So it was that place, the African church, in particular.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, I’ve got something to tell you.”
    I recounted my nightmare, leaving nothing out. Raphaella reacted as if I’d read her a grocery list. She paid close attention, kept her eyes on me as I talked, but she was completely calm, as if she heard stories like mine every day.
    “And you’ve had this dream again?” she asked when I had finished.
    “Yup. Once at the store and once at home — last night.”
    “Hmm.”
    “Exactly. And it scares the hell out of me. I wake up shaking and gasping for breath.”
    “I like that about you.”
    “Er, what?”
    “That you’re willing to admit you’re scared.”
    “I wish I could say I wasn’t. You said back at the church that there were spirits there. What did you mean? Ghosts?”
    “Not ghost-story spooks. Not movie ghosts.
Presences
. You know, some places are just creepy.”
    “But that’s because our imaginations are working overtime. Like in a dark attic or basement in an old house. Whistling-in-the-dark stuff. You seem to be saying that there’s really something there, at the church.”
    Raphaella took a deep breath. Her eyes strayed to the window and she seemed to be making a decision. “Yes,” she said.
    “You believe in these spirits or presences, or whatever.”
    “I think that there are reverent places, just like there are peaceful or beautiful or restful places.”
    “And evil places.”
    She nodded. “Yes. But not because there’s a troll under the bridge or a dragon in the cave. Because of events that went on there.”
    “Wow,” I said.
    “Yeah, I know.”
    “I’m not making fun of you.”
    “I know.”
    Raphaella had given me her trust, shared something that, in another place, with other people, would bring ridicule down on her like a thundershower. We both knew that what we were talking about wasn’t a clown in a sewerpipe, like in the King novel, or a fewthirteen-year-olds charged with