Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  “Sorry. Hold on.”

  “What’s going on? Hello?”

  “Found George.”

  “You did?”

  Mark cleared his throat. “Yeah, yeah. The trooper had picked him up.”

  “Oh good.” There was a commotion in the background. “What’s going on?”

  “The trooper knows you. We were just talking about your—” His voice was cut off.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. Never mind. Connection’s not good. We’ll be back in a few.”

  “Are you guys talking about me?”

  The call ended.

  Emily forcefully shut the medicine cabinet and left George’s room with an indignant edge. “They’re making fun of me,” she huffed, then went back to her room and made up her mind. She stuffed the few remaining items into her suitcase. As she lifted it off the bed, she saw the book on the nightstand. She grabbed it, thinking about stuffing it into her suitcase.

  A car door thudded closed, and she set the book back on the nightstand. Mark or his aunt might wonder how the book got into her room, but she didn’t care. She stomped down the stairs, setting the suitcase near the door.

  The front door opened a minute later. Mark stepped inside and held the door as George followed.

  “Good morning there,” George said sprightly to Emily.

  “Everything okay with you?”

  “Just fine,” he answered, his eyes glittering with youthful ignorance.

  Mark closed the door and looked at his watch. “We need to get going soon,” he said to George.

  George nodded. “Yes, indeed.” But he didn’t budge.

  “When you have your suitcase ready, call me. I’ll bring it down.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said and started for the stairs at his slow pace.

  Emily stared at Mark watching George go up the stairs. Her ire at him had subsided to annoyance. When George reached the top of the stairs and disappeared completely, Mark turned toward Emily. “So it turns out the trooper picked up George walking east on Highway 2 and was looking to bring him back to the house when he pulled me over.”

  “Why did he pull you over?”

  “For barely running a stop sign.”

  “He give you a ticket?”

  Mark shook his head. “No. I apologized and told him I was frantically looking for an elderly man. He immediately pointed to his car and asked if his passenger was the guy. Imagine my surprise . . . So why did you call me? The second time.”

  Emily’s head fell. She wanted to tell him about the Alzheimer’s medication she’d found, but some sort of twisted doctor-patient confidentiality ethic prevailed. She glanced back up and shook her head. “Why were you guys laughing at me?”

  “At you?” He waved his hand erratically, grinning. “No, nothing, just the whole situation. I’m just glad we found him.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get going soon—which reminds me. I’m so sorry about breakfast. There’s cereal and milk—and bear claws!”

  She pursed her lips. “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Mark headed toward the stairs. “Is that your suitcase? Looks like you’re rarin’ to get the heck out of Manistique.”

  “Sort of. Actually, do you think you can drop me off at the car dealership on your way?”

  “Sure.”

  “I should be there, make sure they’re actually working on the car.”

  Mark nodded. “That’s not a bad idea. Leave your suitcase here, though. I’ll give you a key. Hopefully, you’re gone by the time I get back.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No, no,” Mark said, his face flushing. “I mean I hope—you know what I mean.”

  Mark set the urn in the trunk of the car, positioning it snugly up against George’s suitcase and the wall of the trunk.

  “I really like that vase,” George remarked.

  Mark smiled and closed the trunk. “Ready to go?”

  George nodded. Emily was already in the back seat.

  “We’re going to drop Emily off at the car dealership,” Mark said as they got going.

  “You buying a new car?” George asked her.

  Emily snorted, “No.”

  Mark wasn’t sure of George’s game, whether he was playing along as if he hadn’t heard about her car or if this was something else.

  “A deer hit my car,” she continued.

  “What do you mean a deer hit your car? Were you driving?”

  Mark shuddered. Now the old man was simply being provocative.

  “Of course,” she exclaimed. “Deer don’t just run into parked cars, do they?”

  George shrugged. “I suppose not. You just have an unusual way of describing it. So what kind of damage did the deer do?”

