Stuck in Manistique

by Dennis Cuesta

  There was a confused look on his face. “With what?” He glanced down as if the question were about his book.

  Mark laughed softly. Was he joking? “Why didn’t you get on the bus? Did you have another argument with your wife?”

  “My wife? Why would you say that? No, the bus left at nine.”

  “What? I thought it was at ten thirty.”

  “That’s what I thought too!”

  Mark shook his head. “And they left without you?”

  He nodded. “Even worse, my wallet is missing, so I can’t stay at the hotel. I had nowhere else to go, so I came back here.”

  Mark struggled between being touched and being annoyed. “Have you called her?”

  “I did, but no one answered.” He sneezed.

  “Bless you.”

  “It’s allergies.” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I just took an antihistamine, so hopefully that’ll help.”

  Mark pulled out his phone. “Let me try to call. What’s her number?”

  “You think she’ll pick up if you call? She doesn’t know you.”

  “Exactly. It’s worth a try.”

  “I don’t think she’s mad at me.”

  “She left Manistique without you!” Mark instantly regretted his exasperated tone.

  George glanced down at his phone and punched at it with his index finger. He read out the number.

  Mark connected but only got a generic voicemail. He cancelled the call. “No answer. So what now?”

  George shrugged. “I don’t know. The bus went to St. Ignace.”

  “That’s the town by the bridge, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  There was a noise in the kitchen, scuffling. “We’ll figure something out,” Mark assured him.

  Emily stumbled through the kitchen doorway, struggling with two suitcases.

  “What are you doing?” Mark asked.

  “Oh, the Hintons wanted to leave their suitcases here.”

  Mark shook his head.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “Why are you carrying their luggage?”

  Emily shrugged. “They feel like they’re imposing for arriving so early. I offered to carry their stuff into the house while they went for a walk. They told me they’ll be back in a half hour.”

  “Do they think you work here or something?”

  “Um.” Her eyes darted to the ceiling. “Maybe they thought that. I don’t know. Maybe because I answered the door.”

  “You answered the door?”

  “They had reservations! At least that’s what they said. I thought I was helping you out.”

  “Yes! Right. Thanks.” He forced a smile of gratitude. “What about your car? I thought you’d be long gone by now.”

  Emily sighed. “They haven’t found the right windshield yet.”

  “Didn’t they say they were getting one this morning?”

  “They got the wrong one.”

  “Different species—that’s not even funny anymore.”

  “No . . ." she admitted.

  “I thought you’d be more upset.”

  “I was, believe me. I was livid at first, but what am I going to do?” She pointed her thumb behind her. “If those two get into a deer-car, they’ll be here for a year. I mean, who drives that car through these parts?”

  “Did they tell you what they’re doing?”

  Emily shook her head.

  “They’re trying to be the first people to drive an electric car around Lake Michigan.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Apparently. I take it you’re spending the night again?”

  Emily gave him a helpless frown. “If I can.”

  Mark nodded. “Stop it. Yes, it’s fine. What’s gotten into you?”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you’d be feistier about your car, and now you’re carrying other people’s luggage.”

  “I can be feistier,” she fired back making air quotes, “if you want me to be.”

  “No, no, it’s all right. Just checking that you’re okay.” He turned toward George. “As for you, how do we get you to St. Ignace?”

  “You go east on Highway 2,” Emily said, laughing.

  “Very funny. Actually, since you’re running things here now . . ."

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, let’s see, letting people in. Carrying their luggage,” he said, gesturing to the door and suitcases.

  “I thought I was being helpful.”

  “I know, I know. Thank you. Bear Foot is going to come by. Can you tell him the 240 in the garage isn’t working?”

  “Sure. Where are you going?” Emily asked.

  “Driving him to St. Ignace, unless you have a better idea.”

  Emily shrugged, staring at George. She shook her head and sighed. “No.”

  He grabbed the Hintons’ suitcases and set them next to the base of the stairs. He picked up George’s suitcase. “All right, sir. Ready?”

  Emily dashed over to Mark. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she said in a hard whisper.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  She turned back toward George who was out of the chair and collecting his book.

  “It’s about . . ." she whispered, and gave a slight head jerk toward George.

  “What is it?”

  “I think he has a problem.”

  “Yeah, his wife abandoned him here—in Manistique of all places. Hopefully they’ll work things out.”

  “No, I mean something else.” She turned her head back and then sighed, looking up at Mark with worried eyes.

  Mark set his hand on Emily’s upper shoulder. “It’ll all be fine once he’s in St. Ignace. Worst case he can stay at the St. Ignace Victorian. My aunt runs a chain of these.” He laughed.

  Emily smiled, then asked, “Will your aunt be back before you return?”

  “Where is Vivian?” George asked.

  Mark gave George a sharp glance, and looked back at Emily. “She’s not going to make it back this weekend.” The formless ashes floating on Indian Lake flashed in his mind.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, unfortunately.”

  Emily’s phone rang. Her face soured when she saw the number. She turned and gave George a hug and kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck.” She ran up the stairs, answering the phone.

