Meal

It was a crisp December morning, I’m told, that Cyrus McAlister, angling to free a logjam in his grist mill, slipped off the sluice box. 

He fell under the overshot, hit his head and drowned.

It is a balmy day in May 100 years later, following an argument with Andrea over my latest scenic pull-over in the mountains, when I spot his crushed skull in the leaf litter of the abandoned tailrace, We have to report the remains to the authorities. Another delay. Another argument.

When Cyrus didn’t come down from the mill that night, his family went up. They found the impoundment iced over and no signs of him other than a blood spatter on the wheel pit where he’d hit his head. Devastated, they picked up stakes and moved into town to try to find their way without him.

Andrea wants my kids and half of my stuff.