The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  He sighs. “I know. I know.” Turns a smile on her. “That’s what I told them, too, when I said I wouldn’t do it. God knows we could use the commission—sales have dried up since the fires started—but I couldn’t do it. I told them this town doesn’t need the kind of pollution that comes from ‘members-only’ clubs.” He laughs. “They asked me what I meant by that. I said the stink of exclusion doesn’t wash off.” He claps his hands. “That was the end of that conversation.”

  “You’re the anonymous tipster,” I say. “You called the Roundup.”

  “Guilty.” He smiles.

  Mom pretends to swoon. “My hero! Look closely, Davis. Your dad might be the only socialist real estate agent in the whole country.”

  Dad thumps his chest with his fist. “Take from the rich and give to the poor.”

  “That’s Robin Hood, hon,” says my mom.

  “They made lots of noise about how this is good for the local economy,” says Dad. “But when you build an all-inclusive resort, people don’t tend to hit the town too often. It’s a sham.”

  “Wait. Did you say ‘daughters’?” I ask. “Are they both on board?” Maybe there’s a trail to Kathryn, the one Ana wants to find. I did some searching at the office a few days ago, but came up with nothing. How hard can it be to track someone down? Harder than I thought—but then, I was looking for Kathryn Whitaker, not Kathryn Boyd.

  “Not sure,” says Dad. “Did your editor know more about the family?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s just sad, is all. I hope it doesn’t go through.”

  “Oh, it will,” my dad says. “Probably already has. Some guy on the ground’s been showing West Corp around—another family member, I think.”

  My mom makes a strange sound in her throat, but then she clears it and looks away.

  “Funny who comes out of the woodwork when there’s twenty million dollars at stake,” my dad continues. “If it’s not me brokering the deal, it’ll be someone else. Gold Fork’s changing. People are saying it’s the next Vail. And as we know, money talks.”

  “But only if someone’s listening.” Mom starts heading toward the stairs. “And this town is pretty good at plugging its ears.”

  Dad waits until she’s all the way upstairs before saying to me, “Twenty million. Eventually, Moose, the noise gets in.”

  • • •

  After dinner, I go upstairs to my room. I wish I could go back to the office, but chances are good that Dan’s asleep in there, and I don’t think I want to explain why I’m looking through old archives. I turn on my computer and text Ana while I wait for it to boot up, even though she still hasn’t responded to my message about the Den. Vera’s daughters have a different last name, I write. It’s not Kathryn Whitaker. We’re looking for Kathryn Boyd. Then I start Googling.

  WHERE EVERYTHING’S AVAILABLE

  There’s another group of Weekenders whom we don’t talk about much. Our parents talk about them, though. They talk about this group in quiet, confidential whispers at Grainey’s, leaning over graphs and spreadsheets on the table in front of them. Sometimes our parents can’t help it: They shout.

  This group comes in the summer, sure, but you can sometimes see a couple of them in the spring, sometimes early fall, walking through the town with their phones and their iPads out, telling their lackeys where, exactly, to set up the surveying equipment. “That’s not right,” they shout into their phones. “Get me the right specs! Those numbers are jacked.”

  They care about numbers.

  Maximum capacity. Fire code. Number of units, and how many people they can conceivably fit into each one. “But if there’s a foldaway bed in each room,” they might say, “we can get away with less square footage. The question is how much use each bed provides.”

  Everything is quantifiable to the developers, even sleep.

  It’s a small group, owing to the fact that Gold Fork only has so much land left to carve. Most of it’s protected by the Forest Service. The land that’s still available is objectionable in some way: too far from downtown, too close to the state highway, too ugly, too barren. The developers often have futility etched across their faces as they yell into their phones. Because, forget about the lake. There hasn’t been land for sale on the lake in a decade, maybe more. And when cabins do occasionally hit the market, they’re tiny, their parcels hardly big enough to develop into anything resembling a profit.

  But the developers keep coming back. It’s as if they know that someday, someone is going to strike gold, and the waterfront property on the lake will open its arms and pull them in.