  “The windshield is shattered, and the side mirror broke off. They had to get the windshield from another town.”

  Mark slammed the brakes. A loud thud came from the back of the car. “Sorry. It’s the same stop sign I missed earlier.”

  “It’s in an awful spot behind that tree,” Emily said.

  “And his bad memory,” George quipped.

  Emily laughed. “What’s in the trunk, anyway? A dead body?”

  Mark shook his head at both of them. “It’s the suitcase. I should have secured it better,” he said. Flashes of a cracked urn horrified him—George’s suitcase dusted with cremains!

  He made a gentle right turn toward town.

  “Where do you live, young lady?” continued George.

  ”Actually, I’m in between places. I’m heading to my parents’ house, but I’ll only be there for about a month.”

  “Do your parents live in the UP?”

  “No, they’re in Appleton.”

  “Appleton is a nice town. Where are you going after that?”

  “Chicago.”

  “She’s a doctor,” Mark added. He pulled into the dealer’s parking lot. “She’s starting her residency.”

  “Good for you. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you. It’s been a long journey,” she said, suddenly sounding exhausted. She opened the car door. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “Sure thing.”

  She got out but held the door open. “Where should I leave the key if you’re not back?”

  “Under the doormat is fine.”

  “Oh! I never paid you. How should I pay you?”

  Mark shook his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Really? But—”

  “Let’s just call it a graduation gift. Good luck with your car. Maybe we can catch up in Chicago.”

  “I’d like that. I’ll leave my number on the table.” She kept the door open for an extra second. They held each other’s gaze, as if more needed to be said before they parted for good. When she shut the door, the thud felt too permanent. He saw the future. Holding a piece of paper with her number but never calling her. Too awkward after so long. Hey, it’s me, Mark, the guy you stayed with in Manistique two months ago. Remember? I really should confess something . . .

  Mark watched Emily head into the dealership.

  “I didn’t pay you, either.”

  “Well I’m not really running a hotel, so it’s not a problem.”

  “I still feel like I owe you something.”

  “It’s okay. Really.” Getting everybody out of the house was a gift in itself, Mark wanted to say. He drove slowly out of the dealership and made a long left onto Highway 2.

  “That friend of yours is quite the catch,” George remarked.

  “Emily? No, no, she’s not my friend. She was just a guest at the house.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. I only meant that she’s impressive, being a doctor and all that. Kind of cute too. She’s bubbly.”

  “Sure, you can call it that.”

  “It’s not a bad thing in moderation. You’re not married, are you?”

  “No. And the fact that you spent the night at the house and not at the hotel makes me think I’ve made the right decision so far.
”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You should really consider things with her.”

  “Emily?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  “She’s not really my type.”

  “And what is your type?”

  Mark shook his head. “Look, there are certain things I can’t do in the morning, like drink pop or watch a movie, or talk about my likes and dislikes in women.”

  “Or gamble!”

  “Sure, that either,” he agreed, even though he’d never gambled. But if he did, he couldn’t possibly do it in the morning.

  “Well, I suggest you ponder it this afternoon, then.”

  “Sure,” he answered dismissively. “Here we are.” He slowed to turn left.

  “The bus isn’t even here yet,” George said.

  “Gives you time to smooth things over.”

  Mark parked in front of the lobby. He hurried to open the trunk before George got out. Relieved the urn was still intact, he pulled out George’s suitcase.

  “Thanks for everything.”

  “Sure thing. Good luck,” Mark said. Before he left, he secured the urn in the passenger seat.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mark, following the directions on his phone, drove a mile parallel to Lake Michigan, and then away from it as he headed north on a county road. The town quickly dissipated, giving way to farmland and forest on either side. A couple of miles from town, at a T-junction with a school-like building plopped on the corner, Mark turned west toward a forested area. Eventually homes appeared, at first between wooded lots, then more regularly, modest homes with spacious yards, a lakeside community, permanent homes for some, perhaps. A plywood sign in one of the empty lots was spray-painted: TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIOLATED.

