Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

  “That might be true. But it doesn’t matter, does it? Not when the sizes are all wrong! You’d barely fit a twelve-year-old in those shirts. ‘Pay in advance,’ you said. ‘Trust me,’ you said. ‘Am I not your best-ever player?’ you said. ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘That’s right, Derek. Let me ignore the fact that you haven’t achieved anything since then, that you’re a worthless nobody who makes your sissy of a little brother look like a shining example of masculine integrity…’ Sorry, Michael. I get a little carried away.”

  “Don’t worry, I stopped listening when you started to insult my brother.”

  “Right. We’re meant to be inclusive these days, and I try to keep up with the times, but…”

  “Did you mean literally or figuratively?” Michael interrupts him.

  “Huh?”

  “The shirts. When you said they would fit twelve-year-olds.”

  “Should think so. But I don’t coach twelve-year-olds, do I? I coach a real team, you know?”

  With that, he is off again. Michael lets him talk for a while, then interrupts. “But there are twelve-year-olds at the school, right? And they’re crazy about football, just like they were when I was a student? They worship your team.”

  “Of course they do. But what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Make a thing of it. Invite the local paper down here, get your big, tough heroes to put an arm around some weedy twelve-year-old’s shoulders and give him a shirt. Support the next generation, that kind of thing. Tell them that if they train as hard as they can, they could be here, too. Does Derek’s record still stand?”

  “If you think a stupid old record will make me…”

  “It doesn’t actually matter, just sounds better in the article. All sponsored by former football hero Derek Callahan, who’ll be there to smile and shake hands and hope that one of those twelve-year-olds can break his record.”

  Coach Stevenson is about to argue, but he stops short. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish.

  “Sponsored?” Derek says. “Hold on a minute, little bro…”

  “Sponsored,” Michael repeats.

  “And he’ll be sober and presentable and wearing a goddamn suit like a grown man?”

  “Even if I have to force him into it myself.”

  * * *

  Derek remains composed until they are out of earshot of Coach Stevenson, but then he grabs Michael by the arm and says, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “You couldn’t keep hiding from him like a baby,” Michael stubbornly replies. “You used to be invincible. Everyone worshipped you. But look at you now. Happy to dupe people with crap they don’t need, and on top of that, you have to run and hide every time you see Coach Stevenson. For God’s sake, Derek.”

  “You had no right to try to sort this out without even talking to me. It’s my life.”

  “So do something with it!”

  They stare angrily at one another. Derek gives in first. “Done’s done, I guess.”

  “For once in your life, could you show a little fight? Get angry. Stand your ground.”

  It looks like Derek is about to hit him, but then he crumples like a broken football. “You think you know everything, don’t you? Just because you got out of here and went to college and lived in all kinds of weird places. Then you come back and think you’ve got the right to stick your nose into other people’s business. What the hell do you know about real life?”

  He sounds more whiny than cocky. Derek can hear it, too, and his face turns an angry shade of red.

  Michael looks like he has just discovered himself kicking a puppy, but that makes him even angrier. This is Derek. He should be strong and tough enough to defend himself against his little brother.

  I think Michael wishes Derek had hit him. “You can always use some of the money you borrowed,” he said.

  Derek stares wearily at him. “You can be a real asshole sometimes, you know that?”

  Chapter 25

  Illusions

  I’ve always chosen to believe that there is some kind of fundamental justice in life.

  Recent events might have given that belief a few knocks, but still. Some kind of, well, karma. If you’re a good person, you’ll benefit from that. If you’re a bad person, it’ll come back to bite you in the long run.

  MacKenzie always laughed at what she called my touching belief in divine justice. “Tell me, Henny,” she said. “What is it about human history that makes you believe in ‘justice’? The rich just get richer, the poor poorer. Nice people get punished, and the jerks get off scot-free.”

  So, I have to admit that I get a certain sense of satisfaction out of knowing that MacKenzie will soon discover that sin sometimes punishes itself.

  Dad is on his way toward the reception area, and he is carrying a heavy suitcase.

  It’s so heavy that he is leaning to one side, and that’s how he crosses the parking lot—lopsided and slightly jerkily. Every now and then, the case hits the ground, which means that his approach sounds like step, thud, scrape, step, thud, scrape. When he reaches reception, he seems relieved to put the suitcase down on the floor.

  MacKenzie stares at him with a look of shock. Shock and guilt.

  “Mr. Broek?” she says.

  Dad’s eyes are fixed somewhere above her head as he forces out the words he knows he has to say: “I may have misjudged you.”

  “I don’t actually think so,” MacKenzie mumbles.

  “I heard that you didn’t think…” Dad clenches his jaws. “That you didn’t think I had a drinking problem.”

  “I know you don’t have a drinking problem,” she replies entirely truthfully.

  “In that case, you’re the only one. People keep staring at me. Cheryl has been going through my trash! There’s no way I can stay at home.”

  MacKenzie glances back and forth between Dad and his suitcase. The concern on her face is actually quite funny. “You want to stay here?” she says, sounding dismayed.

  “This is a motel, isn’t it? You rent out rooms? Surely that’s why you exist?”

