The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  “Big scholarship.”

  “Not so big.” I stare into my coffee cup. “Not anything, really.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” A pained smile. “It’s great.” He pauses. “Your mom doing okay?”

  I set down the coffee cup carefully. Poached, scrambled, fried. “She’s fine.”

  A long pause. Then he says, “Hey. I’m trying. You’re the one who called. You’re gonna have to give me something, here.”

  “I’m the one who called,” I say. “That’s right. I’m the one who called.” I place my hands on my lap under the table, gripping my thighs. I glance down. My knuckles are white.

  “If this is going to be some sort of witch hunt—” he starts, but stops as our server sets our plates down in front of us.

  “Good to go?” she asks, and we both nod.

  We dig into our food, shoveling it in as fast as we can. For a few minutes, it’s quiet except for the sound of our forks against our plates. Then he tries again.

  “Let’s start over, here,” he says. “I really—I think there might be some misunderstanding. About what happened.” And just like that, I can see the shimmer of tears at the corner of each eye. You can’t fake that. . . . Can you?

  “Maybe you can tell me.” I watch him—his mouth, nose, even his hair just like mine. If you didn’t know better, you might think he was my cool uncle, or even a brother—he the firstborn, me the mistake.

  He pushes his plate to the side and puts his elbows on the table. “What you have to understand is, things weren’t good,” he says. “I mean with your mother. She was—I felt—she was suffocating. Like a rock.”

  The weight of her worry, heavy on my shoulders, pressing down. The way, every night, the kitchen gets smaller and darker until it’s just the two of us, sitting at that table, exchanging plates. Actors on a stage at the end of a play. I nod. “I know,” I say, just like a traitor.

  “And you were, I mean, God, you were just a baby, a little kid, but damn, don’t let anyone tell you kids fix things, because between the diapers and the crying, it’s not going to fix a thing.” He says this real fast, and then he smiles, like we’re in on a joke. “Glad to see you’re out of diapers,” he adds. He must see something in my face, because he says, “It wasn’t you. I know that’s what the books say you have to say—it wasn’t you—but it really wasn’t. It was”—he waves his hand around—“this place. Everything.”

  “Worst Case Scenario,” I say.

  “What?”

  “It’s a game we play. Like, what’s worse than Gold Fork? Nothing.”

  “Ah,” he says. “Oh. Right. Good one.” He shifts in his seat. “I’d have played that.”

  You did play. You played and you won.

  “What about you?” I ask. “I mean, so you’re married. So . . .” I’m hoping he’ll pick up my thread, give me something. Anything. I’ll take anything.

  “I am.” He nods. “That I am.”

  I take a sip of coffee. It’s cold. I look around for the server.

  “I just wanted to clear things up,” he says. “Just, you know, to be clear about what happened.” He shifts in his seat like he’s going to stand. Like he’s going to leave.

  “It’s too bad you never saw me run,” I say suddenly, and it’s like I’m watching myself in a movie, like the words have flown out of my mouth and I’m cringing as I watch, maybe even yelling at the screen, but I can’t stop myself from going on. “I’m really fast.” I sound like a baby, like a little kid. I’m really fast. Stupid stupid stupid.

  He smiles. “I bet you are. I was, too, you know.”

  “In high school? College?” I allow myself a breath of relief. Maybe I don’t sound as dumb as I think.

  “High school. Could’ve gone to college—wish there’d been opportunities like your scholarship back then, but”—he raises a hand like he’s lofting a ball in the air—“life. What are you gonna do.”

  “Yeah.” I can’t help it—I smile. “Life.”

  The server glides over.

  “Could I get a re—” I start to say, but then he interrupts.

  “Do I pay you, or up at the counter?” A side smile to me like, I can’t remember!

  “Counter,” she says, and turns away.

  “Ready?” He’s already standing.

  I look down at my plate. There are still a couple pieces of bacon, some toast. “Sure.”

