Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  A sign announced: LAST EXIT BEFORE FARE. “Hah! As if paying a few bucks is the big deal here.” With the blinker on for the last three hundred feet, he exited the highway with forged equanimity. He turned left on the first street, a road that traveled parallel to the highway, the two roads separated only by a metal fence.

  “So close!” He banged the steering wheel as he watched cars go toward the bridge with perfect indifference. “I can’t do it, Vivian. Sorry. I just can’t.”

  He took the road as far as it would go and entered the parking lot for Colonial Michilimackinac, a historical village and fort from the 1700s at the tip of the Lower Peninsula. Mark had read about this place during his alternative-way-across search.

  He parked and got out of the car. Tourists walked in and out and around the visitor center, which was housed beneath the base of the bridge. Next to the building, across a sidewalk and a patchy lawn, was the ragged edge of a beach and the splashes of Lake Huron.

  Mark got back in the car. “This is it, Vivian. Sorry for not returning you home, but this is the end of the line for me.” He reached over and slipped the blue urn out from under the seatbelt. As he stepped outside, a powerful gust barreled in from the northwest. He waited a moment, but the wind pushed on. Clinging to the Chicago adage If you don’t like the weather, wait fifteen minutes, Mark set the urn back on the seat. He sauntered through the parking lot toward the lake. Up above, cars entered the first part of the bridge, the green trussed metal on piers, heading toward the two white towers that lifted the suspended road over the middle of the straits. The sight of the bridge on terra firma didn’t scare him so much as it angered him that he couldn’t drive over it.

  He crossed the lawn and stepped onto the beach, a mix of sand and pebbles and islands of grass. The waves lapped onto the shore. Able to make out the green contours on the opposite side, he was tired of himself. He picked up a rock and hurled it as far as he could into the lake.

  The wind diminished to a subdued breeze. Thinking that he might be able to spread the ashes soon, he walked along the Lake Huron shoreline, toward a lighthouse looking for the right spot. The brown brick structure sat some hundred yards from the water, and a few tourists ambled about the lighthouse grounds while others sat at benches on the lawn; a few others stood along the beach looking at the lake and taking pictures. Mark retraced his steps, finding an indent near a marshy bit of the shoreline where he could angle away from the breeze.

  He stepped closer to the water, reached over, and dipped his hand. Chilly.

  Back at the car, Mark unbuckled the urn. “Ready?” As he got back out, a lacerating wind came at him again.

  “Seriously?” He waited, but after half a minute of the same, he ducked inside.

  Restraining the urn once again in the seatbelt, he decided to have lunch and wait out the wind. He’d noticed a pleasantly inauspicious diner called Artie’s on his way up the street, so he walked there.

  At Artie’s he was seated at a table with a crosshatched view of the highway. For the first time he noticed a small building about the size of a garden shed between the highway and the road. The top half of the structure was glass, and it seemed an odd location for whatever it was used for. When the waitress came by, he asked her about it.

  “Oh that’s a phone booth,” she said matter-of-factly. The woman’s dull brown hair was fixed tightly in a bun. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

  “That’s a strange place for a phone booth, isn’t it, way out there next to the highway?”

  “It’s not that kind of phone booth. It’s for people who don’t want to drive themselves across the bridge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You call and a bridge worker drives you across.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded. “So what can I get you to drink?”

  After eating Artie’s Special Turkey Melt, fries, and a local craft beer, Mark left a large tip and stepped outside. With the wind now a soft breeze—of course!—he stopped in the middle of the road for a second and stared at the bridge. The sun shone brightly. White cumulus clouds traipsed across the northern sky.

  He retrieved his car, parked near the booth, and walked inside. Cars rushed by on the highway less than twenty feet away. He picked up the receiver and after several quick rings, someone answered. “Hello.”

  “Hi, yes, I’m over here in Mackinaw City, and I need some help crossing the bridge.”

  “What’s the make and model of your car?”

  Mark turned to look at the rental as if it had been switched out. “It’s a green Chrysler.”