  “But…you want to stay here?”

  “Yes. I’d like a room. Doesn’t matter which, so long as I can get away. If Cheryl talks to me about my problems or my nerves once more, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

  “Uh, welcome to the Pine Creek Motel.”

  “Just give me a damn key.” Dad clutches his forehead. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve made me start cursing.”

  * * *

  MacKenzie has given Dad a room on the first floor.

  He snorts disapprovingly at the drab room, but I suppose he must think it’s better than staying put on the same street as his neighbors, because he starts to unpack. Carefully and deliberately, like everything else in life. Every item has its place.

  He lifts his shirts from his suitcase, gives them a shake, and hangs them up in the wardrobe. He places two perfectly folded sweaters into a drawer, along with his socks (also folded) and underwear (ironed). He hangs up his three suits, too.

  Next, he unpacks his toiletry bag, lining up everything on the shelf in the bathroom. A perfectly squeezed tube of toothpaste (he starts from the bottom, of course, and folds as he goes, avoiding any waste), a new toothbrush, reading glasses. There is something touching about the near-military precision with which he lines them up. It’s as if he’s waiting for an inspection.

  Last of all, he bends down over the suitcase and carefully pulls out… Jesus Christ, an urn. Is that…me?

  The lid is being held in place by a couple of strips of masking tape. No way that’s just a jar of face cream or something. My ashes have clearly come along for the ride.

  I’m touched by the fact that he’s brought me back to where I belong.

  He carefully peels off the tape, wipes the urn with t
he arm of his sweater, and places it next to the TV.

  Oh, Dad.

  Then he sits down at the foot of the bed with his hands neatly folded in his lap and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

  He seems to be thinking: What do I do now?

  * * *

  “Did you know there’s a man outside, drinking in front of your motel?”

  MacKenzie doesn’t even look up from the computer. Dad has been loitering in the check-in area for the past half hour, helpfully pointing out everything that is wrong with the motel.

  “In broad daylight! From a hip flask!”

  “I wouldn’t be throwing rocks in your glass house if I were you,” MacKenzie mutters. “Sorry, sorry, I know you don’t drink. But that’s just Clarence.”

  Dad is sitting on the uncomfortable sofa, and he has pushed a broken lamp and a few old brochures on the coffee table out of the way to make room for my urn. MacKenzie’s eyes keep going back to it.

  “And the blind in my room seems to be stuck. I was sure you’d want to know as soon as possible.”

  This is Dad’s second visit to the reception desk. MacKenzie looks as though she is daydreaming of a happier time when she was left in peace.

  “And how am I supposed to iron my shirts? There’s no ironing board!”

  MacKenzie mutters something to herself and then sets off to find one for him.

  Camila takes over at the desk.

  * * *

  When MacKenzie gets back, Camila is deep in conversation on the phone. The person on the other end has clearly seen our sign.

  “No, sir, unfortunately we don’t have a bar. Or a pool. Yes, it’s a little unfortunate that the sign says we do. It needs…updating. Measure Nine? That was a ballot in 2000, proposing to make it illegal to “propagandize” for homosexuality. Yes, it’s crazy. Ah, you meant homosexuality. I thought you were talking about the measure. Do we have gays here? Of course we do. We ship in a busload every day. I’m sorry you feel like this isn’t the motel for you. Have a good day, sir.”

  “He didn’t make a reservation?” MacKenzie asks sarcastically.

  “You’ve never thought of getting a new sign?” Camila replies. And then: “What’s this?” She points to a scrap of paper that has been taped to the desk, only visible to anyone sitting behind it.

  “A serenity prayer,” MacKenzie explains. “I’ve needed it since Mr. Broek moved in.”

  “‘God, give me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change those I can, and the wisdom to know the difference,’” Camila reads aloud. “Very fitting.”

  A deep male voice interrupts them. “I use that every day,” Sheriff Ed says, and both MacKenzie and Camila jump guiltily. The sheriff has that effect on people.

  “Do you have a couple of minutes?” he asks Camila.

  “Sorry?” she says. “You want to talk to me?”

  “If you have time.”

  She casts an uncertain glance at MacKenzie. “Sure. I guess.”

  “Maybe over lunch?” the sheriff suggests, and Camila reluctantly follows him over to the restaurant. She glances back over her shoulder as though she is hoping someone will save her.

  “Dolores!” the sheriff cries. “You look fantastic, as always.”

  “You’re hungry. As always.”

  “Guilty.”

  The sheriff orders “the usual” and fills an enormous paper cup with Mountain Dew. Camila sticks to coffee.

  Sheriff Ed sits down at a table, firmly pushes the plastic flower to one side, and says, “This is just an informal chat.”

  His words don’t seem to make Camila any more comfortable. “So you’re not going to arrest me, read me my rights, and drag me away in cuffs?”

  “Not today. A couple of people from town asked if I would come over and talk to you about the sign, whether you could maybe do something about it. They, uh, think it gives a bit of an…unkempt impression.”

  “They wanted you to talk to me?”

