The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  I hold the stuffed rabbit from the box in one hand and look at the phone. Not him not him not him. I take a breath and answer. “Hey, Davis.”

  “Erik, hey.”

  Another breath. I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder and begin to pull at one of the stuffed rabbit’s ears. Layla told me it was her lovey when she was a kid and that she brings it with her everywhere she goes, even now. Funny that she hasn’t seemed to notice it’s gone. There’s a thread loose where the ear connects to the rest of the bunny’s head, and I scratch at it with my thumb.

  “Didn’t you get my texts?”

  “Yeah.” A few more threads have come loose now, and I’m pulling harder at the ear. I twist it first one way, then another.

  “Another fire, if you can believe it. Near the airport. This is getting crazy.”

  “Any leads?” I ask.

  “If there are, the police aren’t telling the newspaper, that’s for sure. Hey—” He sounds uncertain, a little flustered. “Georgie wants to get together. And so everyone is coming over to my place.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “Oh. So, will you come? Listen,” he adds, “my parents aren’t home.”

  He tells me how to get to his house, and I pretend to be writing down the address, but the truth is, I know where Davis lives. I’ve known since we were in seventh grade and some of the guys and I threw dog shit at his door on Halloween and his mom came out and shouted and I swore she recognized me but maybe, just maybe, she didn’t.

  Obviously, I’ve never told him this.

  “An hour okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  I hang up the phone and look at the stuffed rabbit. One final twist, and the ear comes off in my hand.

  There’s a knock. I toss the rabbit in the box and kick it under my bed just as the Beast opens the door.

  “You hungry?” She’s in her house uniform: muumuu, slippers, sweater.

  “Not really,” I say. Look again at the slippers. “No work today?”

  She looks at her hands. “Another cancelation.” She walks into the room a ways and looks at the posters on my wall. “This is nice,” she says, pointing to a poster-size panoramic of the lake. “Did you take this?”

  I nod.

  “What is that?” She moves closer, puts her finger on the poster. “North Beach Campground?”

  “I guess.” You can see almost everything: Washer’s Landing, the campground, forest service land. The only thing you can’t see is the town. I bought it back when things were easy and good.

  “Well.” She kind of dusts her hands on her dress and looks around again. I don’t want her to look too closely. But she appears small, a little broken.

  “It’ll be okay,” I say, and she looks at me, her eyes kind of squinting. “Work,” I say, “and stuff. I think it’ll be okay. These things pass over, you know?”

  “I want to believe you,” she says. She comes closer to me and stops. “No, you’re right.” She’s kind of looking at my shoulder, not exactly in my eyes, when she says, “They’re going to leave, Erik.”

  “I know.”

  “It’ll be fall soon.” The Beast turns and starts to walk out of the room. “Back to normal.”

  “Yeah,” I say, staring at her head as she walks away. “Back to normal.”

  • • •

  I don’t want to be the first one there. Don’t want to look too eager. But the fact is, when I park my bike along the side of Davis’s house and knock on the front door (looking for any remnants of shit, though of course there wouldn’t be now, it’s been years, Jesus), I’m practically smiling. I’ve missed them.

  It’s been more than a month since we sat at the Den, just hanging out, thinking that this summer might actually be something. Something good.

  Feels like years.

  “Yo,” I say, and glance inside as he opens the door wider.

  “Glad you could—well. Whatever.” Davis is trying to be casual, but I can tell that he doesn’t know how to act around me. Poor Erik.

  “Nice digs,” I say as I walk in and look around. It’s nice, but not too nice. Not nice like a place you live in only a couple months a year. Nice like a home should be, you know? Big comfy couch in the living room. Family pictures on the mantel. I catch a glimpse of Davis’s twelve-year-old self, propped between his parents on a Ferris wheel, before he steps over to the fireplace and turns the picture facedown.

  This house is a promise someone made and kept.

  “The others are in the kitchen,” he says.

