The Dead Enders

by Erin Saldin

  “Ass. Hole.”

  “Henry. Man. What’s going on here?” One of his bros has come over and is swaying next to us, peering down at me. Guy’s got to be over six-five, at least. “You need me to run interference?” And then, before Henry can answer, the guy says to me, “What the fuck are you doing here, anyway?”

  Henry holds up one finger like he’s silencing a crowd. “He’s cool. Just—you know—leaving.”

  I’m about to tell him I’m doing no such thing, that he can go fuck himself, when his friend keeps going. First, he laughs. “What, are you, like, playing dress-up? Practicing for rush week?” He laughs again. It’s a hollow sound. “Don’t waste your time. Not quite college style, if you know what I mean.”

  “Milo,” Henry says. “God.” But the look he gives me, before his eyes turn all kind and sorry and pathetic, says he agrees. His hands on my shoulders, turning me around toward where Kelly is now lying on the deck, one wavering arm raised in the air, swearing she can see Cassiopeia, right there. “I think your friend needs a little assistance.”

  It’s not a shove, not even a push. It’s worse—a gentle tap on each shoulder. Like a butler handing me my coat and pointing to the door.

  Before we leave, my hand clutching Kelly’s car keys so hard that I can feel the teeth of each one bite into my palm, I see Henry answer his phone. His head bows low like he’s listening hard, or trying, at least, to make sense of what the person on the other end of the line is telling him. He holds the phone out and looks at it while rubbing at the back of his neck. Then he shakes his head and puts the phone back in his pocket.

  Good. I hope he got some bad news. I hope it fucking ruins his life.

  DAVIS

  The case is going cold. That’s what Dan told me this morning in the office. “All these fires,” he said, “and not a single lead.” Then he’d kind of laughed a sad little laugh and added, “Once the Weekenders go home, I bet you ten bucks we don’t see another flame. Lose the audience, lose the will. So I guess we have to just wait it out. They’ll be gone in the next week or so, anyway.”

  But that seems stupid. It seems, in fact, lazy. What are the police doing, if not trying to follow leads? I sit at my desk at home and look over everything Dan or I have found out about the Nelson fire. All of the small details from the other fires—four so far. I stare at the clues, trying to put something together. Anything.

  Shoe print.

  The scrap of burned paper. Regret.

  The Nelson cabin: a notable lack of clues—no wiring problems, no exploding propane tank. Just good, honest arson. A quote from the fire inspector: This wasn’t a professional job, but then again, it doesn’t take a professional to get the job done. His theory? Dropped cigarette or match. With the right fuel, that’s all it would take.

  The phone rings. Ana.

  “Hey,” I say. “Glad you called.” Am I ever. “What time are you headed to the party tomorrow night? I don’t want to be alone with all those Weekenders at the last party of the year. Their sense of nostalgia can be a little smothering.” I wait for the laughter, but it doesn’t come.

  “Davis,” she says, “I was just at Grainey’s. And I saw Erik there. With his dad.”

  “Ah.”

  “It didn’t look good.” Her voice is subdued.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “Just—a look Erik had. I couldn’t hear them, and I left as soon as he saw me, but—Erik was kind of scrunched in the corner of a booth. His dad was talking at him. He just looked small.” She clears her throat. “Not a way I’ve seen Erik before.”

  “Shit,” I say. “I mean, poor Erik. Though he doesn’t want our pity—that much is clear.”

  “His dad gave him something, right before I walked out. I didn’t see what it was, but, Davis”—she pauses—“I thought Erik was going to cry.”

  “I wonder what it was,” I say. “Have you told Georgie?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “I just got off the phone with her. She’s going to call. And I’ve texted him, you know, just to check. But he hasn’t written back.” She pauses. “It really didn’t look good, Davis.”

  “Okay,” I say. “If he doesn’t answer you or Georgie, let’s make sure to talk to him at the party. My mom said something about it too.” But I don’t elaborate. It just doesn’t seem right—all of us knowing that Erik’s mom knows about his dad while Erik is still in the dark.

  “All right,” she says.