  When he turned left onto Birch Street, still laughing about the sign, he caught a glimpse of the lake. Not far down the narrow road, the street met the water of Indian Lake at the boat ramp where Bear Foot had said to meet him.

  Mark parked on the shoulder, a few yards from where the road sharply curved left onto a lakeshore drive that cut in front of the homes there. He got out and looked about him; Indian Lake didn’t seem very large.

  “Well, here we are, Vivian,” he said aloud, tapping the urn. “Indian Lake. You’re Native American, huh? That sure was news to me.”

  To the right was a park, and where the grass stopped and a wooded area started, a series of old structures stood: wigwams of bark and logs, a small building, and a bell hanging from an open teepee-like structure. Atop the small building was a cross—a chapel. What was this place?

  Mark got out, unbuckled the urn from the passenger seat, and carried it with him. He walked along the road to a nearby sign that stood at front of the park. The sign had a long inscription:

  Near this site, on May 15, 1832, the Rt. Rev. Frederic Baraga, then a young Catholic missionary to the Indians, established and blessed his first church. A small building of logs and bark, it was built with the willing help of the Indians and dedicated “to the honor of God under the name and patronage of His Virginal Mother Mary.” Until his death in 1868 Father Baraga labored selflessly in an area from Minnesota to Sault Ste. Marie, from Grand Rapids to Eagle Harbor. World famous as a missionary, he became upper Michigan’s first Roman Catholic Bishop in 1853.

  With the urn securely tucked under his arm, Mark perused the dwellings and an exhibit of food and tools. At the small chapel, he pressed his head against the window and was enthralled by the colors inside produced by the stained glass window. He barely noticed a gap in the bushes where an arrowhead pointed innocuously to the Indian Cemetery. He stepped a bit cautiously into a small clearing surrounded by maples where a dozen rectangular boxes sat like wooden crypts. A few of them were small—children. He stayed back, fearing some curse on White Man Who Traipses over Native Burial Grounds, though he wasn’t really certain anyone was buried there.

  Back at the chapel he made his way across the large lawn. The view of the lake mostly obstructed by birch and oak trees. When he saw that the lawn extended into another clearing on the opposite side of the park, he walked there. The view opened up to the lake in front of a shrine to the Virgin Mary. From there it was a different lake, a much larger lake, miles and miles of water.

  Mark heard a truck engine echoing through the still morning and hurried back. The truck came from the other road, and sure enough, it was Bear Foot, towing a boat.

  Mark waved. Bear Foot acknowledged him with a quick nod, turned right on to Birch Street, and stopped when truck and trailer were in line with the ramp.

  “Good morning,” Mark called out.

  “Mornin’,” he said and started backing the boat down the ramp. Mark wasn’t afraid of water, but this was an aluminum skiff with an oversized outboard motor. It looked like a kid wearing grownup shoes.

  Across the street on the corner a slightly unkempt white house on a large lot caught his eye—or rather an arrowhead-shaped sign caught his eye. The Arrowhead Inn, obviously shuttered. Mark’s vigorous imagination revitalized and reopened this inn, returning it to the glory of summers past.

  He laughed at himself. He didn’t need a second inn—he didn’t even want the first one. But he suddenly felt wistful, and a yearning to open and run an inn like that captured, prodded, and yanked on him.

  Bear Foot got out and started untying the boat. Mark asked, “Can I help?”

  “Yep. You can back up the truck in a couple minutes.”

  “Sure.”

  “The keys are on the seat.”

  Mark got into the old truck with the urn, setting it down on the bench seat, then waited for Bear Foot to signal him.

  “Okay,” Bear Foot said, walking toward the dock holding a rope. “Nice and slow.”

  He backed up the truck slowly, Bear Foot in the sideview mirror directing him with a raised thumb. A few seconds later, his whole hand went up. “Stop,” he said.

