by Erin Saldin
To market, to market.
I nod and open it up on the water, skirting the gathering of boats in the middle that have thrown down anchor to watch the fireworks. They’ll all be heading home soon, but right now they’re still watching the show or lighting their own bottle rockets and roman candles. The sheriff does lake rounds at night, especially on the Fourth, but the little green light on the top of his boat is a dead giveaway, and I don’t see it anywhere.
As I’m driving toward the Tollefsons’, I think about Erik and Henry. The way Erik’s voice sounded over the water, loud as a firecracker. How I could have stayed—should have stayed—and made him leave the party with me. I should have made him talk. Because if Erik’s not talking to me, he’s not talking to anyone.
But I didn’t. I left to make money. Or maybe just to leave. To get out of the discomfort of staring down Erik’s pain and saying, It’s okay, even when it isn’t. To get away from my guilt about not ending things with Henry as soon as I realized the connection.
The drop at the Tollefsons’ is easy enough: a quick exchange on the dock below their cabin, the youngest Tollefson glancing over her shoulder in case her parents decided to come down too. Easy hundred. I jump back in the boat, turn us around, start to head back into town, when Dodge says, “No. North.”
“Another drop?” I ask, turning the boat slowly, scanning the shoreline for any cabin lights that might indicate our next customers.
Dodge shakes his head. “Something new. Campground.” Then, when he sees me staring at him, he reaches over and pushes the throttle up himself. The boat lurches forward, and I have to grab at the dash before I fall. We’re moving too fast for conversation, and he lets me take the wheel again, but not before he says, “Time to earn your keep.”
• • •
By the time Dodge and I park the boat at the marina, the festivities are over. The lake is dark and quiet; it’ll be dawn soon enough. I imagine all the Weekenders, safe in their beds, ready to wake and hit the water. I can hear them now, people like Jeff-the-Spastic, calling his friends in the morning to come over, start the party up again. The lake’s glass, man. You have to be out there.
What bullshit.
Know what I want to yell across the lake on this perfect summer night? How many of you have been driven in a boat to a crowded campground and dropped off with tiny Ziplocs of coke and Molly tucked into your bra? How many of you have been told to go to the largest group site, the one farthest back in the trees that has space for a couple of RVs, a handful of tents, five or six motorcycles, and ask the people there if they’re interested in buying? How many of you have had to wait inside one of those RVs, shaking and trying not to, thinking about the gun that Dodge wedged in the waistband of your pants, the gun you’d never, ever, ever be able to shoot, while some guy with a tattoo sleeve and a beard the length of your hand sizes you up and down and says, finally, “How much”? And then, how many of you have had to stand and squeeze your way between the two guys guarding the door while one of them pretends like he doesn’t know that his hand is brushing against you as you leave?
I didn’t think so.
On my own, I’ve only ever sold to friends or friends-of-friends. My client list consists of a few adults, sure, but they’re the adults I see on a weekly basis while checking out at Toney’s or grabbing my sandwich at the diner or filling my truck with gas. When I sell to strangers, they’re strangers who go to the same parties I do, and that makes them known to me, somehow. And terrible as they’ve been, tonight I realized that the boat deliveries haven’t been that dangerous, either. Scary, sure, but at least I’ve always known that Dodge is there, sitting in the passenger seat like a very ugly bodyguard.
Tonight was different. Tonight I sold to the kinds of strangers you cross the street to avoid. By myself, in the dark. Dodge was back in the boat, probably snorting what he’d taken out of one baggie before he told me to step onshore, too far away to hear me if I called out. And what would he have done if I did? Nothing.
I knew I was stuck before. I just didn’t know that what I’m stuck in is quicksand, and I’m sinking, and it’s only a matter of time before I go under.
I have to get out. I have to get out now.
Survival of the fittest? Bullshit. Let other people fight. I’ll choose flight. Always flight.
ERIK
I tried to avoid her, waking up early and getting dressed in the dark. Didn’t even turn on the bathroom light to brush my teeth. I’ve got my hand on the front doorknob when the kitchen light comes on and the Beast appears like a ghost at my side.