  “Hey. You—I don’t know. You want a ride? To the party? Or, like, to go together?” As soon as I say it I realize how awkward it sounds. I hold my breath.

  “Yeah,” she says, and I can almost hear the smile over the phone. “Yeah. I’d like that, Davis.”

  After I hang up, I sit at my desk, staring at the wall, replaying the conversation over and over in my head. What she said about seeing Erik. And: The way my name sounded, coming from her. Like something to hold on to. Like a gift.

  Eventually, I look back down at my notes from the fires.

  Skate park: some pebbles on the cement near the burn site, but that could have been anything.

  Brewery: lots of trash—hard to tell if anything’s a clue. Styrofoam cup, girl’s hair band. Maybe connected, maybe not.

  The campground, the airport: nothing. Not a single clue. All small fires that, taken alone, wouldn’t mean a thing. Taken together, though, and you’ve got the highway out of town glutted with fleeing Weekenders.

  What was it the fire inspector said? I glance back over my notes. With the right fuel, that’s all it would take. I stare at the words. Fuel.

  What if the fuel everyone’s been looking for isn’t gasoline or matches? What if it’s something else, something having to do with Gold Fork itself, with the Weekenders and the way that we love the place we want to leave? I’ve only just started my new writing project, but I can already hear the voice of this town, and it’s trying to tell me something.

  The fuel isn’t a thing. It’s a feeling.

  • • •

  The plan is to go down to the public beach and write before dinner. Not for the book—I haven’t worked on She Woke Before Me in weeks. There’s the other thing I’ve started, but every time I sit down to write more reflections about the town, I end up thinking about other things. Erik’s dad. The Den. Vera. And Ana. Always Ana.

  I’m heading toward a free bench when I see Erik, standing on one of the little swimming docks that divide the swimming area from the marina. He’s staring down at a rusty canoe that’s tied up there. I walk out to the end of the dock and stand next to him. The canoe looks like it hasn’t been used in a long time. Like it might sink if you sat in it.

  “Considering a purchase?” I ask. “They should be giving that one away, from the looks of it.”

  He startles, then rolls his shoulders back to mask it. “Slow as shit,” he says. “I’d rather walk around the lake.”

  “Good point. So. Anything new?” I look at the sky—gray. “Think it’s going to rain?” The conversation with Ana is practically printed on my face—I know it, so I look anywhere but at Erik. I wish Ana and Georgie were here. They’d know how to ask Erik about the meeting with his dad. I can barely muster a sentence about the weather. Davis: playing it cool since never.

  But he doesn’t seem to notice my awkwardness. He keeps looking at the canoe like it’s the answer sheet for a pre-calc final. Then he says to the canoe, “You think we’ll ever count?” His voice is small—not Erik’s voice, really. He still doesn’t look at me.

  And I start to say something like, Of course we will. We already do! But then I remember that this is Erik. This is his life. And I say, “To them? Probably not.”

  He’s still talking to the canoe. “At best, we’re just a name on a form. A mess to clean up. A stray dog that needs saving.”

  An image swims into my head and then out again before I can catch it. Something familiar. “What do you mean?”

  He turns to me finally, looking away from the canoe. “Nothing.”
He scuffs the toe of his running shoe against the splintered wood of the dock. The sounds from the beach are a little muffled, even at this distance. I think I can hear a baby screaming, someone yelling, Give it here! and then: Moooom! “Nothing.”

  “We all need to be saved,” I say. “From what, though. That’s the question.”

  Erik looks out at the lake. He swallows heavily and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Erik.” I tilt my head. “You okay?”

  He kneels and picks up a pebble from the dock. Lobs it out into the water. “Yeah,” he says. “Sure.”

  “If you want to talk—” I start, but he interrupts me.

  “Sometimes I think everything started with the fire in the chapel, you know?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like, maybe if that hadn’t happened, I’d be fine. We’d be fine,” he corrects himself.

  “But we wouldn’t have this,” I say. “I mean—the four of us. We wouldn’t have that.”

  “I wonder if it’s worth it,” he says.