  “Someone will be there in about ten minutes. Wait on the shoulder. Stay inside the car.”

  “On the highway?”

  “That’s right, on the shoulder. Someone will be there soon.”

  Less than a football field away, it was a quick right turn onto the highway. Once on, there was no way off except to go over the bridge. Mark anxiously started the car, pulled out slowly, and drove toward the entrance. As he made the full right turn, he gripped the wheel tightly.

  The first tower stood massively, taunting him for his failure. Yet there it was, a simple way of beating it. Driving right under it. He fixated on that opening.

  Mark floored the accelerator. The engine revved as angry as he felt, angry about this eviscerating phobia. Then as if he’d been struck in the chest, he felt his heart give a hard thump. He immediately let off the accelerator and pulled to the side.

  He breathed heavily. His heart beat strangely again, fast and erratic, and he worried that it was a heart attack. But he didn’t feel a heavy weight on his chest, nor did he have any pain in his left arm. Even though nothing tickled his throat, he coughed a couple of times. He took a bottle of water from the cup holder and drank, and after a half minute, his heartbeat fell back to normal.

  The whole episode left him exhausted—and about ten yards short of the booth. He rolled down the windows and gathered in the cool air. He removed his brown crew neck sweater, leaving a dark blue T-shirt with Dekalb Dash 2013. His gaze shifted to his right, onto the diner where he’d just had lunch. A car with an Indiana license plate pulled into the diner, and he watched through the chain-link fence as a family of four got out. Pleasantly on vacation Up North.

  “Maybe I’m crazy Vivian. Afraid of bridges. Talking to an urn.”

  He realized that someone would be there shortly and unbuckled the urn. He checked the lid. It was on firmly, and he set it down on the floor of the back seat. He threw his sweater over it.

  A large white pickup truck with two passengers pulled up behind Mark. A mustached man in a dark blue cap and jacket got out of the passenger side and approached the car from the right side.

  “You called for a driver?” the man asked bending down.

  Feeling small, childlike, Mark nodded. “Yes, sir, that would be me.”

  Chapter Four

  To Emily a bridge was more than just a span over water or chasm. Her father, a structural engineer and bridge inspector, had taught her about bridge design, loads, and construction—intricacies that most driver’s mindlessly disregard. As she crossed, Emily took in the Mackinac Bridge in its entirety, marvelous and inspiring, an epic tale of engineering discipline and construction perils, and a work of art.

  She glanced over at the blue water on each side, Lake Michigan to the left, Lake Huron to the right, the waves rolling gently in the straits, the grand bridge carrying her across like a magic carpet. The magnificence of the bridge lifted her spirits.

  She spotted a ferry leaving a wake on its way to Mackinac Island. She’d be on a ferry like that soon, on her way to see John. Angst tugged at her. She stared at the boat for several seconds and imagined herself on it. She pretended she changed her mind midway, plunging into the frigid lake. She could never swim back to shore—hypothermia would set in too quickly. Syncope, asphyxia . . . a fairly painless death.

  The humming tires switched to a lower octave as the road chan
ged from pavement to lighter grates. She passed under the first tower, and, approaching midspan, Emily became resolute: after crossing the bridge, she would simply continue on toward Wisconsin, leaving Mackinac and John behind. He’d be disappointed and angry, but it would be much better to end it now.

  Passing under the second tower, she wished the bridge went on forever. The decision to leave John behind triggered a sharp pain that cut through her abdomen, like a scalpel had pushed through her navel. She reached for her phone.

  “You wanted to tell me something earlier, didn’t you?” Lauren said without a “hello.”

  “Hi. Yes.” After a long sigh she confessed: “I’m meeting John Bulcher on Mackinac Island.”

  “Dr. Bulcher?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been seeing Dr. Bulcher?”

  “I’m sorry for not telling you about this earlier.”

  “He should know better,” Lauren declared. “Isn’t he married?”

