The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  Because Weekenders don’t like broken toys.

  WHERE THE MEN ARE

  There are plenty of men in Gold Fork. We see them everywhere: lounging at the gas station with a hot dog in one hand and a cigarette in the other; listening to our hearts at the hospital and declaring us healthy; loading planks onto a flatbed truck at the lumberyard; helping Weekenders unhook their boats at the marina. They are thirty-four, fifty-seven, seventy-two. They all look familiar, even the ones we’ve never seen before. Gold Fork gives a cast to the skin, a bronze tint that the Weekenders’ moms pay big money for in the city but that we get for free. On some men, though, the tint turns ruddy, like something flayed. An animal’s wet hide. We look at some Gold Fork men and we think that they’ve always been more beast than boy. We can’t imagine them as kids. Can’t imagine playing ball with them in the small field behind the airstrip or getting ice-cream cones at the parlor that’s only open from May to September and eating them so fast that we yell “Brain freeze!” at the same time and then have to shout “Jinx!” before five seconds are up. We can’t imagine the sound that would come from their mouths if they ever opened them to laugh. Would it be a bear’s growl, an extended hiss? What would they say, if they could speak to us? Would they say they’re sorry? Would they mean it?

  Sure, there are plenty of men in Gold Fork. There just aren’t as many dads.

  Gold Fork women are different. Even the girls. Look hard enough at a Gold Fork girl, and you can see the mom lurking within, waiting for her moment to clamber out from beneath the blush and eye shadow, the tousled hair. Sometimes she doesn’t have to wait long. Every graduating class at Tri High’s got a couple of new moms, girls who blinked and looked away at the wrong moment. We tell ourselves that’s what it was—the wrong moment—because we don’t want to believe that a girl might want this, after all: a shabby rental house by the airstrip, the bedroom just big enough for her childhood twin bed and a bassinet for the baby who is, even now, crying to be held.

  Not a dad in sight.

  DAVIS

  I wake up at six thirty on Tuesday morning. Put on chinos, a button-down short-sleeved shirt that my grandparents sent for my birthday and that I swore I’d never wear. Rummage around in my closet for a pair of shoes that aren’t sneakers. I’m ready three hours before I have to leave. I borrow my dad’s car and spend a couple hours driving the lake road around and around, all seventeen miles of it, trying to make sense of what happened at the Den.

  But I can’t.

  The Nelsons are having brunch when I get there. They said they’d meet me in the hotel dining room at noon, and I spot them as soon as I walk through the door: orange and floral in a sea of crisp white shirts. The Gold Fork Grand attracts a certain clientele—people who come to town because they read about it in a magazine and it seemed like a fun way to drop a couple thousand dollars in a weekend. People who probably do this kind of thing a couple times a month, in different hotels with different views but the same amenities: fluffy robes, fresh flowers, daily massages.

  The Nelsons aren’t like that. They have the sense of entitlement that practically oozes from the Grand, but without as much class. An orange polo. Floral capri pants. Not exactly crisp white shirts.

  They don’t stand when I walk over and introduce myself. They’ve each got a plate of food in front of them. He’s got a Bloody Mary, and she’s drinking a mimosa. There are two empty glasses on the table from the first round. Mr. Nelson waves to a chair. “Go ahead,” he says, which is either an invitation to sit or a suggestion to start talking, so I do both.

  I flip open my notebook. “Are there any new leads on your case?” I ask. “Anything you can tell our readers?”

  “You get right to the point, don’t you?” says Mrs. Nelson. She’s eating toast points, I notice.

  I lean back in my chair, all pretend-casual, and try again. “It must have been a shock,” I say. “The fire.”

  “Damn straight,” says Mr. Nelson. He takes a sip of his Bloody Mary through a straw, and then pulls the celery out of the drink and bites it. “You leave for the week and come back to rubble. Cleaner shows up and there’s nothing to clean. Not even a carpet. I’d say it was a shock.” Tomato juice drips off the celery onto the white tablecloth.

  “It sounds like there might be some new information pertaining to the case,” I say, and wait.

