by Joel Streicker
The flight from San Francisco to Traverse City is delayed, so it’s after 11 pm when we arrive. By the time we—my wife, my kids Rachel and Sam, and I—collect our baggage and sort out the rental car, it’s nearly midnight. But we’re still on West Coast time, so we aren’t sleepy, just hungry. Teenage metabolisms had confounded Joan’s and my calculations on how much food to bring on the flight. The only restaurant at the airport is closed, so we drive into town, check in to the motel, and go online to look for a place to eat.
Every summer since the kids were born, we’ve gone to northern Michigan for a week-long family camp for alumni of the University of Michigan. Joan has been going there with her family since she was a child. It’s a time to reconnect with her far-flung family, and a chance to savor the sweetness of warm weather after San Francisco’s usual summertime cold and fog.
In recent years, camp has been a welcome opportunity to spend time with our kids. Rachel will go away to college a year from this fall, and Sam will do the same the following year. They are already so immersed in their own worlds—school, friends, sports, etc.—that we rarely have time just to be together. Even though the kids go their own way at camp, we still see them at meals and for a few obligatory family events, like the Thursday night smoked whitefish feast, an old tradition in Joan’s family.
Traverse City sits on the northern tip of Michigan’s lower peninsula. It’s lively for a small city: It hosts an international film festival and a cherry festival, boasts wineries and craft breweries and fine dining, and attracts tourists from Detroit and Chicago. Still, given the late hour, all the restaurants are closed. At last, Joan finds a bar called Mike’s that has a kitchen, and she orders up some sandwiches.
Mike’s is only a five-minute drive from the motel. Even though it’s hot—because it’s hot—I insist we roll down the windows rather than resort to air conditioning. I intend to enjoy the warmth every second possible. The kids, native San Franciscans who wear shorts year-round at home, are unaccustomed to the heat. But they are accustomed to my annual monologue on how the weather up here reminds me of my Chicago childhood. Like every year, they theatrically roll their eyes and groan and I, playing my part, laugh.
Traffic is light and the rented Chevy Tahoe (I point out to the kids that you can’t rent a foreign car in Michigan) rides like a cloud. The moon is high and nearly full, silvering the waters of the West Arm of Grand Traverse Bay on our right. Charming old two-story brick buildings line the downtown streets; I ease the SUV into a parking space just down the street from Mike’s.
Joan gives me a peck on the cheek. I’ll go get the food, she says, then jumps out of the car, and walks quickly into Mike’s. She’s on a diet—again—and is ravenous.
Even though we’re a good forty feet from the bar, we can hear music coming from it. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, gamely trying to keep time, but I’m hopelessly, permanently off tempo. Rachel giggles. She and Sam inherited Joan’s musical talent. She leans an arm out the window and beats time against the car door.
The shop windows are brightly lit; none are protected by security gates.
Every so often, a group of young people ambles by. The men wear khaki shorts and buttoned-down short-sleeved shirts, the women are aflame in colorful dresses of light material. They move languidly, awash in youth and health and freedom.
We wait five, ten minutes. The kids’ phones are out of juice, and we’ve been sitting all day, so I suggest we get out and stretch our legs. I don’t even bother locking the doors. We saunter up the street, examining the windows of a high-end chocolate store, a cookware shop, a women’s clothing store, and, right next to Mike’s, a place that sells Michigan memorabilia. The kids are fascinated by a large flag in the window. The flag consists of a map of Michigan that omits place names in favor of products or activities typical of the area. Traverse City is represented by a pair of cherries dangling from a stem. Sam whispers to Rachel. Gross! she says, smacking him on the shoulder, and they laugh. The cherries look distinctly like testicles.
The door to the bar opens, and two young women emerge into the night as if blown out by the music blasting behind them. They’re in their mid-twenties, one tall, slim, and dark-haired, the other a little shorter (though she’s taller than me), chunkier, and blond. Girls still, really. Arms linked, they’re laughing loudly. As they pass us, the blonde stumbles and, slowly, drunkenly, drops to her knees. Her friend nearly falls, too, but manages to steady herself. She tries to right the blonde, but the girl is heavy and makes no effort to get to her feet.
“Penny, come on!” the friend says, tugging at her arm. Penny shakes her head and sways slightly.
