Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  After piling wood on top of the fireplace grate, Mark poked around the kitchen, looking for matches. He found some in a drawer, then grabbed two small brown paper bags to use as tinder. Back in the living room, he crumpled the paper bags and shoved them under the grate.

  He struck a match and lit the bags. Shoving the matchbox into his pocket, he stood back and folded his arms, watching the bag flash into a quick burn, hoping that the logs would catch.

  There was a single knock on the door before it opened. Bear Foot came inside and said, “Everything is taken care of out there.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What’s this?” Bear Foot said pointing at the fireplace.

  “Trying to get the fire going,” Mark replied, abashed by the listless flame.

  “That’s too much wood in there to start.”

  “Oh.” Mark leaned over and grabbed two of the logs.

  “Don’t burn yourself,” he said, laughing.

  Mark smiled and nodded, even more embarrassed. He placed the logs back on the rack.

  “I’ll go out and find some twigs.” He left.

  Mark couldn’t remember the last time he had made a fire. Maybe never. His mother always bought artificial logs. And he had lived in an apartment since. Bear Foot was getting a big laugh out of this, he thought. City Boy couldn’t even start a fire.

  He bent down and watched the bags dissolve into thin black wisps, still hoping that the logs would spontaneously ignite and vindicate him. Alas, there was hardly a scar on the wood when Bear Foot returned holding a bundle of twigs in the crook of his arm. Mark stepped aside as Bear Foot set the twigs down and moved the remaining logs to the side. He stuck his head all the way inside the fireplace. “Good thing you didn’t get this fire going,” Bear Foot said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “This is closed.” He pulled on a lever; which made a low scraping sound.

  “Do you have any newspaper or whatever you used here?”

  “Paper bags.”

  “That will do.”

  Mark went back into the kitchen and found larger brown bags from the grocery store. He grabbed a couple and jogged back to the living room.

  Bear Foot ripped the bags into strips, covering the grate with it. Then he layered the twigs, and set the two logs on top.

  Mark dug into his pocket. “You need a match? Or do you do have a couple of rocks?” He laughed.

  Bear Foot pulled out a lighter. “I’m good.” He flicked it and lit the bags.

  Mark shoved the matchbox back into this pocket and watched the fire easily move to the kindling.

  “Keep this fire going until tomorrow morning.”

  Mark nodded. He thought about buying some artificial logs. “Tomorrow, I’ll scatter her ashes on the lake.”

  “Which lake?”

  “Lake Michigan. Where else?”

  “There’s Indian Lake,” Bear Foot said.

  “Is that on some sort of reservation?”

  “No. Although lots of Indians did live there at one point. I mention it because she used to talk about her father taking her fishing there.”

  Mark nodded slowly. He liked the idea, the historical tie to Vivian’s heritage and the familial tie to his grandfather. “How far away is it?”

  “Only a couple miles.”

  “Do you know if I can rent a boat there?”

  Bear Foot shook his head. “That lake is shallow—can be a little tricky. You need to know your way around. I can borrow a boat and take you. We can go tomorrow if want.”

  “Yeah, that would be great. Thanks. What time works for you?”

  Bear Foot thought for a moment. “How about in the morning? Ten o’clock?”

  Mark nodded. Bear Foot gave him directions: north on 94, left at the community center. “Then turn left on . . ." He grimaced and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “I can’t remember the name of the street. Just turn when you see the sign for the golf course, but go the other way. Go left. All the way down you’ll run into a boat slip next to the old Arrowhead Inn.”

  They walked to the door. Mark extended his hand, and they shook. “See you tomorrow then.”

  Bear Foot nodded and left.

  Mark closed the front door and headed back into the parlor. All right, Peter Hinton. He dialed the number again. No answer. Nothing. No way to leave a message, either. Damn.

  Mark walked out of the parlor when he heard steps coming down the stairs. “Finding everything okay?” he asked.

  Emily nodded. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s a nice room.”

  “Good. I need to run to the grocery store. Do you want anything?”

