“In a month? We get two, three a day. More if the weather’s bad.”
“Really?” His shame eased, but only slightly.
“Yep,” the man said, handing over the keys and getting out.
Mark stepped out of the car. Beyond a wide lawn sat two buildings, the closest with a stately brownstone exterior and expansive windows. With the toll station and the official-looking buildings and the two state troopers parked beyond the booths, Mark felt more like he was entering another country than the other half of the same state.
“There’s this truck driver who comes every few weeks,” the man commented. “Can’t drive over. He jumps into the sleeper and ducks under a blanket.”
“Really? Wow.” He raised his hand to wave goodbye. “Thanks again.”
Back in the car, Mark reached behind his seat and grabbed the urn, then buckled it in the passenger seat again.
Having happily paid the $4 toll, he felt his shame quickly dissipated. The release of his fear and anxiety launched him into rapture. Passing the Welcome to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula sign, Mark exclaimed, “We’re across!” and pounded the steering wheel, giddy. “Yes, with some help,” he admitted out loud, “but the point is, we’re on our way to Manistique.” He drove onto the ramp, a 270-degree turn that took him west on Highway 2.
What were you doing way up here, Vivian? Trying to get away from it all? If that’s what you were going for, you succeeded.
Approaching a house with a sign reading, The Best Pasties East of 94, Mark wondered what a pasty was and how far it was to 94. Laura came to mind. If she were with him she would have forced him to stop there. She loved trying new foods, and as much as he resisted, he often found himself in front of some new or unusual cuisine. A Ukrainian/French-Canadian fusion restaurant was the last place they’d eaten together. It wasn’t so bad.
Soon the buildings grew sparse. White-painted houses emerged here and there in clearings at the edge the forest lining the road. Businesses were separated by miles, and some were open, some abandoned. A motel. A bar. A gift shop. A restaurant. Lake Michigan appeared again, disappeared, and then continued to come and go between the pines and cedars.
“Why didn’t you answer my letter in high school?” Mark glanced over at the urn as if he expected a response. “I really wanted to go on an aid trip. Mom said I couldn’t, but I wrote hoping you’d give me some advice or encourage me to do it anyway. Maybe suggest a place near you.”
He was silent for a minute and then went on. “I tried contacting you after Mom died. Belgian MSF said you no longer worked there. Doctors Without Borders didn’t have any record of you. I tried all the offices. Finally I found you at—what was it called? Christian World Care? I can’t remember. They said they would get the message out to you. But I’m thinking you never got it.”
He stopped talking, wondering if Vivian did get his message and just didn’t care. It was certainly possible. Vivian and his mother had never gotten along, that he did know. But he didn’t know why, and whenever he queried his mother about anything to do with her sister, she was reticent at best, hostile at worst.
The silence in the car felt odd, so Mark reached for the radio. A clear AM station immediately came through, and at first he tuned out, thinking he was hearing a commercial for a denture adhesive or arthritis cream or some such thing. But the same two voices went on too long and then shifted to a different topic entirely. Two old women chatting on the radio. He’d expected a fishing report or hunting talk but not this. He was intrigued.
“Her migraines are triggered by strong scents, so I stopped using Pine-Sol.”
“I love the smell of Pine-Sol. If I don’t smell the pine I don’t think it’s clean. Plain and simple.”
“So you want my friend to have a migraine.”
“No, of course not.”
“Well then you have to stop using it.”
“Who is she? Maybe she never comes over to my house.”
“Hold on. Let me find the mute button thing. Okay. Hold on.”
It was silent for several seconds.
“No, she never comes over. So I’m fine.”
“But what if she did come over, or someone else with the same problem? More and more people are having migraines.”
“Evelyn, you want me to stop using Pine-Sol because Su—I mean, someone who gets migraines might come over to my house?”
“Yes.”
“I think that’s crazy.”
