At Witt's End (3 page)

Belly interrupted the silence with a muffled bark, prancing in front of the basement door. Aanders held his finger to his lips. “Be quiet. Mom's already mad at you.” Belly continued to plead by alternating his soulful stare between Aanders and the boy's mother. Aanders slipped his fingers under Belly's collar. He led him to the pantry and opened a box of treats. Belly sniffed the offering. He gulped it down, snorted, then returned to the basement door.

Aspen leaves flitted outside the kitchen window as if mimicking the energy of the resort crowd. Wisps of wood smoke rose from a nearby campfire. Nan let out a deep sigh, focused her attention on the lawn, and peered at a small, riderless tricycle inching its way down the sidewalk. She leaned closer to the window. The vehicle's pedals turned in sync with the rotation of the tires as it crossed the grass and disappeared over a rise.

Nan stood on her tiptoes. She stretched her torso across the sink and peered sharply to the left. “That's odd."

Aanders plopped down onto a stool. He swiveled back and forth, staring at the window.

"I just saw a tricycle going toward the resort all by itself,” Nan said.

"You mean that blue one?” Seeing his mother nod, he said, “I saw it going the other way when you put the pan on the stove."

"Who was riding it?"

"Nobody."

"Who was pushing it?” Nan turned to look at her son.

"Nobody.” Aanders leaned against the back of the stool. “I thought it was the wind."

Nan frowned at the treetops. “It doesn't look that windy."

She placed a piece of chicken on Aanders’ plate. “You've got to get some food in your stomach before you disappear altogether."

"You always tell me to eat more, but it doesn't help.” Aanders leaned his chin on his fist, absentmindedly stabbing his fork into the meat again and again and again.

"You'll appreciate that when you're older.” Nan stood two inches taller than her five-foot-four-inch son. Aanders had inherited her slim build and Scandinavian features. He bore no resemblance to his father's side of the family.

"Sadie called and asked how you were doing,” Nan said. She brushed her thumb across Aanders’ forehead to wipe the hair from his eyelashes. “She's concerned. She knows you lost your best friend."

"I know,” Aanders said. “She and Jane brought cookies over while you were in the embalming room. I don't like it when Jane cries."

"She cries because she's sad for you. We're lucky to have the Witt sisters as friends.” Nan smiled at her son. “Sadie is like the mother I never had. I think she likes to pretend you're her grandson."

"My friends think she really is my grandmother,” Aanders said. “They say my Grandma is weird. It's embarrassing when they talk about Sadie and her imaginary friends."

"Sadie's not weird. She's eccentric. Sadie means well."

"But she dresses weird. Really weird. That only makes things worse. Why can't she dress like a normal old lady?"

"Sadie's unique. I admit she's a bit strange, but she enjoys life. We should all be more like Sadie.” Nan poured milk into a glass and set it near Aanders. “She's concerned about us because I'm raising you on my own."

"Thank goodness,” Aanders said.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing.” Aanders directed his words toward his feet.

"That's not fair, young man. Don't criticize what you don't understand. You know your father has issues."

"I'm glad he doesn't live here anymore."

"Me too. It's hard to believe it's been four years.” Nan's voice trailed off. She lifted her hair from her neck, gathered it in her hand, and slipped a band around it. Her blond bob hung just above her shoulders. The damp air raised havoc with her thick, wavy mane making it impossible to manage.

Nan scooped a pad of soft butter from a dish and spread it over a slice of bread. “Put some chokecherry jelly on this. You've got to eat something.” Her shoulders flexed in rhythm with the tapping of her fingers. “You doing okay?” She reached across the counter and patted her son's hand.

"Yeah.” Aanders swiped the back of his hand across his cheek as a tear formed and fell to the counter. He fought the urge to run toward the basement door.

"I'm sorry, Aanders. I'm so sorry you lost your best friend. If it were in my power to change what happened, I would."

Sobs issued forth as Aanders pushed his stool back and walked toward the basement door. “Why did he have to die, Mom?"

"That's one of those questions I can't answer. Every time I work on someone who died unexpectedly, I ask myself that same question. You'd think a funeral director would be used to it by now, but I'm not."

"He's the only friend I ever had,” Aanders cried, placing his palms on the door and leaning his forehead against the wood. “He liked me and didn't make fun of me like the rest of the kids do."