  Emily shook her head and yawned. “No. Thanks.”

  “Okay. I’ll be back. Make yourself at home.” He started to turn to leave.

  “Oh wait! Actually, I do need something.”

  “What?”

  “Tampons.”

  “Seriously?”

  “No. Just getting you back from earlier.”

  “What did I do earlier?”

  “Really?”

  Mark shrugged and went into the kitchen. He hastily checked the cupboards and the refrigerator and left.

  Chapter Ten

  The long day whirled and banged around inside Emily’s head. The deer. Ditching John. The long drive. The deer. The damaged car. Deer-car. Mark. John. Mark. Deer. Mark . . .

  His aunt had really picked him to be in charge? He seemed wholly unprepared for running a B&B. Too blunt. Too abrupt. Not . . . not congenial enough. Irreverent. Weird. John Cleese? What was that all about? Maybe he was the only one available. Not creepy, though—that was a plus. Tried hard to be charming. Too hard, really. Maybe that usually worked for him. Older. Reminded her a bit of Kyle, but only a bit. Still . . .

  Emily walked upstairs. To find what? She didn’t really know. She walked by her own room, the door closed. The Mighty Mac, said a small plaque on the door that she hadn’t noticed before. The next room had a name too: Indian Lake. The door was open and she walked in. It was similar to her room except the walls were painted a soothing gray-blue. Like her room, this one had two windows. She opened the drawers to a tall, narrow dresser. Empty. The nightstand drawer had a Gideon Bible and a thin phonebook. The next room, the Breakwater Lighthouse, was narrower and longer with one large window that faced the front of the house. Three walls in this room were painted beige and one a wagon red. An elegant cream-colored coverlet whose bottom quarter was the same red as the wall was spread over the bed. Nothing unusual there, either. She continued to the last room, Lake Michigan. This was the largest of the rooms, with the same beige on three walls and one dark blue wall. But again nothing. No personal items to be found. Where’s Mark’s stuff? Where does his aunt sleep?

  Emily headed downstairs to search for another room. But there was only the library. She knew there was a basement. She had seen a window outside a couple feet off the ground. She opened a door. Closet. She laughed at herself and moved on. In the kitchen she found the door that led to the basement. Flicking the light switch, she gingerly stepped down. Her imagination ran vividly, a horror movie playing in her mind where she was about to make some weird, Psycho-esque discovery . . . Mark’s dead aunt in a rocking chair.

  “Hello,” she said loudly, though she didn’t really expect a reply.

  The basement was cool with a faint smell of bleach. She walked by a laundry room, and then a large, carpeted area with a television and then a bedroom with a full bathroom. Emily opened the closet and found women’s clothing. She closed it immediately, feeling silly for being so paranoid and ashamed for snooping around.

  She scanned the stack of books on the nightstand (other people snooped in medicine cabinets, but Emily was always curious about their books). Under the Volcano was the top book, but it was the second book that she immediately grabbed: Doctors on the Borderline. She turned to the back. A book about doctors in MSF who struggled. A sign? she wondered. The counterargument to Lauren’s book? Too astounded by the
coincidence, she flipped it open.

  Six stories in the table of contents. One stood out. “Still in Sarajevo,” by Vivian Peregrine. Emily had been born in Sarajevo and came to the United States during the siege in 1992. She immediately flipped to page 132.

  THE MISSION

  “There is an urgent need in Sarajevo,” Marie told me over the phone. (Marie was my contact at the MSF office in Belgium.) Do you know anyone? she asked. Her tone gave her away, but I played along, asking her casually to tell me about the situation there. It wasn’t a gesture. I really didn’t know. Despite living and working in places that regularly made the news, I never kept up with the affairs of the rest of the world. It depressed me too much to know about all of the places in dire need—and you couldn’t accuse me of being selfishly insensitive.

  “The Mission” was about a three-week assignment in the city of Sarajevo, early on during the siege of the city in 1992. The doctor had recently returned from Sri Lanka, and restlessly annoyed with civilian life in London, accepted the new assignment.