They squabbled about it for another minute. Then they changed topics but soon enough they were politely bickering again. Another topic, another quarrel, including a conflict over the opening of a new Mexican restaurant in town. Neither had gone yet, though each claimed to have better credentials for judging its authenticity. One said she was qualified because her son lived in California, and every time she visited him, she ate at a Mexican restaurant. The other asserted her superiority because she’d taken a Caribbean cruise in 1998 that included a stop in Mexico.
Mark found Doris and Evelyn to be entertaining, despite not caring about any of the topics they discussed.
“Did I tell you? I ordered my new spinning wheel,” Doris said.
“Oh, Doris, tell me you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did, and I’m not ashamed.”
“You bought the Babe Bulky wheel?”
“Yes, ma’am. And I like it.”
“The wheel is plastic!”
“It was within my budget, and it really does the job. And I’m not limited to small bobbins.”
“Some people think it’s ugly.”
“Well I’m going to decorate it.”
“You are?”
“Yes, and it will look fabulous and personal when I’m done.”
“Let’s talk about it when you’ve finished.”
“Sure, but you don’t always have to be so snobby.”
“I’m not snobby. Anyway, this is sort of a perfect segue for Knitting Time.”
A few seconds into a song about knitting, Mark found his limit with them and turned off the radio. A half hour later, after a long run through forests filled with evergreens and the occasional stand of white trunks, past more buildings off the highway, then a clearing, Lake Michigan appeared once again. Mark passed by several motels and a grocery store before seeing a large sign: Manistique.
“Here we are, Vivian. Back home.”
He turned right at the corner of a car dealership and made his way into downtown. He turned again when he reached Cedar Street and decided to check out the town before going to Vivian’s house. Manistique was the largest town he had encountered on his drive through the UP.
He parked on the street and got out to stretch his legs, taking a good look around this downtown area and considering the economics of the place. He always wondered how people survived this far away from a large city or industry. Tourism?
Several older people roamed the sidewalks, some with walkers and canes, and even one lady on a scooter. Mark wondered if this was some kind of retirement community, but who would retire up here willingly? This wasn’t a warm place like Arizona or Florida. Wanting to get a better feel for the town his aunt had led him to, he walked around, weaving past the other pedestrians, eventually landing in Jake’s Bar, which had a Green Bay Packers banner hanging outside.
“Packer fans, huh?” Mark said to the bartender after sitting down.
“What else?”
“I would have figured Lions.”
The bartender snickered. “The trolls cheer for the cats . . . Where are you from buddy?”
“Chicago—well, Oak Park really, just outside.”
“Sorry, but I hate the Bears.”
“Will you still serve me a beer?”
The bartender laughed. “Sure, but only during off-season.”
Mark laughed. “Lucky for me, then. What do you have on tap?”
The bartender told him, and Mark asked for the Canadian brew.
“Visiting or just passing through?”
&nbs
p; Mark sighed. “Sort of both—my aunt lived here. She just passed away.”
“Oh I’m sorry to hear that. What’s your aunt’s name?”
“Vivian Peregrine.”
The bartender looked away for a moment and thought. “No, I don’t think I knew her. Did she live here full time?”
Mark nodded, “Yeah, mostly.” He lowered his voice. “So I noticed a lot of older people walking around. Is this some kind of retirement community?”
The bartender laughed and shook his head. “No, they’re part of a tour group. They visit every Indian casino in the UP. There’s one a couple miles east of here.”
Mark had seen it. The bartender wiped the counter, walked over to the other side of the bar, and returned promptly with Mark’s beer.
“Thanks.” He took a drink. “So is there a real estate office around here you can recommend?”
“Well there’s only one in town.” He pointed. “It’s one street over. Block Properties. My cousin Ron is an agent there. Tell him I sent you.”
“Okay, I will.”
“You thinking of selling your aunt’s place?”
Mark nodded. “Don’t know what else I’d do with it.”
“You should consider keeping it. This is a nice getaway in the summer. Lots of people vacation up here. They come up from Wisconsin or downstate.”