“Where are you going?”
Quick, Erik. Quick. But I can’t think of anything. “Breakfast.” It’s the truth, sort of.
“This early?”
I shrug. The doorknob is starting to sweat under my palm. “Meeting a friend.”
She looks down. “I thought we’d have breakfast together.”
There’s a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. This must have been how he left. Early morning, everything still fuzzy from sleep. Her questions, always more questions. Those pleading eyes. The door right there—right there.
“Mom,” I say, “I—” But I can’t say it. Can’t tell her who I’m meeting. Can’t think about how it must’ve been—that night, when she waited for him to come home. And all the days all the days all the days after. “A friend,” I say. “I’m meeting a friend.”
“A girl?” she asks.
I don’t say anything. But like a warm hand on my cheek, I can see Layla as we kissed good-bye the other night. How I looked at her, touched her hair with my fingers, allowed hope to bloom like a stain.
And then her smile, a little surprised, when I told her she was amazing.
Why did I say that?
“Be careful,” the Beast adds. “Those girls will try to trap you.”
Ah. Here we are. Back on familiar ground. I watch as she pats her hair, which is still wrapped around curlers. Her nighttime routine is the stuff of a sitcom. Minus the laugh track.
“They all want out. Who’s the one you’ve been hanging out with all year? Georgia?”
“Georgie?”
She makes a sound in her throat. “That one. She seems especially troubled.”
“Mom, she—”
“Watch her,” she continues. The Beast’s on a roll now. There’s no stopping her. “She’ll be wanting a piece of your scholarship.”
“It’s not a cake,” I say. “You can’t, like, cut it into slices.” Zero divided by two is still zero.
She glares at me. “Even so. She’ll try to come with you. I guarantee it.”
I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. Not even seven, and I’m already done for the day. “That’s a whole year away. And besides, no one’s coming with me. Especially not Georgie.” Ignore the jolt of pain—stupid to still feel it. “I promise.” Another glance at the clock. “Listen. I have to go.”
“Georgie?” Her eyes narrow.
“No,” I say. And then, because I can’t think of anyone else who won’t attract suspicion, I say, “Davis.”
She nods. “Good. He’s a good friend.” Starts to shuffle toward the coffeepot. “See you later. I’m home today—Westerfields canceled their cleaning. They’re not coming up after all.” She looks back at me. “Third cancelation this week.” She sighs. “I’m getting worried,” she says, and her voice is small.
I remember how upset Georgie got at the Fourth of July party when she realized that her customers were leaving. She looked . . . scared. I wanted to tell her that it’s better this way. Better that they leave.
“I’m not worried,” I say.
She looks at me, grateful.
“Really, I’m not.” Because, I want to add, nothing matters to the Weekenders. Nothing ever gets in the way of their easy lives.
Except Layla. Her life may be easy, but she doesn’t take it for granted. Last night, talking about her pottery and why she does it: I want to leave the world better than I found it
. How she laughed at her own earnestness. How I did too, but I watched her as she talked—glowing with the certainty that she can make a difference.
“Dinner tonight?” the Beast asks. “I was thinking pot roast.”
“Sure.”
Pot roast. As I walk downtown toward the marina, I think about how those two words sound like slow death.
There’s no one at the marina. I knew there wouldn’t be. Gold Fork always wakes up slowly, starting with breakfast at the Pancake Parlor and moving toward the water. In an hour, sure, people will start bringing their boats down for put-in. Fewer than normal—the highway out of town’s been packed in the past couple of weeks with Weekenders, fleeing. But right now, the docks at the marina are all mine. Which is just the way I want it.
I walk out to the end of the closest dock and sit, crossing my legs and leaning forward so that I can peer into the lake. The water is green-black. It’s like looking through a pair of night-vision goggles. Down at the bottom, I can see dark shadows moving lazily around. Gutterfish. Not worth a worm.