  It’s at the back of the house, facing the lake. This kitchen’s old, not updated with all the stainless-steel whatevers and useless gadgets that the Beast is always telling me about from the houses she cleans, but it’s cozy like the rest of the house. There’s a big table off to one side, and windows that look out over the trees that grow on the slope down to the water. Georgie’s the first one I see, like always. She’s perched on a counter, legs dangling, her heels knocking against a cabinet door. Ana’s sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. I just catch the end of what Georgie’s saying to her when we walk in.

  “—met when she was helping her father close the house up after the last renters—” She sees me and stops. “Oh. Erik.”

  “Don’t let me stop you,” I say. “One guess: the love story of Kyle and Abby, as narrated by Henry.” I laugh, too loudly.

  “It’s not his fault,” she says, and stands up, giving me a hug. When she pulls away, I keep one arm around her shoulder.

  “I’ll take a coffee,” I say to Davis. “Black.”

  Ana’s just sipping her drink quietly. I notice Davis tap her once on the shoulder as he walks over with my mug, and she looks up at him, gives him a sad sort of grimace. He nods, smiles down at her.

  “What’s going on?” I take another sip and gesture toward Ana as I lean back against a counter. “You look terrible.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  Georgie shoots me a look. “Now’s not the time, Erik.”

  “He’ll hear about it eventually, anyway,” says Ana.

  “About what?” Have they all been meeting without me? I glare down at my cup. “Don’t leave a guy in the dark,” I say, and it comes out sounding more pathetic than I intend.

  Ana shrugs. Looks at Davis. Says: “Long story short. Vera?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s sick.”

  “I’m sorry.” And I am. Visiting a mausoleum every week’s not my cup of tea, sure, but anyone can see that Ana loves that old lady more than most kids love their own grandparents.

  “And,” she adds, “Abby—you know, Ky—your dad’s wife—is taking her back with them to Chicago or wherever, once the development deal is finalized.”

  “Jesus.” I keep my voice light. “Lame.”

  Chicago.

  “That’s an understatement,” says Georgie.

  And she’s right. Because what I really want to do is what I’ve wanted to do ever since I got Davis’s text about the house being sold. I want to break shit. Hurl my coffee cup against the wall. Tear all the cabinets off their hinges and throw them in the lake. Chicago. The thing my dad conveniently forgot to mention when we had breakfast: where he lives. Fucking Chicago. I’m practically knocked over by the anger that’s closing in. A familiar rage rises in my throat like fire, and I can’t breathe. They’ll always win, I want to yell—to the town, the lake, the rocks that have been here for thousands of years. They’re always winning. They take and take and give nothing back. It’s the same fucking thing, every time.

  Chicago.

  I’m clenching my fists. “I hope they burn,” I say under my breath.

  Davis looks at me.

  I release my fists. Shrug, though it looks more like a tic. “Lame.”

  Davis blinks and shakes his head. “Wait until you read the letters in ‘The Forked Tongue.’ ” They’re pouring in. The best ones are from the Old Forkers. Back in my day,” he says in a quivering voice, “we were
lucky to have a tent. None of this gated clubhouse business.”

  Georgie laughs.

  “Erik, has your dad—has he said anything about this?” Ana’s voice is quiet, but she stares at me over her coffee, intense. “I mean, what’s his story?”

  I can’t. I can’t tell them that he hasn’t said anything, because he hasn’t called. I don’t know what his story is, because he doesn’t want to talk to me. I can’t tell them that I didn’t even know that he lives in Chicago—a place so far away, so fucking impossible, that I don’t even really believe it exists. So I shrug—again. “What’s he gonna do? He married a shitstorm. It’s, like, his and not his, you know?”

  Georgie raises her eyebrows. “Twenty million is going to be his.”

  And no one says anything, but in the silence, I hear it: And maybe—someday—yours.

  My phone buzzes in my back pocket and I take it out, look at it. “Hold on,” I say, and walk back into Davis’s living room, staring at the number.

  Big breath.

  “Erik.” My name is an apology.

  “Oh,” I say, “hi.” I smile immediately and clap my hand over my mouth. Stupid. Like anyone can see.

