Stuck in
Manistique
A NOVEL
Dennis Cuesta
celestial eyes press
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
STUCK IN MANISTIQUE
First edition. October 29, 2018.
Copyright © 2018 Dennis Cuesta.
ISBN: 978-1732410916
Written by Dennis Cuesta.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
STUCK IN MANISTIQUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Acknowledgements
Topics and Questions for Discussion
About the Author
To Jamie and Noah
STUCK IN MANISTIQUE
Mark flinched at the ring of the doorbell. He felt more like a burglar than the sole beneficiary of his aunt’s estate. Whoever was at the door, he thought, was there to offer condolences. Or, worse yet, didn’t even know Vivian had died. Not interested in handling either case, he remained in the basement.
Another ring. Two knocks. He scratched his chin and reconsidered. Perhaps this person—a neighbor or a friend—could explain why Vivian, who lived most of her life in war zones as an international aid doctor, had settled way up here in Manistique. Three more knocks. Slow and hard. Each thud breaking down his reluctance.
By the time Mark had climbed the basement stairs, trekked through the house, and opened the door, a dark-haired woman had reached the bottom of the porch steps.
“Hello,” Mark said warily. From behind she seemed too young to be one of Vivian’s friends.
She finished the last step before turning around. A white bandage covered one of her eyes, distracting him from any swift assessment. The variegated blue sweater draped over her fell flat, far past her waist to her thin gray leggings. Nothing stirred in him, nothing except the downward contour of her lips, which made him suspicious, if not faintly afraid of her.
“I almost gave up on you,” she said.
“Looks like you actually did,” he replied. Her chestnut-brown hair, shiny with long curls and lightly streaked with copper highlights, landed on her shoulders. Fair-skinned with full, pink cheeks, she was in her early twenties, he figured. “You’re not selling something, are you?”
“Huh?” Her head listed slightly to one side. “No. I was wondering if you had room, just for one night.”
“Room for what?”
The girl smiled, a bit gravely, and then said, “To stay the night—what else?”
Mark wondered if this was some sort of quaint custom in the Upper Peninsula. Open your house to any stranger who needs a place. “Do you think this is some kind of hotel?” He crossed his arms.
The girl’s cheeks burst with crimson. “Ummm . . ." She scanned the neighborhood before turning back. “Sorry, someone told me this was a bed and breakfast.” She pointed to the two posts on the parkstrip. “And I thought—”
Mark swallowed his laugh and gasped. He ran past the girl, past the bushes lining the sidewalk, and stopped at the front of the property where two short 4x4 posts stood.
He pushed on the posts. They didn’t budge. They were planted too firmly into the ground to be part of a real estate sign, as he had originally suspected. It struck him that the board leaning against the side of the garage, Manistique Victorian, would fit right there. And then there were the typed cards with the Wi-Fi name and password. Living quarters in the basement. Vivian had been running a bed and breakfast. No, no, she couldn’t possibly—
“Is everything all right?” the girl called out.
It took him a couple more seconds to grasp this revelation and to fully compose himself. He nodded and waved back affably. “Everything is just fine,” he answered, sauntering back toward her. “It’s all good. Yep.”
“Why did you . . .”
“Oh that? That was my John Cleese impression. Ever see that British show, Fawlty Towers?” His voice had risen higher.
She shook her head, leaning back slightly away from him. “No, I don’t think so. But I’m sure it was a very good impression.”
“You should see my silly walk.”
“Maybe later.” Her mouth flattened. “Is this a bed and breakfast or not?”
“Indeed it is.” He pressed his lips together, tamping a chuckle. “Yes it is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “So . . ."
“Yes, the Manistique Victorian.”
She held out her palm. “So is there a room available?”
Mark shook his head, and unable to truthfully explain the absurd circumstances to a stranger—that he’d had no idea his dead aunt was running a bed and breakfast—he gave the simplest answer. “No, sorry, it’s just we’re not open for the season yet.” He pointed back toward the posts. “That’s what I was checking out down there. I thought the sign was up—you know, a prank by one of the neighborhood kids or something.”
She sighed. “I see.”
“I’m very sorry. There are hotels off the highway,” Mark said confidently, only because he’d seen them on his way into town.
She frowned, shaking her head. “There’s nothing available.”
“Really?”
“One hotel is closed for renovations and the other is apparently taken up by a large group.”
“Right!” Mark remembered. “A bunch of old folks touring the Indian casinos in the UP.”
“Is that what they’re doing?”
Mark nodded. “But there’s hope. Maybe one of them will croak and a room will open up.”
The girl stifled her laugh with a cough. “That’s an awful thing to say.”
He grinned, shrugged. “Only kidding, of course.”
“Of course.” She grinned back.
Mark pointed to his eye. “So what happened?”