  “There was a footprint,” says Mr. Nelson, “but that seems pretty thin. Most people wear tennis shoes around here. And what—the police are going to go around measuring people’s feet? I don’t think so.” He takes another bite out of the celery. A server walks by, and he grabs at her sleeve, waving two fingers toward their drinks. “And one for the road,” he says, chewing noisily.

  The server nods, but I see her roll her eyes just as she turns away.

  “Oh!” says Mrs. Nelson. “I almost forgot! The paper!”

  I bring my notebook closer to my face, as though I’m reading. “I understand there was a legible word on it,” I say, scanning the blank paper. “Something like . . .”

  “Regret,” she says quickly, filling in the blank. “It was ‘regret.’ ”

  “Doris!” Mr. Nelson puts down his drink. Looks at me. “That’s off the record, son,” he says. “Police don’t want us sharing that, Doris. Might tip off the arsonist.”

  “Got it,” I say, and close the notebook with a half-audible sigh. “Well.” I don’t know what Dan wants from this interview if anything worth reporting is confidential. So I settle for asking them about the items they lost in the fire (“Everything!”), what they’ll miss most (“Oh God, Everything!”), and how plans are coming for the new construction (Mr. Nelson, this time: “Slow as shit.”). Then they tell me all about the cost of marble countertops for twenty minutes.

  These two make most Weekenders look like Buddhist monks.

  But as I make my way from the Gold Fork Grand to the newspaper office to type up my notes, one word tumbles around in my head like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that’s fallen out of the box.

  Regret.

  When I get to the office, I turn on my computer and read through my notes. I can almost convince myself that I’m doing real work here, instead of just avoiding thinking about what we saw at the Den. The look on Erik’s face when he saw his dad. Georgie’s new boyfriend. And Abby.

  I shake my head. Back to work.

  Dan might have only asked me to talk to the Nelsons, but he didn’t not tell me to do some other digging. I look at what I’ve compiled so far. I type up everything I can remember from the interview this morning—nothing good there. Just the Nelsons complaining about all their stuff. The fire inspector’s report. Police reports. Amazing what a phone call and a mention of the Roundup can get you. I don’t know why, exactly, I’m digging in here, but something doesn’t feel right.

  The police reports lay out a time line, and not much more. Fire must have started late enough that there wouldn’t have been boats on the water to see the smoke. And, once it was lit, the place went down fast. Police are assuming the arsonist left by boat. No car tracks in the dirt, at least. Just a footprint (men’s size eleven, nondescript running shoe) and the burnt paper.

  I’m going to need more than this to go on.

  My phone rings in my pocket while I’m glancing at the interview for the third time. Something about what Mrs. Nelson—or was it Mr.—said. Something there that I’m not seeing right now. I answer.

  “Davis.” It’s Dan, calling from his cell. I can hear sounds in the background—a siren, the clang of a lid or a door. “There’s been another fire.” He speeds up, talking over my obvious questions. “Early this morning. Out at the skate park. Trash cans—two of them. Small-time. But intentional, it looks like.” He pauses to take a breath, and I hear the tumbling roll of skateboards on concrete.

  “Copycat?” I ask.

  “Right now that’s what we’re running with,” he says. “But there’s nothing to link this to the Nelson fire. And the scale is all off, li
ke it was at the brewery. Frankly,” he adds, “it’s probably some kids you might know.” Another pause.

  “Oh,” I say. “I don’t know very many people.” Which is true, even if it’s a little shameful.

  “Ask around,” he says. “That’s all. Just ask around. You’ll get more than I will.”

  “Sure,” I say, though I know no one at the skate park’s going to talk to me. My feet have never graced a longboard. I think Ollie is a good name for a cat. The kids at the park are going to see me coming and—if they know anything at all—they’re going to stuff their secrets in their back pockets next to the American Spirits.

  “Great,” says Dan. Then he adds, “We might crack this case yet.”

  I hang up, laughing to myself about how Dan thinks we’re private investigators or something. My phone buzzes—a text—and I wonder what he forgot to mention. Some totally useless clue, most likely. I glance down and see her name, try to ignore the little hiccup in my chest that’s as confusing as it is sudden.

