The Dead Enders Page 3

  Ana gets there first. She pulls her bike alongside mine, checks the road behind us. Nothing.

  I turn to her. “Hey. You going to Fellman’s this weekend?”

  “Probably not,” she says. “You?”

  “I guess.” Then I add, “You should come. It’s the right kind of trouble.”

  “I bet,” she says. “I’ve never been.”

  I gasp, put on a cheerleader’s voice. “But it’s the event of the year! First weekend of summer, first time the Weekenders come back, last blast for the seniors. You, like, can’t miss it. It’s, like, so totally amazeballs.”

  She laughs. Ana’s laugh is low and sultry, not what you’d expect from her. I’m always surprised by it. “Well then,” she says, and leans over her handlebars, stretching her back. “I didn’t know you went to those things, Davis.”

  I shrug. “Gotta keep in the game.”

  Another laugh. “Right.”

  I used to see Jane at the party. Every year for two years, I’d notice her as she hung out around the bonfire with her friends or set up a tent far enough back from the road that hers wouldn’t be the first the police would check if they decided to do a sweep.

  I’m sure she’ll be at the party this year. And I’ll be there too, watching her from my spot by the trees while I nurse a single beer all night long. Thinking to myself, Well done, Davis. You’re right back to where you started, ol’ boy. Thinking: Your story’s already played out.

  “Well,” I say, “think about it. It’d be good to have backup.”

  She gives me a strange look. “Backup. Sure.”

  “Yeah,” says Erik, who’s caught up and is doing that balancing thing on his pedals that I’ve tried maybe four thousand times and never gotten right. “You should come, Ana.” He winks. “You never know what might go down.”

  “Enough,” Georgie hisses as she passes us all on her bike. “Don’t fucking loiter.”

  We head toward town. Georgie, then Erik, then me. I glance back and see that Ana’s catching up. She’s got her head down and to the side like she always does, kind of a puppy-with-an-earache move, when a red pickup flies around the corner from the direction of the campground at the north end of the lake. The truck is basically driving on the side of the road. The driver lays on the horn and swerves, nearly clipping Ana’s back wheel. Ana’s head jerks up and there’s a look on her face of pure terror. I catch a glimpse of the guy’s face: pierced eyebrow, everything pockmarked and hollowed out, like a moldy orange. Then the truck’s gone, just the sound of its busted muffler trailing after it.

  I pull my bike over to the side and wait for her to catch up. “Shit,” I say. “You okay?” I want to reach over, give her a hug, but that’s not who we are to each other anymore.

  “Sure,” she says, but her voice is unsteady.

  “That totally killed my high,” says Erik. He and Georgie have turned around and come back. “What a maniac.”

  I look at Georgie. Her face is pale, her mouth open slightly. Her chin is quivering. She looks almost as scared as Ana did.

  “Do you know that guy?” I ask.

  “No.” Then she clenches her jaw. “Watch your backs,” she adds, and there’s a bite to her voice.

  We bike back into town together and then separate. I’m headed to work—we go to print later tonight—and I watch Ana when she turns onto the airport road (though calling it an airport is kind of like calling a Happy Meal a “refined dining experience”). She and her mom live out that way. I take a deep breath before turning toward work. Try to shake the unease from my shoulders. Try not to think about the truck, pummeling toward her. The panic I felt, and something else—something related to the chapel fire, and the fact that more was lost that night than we ever talk about.

  • • •

  I’ve had my job at the Gold Fork Roundup for a few months now, though “job” feels too presumptive for what I do. Is it a job if you only work ten hours a week? Is it a job if what you’re really doing is taking the editor’s ancient dog on slow walks down to the lake and back? Is it a job if you don’t get paid?

  Which is not to say I don’t like it. I mean, sure, I wish I were actually writing articles. And yes, I read the Letters to the Editor page (also known as “The Forked Tongue”) and think, Water rights? Again? But this little weekly newspaper is the last holdout in a world of corporate greed. It only runs ads for local businesses. And it’s five pages long on a good week. I love it the way you love that crazy substitute teacher who made every class period, be it European History or English, about climate change.

  And, if I’m being honest, Harvard won’t know any of that when they see “Reporter, Gold Fork Roundup,” on my application.

