Stuck in Manistique Read online

  Mark did attempt to contact Vivian when his mother died. He tried Médecins Sans Frontières in Belgium, which Vivian had referenced in some of her letters, but she was no longer there. He tried Doctors Without Borders’s headquarter in New York, but they had no record of her. He eventually found her, working for a small international aid organization out of Washington, DC. Vivian was serving in Syria and the director of the organization promised to forward the message, but Mark never heard back. Figuring there was nothing more he could do, whether or not she got the message, he let it go.

  Miles passed without Mark absorbing any of his surroundings. He was now driving by lines of trees, an orchard of cherries, he assumed. The highway to Petoskey ran through several small lakeside towns. Then he arrived to Charlevoix, nestled between Lake Michigan and Lake Charlevoix. He particularly remembered this town on the map, and it was as he had imagined it. Picturesque with views of the lakes and a pleasant harbor, delightful shops and bakeries, all neat and well-kept and mid-upscale. It was the kind of town he would have liked to visit with Laura. Strolling through the shops. Taking boat rides on the lake. Dining on the waterfront. Enjoying the sunset together as it dipped under the gentle ripples of the lake. Though Charlevoix enthralled him, seeing this town without the ability to enjoy its charm with someone else magnified his loneliness. A self-inflicted wound, he knew, and a deep regret sunk in. He couldn’t think of a single reason not to have married Laura, except that he wasn’t completely certain about her.

  Near the edge of downtown he waited in front of an open drawbridge. It unsettled him a bit, the road flung up in the air like that. But he tried not to ponder it and instead watched a sailboat heading out to the lake. He envied those aboard as it smoothly maneuvered through the narrow channel connecting the two lakes. Once the bridge came down, he dashed over it and soon left the town and lake views behind, scratching Charlevoix off the list of places he might check out later. It was a place meant to be shared, not taken in alone.

  A short time later, after a long bend in the road, Lake Michigan came back into full view. Past a resort-like lakeside development, the grade incrementally steepened before commercial buildings and retail businesses took hold. Petoskey city limits—population 5,671.

  Mark pulled into a parking lot to use his phone, to look up the exact location of Frank Walters’s office. The office wasn’t far, and soon he found himself driving down an isolated road where industrial buildings were mixed with woods and meadows. When he saw a split-rail fence with reflectors marking the end of the road, he stopped, unsure of where he had made a wrong turn. He doubled back, and as he passed by one of the warehouses, he spotted the attorney’s name on totem pole of signs. Engraved in yellow-painted letters: Frank Walters, Attorney-at-Law. The name was below Arnot’s Body Shop and above Mike’s Mufflers.

  Mark pulled into the lot and drove by the truck rental facility and the tile store, until he reached Suite 8B, nearly all the way down the row. The glass door was scripted with a fancifully curved “Frank Walters” over “Attorney-at-Law” in straight block letters.

  The small reception area held six wood chairs and a water dispenser. Mark stood in front of a short wall and desk with no receptionist, only stacked boxes behind the counter.

  “I’ll be right out,” called a voice through a partially open door. It was the newly familiar voice of Frank Walters.

  Mark caught a whiff, a musty odor, and he wondered what this place had been before it was a law office. Rust-colored water stains randomly spotted the ceiling tiles, and the carpet was hard and burgundy, as if it’d been repurposed from a church. One wall showed round, dirty spots as if someone had thrown a rubber ball against it.

  A man appeared through the doorway. “Sorry, just wrapping something up,” he said. Frank Walters was taller and brawnier than his voice and Mark’s imagination had suggested. He was in his mid-fifties with a sturdy gray-and-brown beard and a genuine smile, and he wore a sport coat over a white button-up shirt and jeans.

  They introduced themselves to each other, and as they grasped hands, Walters’s smile retreated and his lips thinned. He preserved his grip. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Vivian was a remarkable woman.”

  Mark grimaced and nodded, pointedly ignoring his own shame. He thanked Walters and ended the long handshake before it became awkwardly sentimental.

