The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  “I didn’t recognize the boat,” says Davis, and I’m about to say something like, What? Are you an oracle? when I remember how we got here. Davis probably does know all the boats on this lake. That’s how it works, when you’re a Dockside.

  Erik juts his chin at a little deer path that leads away from the water. “Only one thing to do,” he says. “Let’s spy on those fuckers.”

  “I—” I start to say, but Ana’s already nodding and following Erik into the trees. I blink at Davis. “Are we really doing this?” I ask.

  “Georgie,” he says, “this can’t be the most dangerous thing you’ve done today.”

  And I know he’s talking about dealing, but of course he’s right. I follow him behind the others and try not to think about Henry. Do you want to? he’d asked. And in that moment, saying yes felt more dangerous than Dodge, more risky than a bag of blow.

  The path winds through the property, climbing a little through old growth. We step over moss, rocks, the random nail or board, some trash. We don’t talk. It’s been a while since I went on a hike through the woods (you take it for granted when you’re surrounded by it), and I kind of sink into the walk itself. The property is so big and the forest so dense that I don’t see the cabin until we’re almost on it. It rears out of the forest like a surprise. Ana has to pull Erik back, because he’s been looking at the ground and almost walks right into the open. We crouch behind a couple of dogwoods and look.

  At first it’s just the cabin. Our Den. The grill on the deck is the first giveaway. Stainless steel. I haven’t seen it before. Has it been stored in the garage this whole time? Then there are the curtains that have always, always, always been drawn across the sliding glass doors. They’re open, and—I squint—the dining room within has plates, silverware, a fruit bowl.

  A fucking fruit bowl.

  I’m about to say something to the others about it because seriously? A fruit bowl? Does anyone actually use one of those? But I notice Davis first. He’s looking at something just off the side of the deck, eyes wide. Then he kind of swivels and grabs Erik’s arm.

  “Let’s go, guys,” he mutters, and is trying to turn Erik around. But of course, Davis isn’t that strong, and Erik’s wheeled back around and is looking in the same direction, whispering, “What the hell, Dav—” And Ana and I are looking at each other and she’s mouthing, What? when Erik just stops. Just freezes. And that’s when I see him too.

  They look exactly alike.

  ERIK

  No. No no no no no no no no no. Not possible.

  • • •

  “Erik.”

  “Erik.”

  They’re talking to me, and someone is shaking my arm, but I yank it free and just stare.

  He’s attaching a hose to a sprinkler head. But he can’t quite get the grooves to match. He mutters something, but I can’t hear him. I can only see his lips moving.

  His mouth is just like mine.

  You’re not supposed to be here.

  “Erik.”

  As I watch, he finally gets the sprinkler twisted on. He turns and yells into the house, “Someone turn on the water!” He sets the sprinkler in a little patch of grass by the deck.

  And then the sliding glass door opens and a guy about my age, maybe a little older, comes out and turns the spigot on the side of the house. Water arcs out of the sprinkler. “On?” the guy asks.

  “It’s good,” says my dad.

  The guy—tall, blond, messy hair, bullshit lip ring, combat boots—doesn’t look like us.

  Georgie’s saying something, but it’s muffled, and I get this crazy idea that she’s talking into her shirtsleeve, and it makes me want to laugh—like, a loud bark that I can feel in the pit of my stomach. I swallow to keep it down.

  You’re not supposed to be here.

  “Let’s go.” It’s Davis, still holding my arm. “Let’s go. Erik—no, wait.”

  I don’t know what he’s talking about until I realize that I’m already out of the trees and walking toward the deck. Again that laugh—so sharp I can feel it pressing against my spine—but again I swallow it back.

  He turns when he hears me come closer, and the look on his face is surprise at first, like maybe he thought I was a bear. Then it’s as if his cheeks kind of fall a little, and his mouth opens. He just stands there, breathing through his mouth for a minute.

  I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to do with my hands.

  “Erik?” he says finally. Shakes his head. “Oh my God. Erik.” Then: “Hi.” He glances toward the deck and then back at me. “How did you—”

  I shrug. Put my hands in my pockets, where they coil into fists.

