Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

  * * *

  “Staaaaaaaaaaaacey!”

  I get up from my chair in reception. It’s one in the morning, but I still haven’t managed to tear myself away. I step into the hallway just as Stacey’s door opens.

  She has her padded jacket pulled tight around herself.

  “Derek.” She sounds shocked. She quickly runs a finger beneath her eyes to get rid of any stray mascara, ruffles her hair to make it look more evenly wild and curly, and heads down to the parking lot, where Derek is waiting.

  He staggers and grabs the car door to stop himself from falling over.

  “You’re drunk,” she says.

  “Not drunk enough,” Derek tells her. “I was trying to forget that my wife left me, but I haven’t managed it yet.”

  “Don’t swear.” Stacey smiles at her own joke.

  “What the hell’s going on with you? Come on, Stacey, we might not always have seen eye to eye…”

  “Ha!”

  “But we’ve always stuck together, haven’t we?”

  I think Stacey is starting to doubt herself. Her eyes seem warmer somehow.

  “How are people ever going to respect me if my wife is living at a motel? No one’s going to take me seriously as a politician.”

  Stacey’s face hardens. “What a fucking shame.”

  “If that’s how you want it. I’m not going to beg, if that’s what you were thinking.”

  “You’re the one who came over here.”

  “I just wanted to tell you not to come crawling back once you get sick of this place. And don’t think I’ll be footing the bill. You’ve lived a comfortable life until now, haven’t you? No job. You’ve never even cleaned or cooked. All you’ve had to do is complain that I don’t have a real job.”

  “Then it shouldn’t make any difference that I’m here,” Stacey mutters wearily.

  “You’re damn right. It’s just more peaceful. I don’t even know why I’m here. I guess it just felt weird to have peace and quiet after all your screaming.”

  “Enjoy it, because it’s going to last.”

  “Until I find someone else. Shouldn’t be too hard. There are still plenty of women who appreciate me around here.”

  Stacey launches herself at him. “Go to hell!” she shouts. “I swear, if I see your pathetic face around here again, I’ll…”

  Derek grabs her hands and pulls her toward him. Neither of them moves. I can see Stacey’s rib cage rising and falling. Derek leans in over her.

  “Stacey…” he eventually says, and she swallows.

  Dad sticks his head around his door, ready to quickly close it and turn the key if he needs to. “Who’s making such a racket?” he shouts. “I want you to know that I’ve called the police!”

  “Crap,” Derek says, jumping into his car. He is gone before Stacey even has time to work out what just happened.

  She runs a hand over her face. “Did you really have to stick your nose into something that has nothing to do with you?” she asks.

  “You were shouting and screaming. No one could get any sleep with you two carrying on.”

  “And you couldn’t have just asked if everything was all right? Maybe talked to me before you called the police? For once in your life, maybe just been cool and let something go?”

  She sighs quietly. To herself, I think. “No, of course you couldn’t.”

  After that, she calls MacKenzie to warn her that the cops are on their way.

  MacKenzie comes down to reception and promises to take care of it. When a young, tired deputy eventually turns up, he is met by the news that two strangers pulled up in the parking lot and started to fight. Both have gone, so unfortunately he’s come in vain, but maybe she can offer him a cup of coffee.

  “You’re telling me two strangers parked just to start yelling at each other?” he asks.

  “Yeah, you know what driving vacations do to people.”

  The deputy shudders as though he knows all too well. He says no to coffee.

  Chapter 33

  Just the Beginning

  “Listen to this crap,” MacKenzie cheerily exclaimed from the depths of Pat and Carol’s couch. It was a few weeks after our first meeting, and MacKenzie had already made herself at home. All I could see of her were the unruly curls hanging over the back of the couch and her feet on the armrest, bobbing in time with a tune only she could hear. The Gazette rustled as she waved it in the air.

  Pat and Carol smiled at me. We were in the kitchen, washing up after an informal planning dinner.

  Michael wasn’t there. He was busy with college applications, though he still helped out with the campaign whenever he had time.

  “The Sacred Faith Evangelical Church has written in, and my God, I never knew homosexuals were so powerful!” MacKenzie read aloud to us, in a haughty, affected voice: “‘To present homosexuality as something normal, natural, or accepted is to teach children that they can break God’s laws without consequence. It is to attack the morals our society—and schools—has upheld for the past two hundred years. School should not be a recruitment ground for homosexuals!”

  “I admire her,” Carol whispered to me. “I never would’ve been brave enough to come out in high school. I’m barely brave enough now. I hope she’s careful, that she’ll take care of herself.”

  “Yup, we’re all recruiting here,” MacKenzie continued. “But the Gazette has actually distanced itself from their madness. There’s an editorial in here somewhere.” More rustling as MacKenzie searched for the right page.

  Pat and Carol suddenly seem very clear to me again. I can remember how carefully I washed their cups. I was afraid of breaking them, even though they were all old and chipped. Their whole home was a little rough around the edges, and maybe they were, too. They wore comfortable but unflattering jeans. They loved their garden. There were always muddy footprints just inside the kitchen door, discarded gardening gloves and the occasional pair of shears, and everything was bathed in the fresh, earthy scent of a home in which the doors and windows are always open to the garden outside.