  And, if I’m being totally honest—

  If I’m being totally honest, there’s always the chance it’ll be me who cracks the case of Gold Fork’s fire starter. Me who writes the article about what brought down the Nelson cabin and gets his picture on the front page. Me who runs into Jane at Toney’s and says, It was easy, once I knew what I was looking for. Me who shrugs, like, whatever, when she says she’s sorry, asks if I’m busy, do I want to get coffee. Me who agrees once I see the look on her face—desperate, scared she’s lost me for good. Me who gets it all in the end, gets the girl, just like the movies.

  But, you know, that’s only if I’m being totally honest.

  I don’t see Dan when I walk into the “office”—the main room of a small blue cottage just off Main Street. I throw my backpack down next to my desk and pick up a hard copy of an article from a small stack of papers next to the computer. Dan’s old-school in that way; he likes to see the copy edits in red pen before making changes on the computer.

  “Davis.” I get through half of the article before Dan calls me from his office. “Got something for you.” I glace at the edits I’ve made to the article—PLEISTOCENE AT IT AGAIN—and head to his office.

  It takes five steps. This is because it’s the only other room in the tiny cottage. I think there’s a bedroom hidden somewhere around here, but then again, Dan might just sleep on his office couch. He certainly looks like he does.

  He’s there now, feet up, pillow behind his head, papers spread over his chest. Some of his hair is plastered to his forehead, but he doesn’t seem to care. His dog, Bernstein, is curled on the rug, snoring softly.

  “The intrepid reporter,” Dan says. “What news, what news.”

  “Holding steady at copacetic,” I say.

  He nods. “Sage words.” Pauses. “How’s the article going?”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll have it in by tomorrow. Not much to report, actually. You know: There was a fire a couple years ago, yadda yadda.” I’m hoping he’ll see just how boring it is and tell me to drop it—but no.

  “Great,” he says. “Make sure to highlight the lack of evidence. Make sure to stress that it’s still an ongoing investigation.”

  I shift on my feet, trying to ignore the way my breath is caught in my throat. Ongoing investigation.

  Nodding again, as though I answered him, he says, “Got a job for you.”

  “Great.” I exhale. Dropping your rent check in the mail? Picking up a pack of hot dogs for your dinner? Or . . .

  “Need you to check out a lead.”

  I lean forward, trying not to look too eager. “Sure,” I say. “What kind of lead?” I’m thinking arson, thinking a trip out to the Nelson cabin, or what’s left of it. Fingerprints in the ash. That sort of thing. A clue no one else sees. From there: article, picture in the paper, Jane. The romantic ending, filmed in sepia tones. I’d like to thank the Academy.

  “Concerned citizen—wishes to remain anonymous”—here he lowers his chin toward me so I know he’s serious—“e-mailed to let me know that Toney’s might start carrying organic chicken next month.” He looks on steadily.

  “Oh.”

  “So, I need you to snoop around, see what you can find out.”

  I laugh before I realize he’s serious. “Su
re,” I say. “Okay.”

  “Could just be a rumor.”

  “Or it could be Toney’s, trying to get free press without having to pay for an ad.”

  He looks surprised. “Huh. You think?” He runs a hand over his cheek.

  I start to say more and change my mind. “I’ll follow up on it,” I say, in what I hope is a decisive and resolute way.

  “Good, good.” He’s already waving me out. “Don’t want to let any grass grow under this one.”

  I grab my reporter’s notebook (empty, sure, but I’m ever the optimist) and head out. Text the others because they’ll love how ridiculous it is. Ana writes back immediately: Stop the presses!

  The whole thing takes about five minutes. I’m ushered back to the manager so quickly that it’s almost like the people at Toney’s were expecting me. They even have a sample of the new organic chicken for me to take back to Dan, but I refuse. “We don’t accept free products,” I say, trying to sound authentically professional.

  I’m walking by the egg display when someone stops me.

