“That sounds nice,” I say. “But you did actually leave town. I don’t want to be petty, but that’s not what I wanted.”
I smile, to show that I’m not annoyed, but then I realize what I’m doing and laugh. I force my face into a very serious expression, the corners of my mouth firmly downturned and my forehead creased, but it’s so ridiculous that I start laughing again after just a few seconds.
“I was an idiot,” Michael goes on. “I thought I could realize all of my dreams and then find someone like Henny once I was ready.”
“I don’t think life gives us things when we’re ready for them,” I say.
“But I never met anyone else like her.”
Alejandro and Camila come out with coffee, and Michael seems relieved by the interruption.
“We’re talking about what Henny looked like,” Paul explains. Michael seems embarrassed.
“She looked kind,” Alejandro immediately pipes up. “You could tell her anything. She was the best listener I ever met. She had no preconceived notions about anything, so she listened to what you were really saying, not what she thought she should be hearing.”
Dolores arrives with pie. “Helpful,” she states firmly. “That’s how she looked. She always let you know she had time to help whenever you needed it.”
“You know, Paul,” I say once they get back to work, “I’m getting a little worried about the image they’re painting of me. It might actually be quite nice for someone to tell you how awful my hair looked in the mornings, or how grumpy I got when it rained for days in a row.”
The only person who doesn’t say anything about me is MacKenzie. She arrived in the middle of the conversation, tensed up, and left.
Camila watched the emotion drain from her face and ran after her. I turn the corner just in time to see MacKenzie shaking off Camila’s comforting hand.
“I can’t do this,” MacKenzie tells her. She refuses to look Camila in the eye. “I’m just going to make you sad.”
Camila looks wounded, but she quickly manages to hide it. “I’m willing to take that risk,” she says.
“But I’m not. I don’t want a relationship.”
“I didn’t say anything about a relationship,” Camila argues. “But we could have fun together, MacKenzie. Before I came back here, do you know how long it was since I laughed properly? So don’t tell me you can’t make me laugh.”
MacKenzie’s eyes are drawn to Camila’s lips, but she desperately says, “I’m not going to change my mind. This isn’t some romantic comedy where the guy who doesn’t want to get tied down falls for the girl in the end. I can’t handle the expectation. One day, I’ll let you down and then I’ll break your heart, and I refuse to do that.”
“Okay,” says Camila. “No feelings. No expectations. Broken heart in the near future.”
MacKenzie nods slowly.
“Good,” Camila continues. “Glad we’ve straightened that out.”
With that, she pulls MacKenzie close and kisses her again.
I walk away, shaking my head. That might be what MacKenzie wants, but it isn’t what she needs.
Chapter 36
G-A-
The interview with Pat and Carol was the first time the Gazette had featured a couple of real-life homosexuals. Everyone was talking about it. Michael, MacKenzie, Camila, and I headed over to their place after school to talk about how fantastic the article was. It was like MacKenzie was floating on the wind of change. She practically skipped down Broadway.
I kept glancing at Michael as we walked. I tried to look normal, but I had forgotten what people looked like when they weren’t infatuated, when they weren’t deliriously happy just to be walking alongside someone. Don’t smile so much, I told myself. But it was impossible.
How could I not smile with the sun shining, the pretty trees bathing Broadway in shade, and the warm, soapy water trickling toward us over the dry asphalt. I jumped to avoid it, and thought that someone had definitely chosen a lovely afternoon to wash their car. I took another skipping step, just because I could, even though the water was no longer anywhere near my sneakers.
But Pat wasn’t home, and Carol wasn’t washing the car.
She was on her driveway, frantically scrubbing the garage door. Someone had scrawled GA across it in huge red letters. The Y was nothing but a faint shadow by that point.
“I don’t understand who could have done this!” Carol said. “Which of our neighbors would come over here at night with spray paint?”
She continued to scrub furiously. Soap bubbles swirled through the air. There were tears in Carol’s eyes, but she tried to blink them away. “This wasn’t how it was meant to be. This wasn’t why Pat and I moved here. We just wanted a normal life in a nice little town. We were working as waitresses when we met. Did Pat tell you that? Both of us were married. And then we moved. We wanted a fresh start. To settle down somewhere. A calm, boring life together. We would only argue about the other one never doing the dishes, or because we couldn’t decide on what to have for dinner. But now here I am, trying to scrub graffiti from our garage door before Pat gets home!”
While Michael coaxed the sponge out of her hand and took over the scrubbing, Camila and I led her over to the steps. MacKenzie grabbed another sponge from the bucket and took out her anger on the red paint.
“It’s just some idiot,” she said. “Don’t worry about them. Idiots don’t count. There are plenty of decent people here, and they aren’t going to tolerate this!”
I patted Carol’s hand. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Do you want me to spray hetero on all the other doors on the street?” MacKenzie offered. “Because I will. Or Heterosexual. That’s longer. It’ll take them ages to scrub off.”