  We weave through the restaurant. By now the Pancake Parlor is full. Families and large groups huddle around the hostess stand, craning their necks to see where they are on the waiting list. He’s making small talk now, relieved to be done with the heavy lifting.

  “Some pyro you guys have here,” he’s saying over his shoulder. “What’s next—Toney’s? Burn it down, I say.” He laughs.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Burn it down.”

  “I bet it’s a group of kids. Kind of thing my friends and I would have done.” We’re at the cash register, and he’s fishing dollar bills out of a leather wallet. “I’ve got this,” he says to me. “They’re gonna catch ’em soon, though. You hear about the shoe print? Piece of paper? Regular crime scene here.”

  “Yeah.” The sounds around us dull to a roar.

  “Wonder if the piece of paper had a name. But then, they’d probably be knocking on doors if they had a name.” He laughs, dropping a dollar in the tip jar. I see the server watching him, see her eyes narrow in disgust. “Knowing the police, they probably can’t even read whatever the word is.”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns to go, and I reach into my back pocket, pull out some ones, stuff them in the tip jar while he’s not watching. Then I follow him. I’m opening the door when I feel a hand on my arm.

  It’s Henderson. The guidance counselor. The last person in the world I want to see.

  “Erik,” she says, “how are you?” Her voice is dripping with sympathy. It’s sickening to hear. She glances over at him and does a double-take, then focuses back on me. Probably making a mental note to add daddy issues? to my file.

  I look over at him and roll my eyes just slightly, hoping that she doesn’t notice. But then, who cares if she does? I don’t owe her anything.

  “Fine, Ms. Henderson,” I say. “Keeping busy.” I try to angle my body and take a step toward him so that he has to take a step back. If I keep it up, I might be able to basically push him out the door. “Well, nice seeing you,” I say.

  “Erik,” she says, squeezing my arm. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. Bureaucratic oversight. I should never have let you apply. Have you thought about what I said? Have you considered other options—”

  “I’m really running late,” I break in. “I’ll call you. But hey—thanks for asking. See you around,” I say before the door shuts behind us.

  Out on the street, he turns to me. “What was that about?”

  “Typical guidance counselor,” I say. “Everything’s a crisis to her.” I wave my hand around. “Troubled youth everywhere.”

  “Yeah,” he says. Then: “Want a ride?”

  I can tell by the way he’s shifting from side to side that he wants me to say no. For a second, I think about saying yes, making him drive me home, see where he left us. But then I remember the Beast, home all day with canceled appointments, and my stomach turns. “Got some things to do,” I tell him.

  “Okay,” he says. “So, let’s do this again, right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “I’ll call you,” he says. “Okay? I’ll call you.”

  He doesn’t try to hug me. I stand there and watch him get into his car, pull out of the parking lot, and drive away.

  BMW. Naturally. That Abby’s got him set up good.

  I start walking.

  When I get home, I know I’ll go straight to my room. I’ll open the smaller box in my dresser and pick up its contents, nestled in the palm of my hand. And my heart will start to slow, and my body will feel steady and strong again.

  Then I’ll pull out my box of tro
phies from under my bed and hold each of them in my hands, one by one. Layla’s headband. A beaded necklace. Small clay cup, its edges rounded and imperfect, a thumbprint just visible near the bottom. Little things I’ve taken when she’s not looking that remind me that I can have this, too—I can have a good moment, a special girl. I can have a Weekender. It really can be that easy.

  As far as I know, she doesn’t miss her things.

  Everything’s replaceable in her world.

  But not in mine.

  There are traps everywhere. In my house, at some Weekender’s party, at the goddamn Pancake Parlor. What was it my dad said? There might be some misunderstanding about what happened. But there’s no misunderstanding. He was trapped. He flew. Easy as that.

  I don’t blame him for flying. You can’t blame someone for doing what you’d do too.

  The problem is, he forgot to take me with him.

  DAVIS

  I like words. This is no surprise. But there are a few I detest. Words that sound humiliating in your mouth: “moist,” “snack,” “raw.” Words that tell you the thing you don’t want to know: You’re just not quite it. And then there’s “almost.” Almost is a useless word. A gray-area word. A word of rejected possibility. If there’s any action behind it, it’s the mental gymnastics of talking yourself out of your own life.

