by Tish Cohen
On the dock beside her, her phone lit up and rang. Elise grabbed it, pressed it to her ear. “You found it?”
Dorsey’s voice was too flat for the news to be good. “We did locate the Civic. License plate was GLR 271. We caught up with the driver filling up at Eagle Gas.”
She fought to stay calm. “And . . . ?”
“Elise, his name is Warren Bleeker. He says he’s your father.”
Chapter 28
Matt had checked himself into the Swiss Miss Motel at the southernmost tip of town for two reasons: he’d always loved the nostalgic brown sign and the rooms were relatively cheap. He’d called his bank. Had the credit limit increased on his Visa. It bought him a few more weeks. Elise, too. The card was shared.
What he hadn’t considered was how utterly devoid of creature comforts the place would be. Shampoo came in individual tear-open packets that were impossible to tear open, and forget a stocked minibar—there wasn’t even a mini fridge. So, with heavy rain on Main Street creating a nearly impenetrable mist, Matt drove north again to pick up the necessities. Very few people were out and about in this weather, especially at this end of town, where the shops and restaurants gave way to board-and-batten or stone-and-beam plazas that housed veterinarians’ offices, a walk-in clinic, and independent pharmacies. The miniature golf course where Elise had taken Gracie when she was younger was closed. Only the McDonald’s drive-through and Grocery Mart had any sort of traffic.
As he pulled into the parking lot, a shiny black pickup truck pulled out. Matt did a double take: on the side it said KOSTICK & SONS FISHING LODGE. He nearly smiled. Look at Andy, keeping his marketing going.
At the grocery store’s entry, beneath the dripping overhang, was a long table displaying American flags, Fourth of July T-shirts, and beach towels—limp and tragic in the rain. The banner that hung above them read: 4TH OF JULY SAVINGS STOREWIDE!
Matt checked his watch. The Fourth was next Saturday. The thought of even more tourists descending upon the village made him nauseous.
He pushed a wet shopping cart up and down the aisles to what sounded like music from The Price Is Right. Tossed in a bottle of Dove for Men shampoo. He paused in front of the Aveeno body wash he always bought for Gracie. It was lavender-scented and calming. He always dumped it into the water to use as bubble bath because she said it made her sleep better.
He dropped the body wash into the cart. Then, fuck it. He walked over to the candy aisle and picked out everything Gracie adored. Raisinets, Reese’s Pieces, the arrowroot cookies she called “baby cookies.” He grabbed some chicken noodle soup—two pop-top cans he could slurp down cold. A bottle of cheap red wine.
The girl at the register was somewhere in her twenties with soft mocha-toned skin, pale eyes, and fuzzy brown hair pulled back in a messy chignon. Like a ballet dancer who’d just spent a week on a beach somewhere exotic. Long, lanky limbs, exposed collarbones in her wide-necked top. She grinned when he set all the candy on the counter and started ringing it through.
“You don’t look like a guy with such a sweet tooth.”
“Well. Appearances.”
She held up the arrowroot cookies. “I love these dunked into tea. My grandmother taught me that. You wait for them to get real soft, then let them fall apart on your tongue.” She held his gaze while she rang through the shampoo and body wash. “I’d forgotten about them. So . . .” Her smile was coy now. “Thank you for the reminder.”
A couple of college-age boys fell into line behind Matt. One pulled a copy of People from the display and started spouting off facts about the Kardashians.
“What can I say?” Matt shrugged. “I bring back memories of a kinder, gentler time.” He hated himself for what he was doing. Attempting to sound normal. Hated himself even more when he realized the boys behind him were listening.
She laughed and set the last of his purchases into a brown paper bag. “That will be nineteen seventy-eight, Captain Cookie.”
Muffled snorts behind him. Matt reached into an empty pocket. Where was his wallet?
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
“New Jersey, actually.” He patted the rest of his pockets.
“I wish I was not from around here.” Her laugh was weary for a girl her age.