  What has gotten into her? Mark wondered. George was grinning. Someone cared. Mark wanted to be the one to give George the hug and let Emily drive him to St. Ignace.

  Emily wondered if she had done the right thing, not telling Mark about the medication she had found in George’s room. But what would he have done with the information? He was taking George back to the tour, and George’s wife must have known about it—

  “Emily?”

  “Sorry. No. They got the wrong windshield, so it’s not going to be ready today.”

  “Where are you? I’ll come and get you.”

  Emily cringed. His voice had taken on that paternal tone. Dr. Bulcher was talking. Dr. Butcher, Mark had called him. “It’s too far.”

  “Just let me come and get you. At least we can spend the rest of the day and tomorrow morning together.”

  Emily didn’t respond.

  “Where are you, Emily? What town?” He sounded exasperated. “There’s only one more night here.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So where are you?”

  Emily fell back into the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Manistique,” she finally revealed.

  “Okay. Where’s that? How far away?”

  Emily sighed. “It’s over an hour away.” She closed her eyes. “West of you.” There, she had said it. It was over now.

  “West? You mean south.”

  “John,” Emily said softly.

  There was a moment of silence, then, “Oh . . ."

  “Yeah.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me before?”<
br />
  Emily took a deep breath. “I don’t know. I was never sure. But the longer I’m away, the more I’m sure.”

  “You have to give me a reason.”

  Emily sat up. She couldn’t enumerate the reasons out loud now. Your wife and kids. Our age difference. A long-distance relationship. Nicholas. What about Nicholas? “I can’t do this right now.” She ended the call.

  He called back immediately.

  Emily shut off the phone.

  Chapter Sixteen

  George flinched, then gasped. “I fell asleep.” He straightened up and rubbed his face. “Sorry.”

  Mark turned off the radio and smiled. “I don’t blame you. Those two were way too civil today. And that’s a ‘best of’ show. You should’ve heard them yesterday.”

  George yawned. “Excuse me.”

  “We’re almost there.” Mark took a sip of lukewarm coffee. “We’ll cross 75 here soon, then it’s only another ten, fifteen minutes.” He looked at the clock. Almost two thirty. An hour and a half back. Four o’clock.

  “Thanks for driving me.”

  Mark briefly turned toward George, giving him a solitary nod. A few minutes later they passed over 75 and then headed south on a two-lane road surrounded by wildflowers on the shoulders and walls of evergreens beyond, their waxy needles dulled a bit by the perfect glare of the afternoon sky.

  “How much do I owe you?”

  “Let me check the meter . . ." Mark chuckled. “Forget about it. Just have a good time on the rest of your trip.”

  “I really don’t know what I would have done without the two of you,” George continued.

  “Two? Who? Oh, you mean Emily.” What did she do? He wanted to say, She didn’t drive an hour and a half each way so you could get to St. Ignace.

  “Yes, Emily,” George said. “She’s very sweet.”

  “At least she was this afternoon. Not sure why. I thought she’d be more up in arms about her car not being fixed.”

  “She’s having car troubles?”

  “No—well, yes. I mean, they didn’t get the right windshield for her car.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  After a curve in the road, a few houses appeared in a cut clearing, then a little further ahead was a gas station. George mumbled something.

  “What?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t see any hotels around here,” Mark said. “Do you know where you’re staying?”

  George shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  The casino sign came into view a few hundred yards ahead. Mark turned left, onto a road that headed to a large parking lot. Off to the side was separate parking where several RVs and buses were stationed. He drove up to the front of the casino, a warehouse-like building made cozier by the gable of a protruding canopy and a stonework facade around the bottom.

  “Déjà vu,” muttered George.

  “Yeah, another casino. Why don’t you check inside and see if you can find anyone in your group? I’ll park and meet you in the lobby.”

  George nodded. Slowly and stiffly, he disembarked. “Oh, and keep calling in case she’s turned her phone back on. They might be at the hotel or in town,” Mark said before George shut the door. In the second-to-last row, Mark found the nearest open spot. It was the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, after all, and it seemed that more than a few had gotten a jump on the holiday.

  The lobby was magnificent, with high ceilings and exposed trusses and a shiny wood floor. Where the carpet began, several rows of slot machines rang and buzzed, and people sat pulling levers, jeering, cheering, but mostly sitting flat-faced. It’ll take George a while to find her here, he thought. He went over to a small waiting area with red upholstered couches and chairs. A woman who looked to be in her seventies sat there knitting, with a large cloth bag next to her.

  Mark looked at the map on his phone. The town of St. Ignace was few miles south. When he heard a merry jingle, Mark turned and watched the old woman fidget in her cloth bag. She pulled out a phone, looked at it for a second, and dropped it back in the bag.

  The silver-and-gold-haired woman whisked the wisps of her bangs aside and went right back to knitting. Her small mouth kept a bit of a frown.