  ANA

  There are times you can forget you’re a Dead Ender. Like when you stay out all night and watch the sun come up over the lake, the sky gray and then pink, the air sharp and pure on your skin, in your lungs, and the lake feels as much yours as anyone’s. Then, Gold Fork feels as magical and full of promise as it must to the Weekenders. Then, you feel your heart leap in the way that theirs do whenever they drive into town and see the lake for the first time. Leap and flutter.

  But.

  Sometimes Gold Fork isn’t magical at all. Sometimes it’s just a town that offers nothing, where people hurt one another and make mistake after mistake until it seems there’s nothing but mistakes all around them. Until it seems like there’s nothing to do but casually ruin everything.

  • • •

  I’m at the Royal Pines when they move Vera back into her room, and I’m amazed by how many people have to coordinate in order to transfer one ninety-pound woman from a van to a wheelchair to a bed. The whole process must take a half hour, but finally she’s lying down, head propped up by pillows, one hand worrying the covers, the other resting on her chest. I’ve brought her a floppy stuffed dog, and the red of its fur looks garish and false next to her skin.

  “Hi, Vera,” I say in my brightest voice, pulling my chair next to hers. “I’ve been thinking about you. How do you feel? Good?” Everything I say sounds false. I overheard one of the aides telling another under her breath as they moved her in that the doctors haven’t ruled out more strokes. “Just a matter of time,” she said, and then changed the subject when she noticed I was listening.

  Vera looks over at me, confused. Then, like lightning, a smile. “Oh,” she says, “how is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Your caller,” Vera says.

  “Who?”

  “Your sweetheart.”

  “I don’t have—” I start to say, but she lays her hand on mine and struggles to sit up in her bed.

  “You think I don’t see, but I do,” she says. “That young man—he’s been here before with you.” She laughs quietly. “I had to refill the bowl of nuts!”

  Does she mean Davis? I do remember when he visited her with me once and ate almost all the nuts in that bowl. I didn’t have the heart to tell him how old they were.

  “Sweet boy,” she says. “He visited me in the hospital when you weren’t there.”

  “He did?” I say.

  “Sat quietly. A quiet boy.” She peers at me. Her voice grows a little louder, more commanding. “There’s no reason to withhold,” she says, and squeezes my hand. “When you cherish someone, shouldn’t they know it?”

  “I—” I start to say, but she interrupts.

  “Not many measure up. Lord knows my Lewis didn’t. Should have left him when I had the chance.”

  “Oh.” I’m about to say something like, You don’t mean that, because she’s never insinuated that Lewis was anything but wonderful, when she continues.

  “Should’ve left him for Abigail’s father.” The nod of her head is barely noticeable, like she’s welcoming an old memory. “Just one summer,” she says, “but what a summer it was.” Vera shifts around on her pillow. “And then Abigail came.” She looks at me. “Children can be mysterious,” she says. “Kathryn I know, but Abigail? She’s always been such a mystery to me. Always a mystery . . .” Vera exhales, a thin whisper of breath. She closes her eyes. Then no
thing. I’m suddenly listening hard, waiting for the next breath, my other hand fumbling for her call button, when she speaks again, her eyes still closed. “You don’t always have to reciprocate,” she says, “but don’t dismiss it. What a gift—to know you’re loved.” I wonder if she’s talking about Abby or Abby’s father.

  “Good. You’re here.” It’s Abby, standing in the doorway in another billowing caftan. I study her face to see if she heard what Vera just said, but it’s expressionless. She moves around the room, dusting her fingers along the top of Vera’s dresser, now picking up an old Valentine’s card I gave her, now touching the music box that we sometimes wind up so that Vera can listen and say, Oh, this song. Now I remember. “We have so much,” Abby says, “and look what it reduces to. A bunch of crap. Ugly sweaters.” She looks over her shoulder at me. “Start making a list now of what you want to take with you, because if you don’t, you’ll end up with nothing from the life you’ve lived.” She runs her fingers over the bib that hangs off of Vera’s doorknob. “Or maybe it doesn’t matter once you’re wearing one of these.” She raises her eyebrows.

  Beside me, Vera is snoring softly. I don’t answer for a minute. Then I say (calm, keep calm), “You’re selling her house.”