  “Sorry I didn’t call earlier. I got caught up in some business.” There’s a car alarm going off in the background, and I hear him mumble, “Shit.” Then the beep of the alarm being turned off. “Sorry,” he says again, but I think he might be talking to the car.

  “Sure.”

  “You up for coffee or something? Abby and I are heading to the city for a few days, but I thought we could get together after we get back.”

  “When?” I turn the picture on the mantel over again and stand it up. Davis’s mom has her arm around him. His dad is holding on to the safety bar across their laps, and he’s making this joking, Here we gooooooo! dad face.

  “A week from Thursday or Friday? What works for you?”

  Bothbothbothbothbothbothboth. I pause, like I’m checking my appointments. “Friday morning would work. Ten.”

  “Good,” he says. “That place downtown, what’s it called?”

  “Grainey’s.”

  “Yeah. Funny, the things you forget.”

  And then he’s gone.

  When I walk back into the kitchen, the others are still talking about the club.

  “They’ll start demolition next month.” Davis is chewing on a fingernail. He nods at me.

  “Probably call it ‘renovation,’ ” says Georgie. “Not that they’ll save anything from the original cabin. They never do.”

  “They don’t appreciate what they’ve got,” says Ana. “None of it.”

  Davis leans over and gives Ana an awkward side hug from where he’s standing. God, he’s as smooth as an elementary school principal. I shake my head and am about to give him shit for it when I see that Ana’s got tears in her eyes.

  “Assholes,” she says, and it sounds a little foreign coming from her mouth.

  “Assholes,” we agree.

  There’s a minute when we just drink our coffee and kind of stare at one another. Georgie’s chewing on her bottom lip. Davis pushes his glasses up his nose. Ana rubs at her eyes.

  I can’t handle the silence. Can’t keep thinking about the Den. A week. I’m going to see him in a week. And—Chicago. For a second, so quick I don’t have time to think about it, I see myself surrounded by skyscrapers. Walking somewhere with purpose. Passing beautiful women. Sun shining, wind in my hair. Nowhere to go but up. Then I snap back. “Don’t tell me we’re just here to talk about some business deal. I mean, what’s done is done, right?” I laugh, like, whatever!, like I’m a goddamn cheerleader. “What about the party? That’s the real question.”

  Ana looks confused, but Georgie gets it. “They’ll have to relocate. I mean, there’s the chance your dad and Abby wouldn’t even notice, but still. Too risky.”

  “What?” says Ana. “What’re you talking about?”

  I forget. Of course she hasn’t gone. It’s not her thing. “End-of-summer party,” I explain. “It’s always been on the Den’s property—but obviously not this year.”

  “Last year it was in the woods by the dock we parked at when we first saw . . .” Davis’s voice trails off.

  I pretend not to hear him. “I’ll ask around,” I say. “Location’ll have been picked by now. I’m pretty sure I can find out.”

  We stand around for a few minutes, drinking coffee, talking about who might be there—who’s still here, who’s already left. If I close my eyes, I can pretend we’re at the Den, and everything’s still okay.

  Georgie’s hand is on my arm. “Erik,” she says, voice low, “can I talk to you for a second?” Davis and Ana are leaning toward each other, laughing about something. It’s a relief to see Ana smiling. Georgie jerks her thumb toward the small deck, and I follow her out the kitchen’s back door.

  The lake is sparkling. Water-skiers cut through it, the spray like diamonds behind them. I prop my elbows on the deck’s thin railing and take it in.

  “I’ve been using my mug,” she says, and adds, “I put the dirt in a Tupperware. Don’t worry.”

  “Glad you like it,” I say.

  The sun is warm on my arms. God. This is what life is like for Davis every damn day.

  “You’re a hard man to get ahold of,” Georgie says, moving closer to me at the railing. “You never answer my texts anymore.”

  “I’ve been busy,” I say, and stare at the water.

  “I know, but—I want to talk about the scholarship. You said, at the party—”

  “I was drunk.”

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “Forget it,” I say.