"You'll have other friends. I know you don't believe that now, but you will make other friends."

"I don't want other friends. I want Tim back. I want my best friend back."

Running her hand across Aanders’ hair and pulling him close, Nan said, “I know you do. I want him back, too. I want his whole family back."

Aanders leaned into his mother's embrace, once more fixing his gaze on the basement door.

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After staring out the screen door with a coffee cup clutched in both hands, Sadie turned and whispered to her sister. “He's back. I don't know where he went yesterday, but he's back. I think he's ready to ask for help.” A hinge creaked in protest when Sadie pushed on the screen door.

The man in the black suit shot a distressed glance at the door and then at the resort guests who scrambled past him on their way to the parking lot. His knuckles paled as his fist gripped the briefcase handle. He shouted at a nearby group of men. When they ignored him, even after a second attempt to get their attention, he stopped. Furrows of confusion crowded his narrow forehead.

"Is there something I can do for you?” Sadie repeated the question when he didn't respond.

The man shielded his eyes to focus on Sadie. He squinted and scanned Sadie from her spiked hair to her polished purple toenails. “I highly doubt it."

"You'll change your mind,” Sadie said under her breath. She sat next to Belly on the top porch step. Keeping his gaze on the man, the dog's hind quarters wriggled in excitement. Sadie coaxed Belly into a sitting position, maneuvering him sideways until he panted in her face. “Oh pew, Belly. Your breath smells like Jane's rear end."

"I heard that,” Mr. Bakke shouted through the screen door. “How do you know what Jane's rear end smells like?"

"Just a wild guess,” Sadie answered. “From the size of it, I bet I'm right.” She pushed Belly's head to the side so she could catch her breath.

Sadie inhaled deeply over her coffee, pulling in the rich aroma. Caffeine. Her vice. This was the one thing she refused to give up. Actually it was the second. She also refused to miss her weekly appointment at Big Leon's Beauty Shop. What he couldn't do with a curling iron and a bottle of dye.

She watched the man step back onto the paved path. He pulled a key ring from his suit coat pocket. Pressing a button on the remote attached to his key chain, he scanned the cars in the parking lot. He pressed the button again. Failing to hear the honk that signaled a programmed function, he stared back down at the keys.

"Are you sure I can't help you?"

Turning to respond, he said, “Madam, I already answered your question. It would be most unlikely that you could answer any inquiry I might have."

"Suit yourself.” Sadie shook the last few drops of coffee from the mug and stood. “I'll be inside if you need me."

"Are we getting another one?” Mr. Bakke asked, as Sadie let the screen door slam behind her. She set the mug on the table.

"I think so, but he's one stubborn crosser."

Mr. Bakke dipped his hands into the dishwater and wrung out a cloth before wiping the length of the kitchen counter. He wore khaki shorts and a light blue polo shirt featuring a Witt's End Resort emblem. A ghostly-white, seven-inch section of exposed skin stood out boldly between his knee-high stockings and the hem of his shorts. His unusually large feet were clad in brown sandals. Sadie blinked twice to make sure he wasn't wearing snowshoes.

Small-boned and height challenged, his head sported thin wisps of white hair that refused to lay flat against his scalp. Tufts of ear hair sprung from the sides of his head.
Were Belly and Mr. Bakke hatched from the same furry egg?
Sadie smiled at the prospect.

"I can't believe Jane's letting you do that,” Sadie said, watching Mr. Bakke run the cloth over the counter. “She won't have a purpose if you clean. Why waste your time? You know she'll redo it when you're not looking."

"I'm trying to lighten her load. She's so worried about the law suit she's irrational. This morning she cleared the table and started the dishes before I finished eating."

"That's why I wolf my food down and bloat like a pig. You take in a lot of air when you're forced to shovel it in,” Sadie said. “She's pressured me to eat fast ever since I can remember. Jane got that trait from our mother."

"I'll bet it drove your father to distraction,” Mr. Bakke said.

"We never knew him. Mother refused to tell us who he was."

"She wouldn't tell me, either. I tried to trick her into telling me, but she never let it slip.” Mr. Bakke joined Sadie at the kitchen table.

"Mr. Bakke,” Sadie said, pointing across the table. “You might want to consider moving to another chair. You just sat on Lora."