He’d left it on the desk at the motel when he’d called the bank. For a moment, he considered grabbing the grocery bag and dashing. As if possessing these treats would ensure that Gracie would come back to him. Feeling his face flush hot, Matt said, “I forgot my wallet. Can you do me a huge favor and keep all this aside for me? I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll put it all back in the cart and you can push it out of the way . . .”
Someone from the lineup behind him handed forward a twenty. Matt looked past the sniggering college boys to see Lyman Williams holding a shopping basket in front of his thighs. Lyman nodded his insistence that Matt accept the money.
The girl put it in the till and pretended Matt wasn’t the most pathetic excuse for a man ever.
He carried his purchases out into the rain and, in his struggle to get into his car before being soaked to the skin, he dropped the keys, accidentally kicking them beneath the vehicle. By the time he’d gotten down on his knees and managed to grab them and get the door open, Lyman had emerged from the store, holding a grocery bag on one hip. He sprang open his umbrella and marched to his own car.
Matt called out, “Hey, man, thanks. A bit embarrassing back there. If you can tell me where to send it, I’ll mail you a check.”
Lyman pointed his keys at his car. The lights flashed twice as the doors unlocked. Lyman shook his head and climbed in. He started the car, then opened the window to say, “No need.”
“Seriously. I’d feel much better. I pay my debts. Eventually.”
Lyman looked up at Matt. “Is that some kind of joke?”
A joke? “What do you mean?”
Lyman took his hands off the wheel and stared straight ahead as if debating how much to say. “Our families, is what I mean,” he said at last.
Matt searched his memory for anything that connected him to Lyman’s family. He drew a blank. “Our families? Do we have a connection?”
Lyman looked up at Matt. “My father went to your grandfather for a loan after we had a few lean years. The farm that we lost, as well as a property on the lake, had been in our family for five generations.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Why would you? It was nothing to your family. Nate Sorenson lent him thirteen thousand dollars to get him through the winter.”
“He did that for all sorts of people. It’s why the town revered him.”
Lyman’s laughter was angry. He sighed and tipped his head back. “Revered by some, but despised by the rest.”
“Despised? Look, I’ve heard that Nate could be tough about repayment, but he was fair. He—”
“When Nate Sorenson lent out money, it was secured by the debtors’ properties. If someone couldn’t repay him on time, Nate didn’t extend their terms. He helped himself to the property. Didn’t matter to him if the land value was higher than the loan. He took it.”
“That is not true.”
“My parents and my little sister and I lived in a van for an entire winter after we lost our farm. Athena lost part of her leg to frostbite. Nate Sorenson knew who couldn’t afford to fight him. And he grabbed their land, then hired them to work their own farms. He humiliated them.”
“No,” Matt said. “My grandfather bought those farms fair and square. He bought them from people who’d had enough of the risk. And not only did he let them stay on, he paid them to do what they’d always done. They thanked him for it. I was there!”
“You weren’t there when the deals went down. And you most certainly weren’t there when the deals went south. He was a greedy, grasping—”
“This is bullshit.”
“Do a little research. That land you’re selling? Not one acre of it beyond your origi
nal tree line was legitimately bought.”
“That’s all lakefront and forest. There’s no farmland there—”
“My grandfather bought his piece of lakeside figuring his kids and grandkids and great-grandkids beyond that could enjoy a bit of leisure time up in this northern country. Your ‘revered’ grandfather took everything. The farmland and the waterfront. Then he turned my father and mother out on the street. With two young children.” Lyman grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled down an address. “If you want to square things up for your purchases today, mail the check here.”
Matt was speechless.
“I’m sorry for your troubles, Sorensen. But it doesn’t change the past. Best I can say about your grandfather is he was an equal-opportunity thief. Stole from anyone he figured he could swindle.” Lyman put the car in drive and lifted his foot off the brake. “I sincerely hope they find your little girl. Wouldn’t wish that on anyone, no matter what’s gone on in the past.”