  “Even Georgie?” I don’t look at him, but I can feel the way he freezes when I say her name.

  “She’d be better off without me.” When I glance at him, he’s trailing a finger through the water. Pulls his hand out and wipes the water on his shorts. “Whatever. Forget it.”

  “Bottom line: We’re fine,” I say. And then I add the thing we all said, over and over right after it happened, as though saying it could detract from the scar on Ana’s arm. “No one died.”

  “Maybe not,” he says, “but that’s not always the worst thing that can happen.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Just . . . I’m sorry.”

  I’m remembering the night the chapel burned. Erik standing outside, yelling. His mouth moving, though I couldn’t hear him. Except now I think I can, and the words are ringing and clear. Sorry. I’m so sorry.

  “You’ll tell them that, right?” He’s staring hard at the lake.

  “Erik,” I say, “the chapel.”

  He stands.

  “You’re right,” he says. “No one died.”

  “But the chapel.” Sorry. So sorry.

  “Listen.” He’s already backing away down the dock. “I gotta run. See you at the party tomorrow.”

  “Erik,” I say. “Come on. Let’s get coffee or something.”

  He shakes his head. “I already had coffee.” Then he wheels on his feet and kind of jogs back toward Main Street.

  I glance again at the canoe before heading down the dock. It looks abandoned. Like a dog tied up outside a rest stop.

  I wonder what Erik saw in it.

  We’re just a mess to clean up, he said. Why does that sound so familiar to me?

  Something’s been wavering at the periphery, just out of focus, ever since my mom joked about the Nelsons being in a love triangle. No way. And yet.

  You leave for the week.

  My interview with them. The way the sunlight poured into the dining room at the Gold Fork Grand.

  Come back to rubble.

  The thing that’s been scratching at the edges all this time comes into focus. I can see the tomato juice on the white tablecloth, can hear Mr. Nelson’s voice, dripping with condescension and righteous anger.

  Cleaner shows up and there’s nothing to clean.

  Erik’s mom. Of course.

  Not a love triangle. But a third person, nonetheless.

  I turn and scan the beach. Yell, “Erik!”

  But he’s gone.

  ANA

  Mom’s home when I get back from the Pines on Saturday. I’ve been visiting Vera at odd times, hoping not to run into Abby, and so far I’ve been mostly successful. Today, though, her car was there when I pulled up on my bike, and I had to turn around and head home. I fought tears for the whole ride. I wanted to see Vera today before the party for some reason, and now I’ve got this sad, sick feeling in my gut. It’s irrational, I know, but I needed to see her—to tell her about Davis, and how he kind-of-maybe asked me to go with him. It’s not real unless I’ve told Vera.

  When I walk in, Mom’s in the kitchen, cleaning—a first. And there’s a heavy smell in the air that I can’t quite place.

  “Querida! Good! I was afraid you had plans. I’m making roast chicken for dinner.”

  So that’s the smell. I walk over to the oven and pull it open. Sure enough, a small chicken is roasting in a deep pan, herbs and veggies surrounding it. The smell is heavenly. “I didn’t know you knew how to cook a chicken,” I say, ashamed at how brittle my voice sounds.

  Mom looks down and then back up at me. “I thought we deserved a nice meal together. Place mats, even.” She laughs a little, embarrassed. “I haven’t seen much of you lately, and . . .” Her voice trails off.

  “Whose fault is that?” I ask. I know how I sound, bitter and mean, but I can’t help it.

  She puts down a spray bottle of cleaner and sits at our little table. “Mine.” Extends a hand to me. “And I’m sorry. This is me saying I’m sorry.” Her eyes squint a little.

  I stop myself before I say something like, No thanks, or Sorry’s not good enough. Because really, what am I going to do? The chicken smells incredible. And I’ve been waiting for weeks—months, maybe—for her to notice me. What was it Abby said? We don’t know each other well enough to forgive. Well, I know my mom. I take her hand and sit down too. “Is Zeke coming?” I ask.

  “Oh, Zeke.” She waves her free hand in the air. “Fun for a time, but not the real deal. We just decided to let it be what it was—a good time. Not everything has to be forever, you know.” She smiles. “Not everyone is the Better.”