  But when I read her message, I forget the hiccup completely.

  Vera’s in the hospital. Can you come?

  I’m grabbing the keys to the car before I’ve finished reading.

  • • •

  Jane used to get headaches. Four or five at least in the two months we were together. (Two months that now seem more and more removed from my real life, like a dream that I never quite understood.) She never grabbed at her head and rubbed her temple, the way people do when they’re faking. She just closed her eyes and told me she needed to be alone. Find me a dark place, she’d say. And I never knew if she meant a broom closet or a state of mind.

  I should have taken her to the hospital.

  I know, I know, hospitals are usually as bright and glaring as supermarkets. And in general, Gold Fork’s is no different. When I get there, practically running through the entrance doors of the emergency room, I have to squint against the flash of a thousand halogen lights. But once the nurse gets my name and talks to someone on the phone and makes some note on her computer and leads me to Vera’s room—that’s when I realize that the hospital is one of the darkest places in town.

  It’s not just that the overheads are off or that the shades are drawn against the light, which they are. It’s the air itself. So heavy and gray and hopeless that I feel like I shouldn’t be breathing.

  Ana looks up at me from where she’s sitting by Vera’s bed. Her eyes are red and empty.

  “Hey.” I think about taking a step closer. Touching her shoulder. My right hand tenses by my side.

  “Hey.” She turns back to the bed. Then she adds, “Thanks. For showing up.” She’s leaning forward like she’s just willing life into Vera. “I’m kind of going crazy here. I didn’t know who else to—just, thanks.” Vera’s hand is lying still on top of the sheet. Ana rests her hand on top and squeezes.

  “Of course.”

  A nurse knocks on the door and bustles in, clipboard in hand. “Checking vitals,” she says. Then, when she sees the look on Ana’s face, she adds, “Totally routine. You’ll see me again in an hour. Same song and dance.” She’s fluffing pillows, adjusting the IV drip. Bustle, bustle. “Here you go, Miss V,” she says as she lifts one wrist and holds it, counting silently. “Let’s bring that pulse up a bit, all right?” Her voice is too loud, and I watch Ana wince at the false cheer. “Don’t you know you have visitors?” The nurse practically winks at us. “Rise and shine!”

  Ana’s jaw clenches.

  “Uh,” I say. “No offense, but I just got here. Can we have a few minutes to, um, be alone with our”—I glance at Ana in time to see her mouth the word—“grandma?”

  She looks at her clipboard and then at me. Glances between me and Ana, taking in the difference in skin. Her eyes narrow as she tries to decide. Is it possible? Then, slowly, she says, “Sure thing. It’s good to have company. Right, Miss V?” Her voice gets a little louder. “Right?”

  Once she’s gone, a couple more singsongy platitudes lobbed over her shoulder as parting gifts, I let my shoulders relax. “Wow,” I say to Ana. “She sounded like cough syrup tastes.”

  Ana nods, and smiles—a first.

  “Grandma?” I ask.

  “Only thing that came to mind,” she says. “And it worked at the information desk when I first got here. Wasn’t sure it would. That’s why they let you in too. But,” she adds, “you and I don’t exactly look related.” She holds out one tan arm. Ana doesn’t usually wear short sleeves, but it’s warm in the room. The scar is dark in this light, like a river cutting through a canyon. She catches me looking at it and crosses her arms.

  I glance away. “Cousins,” I say.

  “Cousins.” She stands and walks over to the window. “You’d make a nice cousin.” Shakes her head. “I mean . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought.

  It’s a good thing her back’s to me so she can’t see my face.

  “I don’t know where Abby is,” she continues, talking to the window. “She called to tell me about the stroke, but she wasn’t around when I got here. And she’s not responding to my texts.” She moves away from the window, comes over to where I’m standing. Then she makes a sound like an engine puttering out. “World-class daughter.”

