She shook her head. “Yes, I like him. And stop calling him Jimbo! You have a thing with nicknames, don’t you?”
“That’s what his friends call him,” he answered defensively.
“Are you his friend?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Seems like a nice guy.”
They rolled quietly through several miles of thin and thick forests and the occasional farm under a sky with puffy bright white clouds. A sign came up: 23 miles to Gaylord. “I’m nervous, Mark. Talk to me about something.”
“Okay.” Mark’s back ached from the car ride, so he repositioned himself and straightened. “Let’s see. I told you about my ex-girlfriends. I suppose I shouldn’t talk about my mom next.”
“Seeing that she was a psychiatrist, no. How about your dad?”
“He died when I was three years old.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He smacked the steering wheel with his hand. “Ooh, got it! How about a history lesson to distract you?”
“Okay, sure,” she replied, indifferent to his grin.
“I’m sort of a history buff. Have I told you?” Mark laughed. “Buff. Was Buff a public policy buff?”
“Shut up.”
“Okay, how about a history lesson on the UP?”
She shrugged. “Sure. All I know is they don’t have many Saabs, and they have a lot of deer.”
He chuckled and began, “So the UP ended up being part of Michigan because of a dispute with Ohio. The two states—or rather, the territory of Michigan and the state of Ohio—nearly went to war over a small strip of land in Toledo.”
“Holy Toledo!”
“Yes. Anyway, Michigan gave up the Toledo strip and got the UP in a compromise and then obtained statehood.”
Emily listened as Mark explained the history of Native Americans in the area . . . fur trading . . . the French and British . . . the French and Indian War . . . the War of 1812. But as he went on she heard less and less. She dreaded the green signs irregularly counting down the miles.
Gaylord 6 mi. She stared off to the right.
“Hey, did you know that Manistique was originally Monistique with an ‘o’?” Mark said.
“Isn’t that the WiFi password at the house?”
“Yeah. Vivian was being clever.”
“Nice.”
“When they incorporated the city, someone in Lansing made a typo.”
“A careless mistake,” she muttered.
He finished a story about Manistique, the paper mill, but Emily wasn’t listening much.
“You okay?”
She turned toward him. “No. I’ve got the deepest pit in my stomach.”
He patted her leg. “In a short while, you’ll be past this, and we’ll be on our way back.”
“Okay. But no history lectures on the way back.”
“Lectures?”
“No, it’s been great. It’s distracted me for sure, but I think I know as much as I want to know about it right now.”
“Sorry. It’s in my nature to find out about a place and its history.”
“Sure,” she said absentmindedly as they came up to another sign: Gaylord 2 mi.
Soon, warehouses and pole barns, trailers, and a small industrial area emerged behind a thin stand of trees. They entered Gaylord township limits. Population 3,545.
“I’ll get off at the next exit.”
She nodded. “I need to call him, see where he wants to meet.”
Mark made the turn off the highway onto Main Street. “I’ll pull over at that gas station until we figure out where we need to go.”
“You’re not going to be mad at me, are you?”
“For what?”
“If he’s not able to meet.”
“Not really.”
She grimaced.
“No, I won’t be mad. I promise.”
He made a left turn into the gas station and parked at the far end.
“I’ll make that call.” She pulled out her phone and got out of the car.
Mark watched in the rearview mirror as she scrolled through her phone. She drifted away and then paced back and forth, perpendicular to the car, while holding the phone.
Mark saw her in the mirror, coming over to his side. He rolled down the window.
Emily rested a hand on the door. “I got ahold of him. He’s going to meet us in ten minutes.”
“Where?”
“Crenshaw’s Coffee Shop.”
“Where is that?”
“He said it’s on Main Street. Just down the street here.” She stretched, rocking up on her toes. “I need to walk around. I’m anxious.” She left, heading toward the gas pumps.