  The sliding door opens and shuts.

  I’m just looking at him. His face is tan, and he’s shorter than I’ve imagined. Not as tall as me. A little heavier. Chino shorts and a checkered button-down shirt, short-sleeved. Those rubber sandals that only dads and environmental science teachers wear.

  You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to be spear fishing in Mexico, or running some bar down in Bermuda. Someone new every night. You’re supposed to be so far away and so different that the distance between where you are and where I am is nonnegotiable. You can’t come back. That’s why you haven’t.

  But the way he looks. There’s nothing from Bermuda or Mexico. Nothing about the wild life he’s led. The one he had to leave to live.

  “I was just about to get in touch,” he says, stepping closer. His arms are spread out a little, like he’s going to hug me, but he stops right when he gets to me and lets them fall back to his sides. “I was about to call. Today,” he adds.

  “Kyle?” The voice from the deck doesn’t belong to the guy I just saw. It’s a woman’s voice, and I turn to see the most ordinary woman in the world standing there. Ordinary brown hair. Ordinary face. Not a body to sprint for. Like an egg, really. Beyond ordinary. “Oh,” she says, when she sees me. “Oh.”

  “Abby,” he says, “this is . . . Erik.” Almost like he has to think about it.

  And all the things I thought I’d say when I finally saw him again (because of course I would—just not here not here not here) seem so fucking stupid now. It hits me like a shot put to the chest: I shouldn’t be standing here. I have no right. But I don’t know how to leave. My feet are deadweights on the ground. My hands are heavy in my pockets. I open my mouth, but nothing comes. No way out no way out no way out no way

  “Erik, man.” It’s Davis, clapping me on the back, his voice attempting cool. I didn’t even hear him walk up. “Thought I’d lost you. We gotta get back to the boat.” He looks at my dad. “Geocaching,” he explains. “Easy to lose the path. Sorry to, you know—trespass.”

  My dad squints at Davis and nods like he knows what the fuck he’s talking about. “Great,” he says. “I mean, no problem.”

  No problem.

  Davis’s hand on my back, pushing me toward the trees. Time to go. And I can feel my breath, a sprint gone bad, everything caught in my throat, my chest exploding with it, going to walk away just walk away and is this it? Is this fucking it?

  From behind me, his voice again. “I mean, wait. Hey. Erik—you got a phone? Let me give you my number.” I turn and pull out my phone, hand it over, watch dumbly as he plugs in a number. “Great,” he says again. “Call and we’ll catch up. I’m here for another month at least.”

  I’m turning, Davis’s hand on my back still, urging me to go, get out, but I stop and look at my dad again. “How long have you been here?” I ask. It doesn’t sound like my voice.

  He exchanges a look with the woman on the deck. “Call me,” he says. “I’d love to see you.”

  Then I’m back in the trees with Davis, and he’s marching me down to the water, where Ana and Georgie are waiting. It looks like they’ve both been crying. Georgie’s smoking a cigarette, and she crushes it under the toe of her shoe.

  “Fucking hell,” she says. “The whole fucking family.”

  • • •
>
  I don’t remember getting home. I remember how the wind and the spray hit my face as Davis drove back across the lake. A thousand little bullets. Georgie raging about something—saying Henry, Henry, as though that would mean anything to me. But I don’t think I biked from the marina. Someone must have driven me. Because it’s like I’m in the boat one minute and then I’m standing inside my door the next and taking off my shoes and wondering why I’m doing that at all—taking off my shoes—when the Beast hears me and comes out of the living room.

  “You’re home,” she says.

  I look at her, those slumped shoulders, that sweater with faded purple flowers that she throws on whenever it’s anything less than eighty degrees out, hair that’s graying at the roots, no time, no money for a trip to the salon. She’s just standing there like a bag of potatoes that someone forgot to bring in from the garage. And the feeling that’s been grating against my lungs since I saw him finally bursts out like a cough. I start laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” At first she smiles like she wants in on the joke. But her smile fades as I laugh and laugh, leaning over to hold myself against the wall with one hand. I’m barking. I’m howling. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to—and I don’t want to. “What’s going on?” she asks, and it’s a different voice for the Beast—smaller, a little afraid. “Is everything okay?”