  Mark got up, thinking she might be George’s wife. He watched her hands, sunspotted and wrinkled, moving in perfect rhythm. He approached her, mesmerized by the movement and the soft scraping sound of the needles.

  Her eyes shot up at him briefly.

  “Are you by any chance—” Mark started to say.

  “Are you a fan?”

  Mark cleared his throat. “No. I don’t know the first thing about knitting—actually, that’s not true. I do know a little thanks to a show I listened to on the radio.”

  “Doris and Evelyn?”

  “Yes! You listen to them too?”

  “Sort of. I’m on the show. I’m Doris.”

  “Come on,” he laughed. “You’re pulling my leg.” Her voice did sound similar, now that he thought about it.

  “Correction. I was on the show.”

  “Was? What do you mean?”

  “I quit yesterday. Station manager keeps calling me to come back, but I’m not going to.”

  “Why did you quit?”

  She took in a deep breath. “I just got a little tired of the bickering.”

  Mark smiled. “I thought that was part of the shtick.”

  “Really?”

  Mark wanted to say: Do you think people want to listen to two old ladies in polite conversation? Then, after staring at her for a second—she had an honest face, like George’s, but more than that, she looked like she could handle the truth—he told her just that.

  Doris smirked.

  Mark’s phone rang. “Excuse me.” He recognized Emily’s number.

  “Hey, you’re not going to believe—” he started, but she interrupted him.

  “Bring George back.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “A woman from the Cozy Inn just dropped off his wallet and—”

  “Forget it! I’m not driving George back just so he can get his wallet. I’ll mail it to him.”

  “You’re not listening. The bus just came from St. Ignace. They went west not east.”

  “What?” George’s déjà vu. Of course. “I just drove all this way for nothing,” Mark exclaimed. He headed toward the lobby. “The old coot.”

  “I was trying to explain this to you before you left.”

  “You knew?!”

  “No, not exactly—only that he has some medical issues.”

  “What do you mean? What kind of issues?”

  “Memory. Alzheimer’s. Maybe other dementia, maybe even delirium.”

  “Delirium?”

  “You’ve got to bring him back.”

  “But how do you know all this?” He had drifted into the lobby and his eyes scanned the area for George.

  “I saw his meds this morning.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I tried, but I . . ."

  “But what?”

  “There’s doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “He’s a patient of yours?” he asked with sharp incredulity.

  “No, not technically, but—”

  “I need to find him.” Mark scanned the crowd on the red-and-gold geometrically patterned carpet. “I don’t see him.”

  “Be nice to him.”

  “Of course.”

  Mark waded through slot machines and video poker, dizzied by the bombardment of lights and sounds. After several minutes, he found George sitting at one of the blackjack tables toward the back of the casino. He was the only player.

  “What are you doing?” Mark asked.

  “Waiting for someone to turn up.”

  “While playing blackjack?”

  “I only play blackjack. It’s everyone against the dealer.”

  There was a stack of chips in front of him. “Where did you get money? I thought you
didn’t have your wallet.”

  “I have my wallet.” George reached for his back pocket. “My wallet!” He stumbled getting off the chair. Mark grabbed him, then held him up. “Relax. You left your wallet back at the hotel.”

  “Vivian’s hotel?”

  “No—well, yes, it’s there now. Where did you get the money to play?”

  “I had a quarter in my pocket and I played a slot machine. I won twenty dollars and then sat down here.”

  Mark looked down at the chips—$5 chips. He figured twenty chips. “You’ve won here too?”

  “Seems like it’s my lucky day.”

  “We’ve got to go,” Mark insisted.

  “Where?”

  “Back to Manistique.”

  “Why? I need to rejoin the tour.”

  “Your tour was already here, before Manistique.”

  George looked around for a second. “Yes, I thought so. But I wasn’t sure. All these casinos look the same, don’t they?” He collected his chips and thanked the dealer.

  Mark and George drove west, the sky filled with tufts of high-up clouds as if cotton balls had been dropped to show the way back.

  “I’m sorry,” George said for the third or fourth time.

  “No need to apologize.” Mark was certainly frustrated but not angry. In his head he was already telling his friends the story over a beer and having a good laugh. Really, he felt sorry for the old man.

  “I wasn’t apologizing to you.”

  “Huh? Who then?”

  “Trudy.”

  How could anyone leave their ill spouse in a strange town? She’s the one who should be apologizing to you, he wanted to say, but perhaps she was just as senile as he was. “If she could only hear you.”

  George stared out of his window. “She can,” he answered softly.

  Mark didn’t push to question him, and miles passed with Mark lost in reflection. He dwelled on the vibrancy of life as a fading memory.

  The jarring ring of his phone brought him back around. He cleared his throat before answering.

  It was Frank Walters returning his call. He explained there were no grounds to change heirs—unless Vivian had another will elsewhere. Mark still wanted to find out the truth. Did Vivian have a child out there? Walters could check, but chances favored a closed adoption. He agreed to call an old friend, a private investigator who might be willing to help, but beyond the state’s borders, the search would be more complicated.