“I guess we’ll have to do it your way,” I say, but I make a promise to myself to tell him happy stories every night.
We go to the Timber Bar next, somewhere the two of us never went. Michael slumps wearily onto the barstool next to Clarence.
“You look a bit the worse for wear,” Clarence says warmly. “What’s the world done to you today?”
“Memories.”
“Ah.” Clarence gestures to the bartender. “This man needs a beer. Well, you’ve come to the right place,” he adds to Michael. “Most folks who come here have something they want to forget.”
“I was trying to remember.”
“Is that so? There’s no point trying to remember, if you ask me. No point trying to forget, either. Memories do what they want with us.”
“I have to remember. I have to…”
“Have to. That’s what people say when they’re trying to convince themselves we control our lives, when in actual fact it’s life that beats the pulp out of us. The best thing to do is just give in. That’s what I’ve always done. The simple truth is that the whole of human history—and the whole of its future, for that matter—can be boiled down to a bit of oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon. A little nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorous, too, if we’re being accurate, but they’re almost negligible. We’re 65 percent oxygen, 20 percent carbon, and 10 percent hydrogen, if I remember the numbers right. And then a few percent nitrogen, phosphorous, and calcium for the proteins, DNA, skeleton, and teeth. That’s all we are.”
“I know, I know,” Michael says wearily. “We’re just cucumbers with anxiety.”
“You fight too much,” Clarence tells him. “Pointless waste of energy. And if I knew Henny right, she’d tell you to relax. Henny wasn’t someone who fought fate for no reason.”
He should see me now, I think sullenly.
“But you’re right about the anxiety.” Clarence nods toward a dark corner of the bar. “We’ve got someone else struggling over there.”
Paul. The truck driver.
He seems to have lost at least twenty pounds over the past few weeks. His cheeks are sunken, his skin taut and gray, his face all dark shadows. His eyes are black, still, and bottomless.
“Did you know Henny?” Michael asks Paul.
Clarence frantically shakes his head.
“I killed her,” Paul replies.
“You’ve set him off again now,” Clarence mutters. “Why did you have to mention her? Okay, okay, I guess you couldn’t know.”
“I keep seeing her everywhere. She looked so nice. She didn’t even have time to be scared. If I’d just taken ten minutes longer at lunch, that’s what I keep thinking. Or if I’d called in sick that day. I’ve never been sick in my life, but I could’ve taken one day off, couldn’t I? And then she’d still be here. I wouldn’t have even driven along that road.”
I guess my life wasn’t the only one that ended that day.
Michael studies Paul’s tragic figure. “Or just hadn’t gotten drunk,” he mutters.
“He was sober,” I protest, but Paul doesn’t even seem to have heard.
“And I guess you’re going to keep drinking until the bar runs out?”
“Come on, be nice to him,” Clarence says. “He’s not very good at drinking, either. There’s plenty of booze for everyone here.”
“That’s not what I meant. If he’s so sad or regrets it so much, why doesn’t he do something useful instead? Does he think that sitting here all day would’ve made Henny happier?”
“So what do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. But he could start by putting down that beer.”
“Michael…” I say.
“Do something! Anything! If Henny had to die, her death should at least mean something. And that’s not you becoming a complete wreck who spends your days in here. It was Henny who died, not you. You should be able to pull yourself out of it. If I can, then…”
“Michael!” I interrupt. “I don’t think it’s that simple. He was there with me when it happened. I was never alone. Surely that has to mean something? I think he’s probably been alone ever since.”
“He can’t hear anything you’re saying,” Clarence interjects. “I tried to buy him a drink, but he’s in his own little world.”
Paul gets up. He staggers, but I’m not sure whether it’s due to the alcohol or exhaustion.
One of the regulars shouts “Timber!” the way they always do when someone gets too drunk.
Paul doesn’t hear that, either. He pushes a twenty-dollar bill across the bar, but he doesn’t say a word. As he walks toward the door, he is just a gray silhouette against the rain outside. I blink, but he’s still there when I open my eyes.
“Should he be driving?” Michael asks. “Hasn’t he caused enough trouble already?”
“He’s not driving anywhere. Walks here, walks home. Poor bastard.”
“Jesus Christ,” Michael mutters, getting up and heading out to his car. Paul hasn’t even made it across the parking lot. Michael leans the passenger seat and opens the door. “Get in,” he says, and Paul automatically does as he is told.
It turns out that Paul lives in a small apartment ten or so minutes out of town, in the opposite direction from the motel.
“All right, we’re here,” Michael says. Paul doesn’t move.
“For God’s sake.” Michael gets out, opens the door, and drags Paul out of the car. “Give me your keys,” he says. Paul obediently rummages through his pockets, but when Michael tries the door, it is already unlocked.
There are old clothes scattered around the living room, and the blind in the bedroom is still down. The apartment feels dark and claustrophobic. I feel an urge to roll up the blind and open the window. A bit of light and fresh air, that’s what this place needs.