Placing his palms flat on the table for leverage, Mr. Bakke planted his sandals on the floor and rose slowly. He turned to view the empty chair. “My apologies, Lora. I didn't know you were there. I thought Sadie and I were alone."

A hollow rap on the screen door interrupted their conversation. They turned to witness the man in the black suit squint with curiosity as he tried to make out the figures on the opposite side of the door.

Sadie pushed the door open.

"Excuse me, madam,” the man said, his eyes lingering on Sadie's hairdo. “It seems I've had a lapse of memory. I can't figure out where I am.” His shoulders jerked when a car door slammed behind him.

Sadie joined him on the porch. “You're at Witt's End."

The man tightened his grip on the briefcase. “I know that. I read the sign. I need to know where Witt's End is located."

"We're located on Pinecone Lake in Northern Minnesota."

Belly grunted, lifted his bulk from the rug, and rammed his head against the screen door. Sadie pushed it open to prevent the dog from ripping the mesh from the door's frame. Belly sniffed the man's shoes. He snorted against the back of his trousers as the man tried to push him away with his briefcase.

"That's not possible. I'm on my way to...” He paused. “Well it's none of your concern. I just need to get back to the correct highway."

Sadie watched him scan the parking lot again, desperate to connect with something familiar. She motioned at him. “Maybe you should step in for a few minutes to get your bearings. Then I'll help you select a route."

The man sat in the chair Sadie indicated and looked around the room. Noticing others present, he said, “I wouldn't have bothered you if I had known you had company. I apologize for the intrusion."

"It's not an intrusion. These folks are guests just like you,” Sadie said, picking at a wad of dog hair that had stuck to her purple tube top. Sadie turned to point to Mr. Bakke on the davenport. “Well, everyone's a guest except Mr. Bakke.” Smiling at the elderly gentleman she added, “He's family."

Mr. Bakke waved and continued to read without looking up from his newspaper.

The man studied the other guests. “A guest? I'm not a guest. I may be perplexed, but I guarantee I have no intention of becoming a guest."

"Nobody ever does,” Sadie said gently.

Belly propped his chin on the man's leg and rolled his eyes coyly. Then he barked. The man's white knuckles jutted through his skin.

Leaning away from the dog, he said, “Please remove your mongrel from my pants leg. He's getting drool all over me.” He grimaced as the slobber spot on his briefcase veined across the leather.

"He's not my dog,” Sadie said.

"Then why do you tolerate him? He should be outside where creatures belong."

"He thinks he lives here.” Sadie tugged on Belly's collar. “But he really belongs to the neighbors."

After situating Belly on the opposing side of the room, Sadie reached out to shake the man's hand. “I'm Sadie Witt,” she said. She felt the clammy coolness of his skin when the man placed the tips of his fingers against her palm. “And who might you be?"

He looked up over the top of his glasses at Sadie's wrinkled cleavage and quickly averted his gaze. He shook his head. “It doesn't matter who I am. What matters is I'm obviously in the wrong place."

"For your information, you are exactly where you're supposed to be."

"I can't be. I haven't booked a vacation. And if I had, it certainly wouldn't be here. My arrival here was a miscalculation."

"I don't think so,” Sadie said, edging closer to the man. “Let's try this again.” Sadie reached her hand out. “I'm Sadie Witt. Who are you?"

Without extending his hand, the man straightened his shoulders, raised his chin, and said, “I'm Theopholis Jamison Peter."

"Well Mr. Peter, welcome to Witt's End. May we call you Theo?"

The screen door slammed and they turned toward the noise.

"Who called the undertaker?” Rodney Lassiter's footsteps fell heavily as he clomped over to Theo. “Black suit. Black tie. Did they let you drive the hearse, too?” A sneer portrayed his disdain as he ran his finger under the lapel on Theo's suit. “Nice threads, dude. I bet this cost you a wad. It ought to look real good where you're going."

"Sit down, Rodney, and be quiet,” Sadie said. “Theo is one of our new guests."

Tugging on a chair with his boot, Rodney said, “Where do you find these losers, Sadie? The last one was a race car driver with his helmet melted to his head. Now you got one in a mortician's costume. How come you don't get no sexy broads coming to your cabin?"