  With her finger marking her place, Emily dropped to the floor. She rested her back against the wall and continued reading.

  It was ten or fifteen minutes later when she heard a car door slam. Though she had devised an excuse in case she was caught in the basement (“I was looking for some tape”), it was flimsy. So she rushed to finish reading the section called “Welcome to Hell,” in which a man named Ratko was driving Vivian to Sarajevo at dusk.

  “We are going through an area with snipers, so go down. I will be driving fast, but no worry.”

  I obeyed him and saw nothing more. The last bit of the ride was turbulent, with uneven roads and sharp turns. When I popped back up, we were parked near a yellow building vanishing in the darkening landscape. “This is it,” he said. It was the back entrance of the hotel.

  The Holiday Inn was home to most foreign journalists. Marie had told me that local MSF volunteers could either put me up or find me a place, but I decided on the Holiday Inn since I wouldn’t be staying very long and someone had recommended it, especially as a place to get information.

  “You go through there,” he said, pointing to a door riddled with bullet holes.

  “Will I get shot at?”

  “Not likely, but you should run. I run behind you with your things.”

  It did cross my mind that he might take off in his car with my suitcase. But there was nothing of value to him in there. Plus I still had the other half of the fare to pay him.

  My experience with the siege was starting. A run to the back door of a hotel, perhaps in the sights of a sniper. I laughed nervously before counting to three, taking a deep breath, and making a run for it.

  Emily hastily set the book back in place and scurried up the stairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  Rushing through and out of the kitchen and around the dining table, Emily grabbed the top magazine on the coffee table in the living room and landed on the couch. She turned to a random page waiting for the front door to open. A gentle fire in the fireplace and Emily casually reading a magazine—she blew out a laugh at the ridiculous contrast, that doctor dodging snipers and her dodging Mark so she wouldn’t be caught snooping around.

  A scuffling came from the kitchen. “I’m back.”

  “Need any help?” she asked as a throwaway gesture.

  His head popped out of the kitchen. “Sure. You can help unload the stuff from the bags. I’ve got more bags in the car.”

  “Oh, okay.” She chuckled under her breath. He sure lacked the fawning sensibilities of an innkeeper. For $25 a night, though, she couldn’t complain. She did admire his casualness with her. She’d been a complete stranger only a few hours earlier.

  Emily tossed aside the magazine and got up. In the kitchen, she started unloading the plastic bags.

  Flour, sugar, two loaves of bread, vanilla, bacon, sausages, eggs, fruit, milk, orange juice.

  Mark returned with two more bags. “All right, we have enough for breakfast now.”

  “How many people are you expecting?” she asked incredulously.

  Mark smiled. “I know, I know. I got a bit carried away, but I didn’t know what you liked. Plus, there wasn’t much food in the house.”

  “I didn’t realize my special rate came with breakfast.”

  “Of course, this is a bed and breakfast, after all.”

  He opened a cabinet, closed it, opened the next, and stuck the cereal inside.

  The doorbell rang.

  Mark kept putting things away.

  “Did you hear the doorbell?” she asked.

  “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

  A broken laugh came out of Emily. “Seriously? You don’t answer the door if you’re not expecting them?”

  “Pretty much. Yeah.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  He put the eggs in the refrigerator. “No. Usually unexpected people at the door are just soliciting.”

  There was a knock.

  “But this is a bed and breakfast.”

  “It’s my aunt’s bed and breakfast.”

  “Well wouldn’t your aunt want you to open the door?”

  “She’s not here, and I’m not taking any other guests. It’s not open for business.”

  “Is that why you took so long to answer when I was at the door?”

  Mark stopped, his eyes flitting over her. He shrugged.

  Emily frowned. “You weren’t planning on answering the door, were you? That’s what took you so long to answer.”

  “But I did, and look at the trouble you’re putting me through.”

  “I’m not any trouble. Maybe that friend of yours who starts fires.”