  “I thought you really liked him,” I say. “You sure spent enough time with him.”

  “Ana,” says my mom, “I know you’ve felt left out. But I didn’t want to bring someone into our life unless I knew he was worth it. And—” She shrugs. “He wasn’t. Almost was, though. Maybe the next one will be.” She pats me on the arm. “Because, mija,” she says gently, “I get to have a life, too, you know.”

  “I know,” I say. “I just—I miss you.”

  She nods. “Me too. You’d be surprised at how much I think about you—how often I ask myself what you’d do in a situation.” She laughs a little. “Maybe I’ve learned a thing or two from my daughter.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She unwinds a scarf from around her neck, hanging it on the back of the chair, and sits down. “No one’s going to break your heart,” she says.

  That’s when I lose it. Everything that’s been building up since Vera’s stroke comes out in a rush of tears. If I thought I was alone before, it was nothing compared to how I feel right now. Is there no one in the world who can see me? I stand there shaking and crying, and my mother springs up and pulls me to her, wrapping me in a hug.

  “Shhh, shhh,” she says to the top of my head.

  “My heart is breaking! It’s been breaking for weeks!” I sob into her shoulder.

  Mom continues to hold me, making comforting sounds like she did when I was a little girl. “Oh, mija,” she says. Then she asks, “Vera?”

  I nod into her shirt.

  “She’s been wonderful for you,” says my mom. “She’s the grandmother I’d have imagined for you. And—” She laughs lightly. “Can I admit I’ve been jealous, sometimes, of your bond with her? Who wouldn’t want that?” She kisses the top of my head and then asks, “What can I do to help?”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” I say, swallowing another sob. “Unless you can go back in time.”

  “I can’t do that,” she concedes.

  We stand there for a minute, my mom’s arms wrapped around me.

  “What I said about no one breaking your heart? I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” she says softly.

  “There’s no other way to mean it!” I cry, pulling away. “You mean that no one’s going to break my heart because no one’s going to
love me!” My hands are curled into fists at my sides, and they hang there, useless.

  “No. No.” She shakes her head, and I can see tears forming in her own eyes. “Not at all.” She pauses, searching for the right words. “I meant that no one’s going to break your heart, Ana, because when you really choose to love someone, he—or she—will be worth it. And that person will never hurt you willingly.” She pulls me into another hug. “Ever since you were little, I’ve seen how people are drawn to you. People with good hearts.” She pauses, then adds, “You have the capacity to love so hard, Ana. Anything less will stand out like burlap in a bed of silk.”

  I let myself sink into her embrace like I did as a child, when I’d wake from a nightmare and inhale her scent, which has always reminded me of vinegar and strawberries. “Where have you been?” I ask.

  “Here,” she says quietly. “I’ve been here. Ana, I know I disappoint you.” She pauses. “And sometimes I let other things—work, worry—get in the way. But that doesn’t mean I’m not watching you. Always, always. I can’t protect you—and I don’t want to. My parents tried, you know, and look where it got me: I had a baby on a Greyhound.” I can hear her laugh into my hair. “Wouldn’t change it. But you—you’re smarter than I ever was, than I’ll ever be. I figured out pretty early that I’d need to let you do your thing. But, Ana, if you need help, I hope you know I’m here.”

  The oven timer goes off, but we let it ding.

  “I do need help,” I say.

  “Good.” She holds me out at arm’s length and smiles. “Let’s have some dinner and talk about it. We can come up with a solution—whatever it is,” she says, as I open my mouth to protest. She smoothes my hair behind my ears like she used to do when I was a kid. “Ana, there’s always a solution.”

  I sit down at the table and look around the kitchen. Notice the fresh flowers, the magnets on the fridge holding up old elementary school photos. All the little ways she’s shown her love. Am I only just noticing now? What else have I missed?

  • • •

  I’m pouring a little oil into the bottom of a pot when she calls after dinner. The phone chirps in my pocket, and my mom looks up from where she’s stirring hot chocolate into two mugs.