  Abby’s eyes widen. “News travels fast,” she says. When I don’t answer, she sighs. “Ana, I know you’re angry. But these are . . . complicated things.” She smiles at me and leans against the dresser. “Sometimes the right thing doesn’t look right from the outside. It’s time to cut the cord,” she goes on. “Leave this place behind us.” She pauses on “us,” and I remember that she doesn’t know that I saw her at the Den. Then she says, “And it’ll be easier to have her situated near me in Chicago.”

  “You’re moving her?” I say, my voice thick. “To Chicago?” I’ll never see Vera again. I feel like I can’t breathe.

  “I’m a professor there,” she says now, as though this explains something, “of art history.”

  I try to inhale, but it’s more like a hiccup. Chicago.

  “I’ve published books. About Man Ray,” she adds.

  Why is she telling me this? I don’t care about her job. I certainly don’t care about Man Ray, whatever that is—a type of sea creature? She’s starting to sound like a little kid, pointing to a row of toys and saying, Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  “I can’t believe you’re moving her,” I say, feeling hot tears that threaten to spill down my cheeks.

  Abby pats the air like she’s dribbling a basketball. “Calm down. It doesn’t make sense to keep her in Gold Fork,” she says. “Not with her health how it is.” And she’s back to that voice of hers, so regulated, so without feeling. “And these fires? Something’s wrong with this town. I don’t trust it.”

  “You don’t trust the town.”

  “She can get better care near us.”

  “Us.” I’m still trying to breathe. It feels like the room is filled with smoke. I’ll never see her again.

  “My family. You didn’t think I have one?” She laughs drily. “You and Mother are more alike than you’d imagine. Besides, I’ll be able to get in more often to take care of things.”

  “But not to visit.”

  She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “And to visit.”

  My phone buzzes and I check it. Davis. Call me ASAP. I set the phone facedown on my leg.

  “But you won’t,” I say, and am surprised by how quickly the tears spill. It’s dim enough in the room that I don’t think Abby can see, and I blink. “I’ve seen it here,” I add. “People always think they’ll visit. But a one-hour visit turns into thirty, then fifteen, then five minutes, and then it’s just easier to check in with the nurses. You don’t want to bother her if she’s sleeping, right? It’s just easier to drop off a blanket or some slippers and ease back out before she sees you.” My voice is high and I’m speaking fast. “After all, you’re taking care of her, aren’t you? Doesn’t she need slippers? I mean, of course she does. You’re doing what needs to be done.” I wipe at my cheek. “She doesn’t need slippers,” I say. “She needs . . .”

  “Stop it.” Abby’s cheeks are flushed, and her voice is a whisper-scream. “Just stop.”

  “Enough. Both of you.” We whip our heads toward the bed, where Vera is sitting up, barely, and glaring at us. “No more of this nonsense. You’ve always fought like cats and dogs.” She looks at Abby. “Go to your room.” Looks at me: “You stay here with me. Help me with dinner.” Vera scoots back down slowly and turns on her side, clutching the stuffed dog. She doesn’t say anything else, and within moments, we can hear her deep, regular breaths.

  When I look back up at Abby, her face is hard.

  “That,” she says, voice low. “That’s how it was.”

  “She’s confused,” I say. The phone buzzes again, vibrating against my leg, but I ignore it.

  But Abby shakes her head. Her laugh is hollow. “Tell me this. In all your sunny afternoons in the solarium, your little tête-à-têtes, did my mother ever tell you that I was ‘never a great beauty’?” Her voice changes, becomes a tinny approximation of Vera’s. “ ‘Abigail’s personality will have to work overtime.’ ” She clears her throat. “ ‘Not graced with a face.’ ”

  She blinks and looks at me, and I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks.

  “I thought so,” she says. “And how would you feel about a mother who spends your whole childhood telling you that only one thing matters in life, and—sorry to break it to you, kid—you ain’t got it?” She runs a hand through her hair. “Would you want her to live with you? Would you even want to be in the same town, the same state?” Abby comes closer to the bed, leans over Vera, and brushes something off of her cheek. The gesture is tender, almost. “She never loved me,” she says, her face just inches from Vera’s. “Gave Kathryn all sorts of nice presents: dresses and barrettes and ribbons. Girl stuff. Kathryn didn’t want any of it—threw it away first chance she got. The only thing I ever got from our mother was disappointment.” She straightens.