  Mark put it in Park and got out. The back truck tires were just touching the water, the trailer submerged, the boat afloat. With the rope, Bear Foot guided the skiff, which tilted slightly backwards. He tied the boat to the dock and hopped out.

  “Should I pull the truck up?”

  “Hang on,” he said. He tugged on the starter.

  There were several tries, but nothing. Bear Foot turned around.

  “Darn. Motor’s not turning. It started earlier.”

  Mark leaned on the truck with his elbow. Bear Foot fidgeted around for a few minutes, tugging on the starter a few more times before putting up his hands.

  “It’s not starting,” he said in a disgusted tone. He pulled the boat back toward the trailer. “Pull the trailer out a few feet.”

  Mark got back into the truck and moved it up. “Is that good?”

  “Yep.”

  Bear Foot jumped into the water and muttered something.

  “Okay, pull it out onto the street,” he said a moment later.

  Mark drove it into the street and stopped. He grabbed the urn and got out, then approached Bear Foot, who was leaning down securing the boat to the trailer.

  “I’m very sorry,” Bear Foot said plaintively.

  “It’s not your fault. These things happen.”

  “It’s my friend’s boat, and he’s had some trouble with the motor lately. But I started it this morning, so I thought it would be fine.”

  “Maybe it’s a sign,” Mark said.

  “A sign? Of what?” he asked skeptically.

  Mark was taken aback, thinking Bear Foot would have been all over that. “I don’t know, just thought . . . it’ll be fine. I’ll just scatter the ashes from this dock here.”

  “No, that’s not far enough, the waves will bring her all to shore.” He stood up.

  There’s no her, Mark wanted to say. Just ashes . . .

  “Look over there,” Bear Foot pointed. “Providence.”

  Mark looked in the direction Bear Foot was pointing.


  “Three houses down.”

  Mark spotted a hull, upside down, sitting on the shore like a beached animal. “What is it?”

  “A paddleboat.”

  Mark wasn’t convinced that it was actually providence. Paddleboating with Bear Foot struck him as treacherous. He was a large man, and Mark himself was six feet. “You really think we’ll fit?”

  “It will be okay. You’ll see.”

  That’s what Mark was afraid of—finding out in the middle of Indian Lake that the boat didn’t support the two of them. Even if it was shallow, it looked cold.

  Bear Foot finished with the trailer and pulled the truck up near the Arrowhead Inn sign.

  Mark met him in the street. “Hey, is that cemetery over there real?”

  Bear Foot nodded. “The buildings are reproductions.”

  “Interesting.”

  They started down the street. When they got to the house, Bear Foot headed toward the water.

  “Wait. Shouldn’t we ask first?”

  “They won’t mind.”

  “You know them?”

  “No, but it’s okay. You can go up to the door and knock if you’d like.”

  With Chicago sensibilities in mind, Mark walked up to the house, a charming cottage—white with blue trim, a hipped roof, and a pleasant front porch. He knocked on the door, holding the urn in his arm, ready to explain his situation. But Bear Foot had already started overturning the capsized paddleboat. Luckily, no one answered.

  By the time Mark reached the lake, Bear Foot had already dragged the boat into the water and was gingerly stepping in. The front of the boat listed, planted on the small rocks near shore. Mark handed Bear Foot the urn, who laid it down in the back where there were seats for two more passengers. Then Mark stretched, setting one foot in, but he lost his balance and his other foot landed in the water.

  “Whoa!” Bear Foot exclaimed.

  “Dang it!” Mark quickly pulled his leg out and fell into the boat. He laughed. “I’m a klutz.”

  “Water’s cold, huh?” Bear Foot said.

  “Yeah.”

  The boat had mostly evened out, but now it was really planted into the rocky shore.

  “Let’s see if we can go,” Bear Foot said. He began pedaling in reverse. Mark helped.

  They started moving, but barely, the paddle blade scraping against the bottom. Finally they cleared the shore and reached deeper water, turned around and headed into the lake.