  “Yes. And he has kids. And he’s twenty years older than me. And I’m moving to Chicago. And—”

  She stopped herself. She couldn’t talk to Lauren about Nicholas. Too much too fast. She might hyperventilate. She took in slow breaths.

  “Emily, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Give me a second.”

  “Sure.”

  Emily steadied herself. “I’ve never asked him to leave his family.”

  “Good. So why not break it off now?”

  “I know I should.”

  “Em, I’ve been in a few relationships, and what I can tell you is that being away from him, away from school and on your own, is the best thing for you right now. You’ll realize then how much he really means to you.”

  “I know you’re right. It’s just hard, you know?”

  “I know.”

  She was approaching the end of the bridge and the toll booths. “Thanks for listening. I’ll call you later.”

  After she paid the toll, the signs appeared almost immediately—the first one east to St. Ignace and the Mackinac ferries, the next exit west for Highway 2 toward Manistique/Escanaba. She kept to her lane, but as the exit-only lane shortened, her determination faltered, her unresolved ambivalence for John laid bare by the proverbial fork in the road. Then, convincing herself that she could still make up her mind at the docks, she got in the lane for St. Ignace.

  She was immediately annoyed at her inability to keep to her clear-headed decision of five minutes earlier. She acknowledged the slippery slope: by taking that exit she’d be getting on a ferry to the island. Lauren would certainly be disappointed in her.

  Emily swerved back, erratically crossing the diverging white lines, narrowly missing a swath of off-road sandy soil and a not-too-distant pine tree. A car horn’s retribution rattled her. She looked back and raised a shaky hand in apology. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, she took the curved on-ramp that went west into the Upper Peninsula toward Wisconsin.

  Her heart beating rapidly, breathing heavily, Emily felt the adrenaline easing after a few minutes. Then she resisted a spate of grief—the realization that she and John were done.

  She knew her emotions couldn’t be fended off forever, like blood from a gash held closed by hand pressure. Her arms began to quaver uncontrollably. She drove through a traveler’s strip of food, fuel, and lodgings and pulled into a gas station, parking off to the side near the restrooms.

  Her sight blurred. Though theirs hadn’t been much of a relationship, they’d had a life together in her regular reveries where complications were easily dismissed. Instead of letting tears flow, she clamped down on her heartache. John had not allowed her to cry for Nicholas, so she wasn’t about to cry for John now.

  When she had gotten teary-eyed that awful morning, after her shock and disbelief had subsided, as they stood in the surgical room where a sheet barely covered Nicholas’s head, John lashed out: “Get a hold of yourself, Emily. This is going to happen. You work in a field that deals with death. If you can’t handle it, find another occupation.” That day she swallowed an immense grief and later recognized a change in herself, a hardening she did not care for.

  These feelings of unresolved sorrow and anger now spun inside her as in a centrifuge, and a physical illness emerged, an empty sickness with her stomach retreating. It overwhelmed her body, and she felt herself losing control. She burst from the car and toward the restroom. Be unlocked! Be unlocked!

  She pushed the door and it opened. Disregarding her genuine fear of germs, she dove straight for the toilet and heaved. Barely anything came out since she had skipped breakfast. Her stomach contracted twice more but she produced nothing but thick spittle.

  She stood and leaned against the wall. Exhausted. Embarrassed. But alone.

  After a minute she regained her equilibrium and walked over to the sink and rinsed her mouth violently. Seeing herself in the murky mirror, she nearly cried. She wiped her face with a rough paper towel.

  Outside in the midday sun, she stopped and inhaled deeply, expecting a dose of exhaling forest. But instead she gathered in a noxious breath of gasoline fumes. So she walked over to the edge of the property, against the gentle southern breeze, and stepped over a curb into the midst of cedar trees. She took in a slow, sweet breath.

  Walk into the woods and continue on . . .

  Back at the car, Emily brushed off the small cedar bits clinging to her sweater. She concentrated on the positive in her life—her upcoming residency at Lincoln Presbyterian Hospital in Chicago, the finest children’s hospital in the Midwest. Work hard and do good there, she kept telling herself.