The kitchen smells sour, like old milk. There are dirty coffee cups and half-empty cans of beer all over the countertop. A messy pile of unopened letters on the table. Several have angry red stamps on them.
The worst part is that it’s so obvious Paul used to care. This is a carefully decorated home. There’s even a rug in the living room. The kitchen shelves are clearly marked. The few jars of herbs are lined up with their labels facing out. Homemade shelves in the living room, and a neat extension to the kitchen countertop. Beneath the pile of mail on the kitchen table is a small tablecloth.
Paul slumps onto the sofa, landing on top of a pile of clothes.
“Michael,” I say. “I don’t think we should leave him alone.”
“If you get bored of your meaningless drinking, I’m at the motel,” Michael says. He sounds irritated and reluctant, but he says it all the same.
“The motel! That’s a fantastic idea. You can take him there now…”
Michael turns and leaves without even looking back at Paul.
I’m left alone in the depressing apartment.
“Okay, God,” I whisper. “I could do with some help right now. What should I say? What am I even doing here?”
I hesitate. “Are you…okay?” I ask Paul.
I cautiously sit down next to him on the arm of the couch.
“You might not even want me here,” I say. I clasp my hands in my lap and continue uncertainly. “Sorry if I’m intruding. I just thought you might want some company. I don’t know what you want.”
His eyes are closed, but his breathing is quick and shallow. I don’t know what images are playing out in front of his eyes, but I can guess.
“Paul!” I say helplessly, moving closer. “Are you okay? I mean, obviously you’re not, but is there anything I can do?”
Of course there isn’t.
“You shouldn’t be alone. Is there no one you can call? A friend? Your boss?”
Then I hear the welcome sound of a car outside, and when Michael reappears, I run over to him in relief. I�
��m no longer alone.
“You have to do something,” I say.
He stares at Paul, who is still sitting on the couch, and seems to be thinking the same thing.
“Come on,” Michael says. “You can’t live like this. I’ll give you a ride to the motel.”
Paul looks up in confusion, but then obediently follows Michael out to the car. I can’t tell whether it’s because he wants company or because it’s more effort to argue.
* * *
I jump out of the car the minute they pull up outside the motel and reach reception just before them. MacKenzie yawns and stretches behind the desk. It’s ten in the evening. She looks up as Michael and Paul come in.
Paul has such a lack of presence right now that it actually takes her a few seconds to realize he is standing behind Michael.
“You made a friend?” she asks, and Michael pulls a face.
“Not…exactly,” he says. It just seems to have dawned on him that the motel might not be the best place for the man who was driving the truck that killed me. He glances back over his shoulder in surprise as Paul sways and faints.
MacKenzie gets up and walks over to Michael, and the two of them peer down at Paul. “Right,” she says.
“You should probably know he was the one who…was driving the truck.”
MacKenzie doesn’t speak. I can’t read her face. But she knows which truck Michael means.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought him here,” Michael goes on. “But I didn’t know what else to do. He shouldn’t be alone. I understand if you don’t want him here, though. Just say the word, and I’ll take him someplace else.” He pauses. “I guess he can always sleep on the couch in the cabin.”
“He can stay.”
Right then, Camila comes into reception.
“Our latest guest,” MacKenzie announces, gesturing toward Paul on the floor. She bends over him. When he comes around, her face is only inches from his. He blinks slowly.
“I keep seeing her,” he says.
“Sure you do,” MacKenzie replies. She looks up at Michael. “It’s okay, I’ll sort out the rest.”
“Do you need help getting him to a room?”
She shakes her head. “He can sleep in the office tonight. Camila and I will manage.”
Michael runs a hand through his hair in confusion. “I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says, and MacKenzie nods. Her eyes are still fixed on Paul.
She and Camila each grab an arm and pull him to his feet, and the three of them stagger over to the office, his arms around their shoulders. They manage to get him onto the couch.
“Who is he?” Camila whispers.
“You know, I have no idea what his name is.”
“But…”
MacKenzie leans down over him again. “Excuse me, sir, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Paul Jackson.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m MacKenzie Jones, and this is Camila Alvarez. Welcome to Pine Away Motel and Cabins. We hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.”
She’s joking, but there is a forced cheeriness to her voice.
She drags Camila out of the office and pulls the door closed behind them, making sure to leave it slightly ajar. Wide enough for the lights and sounds of the reception area to seep inside.
Camila frowns in confusion. “But who is he?” she asks quietly. I’m pretty sure Paul can hear them, but when I peer in through the crack in the door, he is on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
“You heard him. Paul Jackson.”
“Yeah, but what’s he doing here?”
When MacKenzie replies, her voice is completely emotionless. In a conscious, deliberately flat tone, she says, “He was driving the truck that…” There is a lump in her throat now. “That was involved in Henny’s accident.”
Camila touches her arm. “But…” she says. “How can you let him stay here at the motel?”
“It wasn’t his fault,” MacKenzie replies. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. And I don’t think he’s had a good night’s sleep in a long time.”
“Okay, but should we really leave him in the office? Can’t we give him a proper room? We’ve got plenty.”