I’ve been coming to the marina in the mornings since a couple days after I got the call about losing the scholarship. The lake’s always been the place where I can think. When I’m staring down into its quiet darkness, all the noise from the day before just melts away. All the ways I’ve screwed up, all the ways I’ll continue to screw up, just don’t matter. The lake is ancient, formed by glaciers twenty thousand years ago. It’s kept thousands of secrets. Some of them are mine.
I shake the thought away. Behind me, I can hear a truck beginning to back toward the boat launch. Meaning my alone time is up. Time to get back on the battlefield.
As I head down the dock, I pass an old canoe that’s been tethered loosely to a cleat all summer. I’ve never seen anyone take it out. I kneel, glancing at the truck that’s halfway down the ramp, its boat in the water. The driver’s still in the cab, and I can see his silhouette as he talks on the phone. I take a closer look at the canoe. The paddle, old and splintered, rests in an inch of dirty water near the stern.
This town is full of forgotten things.
• • •
I’ve only got half an hour to spend at the library this morning, working on my résumé, before my breakfast. Thirty minutes to maybe figure out how to make “Fourth Place, State” look like anything but failure. There’s not enough time in the world for that.
Which is why I’m not exactly pleased to see Davis at the library entrance. He’s got a couple books in his arms and looks almost as mortified as I feel.
“Oh,” he says. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Why, because I’m illiterate?” I can’t go in now. No way. It’s bad enough that I spent all last winter driving a snowplow around Gold Fork’s loops and cul-de-sacs, keeping driveways accessible on the off-chance that a Weekender might come up once or twice during the ski season. But to have to admit to Davis that I’m afraid I might do that forever? Or—worse—that I’ll be standing just inside the sliding doors at Walmart, greeting every Dead Ender who comes in? Am I going to ask for Davis’s advice on the placement of my name and address at the top of the page, and whether I should list my athletic achievements before my job history? No thanks.
Skills:
Pushing snow.
Pulling docks.
Fucking up.
Davis shifts one of the books so that I can’t read the title. But it’s clear from the picture on the front of the paperback—a dragon, some sort of cauldron—that this is one of those D&D fanboy things. Not a surprise. “No. Just.” He shrugs. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” I say, and realize how fake that sounds. “Just getting a book for my mom. But,” I add, “I don’t think I’m going to get it right now. Fucking card catalog. Too much work.” I turn around, start back down the library steps.
I think I’ve left him behind when I hear him say, “They don’t use that—” and then stop himself. Then he says, “Wanna get coffee? Breakfast, or something?” His voice goes all guidance counselor, and I know what he’s doing. It’s what Georgie tried to do at that asshat Jeff’s party the other night. We need to check on poor Erik. Lend him a shoulder/ear/tissue/a pair.
No thanks.
“I’ve got plans,” I say.
“Oh,” he says. “Okay.” He kind of looks like a musician from the early sixties with his square glasses and his kind of pointy nose—one of those guys who were always singing about puppies and waterfalls and girls purer than water. Lies, lies, lies.
Still. What must it be like, to see the world that way?
I take pity. “Next time,” I say.
“Okay.” He’s still standing there, and I wait for what’s coming. “It’s crazy,” he says. “How all of this, like, everything, is connected to your d—” He stops, tries again. “I mean, Vera—that old woman who Ana visits—she’s Abby’s mother. And Abby’s your—”
“I know who she is,” I interrupt. “Small fucking world.” God. I can’t get out of here fast enough. I glance at my watch, like I’m late for something.
“And Henry—” Davis pauses, and I can feel his eyes on me, checking for a response. So he knows about Henry and Georgie, too. So, fine. I nod.
“You doing all right?” he asks. “I mean, have you talked to your dad?”
I give him a look.
“Cool,” he says, flustered. “Cool. Hey, though. I wouldn’t say anything—if you wanted to talk. I wouldn’t tell anyone.” He laughs self-consciously and adds, “My own secrets now? Too boring to share. They’re an introvert’s secrets. Subtle shifts in my emotional landscape. But I’m a good listener.”