  “Here it is,” MacKenzie announced. “Oregon’s Parent Teacher Association has already explained that teaching methods in the state do not ‘encourage or promote homosexuality’—no, they’re damn right there. ‘The measure is fundamentally unnecessary. A teacher’s role in the classroom is to meet their students’ needs and to support their development—not to single out a particular group or emphasize the differences between people. Teachers also have a duty to encourage tolerance and respect.’ Exciting reading, this, isn’t it?”

  Pat had big, deep-set eyes and fine lines and wrinkles from a long, intensive life. Her brown hair was the same color as the leaves in November. Carol’s expressive mouth usually showed so much happiness, but in that moment, all I could see were doubt and uncertainty.

  “We’ve never been political,” Pat said to me. “We’re just like everyone else. We vote Republican, we putter about in the garden, we make cookies for church bake sales.”

  “We’re not anywhere near as tough as MacKenzie thinks we are,” Carol agreed. All the while, MacKenzie continued to read aloud, giving her opinion on the Gazette’s argument and journalistic style.

  “We just want to live our lives together,” said Carol. She leaned in closer to me. “The Gazette got in touch and asked if they could interview us. I doubt anyone will care, but what do you think? We’re just two women.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I said. “I think it’s great that the Gazette wants to interview you.”

  “Yes…” said Pat. “And we thought we should put up a sign. There should be someone on this street showing that they’re against the measure.”

  Yes to Measure 9 signs had already begun to pop up along Broadway. MacKenzie had shaken her head when she saw them before the first meeting, but since we didn’t real
ly know or care about anyone living there, they didn’t matter too much to us.

  Pat and Carol hesitated in the hallway. “Are you ready?” Pat asked.

  Carol squeezed her hand. Her face was pale against the light pink of her shirt. “Guess so,” she said. “If you are?”

  “Might as well get it over and done with.”

  “Stick it to them!” MacKenzie shouted. Carol smiled weakly.

  “It’s just politics, isn’t it? We’re allowed to have different opinions. Surely no one will care?”

  “I hope they care!” said MacKenzie. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll start a new trend along the street.”

  “We’ll survive,” said Pat. She took a deep breath. “All right. Let’s do it.”

  And then, there it was. A lone sign reading No to Measure 9, followed by the Basic Rights Oregon logo.

  “I’ll put one up at the motel, too!” MacKenzie yelled.

  “It’s good that we’ve finally done something,” Pat said.

  “You know, it feels good that we’ve finally done something,” said Carol.

  “This is just the beginning,” MacKenzie told them.

  Chapter 34

  Jesus on the Beach

  It’s sheer coincidence that I’m there when Derek comes to see Cheryl the next day.

  I wanted to check that everything was all right with Dad’s house. I don’t know why. Some sense of responsibility, I guess, now that he’s staying at the motel. So, I walked over to Water Street, arriving just as Derek pulled up on Cheryl’s driveway.

  It’s Sunday, and the sun is glittering on the parked cars. People are streaming out of their houses in their best clothes, ready to head off to church. You get the impression that the street itself, the houses and the trees, are standing that little bit taller today in all their piety.

  Derek glances around to make sure he has the right house, and I move closer so that I can eavesdrop on their conversation.

  He looks tired and hungover, but he also seems to have a newfound determination that I’ve never seen in him before. He strides up to the door and barely even grimaces as he hears shrill sound of the bell.

  Cheryl and her husband are dressed for church. Cheryl is wearing a pretty blouse with jeans and pink sneakers, and her husband has on a navy-blue cotton shirt that looks like it might even have been ironed.

  “You said you wanted to do something about the motel,” Derek says. “I’m here to listen.”

  Cheryl glances at her watch.

  “Derek,” she says. “Do you go to church?”

  * * *

  “I’ve been using one of these for ten years now,” the pastor says as he struggles with his headset, “but no one has ever been able to teach me how to put it on. I want you to know that they’ve done their best. Lord knows, Cheryl has tried.” He pauses briefly as he tries to tuck it behind his ear. “She went through it with me just half an hour ago.” Another pause. “Three times, in fact.”

  The pastor’s gray hair is sticking up in all directions after his struggle with the headset, but he doesn’t bother trying to smooth it out. His eyes are warm and amused, inviting us both to laugh with him and at him. He radiates humble plainness: his jacket is crumpled and one size too big and doesn’t quite match his pants. There are more important things in life than clothes; that’s what he seems to be saying.

  I am standing by the door at the very back of the room. The notice board to one side of me is covered in various notes about activities within the church. One, written in huge red letters, informs me about a twelve-step program of some kind. Another talks about Bible study, and there are several posters for the dance evening in October and the senior citizens’ Knit for Jesus campaign. In the brochure stand, leaflets for truck stops with chapels and religious services (all faiths welcome!) compete for space with brochures for the Holy Land Experience (vacations to bring your kids closer to God: performances every day at eleven and three!).

  “This actually illustrates what I’d like to talk to you about today,” the pastor continues. “None of us is perfect.”