“Nothing, really. A shard of glass got in my eye, made a slight cut on the sclera. But it’s fine.”
“‘Sclera’? You a doctor or something?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You are?”
She nodded. “You seem surprised.”
“No, no, it’s just—” She did look awfully young to be a doctor. But being in his mid-thirties, he realized it was him getting older not them looking younger.
“Actually, I just finished medical school. I start residency in July and then my plan . . ." Her voice thinned and her eyes wandered toward the street. “I really need to find a place.” She pointed down Lake Street. “If I go down this street and turn right will I reach the car dealership?”
Mark didn’t answer her. Partly because he wasn’t sure and partly because he was c
onsidering the young doctor. She intrigued him. His mother and father had both been doctors—Vivian, too—and he felt an affinity with doctors.
“So how did you get glass in your eye?”
“Deer-car. Shattered the windshield.”
“A what-car?”
“Deer-car. I thought everyone up here called it that. It must happen so frequently.”
“Ah, you hit a deer.”
“No,” she returned sternly. “The deer hit me.”
“What’s the difference?”
“The difference is”— she shook her head—“Never mind.”
“Where did you—I mean, where did this deer come out and assault your car?”
Her good eye narrowed on him. She pointed up north. “A few miles east of here. It’s been towed to the dealership.”
“I see.” He felt a certain degree of concern for her, and a crazy thought thrust itself into his mind. Before considering it sufficiently, he asked, “How many nights do you need a room?”
“Just tonight. My car will be ready tomorrow. Why?”
He shrugged. Her plight yanked on him, but now he ruminated. Could he get away with it? She needed a place. He had a place. A bed and breakfast, after all. He briefly glanced up at the house that he’d been in one time. It was only for one night. He looked back at her. “Well, if you’re all right with things not being not being up to our normal standards . . ."
She shook her head. “What do you mean?”
“You can spend the night with me.” He spoke the words before realizing how they sounded, and he laughed nervously. “What I mean is, I can set you up with a room for tonight.”
She turned and eyed the house. “Do you run this place with your wife?”
Mark withheld his If you only knew response. The lost relationships—good, long relationships—that he had abandoned to avoid marriage. “No, no, not married,” he answered, stepping past her, stopping at the base of the porch stairs. “No, this place belongs to my aunt.”
She nodded feebly. “So is she here now?”
Mark picked up her apprehension, and She’s dead sounded too harsh, so he shook his head. “She’s away. I’m sort of filling in for her. Helping out, getting things in order and such.”
“Ah.” She turned her head momentarily toward the quiet street.
New leaves fluttered on the aspens across the road, the breeze pushing against the strands of her hair. “You sure it’d be all right with your aunt? I’d hate to—”
“Positive.”
“I don’t want to impose.”
“Not at all.”
She briefly sucked in her lips. “So what’s the rate?”
“The rate?” He hadn’t thought of that. “For a deer-car?. . . How about twenty-five bucks.” He chuckled. “No pun intended.”
She didn’t crack a smile. “Twenty-five? Really?”
“You think it’s too much?”
“No, not at all. Makes getting hit by a deer almost worthwhile.”
“But the downside is you’re stuck in Manistique.”
She spurted out a laugh. “I’m not sure your aunt would approve if she heard you.”
He grinned. “Believe me, she won’t hear it from me.”
“I hate to impose even more, but could I ask for one more favor?”
“Sure.”
“Is there any way you can drive me to the dealership? My suitcase and bag are in my car.”
Mark checked his watch. Ten minutes to five o’clock. “We can go now if you’d like. I just need to grab my keys.”
She nodded. “Yeah, that would be great. I really appreciate it.”
Mark held out his hand. “I’m Mark, by the way.”
“Emily.”
He shook her warm, firm hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Emily.”
Chapter One
Rising out of Midway, the plane ascended over Chicago and flew north, straddling the shoreline for twenty minutes before veering east over the waters of America’s Great Lake. Mark studied the boats on the lake, mostly sailboats, wondering about their passengers. The white caps mesmerized him. A freshwater sea. Surveying the marvel, he became annoyed with himself at how easily he had taken it for granted. Living so close to the lakeshore, he rarely considered its awe, its magnificence.
Mark had considered driving the five hours from Chicago to the small town of Petoskey, far north near the tip of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula. But he’d eventually chosen the one-hour flight to Traverse City followed by an hour’s drive north to Petoskey.
On the plane he went over the tasks to be completed with Vivian’s estate. Though he barely knew Aunt Vivian, he felt confident about settling her life’s account. He had done this a few years earlier with his mother’s estate, and having spoken to Vivian’s attorney the day before, Mark knew she owned a house and had a couple of bank accounts. He expected it to take him no more than three days to handle her affairs.