  Feeling better, though exhausted, she got back on the highway toward Wisconsin, leaving John and Mackinac Island behind. Lake Michigan soon disappeared behind a forest that lined both sides of the road. Not long after, a clearing in the road and a sign appeared. Lynnie’s Pasties. A red banner below read: The Best Pasties East of 94. A native of northern Wisconsin, Emily knew about the baked pastry crusts filled with meat and vegetables, and how to pronounce the word properly (with a short “a”). But unlike in Wisconsin where pasties were a novelty item, here they were a staple, a part of the UP’s identity. It was the name, “Lynnie,” her favorite aunt’s name, that grabbed her attention. And, feeling a bit peckish, she pulled into the empty parking lot.

  After she ate half a pasty, her appetite stalled. John kept circling in her mind. Nothing had changed in his world yet, and she contemplated it all over again. Instead of letting the thought metastasize, she pulled out her phone and found the number for the inn on Mackinac. She spoke with the innkeeper and asked him to pass a message to John: “Please tell him that Emily won’t be able to make it.” There. Done. No going back. She got in her car and drove off, through the split in the forest, five hours away from Appleton.

  But John’s reaction to that message—and her imaginary dialogue with him—played continuously in her head, so she turned to the radio for a distraction. Searching for a clear station, she encountered two old women gabbing. She wondered what they could possibly be discussing worthy of a radio slot.

  “I’m not snobby. Anyway, this is sort of a perfect segue for ‘Knitting Time.’”

  “You forgot to press the button,” the other whispered.

  “Oh dear.”

  Music came on.

  “Now let’s talk about knitting.”

  They sang: “It’s knitting time, it’s knitting time. Knit, purl, ravel, unravel. It takes time, but it will be fine. It’s knitting time.”

  The music stopped.

  “Okay, Doris, we received a question from a listener in Naubinway. An email.”

  “Oh, I love getting email!”

  “Oh yes, me too!”

  “Though I hope people don’t stop handwriting letters. Those are nice to receive too.”

  “Yes, I completely agree. You know, Doris, it’s becoming a lost art.”

  “Yes, yes, I do know. In fact, my grandson—”

  “Which one?”

 
; “Ronnie.”

  “Okay. Ronnie is twelve.”

  “Yes, that’s right. Thank you. Would you believe he can barely write in cursive?”

  “Oh dear.”

  “But he can certainly type fast. Faster than me. And I used to be a secretary!”

  “It is a changing world.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that it is.”

  “Though I’m glad for email because I don’t think I’d ever hear from my grandson in college if there weren’t email.”

  “Yes. So what’s the question from Naubinway, Evelyn?

  Emily sorted out which was which. Doris had the uneven, slow voice. Evelyn had the slightly raspy voice.

  “Oh, right, I almost forgot.” Evelyn giggled. “Here it is—oh, gosh, my screen just went blank. Let me—”

  “Move the black thingy.”

  “The mouse—yes, I’m moving it.”

  “And press the buttons.”

  “All right, here we go. It’s back.”

  “Oh good. Computers can be such confounding things.”

  “Yes. Okay, let me read this before the screen disappears again: ‘Dear Doris and Evelyn, do you ever use bamboo needles? What are the pros and cons?’”

  “Okay, yes, I do use bamboo needles, and I like them.”

  “Yes, I love them.”

  “But I don’t like them when I first buy them because they have a kind of dry friction. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “They’ll slow you down like wood. Now over time as they get use, they become smooth, slick.”

  “We’re still talking about knitting, right?”

  “Oh my gosh, Evelyn, you are so wicked.”

  Amused and distracted, Emily listened to the two chatty old ladies as she drove.

  Chapter Five

  Mark emerged sheepishly from under his jacket. The car was parked on the shoulder, less than a hundred yards from the toll booth. He muttered a groveling apology.

  “No problem. You’re not the only one.”

  “How many times do you do this every month? Five? Ten?”