After a few minutes, Mark got out of the car and looked about, but he didn’t see Emily. Figuring she was in the convenience store, he locked the car and walked over. After checking the five aisles, he thought maybe she was in the restroom.
“Where are the restrooms?” Mark asked the clerk, a lanky young man with black thick-rimmed glasses.
“Outside, on the side of the building.” He held out a stick with a key dangling from it.
“No, I don’t need it. I’m looking for my friend, a woman.”
“Yeah, a woman is using the women’s restroom right now.”
Mark nodded. “Thanks,” he said and started for the door. “Oh, where’s Crenshaw’s Coffee?”
“Our coffee here is just as good as theirs,” he claimed, puffing out his chest.
“No, I don’t want any coffee. Just meeting someone there.”
“Oh.” He gave Mark an embarrassed smile and pointed down the street. “About a mile down Main Street, to the left.”
“Thanks,” he said.
Mark waited outside next to the door. A minute later, a woman hobbled around the corner carrying a stick with a key.
He went back around the corner of the store, expecting to see Emily next to the car. But she wasn’t there, either. She only had a few minutes before she was due to meet up with Dr. Olsen. He avoided thinking that Emily was backing out. He called her cell phone. No answer.
Chapter Thirty-Four
There were only two tables taken at Crenshaw’s Coffee. Three women, all in their mid-fifties, sat at one table, and two older men at the other. Perhaps Olsen had come, seen no one, and left, though it seemed strange that he wouldn’t have waited for a few extra minutes.
Mark approached the counter and asked the young woman if a man had come in a few minutes earlier.
She nodded. “Yes. He came in, looked around, and left.”
Mark thanked her and then ordered a cup of coffee. “Decaf!” he added. As he paid, he said, “The gas station down the street claims their coffee is as good as yours.”
She laughed. “Arnold said that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know his name. Dark-rimmed glasses . . ."
“Yeah, that’s Arnold. He doesn’t know anything. Their gasoline is better—how’s that?”
Mark chuckled. When the girl returned with his coffee, she jerked her head. “He’s back,” she said.
Mark twisted around, and saw through the window a man who was walking toward the entrance. He was tall, with thinning blond hair and a sturdy build. He was wearing a pale blue sweater and had a slightly bulging belly.
“Is that who you’re looking for?”
“Not sure. Maybe. Thanks.” He grabbed his coffee and approached the door.
The man wore a sullen frown as he entered.
“Hey,” Mark said, stopping him near the door. “Are you Dr. Olsen?”
He leaned back, glaring at Mark in suspicion. “Who are you?”
The man smelled strongly of mint. “I’m Mark, a friend of Emily’s.” Behind the mint he smelled alcohol. He stuck out his hand.
He took it, barely. He looked around the coffee shop. “Don’t call me doctor. I’m not a doctor. Call me Greg. Are you Emily’s boyfriend?”
Mark puffed out a laugh. “No. Just a friend. I drove her here.”
“From whe
re?”
“Manistique.”
“In the UP?”
Mark nodded. “Yes.”
“So where’s Emily?”
“Nearby. Stretching her legs. You know, two and a half hours in the car.” He didn’t know how to explain Emily’s disappearance. His mouth was dry, so he took a sip of his coffee. Lifting his cup, he said, “Can I buy you a coffee? A danish?”
Greg shook his head immediately, and said, “I’ll get myself something.” His words were slow with no inflection. He left for the front counter.
Mark tried calling Emily again.
She picked up. “Where did you go?”
“I’m at Crenshaw’s.” Mark stepped outside.
“Why did you leave without me?”
“You disappeared, and I couldn’t find you. I’ll come get you now.”
“No, I’m close. I see the sign. So you just left without me?”
He spotted her a block away. “I tried calling. Anyway, he’s here. And don’t call him doctor. He’s touchy about it. And I think he’s been drinking.”
“Well, I’ll see you in a couple minutes.”
Back inside, Mark waited near the front door. Olsen stood at the counter waiting for his order.