“Yeah…” MacKenzie sounds hesitant. She turns toward the half-closed door, a thoughtful look on her face. “You know, I think just having other people around him will do the most good.”
“In the office?”
“In general. I don’t think being alone is doing him any favors.” A frown appears on her forehead. “But I don’t think there’s much we can do for him tonight. Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Do you know the best night’s sleep I’ve had lately? It was with you and Michael in the truck after we painted the rainbow. Maybe that’s what he needs.”
“You want to put him in a car? Now?”
“I don’t really think a car is the best idea,” I say nervously.
“Not a car,” says MacKenzie. “But maybe he could do with a bit of noise around him. Maybe it’s time for us to give reception a spring clean. That way, he can lie there and be distracted by the hard couch and the light from out here and the reassuring sound of people working.”
Camila hesitates. “Cleaning is more fun when there are two of you,” she says.
MacKenzie doesn’t argue. She just fetches the vacuum cleaner, and when the cord gets caught on the desk, Camila bends down and pulls it free. They even move the couch so that MacKenzie can vacuum behind it.
It quickly transpires that MacKenzie was right. By the time they finish vacuuming, they can hear Paul’s irregular snores from inside the office, the sound of a body twisting and turning in its sleep. Camila shakes her head, but they spend the next few hours making more reassuring noise all the same.
They are still hard at work when the clock strikes midnight. There’s something about the light in check-in that completely changes people’s appearances at night. They look wearier, more worn out. It’s unforgiving on wrinkles and bags beneath eyes. It makes skin look like sandpaper. But, oddly enough, MacKenzie and Camila seem to get more beautiful the later it gets.
Camila fetches coffee while MacKenzie sorts through papers. Her fingers brush MacKenzie’s hand as she passes her the cup, and both smile unconsciously. No task is too much work: they even fetch window cleaner to spruce up the doors in the darkness.
“I can’t even see the dirt.” Camila laughs, shaking her head. It has, at least, stopped raining, and the clouds are slowly breaking up.
MacKenzie places a hand at the base of Camila’s spine as she stretches to reach another section of the glass. It lingers there for an unnecessarily long time. I don’t know whether she’s even aware she is doing it. Maybe she just can’t stop herself.
“That’s the best time for cleaning windows,” she says. “You can see the dirt too well in the daylight. Even when you’re finished.”
The smell of ammonia drifts through the office. I wonder whether it will help Paul sleep. The new sign glows above the parking lot, and everything is still out there in our little world.
“All right, I have to ask,” Camila suddenly says. “How have you managed to date in Pine Creek?”
MacKenzie pauses midmovement. “If I’d tried to date in Pine Creek, I never would have gotten any,” she says.
“So what do you do?”
“I go to Eugene.”
“Ah.”
“University town,” MacKenzie explains. “Plenty of dykes. But most of them just want to discuss academic theories. Being drunk helps.”
“And…are you seeing anyone right now?”
MacKenzie cleans the rest of the door, and Camila stands beside her, nonchalantly leaning against the wall as they both pretend that this is just a perfectly ordinary conversation between friends.
“I haven’t been seeing anyone seriously fo
r a long time. You?”
“Same.”
“Because you haven’t met the right person or…?”
“I don’t know. I think lesbian bars are tricky. It’s like I’m never enough of a woman for them. Sometimes I think they see the butch girls as more feminine than me. I always feel much more welcome in gay bars. Maybe it would’ve been easier if I was interested in men.”
MacKenzie turns to her. “But you’re not?”
“I’m not.”
MacKenzie runs the squeegee down a section of glass she has already cleaned. She laughs awkwardly. “I think the doors are clean now,” she says.
Camila leans in closer to her. “We can always tidy the brochure stand.”
“Cleaning is more fun when there are two of you.”
“I’m sure you always say that to women.”
“Only the really special ones.”
“What do you think of femmes?”
“I prefer my women to be made up and wearing heels while they clean.”
Camila laughs. A deep, surprised, and genuine laugh. “Jesus, I’ve missed you,” she says.
And then she stops laughing. Their eyes meet over their squeegees. MacKenzie is about to say something jokey, but she loses her trail of thought. Instead, she just faces Camila in the unforgiving light, late at night after a very long day, and looks more beautiful than ever. Camila too.
MacKenzie slowly moves her hand to Camila’s hip. Surely not even she can tell herself that they’re just cleaning now. Slowly, inch by inch, they move closer, until they are standing far too close to be nothing but childhood friends. The tension between them is almost painful. I want to tell MacKenzie to do it, to kiss her for God’s sake, make out with her like you’ve wanted to ever since that moment out in the parking lot, possibly since she first came back.
But then, suddenly, they both look away. It happens so quickly that I can’t tell who broke eye contact first.
MacKenzie takes a shaky breath. “The brochure stand,” she says.
Camila clears her throat. “The brochure stand,” she agrees.
* * *
I decide to leave them in peace after that.
I’m on my way toward Michael’s cabin when I pause and look up at the clouds. I shake my head and smile.
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 26