  From where I’m standing, I can see only Derek and Cheryl’s backs. Derek looks uncomfortable. His back is unnaturally straight, and he keeps stealing glances around the room, as if wondering what he is doing there.

  “We want to be perfect. We try. At times, it’s easy to think that God only loves us when we’re as good as we think we have to be for His sake. As though God’s love is something we earn. So long as I do this. If I just stop doing that.”

  As he looks out at the congregation, he seems to be staring straight at Derek.

  “If I stop drinking,” the pastor continues. “Start going to church. If I can just become a better person, then he’ll love me. I myself was drunk for large chunks of my daughter’s childhood. I did things that I’m now ashamed of. Things I still haven’t forgiven myself for. These days, I’m sober. I’m a pastor. It’s easy to think: now God loves him. But God loved me then, too—even when I didn’t deserve His love. Jesus loved me at my very lowest point, at a time when I didn’t even love myself.”

  Derek’s back seems to relax. His shoulders drop, and his posture looks more natural. When Cheryl pats him on the knee, he gives her a grateful glance. For a brief moment, I can see his face in profile. It’s still weary and drunk, but it’s also calm. His eyes never leave the pastor.

  I know how he feels, because the pastor’s deep voice and the church have the same effect on me. Despite everything I know about them, it’s hard to resist the uncomplicated warmth and joy that surrounds the congregation. If you’ve made your way here, you’re welcome; that’s how simple it seems to be. The church hall itself is unpretentious, and it’s completely packed. People have squeezed into the pews along the walls, and they have to keep twisting to be able to see the pastor.

  “There’s a modern parable about Jesus that I’ve always liked. A man is walking along the beach, with Jesus by his side. All his life, there have been two pairs of footprints in the sand. Until the time comes when he falls. He suffers. He is alone, and he starts to doubt. He is as low as he has ever been, and when he looks back at that stretch of beach, he can only see one pair of footprints. ‘God,’ he asks, ‘why have you deserted me? Why am I alone now, when I need you most?’”

  The pastor looks out at the congregation again. “I think we’ve all felt that way from time to time, haven’t we?”

  Derek nods.

  “And Jesus replies, ‘Don’t you see? That was where I was carrying you.’”

  The pastor pauses briefly before continuing. “We suffer from a spiritual hunger in this beautiful country of ours. We’re materially richer than ever before, but we’ve also realized that isn’t enough. We have food and clothes and more gadgets than we can find the remote controls for, but we hunger and thirst for something more. Man needs more than the latest cell phone, and I think part of it is down to us searching for those two pairs of footprints in the sand. For meaning. A sign that we’re not alone.”

  A weary-looking woman is sitting on one of the pews closest to me, and I notice that she has tears in her eyes.

  “Evangelical faith is practical. We walk along the beach with Jesus by our side every single day. Every week. We think about Jesus on Sundays and then forget him for the rest of the week. When the Bible tells us to ‘love thy neighbor,’ that’s what we do. We take care of one another. We take Jesus to work with us. We don’t cheat in order to earn a few extra dollars. We take pride in what we do. We love and care for one another. We forgive one another, just as God forgives us. And we aren’t alone. There are more of us than ever. This land was founded by Christians, though few remember that now.”

  I don’t feel as relaxed as before. A knot has appeared in my stomach. The pastor’s voice is louder, stronger.

  “We are needed, now more than ever. Our traditions are needed. Our beliefs. But o
ur way of life is under attack, and God knows we don’t get any help from Hollywood or the mainstream media. We’ve moved from life-long marriages to single-sex marriages, from Clint Eastwood to Brokeback Mountain.”

  Derek laughs. No one else does.

  “We are fighting a cultural war, and we are losing!”

  The congregation is really fired up now. Several members glance at one another and nod. A few people clap.

  “And we are constantly being told not to fight. Simply to give in. We’re allowed to fight for union rights or for stricter environmental regulations, things that have an impact on ordinary folks, small business owners who are already on their knees as a result of federal laws. But if you dare fight for morals, for Christian values, suddenly you’re criticized, mocked, shunned—prosecuted, even.”

  The pastor runs a hand through his hair. It is still sticking up in every direction, as if he has been electrified by his message. When he next speaks, his voice sounds completely different. Calm. Even warmer. Consciously nonjudgmental, in sharp contrast to the words leaving his mouth.

  “I would like to talk to you about a business. You know the one I mean. Yes, the motel.”

  I peer around, as though everyone is about to turn and point at me.

  “Lost souls are drawn to the motel, and to the false comfort of drugs, alcohol, cynicism, and an apathetic irresponsibility that tells them to joke about everything and take nothing seriously. These are people who could find a real home here.”

  Cheryl nods eagerly. Derek leans forward in his seat.

  “The motel could have been an important part of town, a home for those passing through, part of our tourism industry, a place to look up to, a source of pride. But they have allowed it to fall into decay. Considering the owners, that isn’t so surprising. It is run by people with no respect whatsoever for Jesus or the church. They take nothing seriously. Not our young people, not our school, our elderly, our town, our way of life. In their eyes, we are all pining away in this place we call home, this town that has given us so much. That is the image of Pine Creek they want to project to anyone visiting.