  “Sorry, do you work here?” It’s a guy my dad’s age. He’s tanned and kind of leathery in that Weekender parent kind of way. Like maybe he has a bumper sticker that reads, MY OTHER CAR IS A SAILBOAT. He’s holding on to a package of organic eggs, and he smiles at me and asks in a too-loud voice, almost like he expects me not to understand, “Do you know if these are from grain-free chickens?” He chuckles. “Sorry. I’m under strict orders from the ball and chain.”

  I know I must look as stupid as he thinks I am, because it takes me a minute to answer. I’m just staring at his face, trying to place it.

  “Pretty much all chickens are raised on a paleo diet,” I say, and then—

  Then I remember where I’ve seen him before.

  See, that’s the thing about working at a newspaper this small. With nothing else going on, your editor might ask you to start going through old microfiche from the Stone Age and scanning articles, transferring those ancient newspaper editions to the website for easy archiving. And, while you probably won’t read all the articles, you might read some, especially if your friend is mentioned. You might see, for instance, a photo from the Ice Carnival sixteen years ago, the caption describing how one family—mom, dad, newborn baby—were celebrating.

  He’s lost the beanie cap and mustache, but I swear to God it’s him.

  “Thanks,” he says, and moves toward the cash register at the front of the store, eggs in hand.

  If I were a real reporter, I’d follow him. Get him to talk some more, ask a few polite questions. At the very least, I’d see if he’s with anyone, follow him to his car, write down his license plate number. Something.

  But I’m not a real reporter.

  Instead, I get out of the store as fast as possible. Make eye contact with no one. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am. Because I don’t want to be the one to report to Erik that I think I just saw his dad, a guy who’s been MIA for a decade at least, buying free-range eggs at Toney’s like it’s nothing.

  WHERE YOU ALWAYS KNOW YOUR PLACE

  We call ourselves the Dead Enders. What matters in Gold Fork—what’s always mattered—is that you know your place and, more importantly, that you can classify others with just a few simple questions. This is crucial. No one wants to mistake a Dockside with a Toney. Would you confuse an astronaut with a janitor? Didn’t think so.

  If we were teaching a class on this subject, we’d start out by explaining that the first group, Genus Weekendus, got its classification not because it arrives on the weekend, but because, to those of its kind, every damn day of the summer is Saturday. This genus has a variety of species. Put down your beakers, we’d say. Shit’s about to get real.

  GENUS WEEKENDUS: THE SPECIES LIST

  Docksides.

  Those whose parents own one of the stately homes on the lake. Identifying characteristics include: a penchant for nautical stripes; a body that is already impossibly tan by the first hot day of the season; the ability to procure unlimited supplies of beer and gin; its own mode of transportation, which may or may not be referred to as the “camp wheels” (something with four-wheel drive and decals from various ski hills on the bumper that spends the off-season locked in its lake home’s double garage); all the right water toys—stand-up paddleboards and Jet Skis and sailboats—and a way of looking like it was born knowing how to use them; perfect cheekbones; perfect hair; a perfect life. This species will be generous with the other members of its genus, hosting parties when its parents aren’t home and taking those without on boat rides in the middle of the night where it’ll blast music from a playlist that it created for Just This Moment. It will announce itself by saying something like “God, it’s so good to be back,” stretching its arms out wide as though taking in all of the trees, the town, the lake itself. Its parents will announce themselves by looking around, smiling, and then, pulling the case of wine that they’ve lugged all the way from the city from the back of their Suburban, add, “But it could really use a decent wine bar.”

  Weeklies.

  Similar to the Docksides with one glaring exception: Its parents don’t own their cabin on the lake. They rent one, usually the same one every year, for a period of no less than one and no more than eight weeks. You will know a Weekly by the way it avoids telling you this. It will say things like, “My dad just wasn’t able to take any more time off this year,” or, “Let’s meet at your place. Mine’s a mess,” or, “We were planning on replacing the dock, but you know . . . Why?” and you’ll think, Weekly. Have pity on it, for its shame is greater than all other species’.

  Toneys.

