"Well, Simon, it's good to see you." Dad threw his jacket onto the large, yellow, stuffed chair in the far corner as he came into the door. Nothing had changed since the last time I was here. Same furniture. Same smell of coffee and pipe tobacco. Same jacket even, the long, dingy, khaki-tan duster that looked almost exactly like one he'd always worn when he was alive. He'd had it made and held by Séamas at The Boot Shop, a good friend, in the waning days of his life.
The place was modest. The entry room was a living room with a small kitchen in the far left corner. There was small wooden table two chairs near the kitchen and, filling the rest of the room, a couch and two chairs, all of yellow fabric overstuffed. There were two doors in the wall to the right as you came in. The far door led to a small bedroom with a bed and dresser and the near door, standing open, was a coat closet. I remembered that there was a small bathroom was you could get to through a door in the back, right corner of the bedroom. That was it. Everything a dead man needed.
"It's good to see you too, Dad," I said. And it was. I had been so busy with work for the past several months that I's not been able to visit. Plus I just knew this Amy thing was the kind of job Dad could do better than I could. "I've been pretty busy."
"And you, little girl, what's your name?" he asked, lumbering into the kitchen with big, loud, boot steps against the wood floor.
"Amy," she answered, climbing onto the dusty couch.
"How are you holding up, Amy?" he asked, opening the cupboard to get a cup. "Would you like some water? It's all I've got handy, unless you drink coffee."
"Yes, please," she said.
He turned the faucet knob and the pipes in the wall whined as the water ran. "Coffee, Simon?"
He walked over and handed Amy the cup of water, digging a book of matches from his pocket. "Here you go, miss," he said, and he tousled her hair a little. He wasn't much with little girls. Neither of us were.
"Thank you," she said, and she drained the cup.
Dad struck a match on the edge of the little cupboard as he walked back into the kitchen and placed it to the little oil burner on the counter with the coffee pot on it. "Just brewed this this morning. It'll stand one warming, I think. It'll do." He took two cups down from the cupboard and placed them next to the burner, ready for the coffee. "Now," he said, turning to lean against the counter, "tell me what you've gotten into here, Simon."
'Well, Dad, it's a Whim," I said, sitting next to Amy on the couch with a groan. I told him about the Whim and about the butcher shop and about the house. I told him the song in detail, and he had me repeat it to him several times until he knew it by heart.
"That last line," he said. "I've heard it before. 'Sing the song to meet the maker.' It's from an old saying."
"Really?" My heart leapt. I knew Dad would be able to help. "What sort of old saying?"
"Well, that's what worries me, though it might be nothing."
"It's a Whim, Dad. It's not nothing."
"Hmmm...," he said, rubbing his stubbly chin. "What have you gotten into?" He sounded distant, lost in thought.
"Why? Whose saying is it?"
"It's an old Fate saying, Simon."
"Damn," I said. I hated Fates.
"Yeah, damn," he agreed.
"What?" asked Amy.