  Vera’s voice is still echoing in my mind: Should’ve left him for Abigail’s father. Did Abby hear her? “God,” I say, and my voice is louder than I mean it to be. “Don’t you think that’s how everyone feels about their parents, to one degree or another? It’s no reason to abandon her.” Grow up, I want to add, but don’t.

  Abby walks over to the little sink by the bathroom and washes her hands. I watch her stare at herself in the mirror. Then she turns. “I bet she’s told you all about her sweet Lewis. And he was sweet. Just ask his girlfriends.” She shakes her head. “In my opinion, that’s what marriage is: a constant looking-away.”

  Erik’s dad.

  “My mother went through twenty-five of their fifty years together with her eyes closed and a gin and tonic in hand.”

  I look at Vera, sleeping peacefully. None of this makes sense. It’s not the Vera I know. A rock turns in my stomach. On my leg, the phone vibrates again, and then again. Someone’s calling me.

  Abby keeps talking, but her voice gets rough, and she swallows often, as though she’s choking on the words. “And, you know, that’s the thing about being drunk all the time. You miss things.”

  Piano recitals. Soccer games. PTA meetings. All the things my mom has missed because of work.

  Abby’s looking down, but she turns her head quickly toward me, like she knows what I’m thinking. Her face is distorted by pain. “No. I mean, you miss things like one of your daughters taking the boat out during a thunderstorm even though—God—she’s only fourteen, she shouldn’t be driving the boat at all. Not hearing your other daughter yelling for you until it’s too late, the boat’s halfway to the north end of the lake, out of sight. Not calling the sheriff—not doing a thing about it—until you’ve had a chance to sober up, because God forbid anyone find out that you’re a drunk, but by then it’s too late and the storm is so bad no one’s on the water anyway.” She stops and rubs her hand over her face. When she looks at me again, her eyes are hard.
“They never found the boat. The lake just”—she waves her hand—“swallowed her up.” Abby moves to the window. “They might not have signed a death certificate, but I watched that boat fly through the storm. I know my sister is dead.”

  I push back the image of a boat, crashing. A boat, flipping. A girl, falling.

  “Even then—even then—they didn’t get a divorce. But we moved. Rented the house out for the first ten years to the Michaelsons. Nice family. Eventually, my dad just left it empty. He’d come back during some summers to make improvements, add things—the tennis court, new windows. Sometimes he’d make me come with him. I don’t know why he was so obsessed with preserving the worst memory of our lives.” She takes a breath and stands, moves toward the window. “It’s like he was the curator of a museum of ugly feelings.” She glances over at her mother. “When he died, she got sober. Took back her maiden name. Said she was done with her family. So. I let her. Be done.”

  Next to me Vera snores and shifts, her hand letting go of the stuffed dog to rest along the side of her face. It doesn’t make sense. This doesn’t fit. That person Abby’s talking about? That’s not my Vera. I turn from the image of the boat, the falling girl, and focus on my Vera. My Vera has no one—not anymore. And my love for her rises like a wave and crests over me.

  “So why are you here? And don’t just say ‘business.’ That’s bull. Are you just going to keep punishing her for something she can’t change?” I want to stand up and drag her by that fancy bedsheet she’s wearing out into the hall and kick her out of the Royal Pines, kick her out forever. If Davis were here, he’d help. We’d bolt the entrance so that none of them could ever come back in. “That’s not the Vera I know. She won’t understand why you hate her.” My voice catches, but I keep going. “Most of the time, she won’t even know who you are.” I don’t try to wipe the tears away from my cheeks where they’re falling faster than the words I want to hurl at Abby. “You’ve come too late for vindication.”

  Abby takes a step toward me and I flinch, but then she rears back and sinks into a chair. Buries her face in her hands. I watch as her shoulders start to shake with each sob. She cries and I wait, listening to the soft whir of Vera’s humidifier. When Abby looks up again, her face is red, eyes puffy.