Matt stood in the rain, collar flipped up, shoulders hunched to his ears, and watched Lyman’s car disappear. Then he walked the few blocks down to the village, to the bench he’d commissioned when Nate died.
IN MEMORY OF NATE SORENSON
1918–2013
WHO GAVE SO MUCH
He squinted and bent over for a closer look. Wiped the rain from it. Had someone gone at it with a nail? He sat down, his jeans soaked through in a second. From the mullioned windows of the Black Dog Grill, people had turned to stare at him. He got up. Stomped back to his car. What the hell was happening?
Chapter 29
It wasn’t enough to run, to jog. She needed to sprint, to flee nothing and chase everything. She ran so hard through the rain, every muddy footfall jammed thigh into hip. The trees blurred, swam, like a fever, a hallucination. She’d taken off along the lake’s edge, up and over wet docks and stone patios, and through prickled hedges and tidy gardens. Then into the woods, ducking and bobbing to avoid branches, tripping and slipping over fallen logs and rocks. Her jeans had torn at the knee—blood now stained the already filthy white denim. Wet hair stuck to her cheeks. Rainwater streamed into her eyes. Then out onto the road again. Past massive homes until a sidewalk appeared, then squat brown buildings and the lights of town.
By the time Elise got to Main Street, every breath was a sharp gasp. Passing restaurants and stores, she slowed, catching her hunched and sodden reflection in the window of the bookstore, sliding across Cass’s poster like an apparition. It was late. The shops were closed. She pushed open the first door that wasn’t locked and stepped into the glaringly overlit ice cream shop, with its yellow walls and checkerboard floor.
An employee in a yellow striped shirt was cleaning up behind the counter, clearly preparing to close. It was just a kid, his hair like beige steel wool beneath a silly paper hat. He turned to stare at Elise. Her cheeks were hot and wet—her hands went up to wipe away the water. Or sweat? It wasn’t until her body started heaving with gulps and sobs that she realized she was crying. For the first time in her memory. She stood in front of this adolescent, who looked terrified and embarrassed for her, and sobbed uncontrollably. She dropped and squatted on the floor. The teenager came to lean over her, bless his perplexed soul. Likely all he wanted was to get the hell out of there and go meet his friends to drink in a farmer’s field. He asked if she was okay, if he could help.
Elise stood up again and sobbed. “She’s gone. No one can find her.” She paused to gulp in air. “She’s out there somewhere.”
He looked like he wanted to be swallowed up by the mop in his hand. She was pathetic in his eyes. ZACHARY, said his plastic name tag.
Poor Zachary.
“I don’t know what to do. What do I do? How do I do this all alone? How do I find her?” Her face felt red and ugly and swollen with pain. “What do I do . . . ? No one can help me. No one knows any better than I do.” She wiped at hot mucus running down her upper lip.
Zachary vanished into the back. Maybe to climb out a window, maybe to call his manager or the police. Elise bent over, crying to the glass display now. How was this possible? What was wrong with her? Shouldn’t the first time she sobbed be somewhere more dignified?
Looking equally horrified and brave, Zachary was back with a paper cup filled with water. He came around the counter again and gave it to her, spilling on himself in the handoff. It was the last thing she wanted, but she didn’t have the strength to disappoint him. It dawned on her that he was some other mother’s child, and she cried harder. Poor Zachary. Anything could happen to him.
She drank what was left of the water. Thanked him, still sobbing. Why did anyone say you need a good cry? It was terrible. She grabbed a handful of napkins to blow her nose, surprised by how gratifying it felt. She headed for the door. Only then did she notice a rumpled old man at the corner table, his untied dress shoes and dirty tie unsettling evidence of a mentally ill vagrant or an unkempt genius. He dropped his pink plastic spoon into his empty ice cream cup and wiped his lips.
Elise moved past him, hunched over her sobs, slowing only because she had to navigate a couple of concrete steps in the rain. The old man stepped outside behind her, his pockets jangling with keys or change. He pulled on a baseball cap and started across the street. Halfway across, he turned. His eyes narrowed, neither kindly nor unkindly. “Welcome the grief, no matter how ugly,” he said. “Doesn’t matter if it takes you to the rooftop screaming or has you balled up under the bed in silence. It’s yours to feel however you damned well see fit.”