I don’t say anything, but for a second, I consider it. Think about telling him everything. What would it be like, to unburden myself finally?
Then he says, “I’m basically a man of the cloth by proximity. None of the wisdom, but all of the platitudes.” As he says it, the books fall from his arms onto the ground. “None of the dignity,” he says, bending to pick them up.
No. I can’t tell him. It wouldn’t be fair. I squat to help, handing him books. I pick one up and start flipping through.
“That’s not—” he says.
“This is your novel, right?” I ask him. “That graphic thing?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” he says, reaching for the book, but I pull away and look at it.
It’s good. Lots of pictures of Jane, always wearing the same thing, always sitting and staring off into space. But good. He’s actually really talented. I turn the pages, reading. It was always you. . . . Like to live inside your head. . . . Let’s blow this town. . . . When we’re sixty-four. “Pretty serious monument to something that lasted only a couple of months,” I say. Then I look through the pages again. “Huh.”
“What?” He makes a sound in his throat like he’s swallowing gum.
“You only draw endings,” I tell him. “You know that, right? Each of these”—I tap a page—“is a happy ending.”
He looks surprised. “No,” he starts to say, but I interrupt him.
“You’re lucky. You can just rewrite your ending as many times as you want.”
He stares at me for a minute. “Sure,” he says, “but it’s never going to be real.”
“Happy endings never are. They’re just dry paper. Empty scribbles.” I shut the book and hand it back to him. “I don’t blame you,” I add. “It’d be nice to get a do-over. I don’t blame you for trying.”
• • •
I leave Davis on the library steps and walk to the Pancake Parlor. It’s on the road that eventually leads out of town toward the city, so it’s always crowded with people just arriving in or—lately—leaving Gold Fork, not to mention the families who basically make it a daily stop. At this hour, it’s filling up.
He’s not here yet.
I take a booth near the front, but not so close that I look eager. Roll my shoulders back. Scan the menu, printed on what’s supposed to be old newspaper. T
ry not to look toward the door.
Even so, I know the minute he walks in.
I read the menu even more furiously. Eggs: poached, scrambled, fried.
“Erik.” He’s standing next to the booth, and I glance up, casual.
“Hey.” Almost like I didn’t expect him.
He slides in across from me. “Glad you called.” Then, like he rehearsed it: “I was hoping you would.”
Nervous, jittery, as I listened to the phone ringing. Waiting for him to answer. Would he see the area code and let it ring? And what would be worse—if he answered, or if he didn’t?
“Yeah.” I watch him. Today he’s wearing another Dad shirt: a polo with the logo of some golf course on it. Two golf clubs, crossed, with what looks like a flower sprouting out of the middle. Who would wear that?
“Oh, Erik.” Like he was surprised to hear from me. A beat—too long?—and then he said, “Glad you called.”
“Well.” He looks down at the menu. “What’s good here?”
“I doubt anything’s changed,” I say.
“Right, right.” He doesn’t look up.
“Coffee?” A Latina waitress is standing over us, waggling a pot at us. I nod. So does he. She pours it into our mugs. “Room for cream?”
“Black,” I say, still watching him.
“I’ll take some cream,” he says.
She waggles the pot again in the general direction of a small bowl of creamer packets. “Fresh as the day is new,” she says.
“Gracias,” he says, and I watch her roll her eyes.
“You guys ready to order?”
“Two eggs, scrambled, hash browns, bacon, toast—white—and an extra side of bacon,” I say without pausing for breath.
“A pancake.” He glances up at the waitress. “And fruit.” Pats his belly. “Trying to keep my girlish figure.”
“Great,” she says, deadpan, and walks away.
He leans back and looks at me for probably the first time. “You’re looking good. I hear you’re something of a track star. Good for you.”
This? This is what we’re going to talk about? I take a slow sip of my coffee. God. What did I expect? How do you explain the past thirteen years? “Yeah,” I say.