  The idea of telling her, of actually telling her, makes me laugh even more. It makes me laugh so hard that I’m crying. And once I’m crying, I can’t stop that, either.

  “Erik. Erik. Are you okay?” Her hand on my back, rubbing like she used to when I was little and couldn’t sleep. When she would sing to me. When I would let her. Her hand’s on my back, and then it’s not. She rattles around me, talking. “This is strange,” she’s saying. “You’re acting strange.” Then: “You must be hungry.” Then: “I’ve made dinner. Beef Stroganoff.”

  And I sob-laugh even harder. Beef Stroganoff! In what world?

  “If you don’t—” she starts, but I can hear her voice wilt. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says, finally, and retreats.

  But I’m not. I can’t. I can’t follow her into the kitchen. When I think about a plate of beef Stroganoff—her plate—and a forkful of greasy noodles, meat that she got for a buck off at Toney’s because it was about to pass its sell-by date, I want to throw up. I put my shoes back on. Stop sob-laughing as quickly as I started. Swallow once, twice. Test my voice in a little whisper: “I’m just going.” Fine. Raise the voice, yell into the kitchen. “I’m just going out for a bit. Don’t wait up.” Let the door close behind me—don’t slam. Don’t raise suspicion. Keep moving. Whatever you do, keep moving.

  And then I’m running. Away from our house. Back toward town and the condos on the water.

  I don’t remember him—not really. The others have never asked, but they’re probably all wondering. I was three. I don’t remember. Don’t remember the day he left, whether he told the Beast he’d be back in a day or two, whether he told her where he was supposedly fishing, whether he packed a pretend fishing vest, pretend waders, a pretend rod. She won’t say. Won’t talk about it. He found something better. The only time we talked. The Beast on the sofa, a cold washcloth over her eyes. Me, small still, in the chair opposite. Asking questions I’d eventually learn not to ask. But for all my questions, only one answer. Found something better. Explanation enough, because that’s all life is: use, replace, repeat.

  Feet pounding on the pavement. Sweat dripping down my back. Can’t get there fast enough.

  Three is still cute. I see them around town—little kids at the community beach with their parents, their sunscreen. I see that they’re still babies. They can’t disappoint. Right? You don’t look at a toddler, at a three-year-old, and think, I can probably do better. Right. Must have been her. Must have been her.

  And then I’m here. Oh, thank God. I can stop I can stop I can stop thinking. The sweat drips off my forehead onto the grass in front of the lakefront condos when I pause and lean over, hands on my knees. Then I stand up and make my way to the unit at the end. I’ve been here so many times in the past couple of weeks, standing outside in the dark, watching the lights turn on and off, pretending that I live inside that warm glow, that I could find my way blindfolded.

  But I’ve never been inside.

  Layla opens the door when I knock. Her long brown hair is wet, like she just got out of the shower. “Erik,” she says.

  My mind is running intervals. Back and forth. Back and forth.

  I focus only on her.

  “I didn’t know you’d be coming over,” she says.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. “Just passing by,” I say. My voice still thin, still not right.

  She hears it, too. “Is anything—everything all right?”

  No.

  “Just—bad day,” I say. “The worst.” I speak slowly so my voice doesn’t waver. “The goddamn worst.”

  She leans against the doorframe. “Tell me about it,” she says. And then, when I open my mouth, she adds, “I’ve been stuck inside all day. Mom needed ‘family time’ again. It’s like, don’t we get enough of that at home?” She grins at me. “But now you’re here. So things are looking better.” She’s got a great smile. It starts off sweet and ends a little savory. Something about what she does with her eyes. Hold on to it.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I know what you mean. Like I said, I was just passing by. If now’s not good—” I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt and wait for it. Sure enough, I feel her trace a line with one finger from my belly button down.