Chapter 30
Heavy pine boughs overhung the long driveway, scratching and thunking against the roof of Matt’s car. He wasn’t really expecting Jeannie to be at Camp Imagine at ten p.m., but there she was. She’d seen the headlights slide across the face of the main lodge and come out to the covered porch to wave him in, throw a towel over his wet shoulders, make him a coffee.
“Between the bears and the rain, we’ve got all our sleepover campers in the dining hall for yet another movie night.” Jeannie sat down behind her desk, pale gray hair falling out of a haphazard ponytail, her face bare of any makeup. The honey pine walls behind her boasted a series of whiteboards with names of cabins and checklists for leaders and leaders-in-training. There was a CPR poster and an eye wash station. A defibrillator on the wall. A Rubbermaid garbage can labeled LOST & FOUND. “Noise level can get pretty intense on a day like this. We actually created a mud race—before the heavens opened up—just so they could burn off a little energy.” She straightened a pile of flyers on her desk. “The extra laundry for us tomorrow will be more than worth it.”
“I didn’t mean to barge in unannounced. I know you must be ready to pack it in.”
“Nonsense. I’m thrilled to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m sure this was the last thing you needed.” He noticed a chalkboard on the far wall. “Cancelations” was written neatly at the top, with dozens of names below. “I’m sorry.”
“Please don’t be.” She pulled her polar fleece over her shoulders. “You don’t owe me—or this camp—an apology, Matt. If your daughter’s name had been on our list like it should have been, we would have known she was missing a whole hell of a lot earlier. Garbage happens in this world. No matter how hard we try to prevent it.”
He leaned back in the wooden chair and exhaled.
“Now. What can I help you with?”
He wanted to hear the truth about his grandfather. He needed to talk about something—anything—other than a life without Gracie. Or maybe this was about Gracie. Because if what Lyman said was true, maybe there were many families out there who wouldn’t mind seeing the Sorenson family taken down.
“You knew my grandfather pretty well?”
If she was surprised it was Nate he wanted to discuss, she didn’t let on. “We worked together on more community projects than I care to count. He was a real doer, Nate was. Don’t think I ever saw him idle.”
“The thing is, I’m hearing s
ome things now. A pizza delivery guy, our roofer, Lyman . . . As far as I knew, a good many people relied on him when banks rejected their loan applications.”
“Yes. He was in the business of lending for decades.”
Matt shifted closer. “Did you ever hear about . . . any instances where my grandfather’s dealings were less than fair?”
She reached for a bottle of orange juice on her desk and took a slow drink. Replaced the lid carefully and swirled the pulpy liquid. “You’re talking about the ones who couldn’t make good.”
It wasn’t a question.
He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. A look of confusion, perhaps. Maybe a slight squint to reassure him that what he’d suggested was too bizarre to contemplate. Or laughter. That would have been good. But Jeannie knew exactly what he meant.
“I’d heard a few things about those mortgages, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said.
“Such as?”
“Matt, I’m not sure this is the time, with your daughter missing and—”
“Please.” He sat back in his chair. “I need to know.”
What she told him then was so foreign to him, it was like she was describing a character in a movie—the cold-hearted antagonist. Everything he thought he knew about Nate was false. He wasn’t kind or benevolent. He was a calculating man, a patriarch who used his power to prey upon people on the edge of financial desperation. Worse, he would target folks to go after.
Matt shook his head. “What do you mean ‘target’? Wouldn’t they come to him?”
“It’s a small town. You knew who was in trouble and who could weather a dry summer or a recession. He went to those who were desperate, offered them money on his terms. But only if he wanted their properties. The farms were one thing—if the land had appeal for future development, he was in. If it was arid or too far off the beaten path, not so much. Your grandfather always wanted more shoreline. That was his drug.”