Carol laughed a little then.
“We’re definitely going to ramp up the fight now,” MacKenzie swore.
Looking back now, I wonder whether this was when it really all began. But if there’s one thing life and death have taught me, it’s that the beginning and the end are relative. You never know quite which is which when you’re in the middle of it all.
Chapter 37
A Warning
Dad has developed a number of fixed routines during his time here with us.
Every morning, he eats breakfast at seven thirty on the dot. Coffee, a bagel, and a light dusting of cream cheese. Another coffee once the dishes have been cleared away.
He spends the rest of his mornings in the reception area, eats lunch in the restaurant, and then goes on his daily walk, just like he used to at home. Now, of course, he just walks around and around the motel. Five laps. Always five laps. Even today, in the rain and the biting wind, despite the fact that his clothes are more suited to sunny strolls through town. His shoes are pretty flimsy, his coat too thin for the time of year. None of it is much good against the depressing, chilly rain.
Still, he doesn’t let that stop him. He walks around in his suit, his shirt and his too-thin coat, without either a scarf or gloves. He tries to keep his hands warm by pushing them into his pockets, and huddles down beneath the collar of his coat, but neither helps. His sunken cheeks turn red, and his nose starts to run.
After his walk, he goes back to the restaurant for his post-lunch coffee. Even there, he can’t quite get warm; he just sits quietly, shivering away. It’s not that we’re stingy with the heating, but the doors are constantly opening and closing, so the cold air inevitably finds its way inside. The insulation isn’t especially good, and the windows are drafty.
Stacey notices all of this from the next table.
“Why don’t you just dress for the weather?” she asks Dad.
“My winter clothes are back at the house,” he says with as much dignity as he can for a grown man who has just admitted that he doesn’t dare go home.
“For God’s sake,” Stacey mutters. “Thi
s is ridiculous.”
With that, she gets up and storms out.
Dad watches her leave in confusion. “What did I do this time?” he asks no one in particular.
But after only an hour or so, Stacey is back with two parcels, hastily wrapped up in brown paper.
“Here,” she says, throwing them down onto the table in front of him. “You can’t go around being cold the whole time.”
Dad hesitantly unwraps the parcels. Inside one is an enormous red padded jacket, and in the other is a pair of colorful knitted mittens and a matching scarf.
“You’re always freezing,” Stacey explains. “It makes me cold just looking at you. Come on, try them on.”
Dad picks up the mittens. He seems confused. They have reindeer on them, and lopsided snowflakes, plus a blue and green pattern that I can’t quite make out.
“Maybe later,” Dad says.
Stacey looks hurt, but she does her best to hide it. “Sometimes it’s okay to wear fun clothes, you know. You don’t have to be so goddamn proper all the time.”
“Don’t swe…” Dad begins, but he has enough sense to look ashamed. “Thanks,” he reluctantly adds.
“Sure, sure,” Stacey mutters indifferently. “You keep freezing, then.”
* * *
It takes real commitment to collect names for a petition on a rainy Wednesday afternoon, but if there’s one thing Cheryl has, it’s commitment. She and another woman from the congregation—who was more enthusiastic than helpful—have set up a small gazebo in the middle of Elm Street, but the rain still keeps blowing in, forming small puddles beneath the cover.
I took shelter in the gazebo after being caught out by a sudden downpour. I don’t like being reminded that the weather no longer affects me. It makes me feel like an outsider when everyone else runs for cover and I’m left alone in the rain. So, I rushed in after them, and now I’m standing here, watching the alarming spectacle going on around me.
The other woman is wearing a bright-yellow raincoat, and she hurls herself out of the tent, armed with her faith, a cheery disposition, and an armful of leaflets. “Stop sin!” she shouts. “Down with the motel!”
Derek sneaks in just behind me and tries to hide in one corner. He looks embarrassed and anxious. Cheryl holds out a cup of coffee to him.
Out on the street, people with umbrellas and upturned collars rush by.
“I have no idea how you do this,” he says.
“You learn. It isn’t so hard. It’s just a case of talking to as many people as possible. Try to work out which argument works on which people, and stick to the message. It isn’t a discussion. Think of it more as a test. A few people will try to outwit you and pick holes in your argument, trying to make you feel stupid…”
“That’s not hard,” Derek mutters.
“But just stick to the message. Think of them as tools who’ve come here to test you. They aren’t interested in having a dialogue with you; they just want to convince you that you’re wrong.”
“I didn’t only mean this, I meant…everything.”
“Everything?”
“This whole Christian way of life. I mean, I believe in Jesus—of course,” he hurries to add. “It’s just that I think I’ve always been better at sin. It’s not something I’m proud of, it’s just who I am.”
“Not who you are, who you were.”
Derek gives her a blank look.