  Almost is nothing.

  Weekenders don’t dabble in almost. In the words of Georgie, “They just fucking do.” It’s the thing I envy the most about them.

  After I brought Ana back home from the hospital two weeks ago, I ended up going on a hike in the late-afternoon light. The lake road goes all the way around, pavement turning to gravel turning to potholes and then back to gravel and pavement again. In the winter, you can’t get much farther than Fellman’s before you’re stopped by a wall of unplowed snow and ice. But in the summer, when the campground at the north shore is open, the road gets a fair amount of traffic. RVs, mostly, but also camp wheels and the odd Taurus.

  Specifically, my dad’s Taurus.

  I’m not giving up. I’m just giving in.

  I drove the lake road to a hike that my parents and I have gone on since I was a kid, and I thought about Ana and her mother. As I climbed through the trees, holding on to branches for support, I thought about arriving in Gold Fork and knowing no one. Having to make it all up as you go. When I got to the top of the trail and stood at the overlook, peering down the length of the lake toward town, I wondered what it would be like to be each other’s only people. And I knew it would be easy for me to romanticize that—crossing state lines together, a mother-and-daughter adventure team, probably a cool indie soundtrack, a Thelma and Louise sort of vibe without, you know, the dive into the canyon—but I knew that wasn’t what it was like. I’d seen Ana’s face as she talked about the places they’d lived before arriving here finally. Loneliness.

  Now, as I cross Main and head back toward the newspaper office, I remember that hike and how I thought about going back to Ana’s house just to check on her. Bring her some Chinese food or something. See if there’s anything she needed, anything I could do. Just swing by—no big deal.

  How I almost did it.

  I listen to my footsteps on the sidewalk. Al-most. Al-most. Al-most.

  Dan’s been giving me more work to do lately. Right now, for instance. I’m on my way back from the police station. Another fire, this one out on North Beach. Could’ve been a campfire that got out of control, could’ve been the GFP—that’s what we’re calling him or her now: The Gold Fork Pyro. It’s not the most inventive name in the world, but it’s catchy enough for headlines. GFP Fires Again. (That one was mine. Thank you, thank you.) Police weren’t sure it was the same person. Then again, when I drove out to the site with the station captain earlier today, he pointed to the blackened clearing near the campground outhouses and said, “Tell me who builds a campfire next to the shitter.” Not exactly quote worthy.

  When I get to work, Dan’s pacing the length of the “newsroom,” one hand flapping around as he gesticulates and talks to what I have to assume is an imagined source in his head.

  “Land-use restrictions?” he says. “What about permits? Who’s issuing them?”

  “Hey,” I say, stepping into the room, but he just kind of waves in my direction and keeps going.

  “Fire code. Parking.” Then he turns to me. “Will they have to widen the lake road?”

  “I—”

  “Of course. And what about the Boy Scouts? Impact there. Interview camp director.”

  There’s a pause, and I realize he’s waiting for me to say—or do—something.

  “Did you want me to—”

  “Write it down. Interview camp director.” He’s pacing again.

  I drop my backpack next to my desk and pull out my notepad. Take the note. Look up at him again. “Anything else?”

  Dan flops onto one of the two sitting chairs that he has by the door. “No,” he says, deflated. “That’s all for now.”

  “What’s going on?” I look back at the note I just took. “Are the Boy Scouts expanding or something?” That’s all I can piece together from what he just said.

  “Hardly.” Dan sits up. “Confidential information, Davis. Anonymous tip. Keep this under wraps.” He pauses for so long that I think he’s told me what he’s going to, and I’m going to have to decipher it like some ancient rune. But then he says, “Michaelson estate’s been sold. Condos. No. More than that.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and squints. “They’re going to tear it down and build a club: condos, restaurant, activity house, the works. And a gate,” he adds. “You better believe there’ll be a gate around it all. Like the Citadel, only stronger.”