  “Yes, um, I heard in town that the motel is yours, strictly speaking, so…”

  “You thought you’d have more success with me than MacKenzie?”

  The sheriff tries to smile disarmingly. “She’s a little sensitive when it comes to complaints from town.”

  “You get a lot?” Camila sounds surprised.

  The sheriff is saved from having to answer by Dolores arriving with his food: an enormous hamburger that takes up half the plate, a mountain of golden-brown onion rings, and a lone slice of tomato. The sheriff pushes the tomato to one side.

  “It’s MacKenzie’s motel,” Camila tells him.

  “Not legally. Onion ring?”

  She shakes her head.

  “They also think that the sign might not be…accurate. Maybe Mr. Alvarez got a little…enthusiastic toward the end? And, well…those signs MacKenzie added? Isn’t it time we put the past behind us?”

  “You said ‘a couple of people from town.’ Who, exactly?”

  “You were living in Los Angeles until recently, weren’t you?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Police work in a town like this is a little different than in a big city like LA. My job here isn’t primarily to solve crimes. I have a detective for that, and his job isn’t all that hard. If a serious crime gets committed, we generally know who did it right away. Most of our time is actually spent keeping the peace. We prevent. We make sure we’re visible in the community so that troublemakers behave and keep their mischief away from law-abiding citizens, so that ordinary folks feel safe and trust us. Do you know what my first job was as sheriff?”

  Camila looks impatient, but she politely shakes her head.

  “Organizing a Christmas collection for the children at the hospital. Children donated old toys they no longer played with, and the sheriff’s office organized a big summer picnic as thanks. Barbecue, patrol cars, happy kids. That’s how you get to know people around here. And then you devote time to balancing various interests against one another. To being some kind of buffer between them. Old ladies who want silence after seven in the evening, teenagers who just want to have fun…”

  “Homophobes who want to be left to hate in peace?”

  “Oh, come on, folks around here are decent. Ninety percent, anyway. They just go a little crazy sometimes. But they also do plenty of good. You need to remember that.”

  “And now they’re upset again?”

  “A few are very upset. There aren’t a lot of them, but they’ve been nagging Bob, and Bob talked to me. You know Bob Parker? Maybe not. Politician. He’s the one who gets things done around here. That’s how it works in a town like Pine Creek. You work together and diffuse any tensions before they have time to turn into real problems.”

  Camila looks out at the sign from their table by the window. I can’t read her expression. Then she turns back to the sheriff. “How can you eat so much and still be so thin?”

  “I burn a lot of calories worrying about the state of the world.”

  * * *

  MacKenzie folds her arms as Camila explains why the sheriff wanted to talk to her. “You want to change the sign because they want us to?”

  “Come on, you have to agree that it isn’t exactly…true.”

  MacKenzie’s eyes glitter against her will. “I wonder if they’d really want a true sign,” she says to herself. Then, to Camila: “Well, it’s your motel.”

  “Come on, it’s a possibility. A new sign, to show that things are moving forward. I mean, it’s the first thing people see, isn’t it? Don’t you think it would be better if it was a little more honest? And maybe more…uniform?”

  “Honest, you say. I think I might have an idea.”

  “So you’ll handle it? I have no idea how to order a new sign.”

  “Don’t worry,�
� MacKenzie tells her. “You’ll get your new sign. And it’ll be honest.”

  Something in the tone of her voice and the glimmer in her eye tells me that Camila should be worried. I think Camila must be able to sense that, too, because she says, “And no lies about having a pool or a bar or anything like that. Or an amusement park,” she adds, in case MacKenzie is planning to come up with any new lies.

  “It’ll be the most honest motel sign ever,” she says.

  * * *

  The next morning, Michael continues work on his list. I spent the night trying to make his subconscious decide to visit Derek so they could talk about what happened, but he went straight over to the restaurant when he woke, crossing out “Solve the Derek and Coach Stevenson problem” and moving on to the next point.

  He has made it to “Get to know Henny,” but he seems reluctant to get started. He spends the morning staring out the window, and the first person he talks to is Dolores, who comes over to force more coffee and pecan pie on him.

  “I was away for so long,” he says as she refills his cup.

  “Too long,” she agrees. He gestures to the seat opposite, and she sinks into it with the relieved sigh of someone who has spent her whole life on her feet.

  “You and Camila,” she says.

  “Uh, yeah. I was wondering what Henny was like as an adult. What kind of person did she become? Now…or, well, after everything.”

  He seems nervous about how Dolores will react to his questions about me, and I am, too. The funeral should have drawn a line under this whole mess. I don’t want them to have to go around being sad or remembering me all the time.

  But Dolores looks happy. I think she wants to talk about me. I can’t quite understand it, but it’s nice all the same.

  “Her favorite dessert was anything with chocolate,” she says. “Every time her birthday came around, I would ask her what she wanted and she always said ‘something with chocolate.’ So, one year, I made her a Something with Chocolate cake. It had chocolate sponge, chocolate mousse, dark-chocolate icing, chocolate sprinkles on top, and chocolate-covered strawberries to decorate it. After that, she asked for the same thing every year.”