“Let me tell you something,” Cheryl says. “I left home when I was fourteen. By the time I was twenty, I was working as a waitress and had been doing just fine on my own for years. I thought I was so tough. But I mistook my cynicism for wisdom. I didn’t care about anything or anyone, I told myself, and I dulled my feelings with alcohol. Then, one day, on my way to work, I drove past a church with a billboard outside. They must have had that sign there for months, but I had never noticed it before. It had to be a sign, right? God reveals himself to us when we’re ready for Him. The billboard read Jesus has a plan for YOU. And something inside me… I just broke down. Sat in my car and cried. I had to park until I calmed down. I changed my life after that day. Started going to church again. Read the Bible—and I mean really read it as God’s word. Then I met my husband and ended up here.”
“But nothing we do is actually going to change anything, is it? What’s the point of standing out here, freezing our asses off?”
“You know, Derek, the world isn’t changed by a small number of great people. Many ordinary people, that’s who really make a difference. And the world is never saved once and for all. We constantly have to save it anew. I think we have to save ourselves over and over, too. But it feels good to do something for someone other than yourself, doesn’t it? To be a part of something bigger.”
Derek shifts his weight from one foot to the other, either to keep warm or because he feels claustrophobic in the cramped gazebo. “Right now it just feels godd…gosh darn cold.”
Cheryl laughs. “I know who I was back then. I don’t try to hide it. But I also know who I’ve become, and I know who made that possible.”
“Who?”
“Jesus, of course!”
“Do you think he can do anything about this weather?”
“You can always ask, Derek.” She pats him on the shoulder. “You can always ask,” she repeats quietly to herself.
* * *
Bob Parker is one of the many people rushing by in the rain. His eyes are fixed on his car, which is parked two blocks away, but he casts an indifferent glance into the gazebo as he hurries past. When he spots Derek inside, he stops dead and heads inside.
“Sign here if you’d like to see a more moral approach to business!” the other woman from the congregation chirps.
Bob flashes her a tense smile and takes a leaflet, shaking Derek’s hand. “Can I have a word?” he hisses through his dogged smile, dragging Derek outside into the rain and over to the half shelter of an awning. The two men stand with their backs to the display window behind them.
“What are you doing?” Bob asks. He skim-reads the leaflet. “What is this rubbish? “A moral approach to business?” That almost sounds communist.”
Derek looks away and mutters a hesitant “A few of us are worried about…”
“Oh, for God’s sake. They’ve gotten to you, haven’t they? I told you not to…”
“Stacey left me. All because of that goddamn motel. And your great advice didn’t exactly help.”
“Jake isn’t going to like this. It’s all well and good going to church, but business is something entirely different.”
I have no idea who Jake is, and Derek doesn’t seem to care about what he might or might not think.
“Maybe that’s part of the problem,” he says. “If more people actually cared about Jesus in their everyday lives…” He makes a face, embarrassed. Words like God and Jesus still don’t feel natural in his mouth. “We’re just interested in the motel,” he finishes. It sounds defensive, even to him.
“All I wanted you to do was nod and smile and shake a few hands. But now you’re caught up in this whole mess.” Bob thinks on his feet. “All right, this is what we’re going to do. We tell everyone that you just wanted to get to know the different churches. Next week, I’ll take you to the Methodist church, that’s where Jake and the other big business owners go, and you can explain that you believe in free markets and God—in that order. I’ll go through exactly what you need to say, and then…”
“You know, Bob,” Derek begins. “Some people actually acknowledge that I can think for myself and contribute more than just nodding and smiling.”
“Of course, of course,” Bob sounds impatient. “But you need to learn first.”
“Some people think I already know how to do it.”
With that, Derek walks straight out into the rain, grabs a handful of leaflets, and tells the first cold, damp
person who passes: “Are you worried about our kids drinking outside the motel? Sign here for a more moral approach to business!”
* * *
I run all the way back to the motel, but I’m not even out of breath when I get there. The others are all in the reception area. Camila is frowning at the computer screen, clicking repeatedly on something. Dad is on the couch, like usual, and MacKenzie and Michael are in the doorway, watching the rain drum down on the asphalt.
“They’ve started a petition against the motel!” I shout.
“Strange,” says Camila. “The website seems to be down.”
Alejandro comes into reception, and both Michael and MacKenzie step back from the doors as a gust of wind carries the rain inside.
“The Sacred Faith Evangelical Church!” I say. “A petition! Against the motel!”
“Do any of you know what’s up with the website?” Camila asks.
I jump up and down in front of them in the mistaken belief that one of them will notice me. This isn’t the right moment to be talking about technical problems, I think irritably.
Alejandro looks incredibly guilty. “You know my new Instagram account?” he says.
Camila nods expectantly; MacKenzie shakes her head. Alejandro quickly summarizes the idea for her.
“The honest motel,” MacKenzie says. “I like it!”
“Good, because we might have started to get a little attention.”
I notice Camila tense up. “How much attention?”
“Oh, 137,000 new followers, give or take.”
That stops my jumping.
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 30