  The lowest of the genus, marked by its ancestors’ inability to procure one of the homes on the lake. Poor planning? Oversight? Or the hushed Financial Considerations? Whatever the reason, this species must weekend in town, usually in one of the nicer log homes in the neighborhood between Toney’s Market and the lake. It, too, will wear nautical stripes and boat shoes, but will do so ironically, for it has no boat—or, if it does, the vessel must be launched from the humiliating public dock. For this reason, Toneys are early risers. You might see a Toney as early as six a.m., wrestling with the hitch between its parents’ pickup and the boat, legs submerged in the icy morning waters of the lake where the ramp descends at a gentle angle. A Toney usually has an older brother who is just this side of a fuck-up and who might spend a whole summer in Gold Fork waiting tables at the Burger Mill while he tries to get laid and thinks about dropping out of state college because what’s the point? What’s the goddamn point? He will be happy to buy you beer or anything else, really, and will stand around at Dockside parties looking like an early sketch of a pedophile. Toneys often suffer from one of the more embarrassing afflictions to attack Genus Weekendus, which is as easy to spot as smallpox: They start to believe that they are Dead Enders.

  • • •

  And this brings us to the other genus. Our genus, of which there is only one species. Who we are, for better or worse. Who we can never not be:

  Dead Enders.

  Have-Nots. Never-Wills. Do-Nothings. Go-Nowheres. Dead Enders don’t summer. They don’t weekend. They spend their summer vacation at home, wearing last year’s swimsuits, last year’s shorts. They’re not all poor—a few of them may even live on the lake full-time, lending them an uncomfortable Dockside/Dead Ender status—but for them, summer in Gold Fork is another hot summer at home. And why would you buy a new suit for that?

  We didn’t come up with the name, obviously. That honor goes to a Weekender mother who was talking too loudly on her cell while she waited for her progeny to get their lattes at Grainey’s. “I just can’t even,” she said. “I mean, it’s heartbreaking to see. These kids here, the year-rounders. They’re just . . .”—and we held our breath, knowing that whatever she said next would be ours, that we’d take it and use it like a weapon, like a weapon we chose—“on a dead-end street.”

  That’s the thing with Weekenders: They’re a
lways giving us gifts, whether they know it or not.

  But.

  Dead Enders know things about Gold Fork that Genus Weekendus never will. They know how to get to the cliffs by Washer’s Landing without using the main road; where to find mushrooms (of both salad topping and hallucinogenic varieties) the year after a forest fire; why the high school is painted that gaudy orange; why Grainey’s espresso is better on Tuesday than Sunday. Trivial things that nevertheless mean you live somewhere. You’re not just a visitor. You may hate it here eight months a year, may be planning on leaving and never looking back (except, we whisper to ourselves, low enough so no one else hears, maybe on the weekends), but at least you know it. And that’s something, right?

  ANA

  My life began, like most things worth noting, with a fable. A girl, pregnant at seventeen, ten fifty-dollar bills clipped to the inside of her blouse, boards a bus for Portland. She has a family to speak of, but no family to speak to, which in some ways is worse. A quick glance behind her as she climbs on the bus, but there’s no one in the waiting room of the station, no one running in, leaving the Mercedes idling at the curb, with a last-minute offer of forgiveness or home.

  She’s sweating already, and it’s only going to get hotter.

  On the bus: two college students from Walla Walla, heading down for a weekend of gambling. A migrant worker from one of the onion fields. Three old ladies, not sitting together—one with knitting, one with a Tupperware of prunes, one with nothing but her hands in her lap, twisting like eels. An army medic, on leave for a week. And one scared seventeen-year-old, trying not to cry as the bus rolls south out of Pasco, hoping that the contractions that started this morning will let up until she reaches Portland.

  But of course, they don’t.

  The rest of the story is just what you’d expect. The bus driver, who’s been wearing headphones even though it’s illegal, finally hears her deep, animal moans about thirty miles from The Dalles, Oregon. Scared that there’s another schizoid on his bus, maybe with a knife, he swings into the nearest rest stop, a wide parking lot on a cliff overlooking the Columbia River. By now, the contractions are so close together that the girl thinks her body is about to rip in half. The medic, just a young guy, on his way to his first tour of duty, does what any good soldier would do: He washes his hands in the bus’s cramped bathroom with a bottle of water and some hand sanitizer, nods at the young girl, and, without another word, reaches up inside of her to feel the baby. But he doesn’t have far to reach, because the baby is coming out, fast and slippery.