The door creaked open. Mark turned, expecting to see Emily, but it was a Gaylord police officer. The officer stepped inside, swapping a firm nod with Mark.
Outside, Emily was crossing the parking lot. He went out to meet her. Mark quickly apologized, but Emily dismissed it with a slight wave of her hand.
“Is he drunk?” she asked.
“He’s not acting drunk, not that I could tell, at least.”
“It is Memorial Day after all.”
The two locked eyes for second, and Mark could see her nervousness. “Sure,” he said.
“All right, let’s go,” she said.
Inside, Olsen stood near a table holding a cup.
“Hi, Greg.”
“Hi,” he said flatly. His face showed no expression.
“Do you want me to get you something, Em?”
“Sure. Just a cup of black coffee. Thanks.”
Olsen and Emily sat down at the table. Mark couldn’t hear every word as he got in line, but the staccato start to the conversation was noticeable.
Mark and the police officer exchanged another firm nod as he turned to leave. Mark became worried for Olsen, imagining the police officer pulling him over for driving under the influence.
“Was that him?” the girl behind the counter asked.
“Huh?” he replied, approaching the counter. It took him a second to realize what she was asking. “Oh, yes. Thanks.”
“Sounds like there’s a story there.”
He nodded. “There is. A long one.”
Mark ordered Emily’s coffee. As it was being made, he heard Emily say something about Mark not being her boyfriend. Greg said something about Lincoln Presbyterian and Emily circled around with wells and buts.
With Emily’s coffee in hand, Mark approached the table. When he set it in front of her, she looked up at him with a strained smile. “Thank you.”
Mark slipped away, taking a seat near the window, unable to really listen in but with a clear view of Emily’s face. He pulled out his phone and started searching.
Gaylord. Was there anything of significance to this town? He found his answer in its most famous resident: Claude Shannon. A mathematician, an electrical engineer, a cryptographer. The father of the information age, as he was called, was born in Petoskey and grew up in Gaylord.
Mark glanced up. Emily’s face had blanched. Greg’s head was hanging, and Emily was saying sorry multiple times. After a couple of minutes, things seemed to have settled in the aftermath of whatever revelation had been made. Mark buried himself with his phone again. This time he searched for Emily’s brother Kyle. But he found nothing about an accident involving a bridge and a medical resident in South Carolina.
They spoke for about thirty minutes. There was a quick, awkward hug before Greg bolted out the door.
Emily was like a zombie as they headed to the car. Mark didn’t ask about their meeting, waiting for her to volunteer the information.
It was in the car when she said, “He admitted drinking a little bit before coming over. He was nervous. He doesn’t have a drinking problem.”
Mark didn’t exactly believe it, but he wasn’t going to argue the point. “That’s good.”
“It turns out that Nicholas was buried nearby, apparently near their summer home. He gave me directions. It’s about ten miles south of here. Do you mind if we go?”
“No.” Mark started the car.
As they drove away, Emily said, “By the way, you were wrong.”
“About what?”
“About doctors.”
“What did I say about doctors?”
“Turn right up here,” she said.
“What did I say about doctors?” Mark repeated.
“Greg attempted to commit suicide.”
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“When did I ever say anything about him attempting suicide?”
“You didn’t. You said doctors don’t fail at it.”
Mark sighed. “Maybe he’s not a good doctor.”
She punched his shoulder.
“Ouch!”
“Mark, you can be awful.”
“Too soon?”
“Yes! Way too soon.”
“Sorry.”
They traveled south, quickly leaving the heart of the town, toward wide-spaced lots with spotted commercial and retail stores, and then to the semi-industrial warehouses and to the brief forests of tall evergreens and clearings of spindly grass.
They made one more turn. Down the road about a quarter mile, headstones became visible behind trees and scraggly bushes.
“Stop here,” Emily said.