  “Come on in.” Walters waved him back, and Mark followed into the office. This space was more befitting a lawyer: the furniture was dark and elegant, the carpet full, and there were two large bookcases. A window gave a view of the forest outside.

  The bookcases were half-full, and several open boxes sat filled with books. “Are you moving?” Mark asked.

  “Yes, but not far. Just down the row here, to the building closest to the road.” He smiled brightly. “Better location.”

  Mark nodded. They headed for the desk, and Mark sat across from the attorney. “Did you know my aunt very well?” he asked.

  Walters shook his head in a quick burst. “I’m afraid not. I met her last year when I helped her with her will. I learned a few things about her as I wrote it up. I really hadn’t spoken to her in a while, not until last week when she called me from the hospital to inform me that she wasn’t doing so well.”

  Mark nodded solemnly.

  Placing his elbow on the desk, Walters joined his hands as if he were about to engage in deliberate prayer. “As I explained to you over the phone, your aunt left you her entire estate. There is the house, a couple bank accounts, and a brokerage account. The accounts combined are worth somewhere around fifty thousand and the house, as far as I know, is paid off. There isn’t anyone else in her will except you. Did Vivian have any other relatives?”

  Mark shook his head. “No. I’m the only one left.” Then he remembered that Vivian was adopted. Perhaps she did have blood relatives somewhere. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason really, though it’s good to know just in case. Occasionally you’ll see a relative, usually a close one, contest the will. Not that there’s an issue here, seeing as you’re the sole beneficiary.”

  “All right, so what next?”

  Walters recited a list of things to go through while Mark made mental notes. “Was she working recently?” Walters asked.

  “She worked as a humanitarian doctor for many years, a couple different organizations.” It was the best he could come up with. He didn’t really know.

  “Yes, she told me about that. Anything more recent?”

  “No,” he answered evenly, afraid Walters would think badly of him if the truth came out. That he barely knew Vivian at all. That he couldn’t explain why he had stopped trying to reach her. That he felt like a fraud, a stranger absconding with her estate. Was his explanation that he was planning to contact her again someday a good enough excuse? That he hadn’t expected Vivian to die so soon?

  Mark turned his head away and looked out the window. Outside, a deer crept through the shallow woods where sunlight slipped between the evergreens. About to announce, Hey, a deer!, he stopped himself, fearing Walters would tag him as a pathetic city-dweller. And rightfully so.

  The doe turned her head and stared at Mark curiously. They held each other’s gaze for a few moments. When another distraction got her attention, the doe dashed off. Turning back to Walters, who was sifting through paperwork, Mark fired, “To be perfectly honest, Vivian and I weren’t really that close.” It came out strong-willed, defensive. “I mean, I haven’t seen or heard from her in a very long time. I barely know her at all, really.” He surprised himself a bit with the unforced admission; he generally wasn’t forthcoming with anything personal, especially not to a stranger. And especially not about something he was ashamed of. And then he added tenderly, “I never imagined . . ."

  No judgment came from Walters, neither by words nor expression. Only a single nod of understanding. The lawyer grabbed some papers on his right and handed them over. “You need to read and initial and sign these so that I can start
the process of transferring the house to your name.”

  Mark cleared the lump in his throat. Barely reading past the first sentence, he initialed, went to the next page, initialed, and signed the final page.

  “I have copies of her death certificate, which you’ll need for banks, et cetera. About the house—”

  “Oh, sorry,” Mark interrupted. “Would you mind writing down her address for me?”

  “Sure. Actually, hold on.” Walters went to his computer and typed with two fingers. He rolled his chair over to the printer and grabbed the page that came out. He handed it over with a satisfied smile. “Here are the directions.”

  Mark scanned the page. 545 Lake Street, Manistique, Michigan. “Manistique? Where’s that?”

  “It’s a small town north of here.”

  “Canada is north of here,” Mark replied dryly.

  Walters chuckled. “It’s not that far north. More northwest.”

