“Ready to go back down, Wahoo? There’s a frozen yogurt place in our hotel. We could get some, then order pizza, and swim in the pool.”
Bass took one last look out the glass and nodded. They joined the line for the descending elevators, Isaac keeping his eye on the back of Bass’s head and one hand on his shoulder. He crouched to fit inside the elevator pod, which they shared with a young couple, still in the early days of their romance to judge by the amount of kissing. Each pod contained only five seats and a small window through which Bass watched their descent—occasionally commenting on all the steps they’d have to walk down if the elevator got stuck. Isaac kept himself occupied with the magazine, paging through articles about the best burger in the Midwest and how to get upgraded to first class without using miles.
Isaac had taken enough time to finish up his last project and for Bass to finish the school year, then they’d started out for their summer adventure—or at least that was what Bass thought. In the eighteen days since they’d left home, they’d shouted into the Grand Canyon, ridden horses in Estes Park, and watched the Oakland A’s trounce the Royals in Kansas City. Though he’d lived in California all his life, it had been easy to leave San Jose, where too many people—like his mother, who texted daily—knew about their troubles. Bass had grumbled about missing his summer baseball league until Isaac had promised they could catch a few games while on the trip, hence the A’s game. He had no qualms using some judicious bribery to start their journey in a good mood.
Isaac watched Bass’s breath fog up the window, his legs bouncing—even an elevator ride couldn’t contain his need for perpetual motion. The little-boy cheeks had sharpened into those of a young man sometime in the last year. Big feet didn’t match the skinny legs they were attached to, his still-high voice disarmed his dad with an occasionally good argument for why he should get to stay up later, and a little sprig of hair on the crown of his head still refused to lay flat—and Bass didn’t care, yet. Isaac’s innocent little boy grew up more each day, and he was bound and determined that they would have this last summer of simple boyhood.
“Where’re we going next?” Bass said, sitting so close to him that he was almost on his lap. Isaac put an arm around him and flipped the magazine’s page. The headline read “Ten Best Places to Get Away from It All.” He scanned the article. Most were coastal, like Key West or Malibu. No, thank you. But number two. Number two had potential.
“How about here?”
He pointed to the words Door County, Wisconsin next to photos of a towering white lighthouse, a winding road through an autumnal tunnel of arching trees, and isolated rocky shores with a single kayaker exploring the nooks and crannies. The article described a rural, remote peninsula where people spent their days in leisure amid orchards and ice cream shops—the perfect place for an idyllic, postcard American childhood summer.
As they emerged from the visitor’s center, the afternoon sunshine reflecting off the mirrored surface of the structure above them, Isaac’s phone whistled that a new text message had arrived. Bass scampered ahead, all cowlick and sincerity, onto a wide field beneath the monument where a few people lay on their backs to take photos. They could go home, Isaac thought. It wasn’t too late for Bass to join his friends on the team or sign up for a few camps—but the reality of everything that came with that decision caused his heartbeat to quicken and skip in panic.
They would try their luck in Door County, Wisconsin.
His phone whistled again.
He didn’t need to check. He knew who it was. He’d ignored all the daily messages and phone calls from Bass’s grandma, his mom. He had not given her any warning that Bass and he were going on a trip, where, or for how long they would be gone. He still didn’t know. They’d be gone as long as it took for Isaac to figure out how to tell Bass his mom was dead.
? ? ? ? ?
Sometime in the last thirty minutes, Isaac and Bass had driven over an invisible line—or maybe it was the Sturgeon Bay Bridge. Traffic had slowed, radio stations wavered, and the tension that had pinched his right shoulder since leaving California eased. Farm fields traded places with orchards, which traded places with magical patches of forest. Bikers hugged the edge of the road as cars patiently weaved around them. No one hurried—except one dick in a giant Suburban hauling a trailered speedboat.
Already Isaac knew this was the right place for them. He hadn’t seen a fast-food restaurant since crossing the bridge, and the most garish tourist attraction seemed to be the mini-golf courses. Since deciding to head in this direction in St. Louis, he’d done some research. Door County was Wisconsin’s thumb, a peninsula that jutted out into Lake Michigan. Much of the land was dedicated to farming and local tourism, mainly orchards and forests. To the northwest was Green Bay, not the city but the body of water. To the southeast was Lake Michigan. Because of its pastoral setting, it had also become a vacation getaway for those wanting a slower pace and a reason to spend the days outdoors. Perfect.
Orchard stores advertising cherries and apples, fresh baked goods, and gifts appeared along the road. Some promised the best cider donuts or cherry pie, others had outdoor activities where children could burn off some energy, and yet others offered to let you pick your own cherries when the season started. As they approached a store offering a wide selection of samples, Isaac pulled into the parking lot. It seemed like a good time to stretch their legs and grab a snack at the same time.
“Let’s see what we’ve gotten ourselves into, Barracuda,” Isaac said.
He stepped onto the gravel parking lot, the rocks shifting under his flip-flops. Minivans, SUVs, and cars, many bearing out-of-state plates, filled the lot. Inside the store, freezers contained frozen cherries, apple juice from last season, and pies. Fresh baked goods lined shelves, and quippy signs hung from the walls that said things like IF I HAD KNOWN GRANDKIDS WERE SO MUCH FUN, I WOULD HAVE HAD THEM FIRST and I ENJOY A GLASS OF WINE EACH NIGHT FOR THE HEALTH BENEFITS. THE REST ARE FOR MY WITTY COMEBACKS AND FLAWLESS DANCE MOVES. Bass slid his hand into Isaac’s as they walked around the store, staying close to him as they sampled pretzels with cherry-studded dips and homemade jams. A café sold freshly roasted Door County–brand coffee and cherry sodas made with Door County cherry juice.
In the bakery area, Isaac picked up a container of apple turnovers still warm from the oven—they would be a tasty breakfast in their motel room tomorrow.