“I thought you guys hated people from downstate.”
The bartender smiled. “They’re not all bad. The ones who’ve had places up here a while are all right.”
Mark asked more about the town, and the bartender told him about the paper mill, the largest employer. Mark remembered reading about the mill, originally built in 1920 to produce newsprint. There were rumors about the plant closing, the bartender said.
Mark finished his beer. Before leaving he asked, “You guys serve food here?”
“Yeah, grilled chicken, burgers, fries, salad, and coleslaw. We do a boiled hamburger with cole slaw dressing. It’s our specialty.”
“Boiled?”
“Yeah.”
“Never heard of a boiled burger.”
“It’s juicy. It’s good if you’re in the mood for something different.”
“Sounds intriguing. I’ll be back later.” He finished his last bit of beer, thanked the man, and left.
Back in his car, Mark looked at a map on his phone. Vivian’s house was not far. 545 Lake Street. A right on Walnut, a left on Maple, a right on Main, and right on Lake.
He drove off unsure what awaited him.
Mark came to a stop when he reached 545 Lake Street. The house was a light blue Victorian on a corner lot. Two wooden signposts on the park strip made him wonder if Vivian had already planned to sell the house before she went to the hospital. He wrapped the corner onto Cherry Street, parking in front of the detached garage.
When he got out, he noticed a board leaning against the side of the garage. It looked like a sign, and he thought it might be the real estate sign. But it wasn’t. Manistique Victorian. It meant nothing to him, except perhaps that this was a historic home.
Mark retrieved the urn from the car and strolled down the sidewalk toward the corner of the property. He absorbed the neighborhood with a sweeping glance. The other houses were white or washed-out hues and sat on one-third-acre lots with scraggly pines and windswept oaks scattered about patchy lawns. The houses floated amid fenceless properties, drifting toward and away from the steepled church at the northern end of Lake Street.
Vivian’s house stood out with its manicured row of bushes and wide, welcoming lawn next to the house where a balsam fir stood tall in perfect Christmas tree form.
On his phone, Mark looked up the real estate office in Manistique and called. He had already forgotten the name of the bartender’s cousin and said to the woman who answered the phone, “Sorry, I forgot the agent’s name, but his cousin bartends at Jake’s.”
“Ron.”
“Ron. That’s it.”
“Did you meet Mikey at the bar?”
“Yeah, that’s right. He recommended Ron.”
“Isn’t he great?”
“Who—Ron?” Mark asked, perplexed. “I haven’t met him.”
“No, Mikey.”
“Oh. Sure, I suppose so.”
“Best bartender in all Manistique.”
“What about Jake?”
“Who’s Jake?”
“Isn’t that the name of the bar?”
She giggled. “You’re funny. I’ll get Ron for you.”
He told Ron his story, including the part about Vivian’s possibly having a real estate agent already. They agreed to meet at Jake’s for lunch the next day. He felt suddenly better, now that things—something at least, after his rotten start in Petoskey—had started to move.
After taking in a deep breath of cool, fresh air and exhaling, Mark marched up the front path to the house and climbed the steps to the wooden porch. When he reached the door he inserted the key. A thought struck him before he turned it. What if Vivian had a someone living with her? He rang the doorbell. There was no answer. He knocked loudly. Still no answer, so he turned the key and opened the door. The house exhaled scents of cinnamon and orange. Not at all what he had expected, and he felt uneasy at once—in a stranger’s house in a strange place.
He stepped into an open space with rich brown, wood flooring. Straight ahead, a staircase made a left quarter-turn up to the second floor. To the left, a cozy living room with a fireplace. Two overstuffed couches on a soft rug faced each other with a tufted leather ottoman/coffee table in between. Next to the living room was a dining table, and to the right of the front door was a carpeted sitting room. It was a bit more formal, wallpapered, furnished with two wingback chairs, a leather sofa, and a console table with a phone and what looked to be business cards in an upright tray. He grabbed a card.