  “What, a club, like, where the house is now?” The Den. Our Den. Gone.

  Dan nods his head. “As I understand it, they’re going to raze the whole sixty acres and build up from there.”

  My hand is already in my pocket, wrapped around my phone. I just have to wait until Dan is gone, and then I’m texting the others. No way I’m not telling them about this. No way. “Who are the sellers?”

  He looks at me. “Boyd. Original owners all along. Which reminds me—tax break implications.” Dan keeps staring at me until I write that down too.

  I talk to the notepad. “Do we know anything about these”—pause so it looks like I’m checking my notes—“Boyds?”

  Ana said Vera’s last name was Whitaker, didn’t she?

  “Only that it’s the kids’ doing. Owner is apparently here—has been all along—but is no longer able to make cogent decisions. That’s their line, anyway.” He scratches at his chin. “Might be worth tracking her down, just to see.”

  This is the last thing Vera needs. The last thing Ana needs.

  Dan starts toward his office and turns. “Weird, isn’t it?” he says. “Why they haven’t used the house all this time. Place like that, you’d think.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You would.”

  “People don’t know what they’ve got,” he says. “Or maybe, in this case, they do.”

  • • •

  When I get home, my parents are in the living room.

  “Hey, Moose,” says my mom. She’s sitting on the couch next to my dad, a cup of coffee on the table in front of her.

  I check my phone one last time before joining them. I texted the news to the others as soon as Dan left for the day, but only Erik got back to me, surprisingly. Classic Erik response, too. Short and direct. WTF. Nothing about his dad. Nothing about Abby. Just WTF. (Whenever I think I’m starting to get Erik, he goes and WTFs it. Like the other day at the library. He looked like I’d caught him shoplifting Viagra from the pharmacy behind Toney’s. Like he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.)

  “What’s the latest?” asks my mom. “Has the arsonist left a clue this time? A name, written in ash?” She laughs, but it sounds a little forced. The fires have affected everyone—my mom included. No one’s coming to church. And those who do come want to
talk about the chapel fire—a hard memory for her.

  “The fires are the least of it,” I say.

  “Sounds serious,” says my dad. He doesn’t look at me, which is how I know he knows something. “Let me guess. It has something to do with ungrateful children.” He stands and walks over to the mantel.

  It should come as no surprise that the only person in my family who can play poker is my mom.

  “Where’s this optimistic outlook coming from?” my mom asks him. “I never knew you to be a misanthrope.”

  “Sometimes,” Dad says, “making money isn’t as fun as you think it’ll be.” He nods at me. “Davis knows what I’m talking about.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I do.” I plop myself into an easy chair.

  Mom stands and walks over to my dad, rubbing his back. “Trouble in paradise?” she asks.

  “Something like that,” he says. “Got an interesting call today. I’ve been asked to broker a deal for West Corp.”

  Mom grimaces. Everyone knows about the A. J. West Corporation. It’s a group of developers who are constantly trying to build golf clubs on National Forest land and skyscrapers along the lakeshore—things like that. Keeping it classy. So far, all of their plans have fallen through, much to the delight of Gold Fork’s residents. “What are they planning now?” Mom asks. “Who’s selling Grandma down the river?”

  Dad nods. “Actually, someone’s doing exactly that. Right, Davis?”

  I nod.

  Dad continues. “West Corp’s got an agreement to purchase the old Michaelson place and turn it into a ‘members-only resort.’ ” He makes air quotes with his fingers. “Security guards, gate, dues like you wouldn’t believe. West Corp even mentioned ‘application interviews.’ And we all know that’s just code for polite racism. The owner’s children—daughter, daughters, I’m not sure which—are all in. Can’t get it done fast enough.” He drums his fingers on the mantelpiece. “Anyway, huge deal. I guess they’ve been working on it all summer. Just needed me to do the final paperwork. It’s a great commission for an hour or two of work.”

  Mom looks at him. Deadpans, “What price integrity?”