  “But I thought she lived here in Petoskey.” He read the full directions. North forty miles. West eighty-seven miles. Two hours, seventeen minutes. His eyes traced the line on the map confirming what he already knew. “I’ve got to cross a bridge to get there,” he blurted out.

  “Well, sure. Manistique is in the Upper Peninsula.”

  Mark’s eyes stayed fixated on the dark line that crossed over the water. “What the heck was she doing living way up there?”

  “I don’t really know. I’ve never spent any real time there myself. It’s a lakeside town with a few thousand people. There’s a casino. And there’s your usual up there—hunting, fishing, boating. Yoopers aren’t very fond of trolls, so I don’t go up there too often.”

  He knew Yooper, a UP-er. “Trolls?”

  A wry grin appeared on Walters’s face. “Those of us who live under the bridge.”

  Mark cracked a smile, thinking he’d rather accede to the Yoopers’ wishes and remain on his side of the bridge.

  “I’m only exaggerating. You’ll find people there to be friendly enough. They’re naturally suspicious of strangers—people going there and snatching up their real estate because it’s so cheap, that sort of thing.”

  “Then they’ll be glad to hear that I plan to give some of it back.”

  “So you’ll be selling the house?”

  “Can’t imagine keeping it. I don’t gamble, hunt, fish, or go boating.”

  “Since it’s in a trust, you can go ahead and start the selling process. There’s just a couple of administrative things I need to take care of before the actual sale.”

  Walters turned back to the filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. He handed it to Mark. “Death certificates,” he said as Mark flipped the folder open. “Vivian Jane Peregrine. Date of Death: May 20, 2014. Date of Birth: May 15, 1953.” She had just had a birthday, he thought. He had never known her birthdate. All the years that he had received a letter from Vivian for his birthday, and he didn’t once think of hers.

  “The funeral home handling the cremation is off Highway 31. It’s called Woodland Hills Funeral Home.”

  “Woodland Hills.”

  Walters nodded. “And remember, she wanted to be scattered over the lake.”

  Ten minutes later, Mark shook hands with Walters and left. He sat in his car and rolled down the windows, letting the trapped heat escape and the cool air blow on his face. His scattered mind worked on resetting his schedule. At least he had already postponed the return flight, but those plans to explore the area were dashed.

  As Mark pulled away, Walters came rushing out of the building. “Hold on!” He stooped, sticking his head through the passenger window. “You’re not heading for Manistique tonight, are you? I doubt the funeral home will have everything ready before tomorrow.”

  “No, I’m not leaving tonight,” Mark answered, although the funeral home only counted as the second reason. “Why?”

  “Are you by chance a Blackhawks fan?”

  Mark smiled. “I had a ticket for the game tonight.”

  “Seriously? Well if it’s any consolation, there’s a bar in town where a few of us watch games together.”

  “You’re a Blackhawks fan?”

  Walters held a finger to his lips and nodded. “Don’t tell anyone around here. Yeah. I’ll be there tonight if you’re interested.”

  With Walters’s directions to the downtown bar and a double-pat on the roof, Mark left for the hotel.

  The Mackinac Bridge connects the Lower Peninsula of Michigan to the Upper Peninsula. The “Mighty Mac” spans five miles over the Straits of Mackinac where Lake Michigan and Lake Huron exchange waters. Barely settled into his hotel room, Mark searched for other ways across the water.

  Though he admitted it to no one, Mark feared bridges, or more precisely, he feared his reaction—the queasiness and panic-stricken jitters—when he crossed a bridge. There was even a name for it: gephyrophobia. It comforted him only slightly that there were others like him. He nevertheless considered it a silly, unfounded fear, especially since flying didn’t give him more than a brief pitter-patter of the heart during takeoff. He couldn’t rationally explain the fear, he could only rationally avoid bridges. And he had successfully done that for most of his life, all while keeping it a secret.