  “You’re sweaty,” she starts to say, but then I hear a voice from inside the condo.

  “Layla? Who is it?”

  “Just a friend,” she says over her shoulder. “He’s not staying.” She looks at me. Adds, “Not for long. I’m just going to lend him a book. For”—a wink—“his summer class.”

  I shake my head. Give her a smile. Try to ignore the way my stomach clenches. Summer class. A stupid lie. A lie about stupid.

  But the voice from the back of the condo doesn’t sound suspicious. “That’s fine. Dinner in fifteen, remember. And let your brother know.”

  Another wink. So I let Layla lead me up the stairs to her bedroom, where she shuts the door and pushes me against it and then slides down to her knees.

  If this is what stupid gets me, I’ll take it.

  When it comes down to it, I spend most of my time trying not to think about the things I’ve ruined.

  But not thinking isn’t without its benefits. Hold on to it. Hold on to it.

  • • •

  The light’s on in the kitchen when I finally get back. I can’t go inside. I can’t face her yet. So, I take my time unlacing my shoes outside the door, pulling them off and knocking the mud off of them. I line them up on the doormat. I’ll text you, she’d said. We’ll hang out.

  “Erik.” Her voice comes from the kitchen. I can hear its quiet accusation through the door. “You’re home.”

  Deep breath. I square my shoulders and go inside.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say, passing by the kitchen on the way to my bedroom. “Pretty tired. Think I’ll just head to bed.”

  “Tired.” When is the Beast of Burden not sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me? She’s got a mug of something—probably some new tea that tastes like bark—and she twists it in her hands. “Too tired to talk.”

  It’s not a question, so I don’t answer. The Beast is looking at me closely, trying to read my expression, so I give her my Cream of Wheat look: neutral. Bland.

  She hunches forward over her mug. She looks either very old or very young. “You’d tell me if there was something wrong. Wouldn’t you.”

  Over the past ten years, ever since I first noticed that the Beast was different, somehow, from the other moms, she and I have been carefully building and maintaining a mirage. Squint, and you can see the Perfect Son in the middle of it, holding his medals in one hand and his mother’
s frail arm in the other. What’s that he’s whispering? One more year.

  Careful, Erik. Careful.

  “There’s nothing,” I tell her. Then, because I have to give her something, I add, “Girl problems. I’m dealing with it.”

  “Okay.” She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something else, but she shuts it like a trap. Finally she says, “You’d tell me,” and her eyes are piercing. “You’d tell me if there was something.”

  “Of course,” I say. “You’re my mom.”

  • • •

  By the time I get out of the kitchen and up to bed, it feels like I’ve been running four hundred repeats—each one exhausting as a sprint, but drawn-out as a mile. I flop down on my bed and pull out my phone.

  Georgie’s texted three times since we got back from the Den.

  Wanna talk?

  Call me

  Hey. Call me.

  I throw my phone down on my bed.

  My eyes rove around the room, skimming the dresser and the small box that I know is in the top drawer, waiting. My fingers itch with what I could do. No. Not yet. Not now. I’m looking for something different. Finally, I see it—a shoe box in the corner. Empty ever since I got the new running shoes for District. I’d taken them out and then left the box there in the corner, a reminder that I can have something new, sometimes.

  I pick it up, bring it back to the bed. Slide Layla’s headband off my wrist, where I wrapped it twice while she was in the bathroom. Blue and stretchy. A dollar-store find, except probably not. I’d pulled it off her head and she’d smiled up at me the way you smile at a toy, the way I’d smiled at my new shoes. And later, when she said, Hey. Really. Is something wrong? because I’d fucked up for a second and had started to think again—she must’ve seen it in my face—and I considered telling her everything, of laying my head in her lap and letting it all just fucking be for a minute, I remembered that smile and said no.

  I put the headband in the box and slide it under my bed. Careful, Erik. Careful.

  She’s a Weekender. Maybe even my Weekender. But if I want her (and oh God, I want want want just one good thing), I have to be careful. I have to keep all my secrets. I have to be okay.