Rachel and Sam have turned to watch. Penny leans forward and places her palms on the sidewalk so that now she’s down on all fours.
“I’m going to take you home, girl,” the friend moves behind Penny, and leans down to grab her under both armpits. Penny’s big, and I can’t see how her friend is going to be able to lift her. I wonder whether I should offer to help—or would that seem intrusive or paternalistic?
Penny shrugs and suddenly lurches forward, grunts, and vomits. Rachel and Sam leap back. Penny gasps, her sides heave, and she vomits again. Her friend pulls Penny’s long hair back and makes soothing noises. She turns and looks up at me. She’s also drunk—not as much as Penny, it seems—but she knows she needs help to get Penny back on her feet.
“Just wanna lie down…” Penny mumbles.
I hate drunks. I would like nothing more than to disappear, but no one else is around and my kids are watching, so I step forward and, bending, wrap my left arm around Penny’s chest, just below the neck and place my right hand on her right shoulder.
“Let’s not lie down here, Penny,” I say softly, almost in her ear. Her hair is thick and honey blond—beautiful, really—and, despite the sour puddle of vomit on the sidewalk, she smells of flowers. Her skin is tan, warm, smooth.
She goes slack. I squat as deeply as I can, slide my right arm under her, and, staggering a bit, haul her to her feet. I drape Penny’s arm around my shoulders while her friend clasps Penny’s waist.
My heart pounds with the effort. Penny turns her head toward me. Her eyes are glassy, her breath putrid, and her shoulder where it touches my arm burns as if she were a flame. I’m flooded with desire and shame and regret and memories of other warm summer nights, other drunken girls.
I’m jolted back to the present by a hand suddenly grasping my arm. I look down at it. The fingers are meaty and the nails, which are long and orange, dig into my skin.
“Is she all right?” The voice is sharp, cigarette-scarred, right beside me, and close enough to smell the beer on her breath. The voice and the hand belong to a woman with long, fake eyelashes and blond hair showing dark roots. I place her on the downhill slope toward middle age. Behind her hovers a woman who looks like she could be her sister. They frown at me.
Penny’s friend explains the situation, acknowledging her gratitude to the “gentleman” (that would be me) for his assistance. I nod. I know I couldn’t get a word out of my mouth if I tried. The women unclench their brows slightly.
Penny slumps against me. I wobble. “Shit,” Eyelashes says, “Annette, bring the car around.” The other woman marches off. “We’ll take her to the ER,” she says to Penny’s friend, and helps her support the girl. The three of us waver, moving with Penny as she shifts her weight. She begins to babble.
When Penny falls silent and her head lolls backward, Eyelashes quickly grips her chin, and slaps her—not hard—on both cheeks. “You got to keep awake, honey,” she rasps.
At last, Annette pulls up in a black Suburban. She scrambles out from behind the wheel and opens the back door. Penny’s friend goes around to the other back door. She climbs in and helps me ease Penny into the seat and buckle her in. Eyelashes wheels around to the front seat.
I rest my hand on Penny’s shoulder for a moment, reluctant to release her. Her eyes are half-open, and she’s murmuring something I can’t make out.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say, patting her on the shoulder.
With an effort, she opens her eyes. I feel them scrutinize my face, suddenly focused. “Who are you?” she asks.
The question is like a dagger in my chest. I have no response. Annette turns the key in the ignition. Eyelashes leans over from the front seat and says, “We’re going to take care of you, sweetheart,” and I desperately hope she’s talking to me, but I know she’s not.
I close the door and the SUV pulls away. I can feel my children’s eyes on me, but I wait, and wait, and wait, before I turn to face them.
Joel Streicker’s stories have been published in Great Lakes Review, Tupelo Quarterly Review, Burningword, and New Flash Fiction Review, among other journals. He won Cutthroat Magazine’s short story contest in 2021 and Blood Orange Review’s fiction contest in 2020. He has published poetry in English and Spanish, including the collection El amor en los tiempos de Belisario (Bogotá: Común Presencia). His translations of such writers as Samanta Schweblin, Mariana Enríquez, and Pilar Quintana have appeared in A Public Space, McSweeney’s, and other journals. Streicker’s essays have appeared in The Forward, Letralia, and El Malpensante, among other publications.