Mark pulled over. “Let’s go through the front entrance,” he said, but Emily had already opened the door. She headed between two oak trees toward the nearest headstones.
“Wait up,” Mark said. She didn’t.
After a long walk toward the other side of the cemetery that led them across the graves of long-ago generations, they eventually found the more recently deceased.
“He’s around here somewhere.”
They split up.
Mark couldn’t help but wonder what each life had been like as he scanned the gravestones. He stopped in front of Susan Anne Farch. 1964-1999. Then Margaret “Meg” Louise Meeks, two years old.
“Over here!” Emily cried. “He’s over here.” Her voice wobbled.
She was about fifty feet away. Mark headed toward her, trampling over the meager, wispy grass. She was on her knees in front of a torn patch of earth that had almost fully healed, with only a faint outline revealing that it had been opened. She buried her head in her hands and crumpled to the ground. She sobbed in torrents, shaking.
The inscription on the headstone read: Our Beloved Son, Nicholas Jeffery Stipe. November 20, 2003-January 1, 2014.
Emily bellowed something unintelligible.
Mark got down next to her. He placed his hand on her back.
She cried a little more, before lifting her head and sitting up. She dabbed her face with her sleeve. Catching her breath, she said, “You must think I’m a crazy mess.”
“No, not at all,” he answered softly.
She inhaled deeply and let out an unsteady breath.
They walked over to a nearby bench and sat down. Without saying much, they detoxed together on the bench, shoulder to shoulder. At one point, one grabbed the other’s hand. There was a new bond between them.
In the distance, where birch woods bordered the cemetery, Mark spotted three wild turkeys. He was going to point them out and say something humorous about the windshield installer and turkey hunting, but he kept it to himself.
Mark’s phone rang. He clumsily extracted it out of his pocket. “Vivian’s attorney. I should get this.”
> He stood up but stayed nearby.
“Are you still in the area?” Frank Walters asked. “I’d like to give you something in person, if at all possible.” His voice was flat and sober.
“Actually, I’m near Gaylord right now. I’m about to head back to Manistique.”
“Gaylord?”
“Yeah, long story. Is this urgent?”
“Urgent? No, I wouldn’t put it in that category. I can always mail it to you. But if you’re able to stop by . . ."
“Is Petoskey on the way?”
“Sort of. An hour—maybe less—northwest of you. It’d be only a slight detour on your way back.”
“Okay. Hold on a second. I’m with someone.” Mark muted the phone.
“Do you mind if we swing through Petoskey on our way back?” he asked Emily.
She shrugged and shook her head. “No. But you still have your date tonight.”
“Oh, right! I’ve got to call and cancel.”
He unmuted the phone. “Okay, we’re leaving here in a few minutes. I’ll see you in about an hour—at the office, right?”
“Yes. I’ll be here.”
Mark ended the call, thinking Walters had some information about the adoption.
“What was that about?” Emily asked.
He shrugged. “He didn’t say—said he had something for me and wanted to give it to me in person.”
“Do you think it’s about Vivian’s child?”
“That’s what I was thinking.”
Emily stood up. “Let’s find out.” She pointed. “Look! Turkeys.”
He turned to them nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t seen them and said, “Oh, yeah.”
“Maybe my installer is lurking around here somewhere.”
Mark laughed. He put his arm around her shoulder, pulled her toward him.
Her eyes twinkled. “What was that for?”
He shook his head. “Just because.”
“Okay,” she said, amused.
Mark scrolled his phone for Laura’s number. “Here it is,” he said to himself.
“Are you calling Laura?”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to tell her?”
“That I can’t make it tonight.”
“What time is your date?”
“We were supposed to meet at the house at six.”
“We have enough time, don’t we?”
Mark sighed. “I don’t know. It’s two o’clock now. Not sure how long this thing in Petoskey’s going to take. And it’s about two hours from there back to Manistique. And it’s been a long day.”
Stuck in Manistique Page 32