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? About the scholarship?” She’s trying to look in my eyes, but I’m afraid of what she’ll see. Georgie is the only one who would see my eyes and know.

  I look away, off to the side. There’s a noise in my head, coming from far away, hard to grasp. “So what? It wasn’t that great, anyway. I can do better.” She doesn’t have to see my face to know that’s a lie. The noise is getting louder. Too loud.

  “But what happened?”

  “Red tape. That’s what happened.” I turn to her, grab her by the shoulders. The noise in my head is a jangling cacophony, and I don’t know what I’m going to do. I stare at my hands like they’re two sticks.

  “Erik.” She reaches up, puts her hands over mine. “Tell me.”

  The noise subsides, moves away. I stare at the lake, a shimmering mirage. Not for you, the winking water seems to say. Never for you.

  “I can’t,” I say. “I just can’t.” Then I turn and look through the window at Davis, who’s watching us. And I realize that there’s just a screen—no glass. He’s heard everything. I take my hands off Georgie’s shoulders and stuff them in my pockets. “Look like one of us isn’t going anywhere,” I tell them both.

  AUGUST

  WHERE THERE’S NOTHING TO LOSE

  There’s nothing like the sound of the lake at night in late summer. The wind in the trees is a white noise machine: whsh-whsh-whsh. It whispers, School’s coming. Or, endings, endings. We can hear the docks knocking against the water, warning and invitation both. It turns cold now as soon as the sun is gone, and the lake is choppy and forbidding. We still swim at night, but we don’t linger; we feel the depth of it, the boundlessness, and we pull ourselves up on the docks, scraping our bellies in our rush to get out.

  But. For some reason, there’s even more of a sense of possibility during these nights—a fall-is-coming-what-do-we-have-to-lose sort of feeling. Things no one dared try in June suddenly seem worth it. Why not? In a week, maybe two, we lose the cape. The magic slipper no longer fits. We are shorn—sometimes literally, with new haircuts that make us look younger, make us question whether the summer even was. And we don’t want to forget. We want to have something to not want to forget. This is what Dead Enders and Weekenders have in common, finally: In the face of the inevitable return to our autumn selves, we’re wil
ling to go for it. We’re willing, after a summer of mild to moderate successes, to risk epic, fantastic failure.

  Most summer stories are made in August.

  DAVIS

  “Washer’s Landing. Erik found out from Layla. It’s next weekend. They’re calling it Dance on the Ashes.”

  “Do these parties normally have names?” Ana asks. Her laughter comes through the phone as I turn on my computer and sit down at my desk. The office is quiet and dark; Dan must be out.

  “I don’t know—maybe? Erik didn’t seem surprised by it when he told me. And they do like to name things,” I say. “Classic imperialist strategy: You name it, you own it.”

  “Davis, you’re hilarious.” Her voice is lighter than usual. Brighter. I lean back in my chair and click on the newest file. It opens, and the piece I’ve started writing stares back at me. All three paragraphs of it. “Are you going?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Who could miss it?”

  “I could. I did. Every summer.”

  “Regretting your sane and sober approach to Weekender bullshit?” I say.

  “I’m getting my fill of it now.” Gone is the brightness.

  “Any news there?” I imagine Ana—sitting at home, probably. But it’s hard to think of her in some dim room. When I’ve thought of Ana lately, she’s usually been in a sun-dappled meadow. Because I’m creative that way. Sun-dappled? Is she in a deodorant commercial? No wonder I’m not a famous writer yet.

  She sighs. “Not really. I haven’t seen Abby. I think they’re planning on leaving in a couple of weeks, though. The nurses said something about starting to pack Vera’s things.” Her voice catches, and I hear her swallow. “Did your dad say anything about the sale? Did he have any paperwork?”

  “He didn’t have it,” I tell her. “But I asked him to snoop a little, if he can. He said he’d see what he can do.” I pause. “Why do you want to see it?” I pull a piece of paper toward me and start doodling.

  “It’s probably nothing,” she says. “But I want to check the language. Just—a hunch I have.”