  “You mean Bear Claw?” He smiled.

  She shook her head. “It’s not funny anymore.”

  “I guess not.” Then he laughed. “No, it’s still a little funny.” He dramatically pulled out a package from the bag and held it up. “Didn’t you ask for these?”

  Bear claws. She answered him with a wry laugh.

  He grinned and grabbed a gym bag that was on the floor next to the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He headed down the basement steps, his laughter reverberating.

  Emily stood in the kitchen, wondering how to get back to Doctors on the Borderline. She wanted to read more about Vivian and Sarajevo.

  There was another knock, and then she heard the door creak open.

  “Hello?” someone said.

  Emily rushed out of the kitchen. A man in his seventies stood in the entry, the door still open behind him. He was wearing black sneakers and dark slacks. He would have probably measured around five-eleven, but his hunched posture stole an inch or two.

  “Oh, hello,” he said. “Is this the Manistique . . ." He fidgeted his fingers in the air. “Darn it! I’ve forgotten. Is this a hotel?”

  “Um, yes it is, but—”

  The man turned around and waved good-naturedly. He shut the door. Through the window, Emily watched a car drive away.

  “Phew,” he said, turning back to Emily, wiping imaginary perspiration off his forehead. “I didn’t just barge into someone’s house. That would have been embarrassing.” He pointed behind him. “I rang the doorbell several times.” He said it a bit testily.

  “I’m not the owner.”

  “You’re not Vivian?”

  “Vivian?” Emily echoed, stunned by the name. “What Vivian?” The image flashed in her head of a doctor running toward a hotel pockmarked with bullet holes.

  “The owner. Isn’t her name Vivian?”

  Mark’s aunt’s name was Vivian, too, she remembered. Emily let out a little nervous laugh. “No, I’m only a guest here.”

  The man’s eyebrows lifted. “My suitcase. I left it outside,” he said, turning towards the door.

  Emily tilted her head towards the kitchen, hoping to hear Mark coming. Where is he? She started that way when the man said, “I sure hope there’s a vacancy.” She stopped and watched as the
man stepped gingerly into the house carrying a leather-trimmed fabric suitcase. “Do you know?”

  “Ummm . . ."

  He set down his suitcase and closed the door. “Uh oh.”

  Emily turned and called out for Mark.

  “Who’s Mark?”

  “The owner.”

  He sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “It’s allergies. The antihistamine must be wearing off.”

  Emily nodded. Mark’s not going to like this.

  “Is he Vivian’s husband?”

  Emily shook her head. “No. I only meant that Mark is in charge right now. The actual owner isn’t here right now.”

  “I only need a room for tonight.”

  Emily smiled and nodded absentmindedly.

  “That was my ride that just left,” the old man said, pointing back with his thumb. “Not that I have anywhere else to go,” he muttered.

  She turned around and yelled, “Mark!”

  Mark heard his name being called as he climbed the stairs from the basement. He caught a tinge of tension in Emily’s voice. She probably doesn’t like pulp in her orange juice, he thought. He walked briskly into the kitchen without finding her then went into the dining room and abruptly stopped.

  “Who are you?” he asked brusquely. He strode toward an old man with a suitcase by his side.

  “I need a room for tonight.”

  Mark took a halting step toward the man with a forced smile.

  “You really need to work on your hospitality etiquette,” Emily whispered.

  He turned his head, just enough to give her a slanted glare. Arm extended, gesturing for the man to turn and leave, Mark said, “I’m so sorry for the misunderstanding, but we’re not open for the season yet.”

  The old man’s brow furrowed. He pointed at Emily. “Isn’t she a guest?”

  Mark turned to glower at Emily.

  She demurred. “I didn’t let him in.”

  Back to the old man. “Cyclops here is a special case.”

  “Hey!” she protested.

  “We’re just not open yet for regular guests,” Mark finished.

  “I’ll pay extra,” he pleaded with dismal eyes. “I have nowhere to go. The hotel I was staying in is completely full.”