WiFi name: MVBB
Password: Monistique
He wondered how often people came to Vivian’s house that she’d prepared instructions for the WiFi. He put the card in his back pocket.
Passing through the living room and to the fireplace, he set the urn and the front door key on the mantel. On the walls hung photographs of gentle scenes: an autumn grove of birch trees, a stream, the face of a cliff. Beautiful and serene. He shook his head. He had expected a stale-smelling, disheveled house with photographs of children with missing limbs or of a gap-toothed, smiling old man standing next to his hut.
Next to the base of the stairs was a glass-paneled door, closed. He walked over and peeked through the window before going inside. He still felt uneasy, as if this might be the wrong house, and he had to keep reminding himself that the key had fit the lock. The room was a small den, a library with the stale odor of books. Two large bookshelves and a couch with a book flared open on, its cover displayed: History of the Ottawa and Chippewa Indians of Michigan. He picked it up and started reading, unconsciously sinking down to sit on the couch.
Forty pages later, Mark stood and stretched his legs. He continued his exploration of the house. Past the dining room table, through a stiff swinging door, he entered a small kitchen with oak cabinets, a light gray countertop, and an old gas stove. Against the far wall was a half-windowed back door, and through the sheer curtain, he could see the detached garage. A couple of steps away, perpendicular to the back door was another door. He opened it, pulling toward him, revealing stairs down to a dark basement.
He flipped the light switch and found downstairs a laundry room, and then, past a short wall, a large open space, mostly empty. Besides a few boxes stacked along the side, the room had only a couch, coffee table, and a stand with a small television. He walked into another room, a fully furnished bedroom with its own bathroom. When he opened a closet door, dread struck him. The closet was full of clothes. Vivian does have someone living with her.
But then a thought crossed his mind, and he headed to the bathroom. Inside the medicine cabinet, among the bottles of over-the-counter pain reliever and eyedrops, he g
rabbed an amber pill bottle. He turned the bottle to read the label: Vivian Peregrine.
Chapter Six
Emily’s body tensed. She couldn’t make sense of it. As if puzzle pieces had been thrown at her, a scattered grotesque scene. She heard a scream. From the radio? She comprehended that she was still driving, but she’d entered a liminal state, between dreamlike catatonia and real life. She knew that she was being assaulted somehow, everything moving in a thousand still frames progressing to . . . How did the windshield burst? Why was a deer galloping alongside the car?
She stopped screaming and slowed the car as the deer stumbled off to the opposite side of the road. She pulled over, breathing heavily. Comprehension streamed back into her.
When Emily loosened her tight grip on the steering wheel, her hands shook. She noticed her rapid heartbeat. As the adrenaline slowly subsided, she stepped out of the car to survey the damage. The windshield on the driver’s side was shattered. The side mirror hung loosely, held only by a spiral cable. Then she looked back across the road to where the deer was lying about fifty yards away. She turned around, covering her face with her hands.
When she looked back up, she saw a car heading west, an old, cream-colored sedan. It slowed. The driver, a scraggly fortysomething, seemed to take in Emily’s lost stare, then looked ahead at the deer, passed it, and sped away.
Inside the car, pieces of glass were scattered all over the dashboard and seat. She used a book to brush the glass off the old leather before sitting down. She quickly determined it would be impossible to drive the car to the nearest town.
She wasn’t sure who to call. Her dad? Two hundred miles away. She looked at the time. A quarter past two. John would have gotten her message. She wasn’t going to call him unless it was absolutely necessary. It didn’t matter. Her phone read No Service.
An SUV heading in the opposite direction slowed, then turned around, pulling in just behind Emily’s car. A man got out. A woman sat in the passenger seat.
“Are you all right, miss?” He had a gray beard and soft eyes.
Emily nodded, “I think so.” She felt a sting in her eye. Moving her eye around slowly, she noticed the deer twitching. Emily turned away and screamed, “It’s still alive!”
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