  We’re standing next to each other, but we’re both looking at the old lady on the bed. Vera’s smaller than I remember. Her skin, loose and wrinkled, seems painted on from this distance. She looks like a doll. As we watch, one arm stirs, lifting slightly. Her mouth opens, and a low moan comes out. Ana jerks forward, says, “Vera?” but the arm falls back to the sheets and the moan becomes a quiet whistle. I watch the sheet over her chest move rhythmically up and down as she breathes. In, out. In, out.

  “She seems okay,” I say, even though she doesn’t. I try not to focus on the warm pulse where Ana’s shoulder is touching the side of my arm. “Have you heard anything from the doctors?”

  “No one will tell me anything,” Ana says. She’s glaring at the side of the bed. “They’ll only tell Abby. I’m not her child,” she adds, drawing the last word out. “I’m just the help.”

  There’s a light knock on the door, and another nurse pokes her head in. It takes me a second before I recognize Georgie’s mom.

  “Oh, Davis,” she says. “And Ana. I thought”—she glances at the chart in her hands—“I was under the impression that there were family members in here.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Rowland.” I haven’t seen her in months, but she looks the same: graying hair, a permanent yawn tucked behind her smile. “We’re family in spirit.” I try my most winning smile.

  It works, I think. “I’ll assume that you’ve both gotten permission from the family, then.” She holds up one hand before Ana or I can say anything. “I’ll assume that’s a yes.” Then, looking down at the chart so she doesn’t have to watch our reactions, she adds, “Because of course we all know that no one other than family or those with written permission from the family can enter the room. We all know that if someone without permission had gotten in here, they’d be in big trouble.”

  Silence. I move a little toward the door. Try to make significant eye contact with Ana. But she only moves closer to Vera and says, “You can go if you want, Davis.”

  “I’m staying,” I say.

  Georgie’s mom smiles. “You’re a good friend for being here.”

  Good friend. Nice cousin. What next? Neutered puppy?

  “Does Georgie know about Vera’s stroke?” Her mom pretends to read the chart, but I see how her chin angles up as she waits for one of us to answer.

  “Yeah. I texted her,” I say. And I did. As soon as I heard from Ana, I sent texts to both Georgie and Erik. He wrote back immediately, saying he was in the middle of something—the first I’ve heard from him since we saw his dad—but I never heard from Georgie.

  “I’m sure she’d be here if she wasn’t working.” Georgie’s mom is looking at me now, watching my reaction. “Those little kids sure take up a lot of time.”

>   “Mmm-hmmm.”

  “Their parents must really like to go out.”

  “I guess.” Georgie’s told us about her fake job, but I’ve never had to lie for her. And I’m getting the distinct impression that her mom is a hard one to fool.

  “What are their names again? I always forget.” She stares at me now, and I have to look away. Then she must think better of it, because she says, “I’m sure Georgie can remind us.” She opens the door. “You two take care. And, Ana”—her smiles softens—“I can tell how important this lady is to you.” Then she leaves.

  Ana sits next to Vera in one of those wood-and-burlap hospital chairs that look like they were fashioned out of someone’s chronic depression. She pulls out her phone and looks at the blank screen.

  “She’s had a couple of hours to make the ten-minute drive.” There are tears in her eyes, and she rubs at them, her hands in fists. She doesn’t mention where Abby would be driving from. Doesn’t mention the Den. Instead, she says, “Who doesn’t visit her own mother when she could be dy—” Ana stops before she has to say the obvious thing.

  “She’s not,” I tell her. “Look. She’s had a stroke. Sure. But lots of people do. My grandma did. And she was fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  My grandma died of a heart attack before I was born.

  “Have you—” I start, but I’m not sure how to ask. “Have you talked to anyone? Georgie? Or—Erik?”

  She shakes her head. “No. And, Davis,” she adds quickly, before I can say anything else, “I don’t want to talk about it. I can’t. It’s too—” She rubs her face with one hand. “Too much.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  There’s another tap on the door, and then it opens. I watch Ana’s eyes light up with hope and then cloud over again when she sees the nurse who was here earlier.

  She gives us a tight smile and looks closely at Vera’s chart. “Grandma, huh?” Her cheery facade seems to be slipping. “Unless one of you is the forty-eight-year-old daughter I just spoke with on the phone, you have to go.” She glances at her watch.