When the streaking tan line of sand separating water from northern Michigan forest came into view, the plane began its descent. They flew over another lake, miles wide, barely contained by the mainland, a mere pond juxtaposed with Lake Michigan, the result of glacial recessions thousands of years earlier. Lakes formed and filled, sediments were left behind, and forests spread. Taking all this in from bird’s-eye had an effect on Mark. The water and land and verdant seclusion moved him into deep wistfulness, like recovering a long-lost toy at the soft edge of adolescence. Whether it was only a reaction to his normal surroundings—the isolation of smooth concrete and potholed blacktop, skyscrapers and caged forest preserves—he didn’t know. By the time the pilot notified the crew for landing, a subdued disappointment had crept into Mark. A hastily planned trip with a singular purpose and quick exit. He had never before been up here, and seeing it from the air called him to explore it. He’d heard about trips recounted by friends and clients, trips to Sleeping Bear Dunes and regattas to Mackinac Island. And he knew that historically many well-to-do's from Chicago in decades past had spent their summers here Up North. So as the plane taxied to the gate, with no one waiting for him back in Chicago, he decided to delay his return flight and stay through the long Memorial Day weekend.
Outside Cherry Capital Airport, a bright blue sky and light breeze from the southwest greeted him. Suitcase in tow, he felt his nerves catch up to him in the rental parking lot. A mixture of guilt and angst pulled on him. He had barely known his aunt and didn’t quite know what to expect when he entered her house for the first time. He tipped his head skyward, briefly closing his eyes and letting the warm sun recharge him. After a deep breath, he felt ready to dispense with the duties ahead.
Mark drove through Traverse City, a lakeside town in a region known for its cherries and its annual Cherry Festival. But it was the week before Memorial Day, too early for tourists and too early for cherries, so traffic was light. He headed north on Highway 31, regularly turning his head toward the bay, leaving the city behind. Lake views soon gave way to inland pines and maples and the irregular whiteness of birches and aspens whose trunks appeared to have been painted by vandals rather than by nature. As the scenery did not change, Mark’s thoughts drifted to his tattered memory of Vivian.
A humanitarian doctor in war-torn countries, Vivian had measured mythically to a young Mark. He met her only once that he could remember, when he was seven or eight. That encounter, replayed over and over again, was now burnished vague in his head. The shaded memory shifted obscurely and unreliably, no more real than a saint appearing to him in a dream. But he distinctly remembered the letters she had sent; he had read them over and over. Letters from Angola, Sierra Leone, Sudan, Sri Lanka, Bosnia. They always arrived a week or two before or after his birthday. Each time she was assigned to a new country, he would heave the dusty atlas onto the dining room table and turn its giant pages until he located the country.
The letter for his thirteenth birthday stood out. It had a peculiar vibe. Usually the letters started the
same way. Dear Mark, Greetings from [war-torn country du jour], but this one read:
Dear Mark,
It is very strange here in Sarajevo. Bosnia is the first country I’ve had to sneak into. It’s also the first time that I’m a target—well not really me personally, although as Yossarian liked to say, What’s the difference? (Ever read Catch-22? Maybe you’re too young for that yet.) Anyway, civilians here are targeted by snipers and subjected to random shellings . . .
It became the first year Mark took an interest in a country beyond its shape and color in the atlas. Partly because he was older and more aware of the outside world, but also because there was no Bosnia in the atlas, only Yugoslavia. It unsettled him a bit that borders were not fixed. So he read accounts in newspapers and magazines of the breakup of Yugoslavia into several pieces and the ongoing siege in Sarajevo.
He admired Vivian, forsaking first-world comforts and risking her life to help others. Inspired by her work, Mark found a program in which he could join a humanitarian mission of his own, after his junior year of high school. It was in Belize, nowhere near a war, either in time or distance. Yet his mother quashed his idea with vitriol. It was one of the few times he remembered her struggling with such an emotional strain.
When she regained her composure, Margaret revealed by way of explanation that Vivian had been adopted. Vivian’s childhood trauma, followed by feelings of abandonment when their father died, formed an early identity crisis. Though she considered Vivian well-meaning, Margaret judged her sister as restless and reckless. In Margaret’s strictly professional opinion, Vivian sought danger to quell an underlying disturbance.
When Mark asked why he had never been told about Vivian’s adoption, his mother said it was an irrelevant fact. Vivian was her sister.
Irrelevant? It hadn’t been irrelevant to Mark. It struck him hard. He had thought he and his aunt shared an adventurous gene, quite apart from his mother’s exacting steadfastness.
On his next birthday, no letter came from Bosnia nor anywhere else. Mark worried, but Margaret reassured him that Vivian was fine, still in Sarajevo. Soon humanitarian projects and letters from unstable countries receded to the back of Mark’s mind before becoming mostly forgotten, replaced by the ever-present distractions of all young adults. He never heard from his aunt again.
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