  A car ferry service across the straits had closed shortly after the bridge opened in 1957. But he found another way across, unconventional for sure. It was via Mackinac Island, a popular tourist attraction that had passenger ferries from both peninsulas. Take a boat from Mackinaw City in the Lower Peninsula and to St. Ignace in the Upper and rent a car. Except he couldn’t find a car rental service in St. Ignace.

  He really wanted to know the history behind the different-spelling, same-sounding, Mackinac and Mackinaw. But he checked his curiosity for the moment and continued searching for another way across. He found no other way except driving back down to Traverse City, catching a flight to Green Bay, and driving up the Wisconsin coastline to the UP. But this struck him as an untenable waste of time and money.

  Given no good alternative, he turned his attention to Mackinac. The origin of the name, he found, came from the local Indians. The French spelled it with -ac and the British with -aw. The wayward tendencies of the internet and Mark’s love of history drew him into a series of articles about the area’s past. The Ojibwe/Chippewa Indians. The struggle between French and British, British and Americans. The Siege of Fort Mackinac. The War of 1812. The Battle of Mackinac Island . . . The Toledo War between Michigan and Ohio and Michigan statehood and the Upper Peninsula . . . Henry Schoolcraft . . . Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha . . . copper and iron ore mining . . .

  Hours passed. It was nearing the time for the face-off when Mark noticed the hour. His mind churning with historical facts, he left for the bar.

  Mark found parking a couple blocks away from The Tell-Tale, a corner bar in Petoskey’s Gaslight District. As he walked to the bar, he took in the perfectly quaint and charming downtown. Though most shops appeared to be closed for the day, more than a few couples strolled hand in hand, checking out the storefronts. Through the window of one restaurant, he caught a woman shaking off a laugh from the gesticulating man sitting across from her. It reminded him of Laura reacting to some of his antics.

  Unable to dismiss a restless ache, Mark walked passed the bar, wandering down the street until he reached a set of stairs that went down toward the lake. The excursion took him to a park and then a marina. Down the pier, he stopped to watch the fading sun, thinking about all that is true at last light. His pain over Laura, he recognized, was not an ache for her, but for himself. His loneliness. Then he thought of Vivian. Did she die with no one thinking of her? He deeply regretted not contacting her again.

  Retracing his steps, Mark landed in front of the bar, and this time he went inside. An upbeat din filled the crowded Tell-Tale. A few more men than women took up the twenty-foot bar and half-dozen tables, everyone wearing Blackhawks jerseys and caps and shirts. Mark waded further in, searching for Walters when he felt a hand
patting him on the back. Walters in a team jersey carried a plate of appetizers.

  “You made it!” he yelled.

  “Yeah. This is a good crowd.”

  Walters nodded. “I told you! I saved us a space at a table over there.”

  Mark followed Walters to a table they shared with three others, strangers to Walters. Everyone was in a festive mood.

  The crowd cheered their way to a one-nothing lead in the first period. During intermission, the lawyer asked Mark what he did with his ticket to the game. “Gave it back,” Mark answered. “It was my friend Brad’s ticket. He and his sister have season tickets.”

  “He couldn’t make it?”

  “That’s what he claimed, but I’ll bet you he’s there. I think he’s trying to set me up with his sister.”

  “He must think highly of you, then.”

  Mark shook his head. “No, he knows my track record. He’s just a romantic optimist.”

  “Or maybe he doesn’t like his sister.”

  Mark laughed. “Thing is, he adores his sister.” He envied Brad for that. Mark wanted a close sister like Annie that he could talk to, connect with, share good and bad times. And all of it without the burdens of living with someone for the rest of his life.

  “You don’t like her?” Walters asked.

  “I like her plenty, but Brad and I have been friends since high school.”

  “So why not try it?”

  “Like I said, I have a track record. I’m liable to lose Brad as a friend if it doesn’t work out. Besides, I just got out of a pretty long-term relationship.”

  “How long?”

  “Fourteen years.”

  “What?!” Walters exclaimed.

  Mark chuckled. “Not really. It was actually two years. My friends measure my relationships in dog years—but two years was a personal best.”

  “What happened with her?”