Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC)

by Katarina Bivald

  “I think I’m starting to realize what the problem could be with the website,” MacKenzie says, amused.

  “What happened?” Camila asks.

  Alejandro looks troubled. “Well, it all started when BuzzFeed picked it up. And then, uh, George Takei shared a link. That’s when it really took off. It seems like people think honest businesses are refreshing.”

  MacKenzie laughs. “We’re an internet sensation!” she says.

  Right then, the phone starts ringing.

  * * *

  MacKenzie and Camila are holed up behind the desk, taking turns to respond to the requests for interviews and comments that have started flooding in. People are asking for honest appraisals of all kinds of things, and one of the newspapers wants them to pen honest answers to reader questions. All hope I had of somehow being able to get through to them is gone.

  “We’re not interested, I’m afraid,” Camila says. “We run a motel. That’s all.”

  “No comment,” MacKenzie cheerily tells the next caller. “But don’t quote me on that.”

  She looks up at Alejandro: “Have you ever considered adding a few cats to our Instagram account? That really would’ve got the ball rolling. You’ve got to think of the fans.”

  Alejandro makes a face. Michael shakes his head. Sitting in his usual spot on the couch, Dad looks more confused than anything, watching the chaos unfold around him.

  Without warning, the automatic doors swing open and everyone turns toward the slim figure in the doorway. She has a huge scarf covering her head, and half of her face is hidden beneath a pair of dark sunglasses.

  Jesus, I think. It’s…

  “Mom?” Michael asks, sounding confused.

  The sudden warmth of reception has made her sunglasses fog up, and Joyce takes them off and starts polishing the lenses. Her eyes sweep across the colorful room. Michael stares at her with an idiotic, gaping expression.

  “I’ve come to warn you,” she says, smiling in the direction of the couch. “Is that an urn?”

  Chapter 38

  Would Jesus Check In Here?

  Alejandro holds down the fort behind the desk while MacKenzie, Camila, Michael, and Joyce regroup in the restaurant. Joyce has chosen the table furthest from the window, but she has at least taken off her scarf and sunglasses.

  “They’re out for the motel?” Camila asks, her voice incredulous.

  “For a more moral approach to business,” Joyce confirms. A cup of coffee appears in front of her, and she picks it up and sips from it.

  “But…we’re a motel,” says Camila. “Surely they can’t have any Bible passages that forbid people from checking into motels?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if they did,” MacKenzie mutters.

  “Who are they?” Michael asks.

  “The Sacred Faith Evangelical Church.”

  “Cheryl?” MacKenzie asks.

  Joyce gives her a blank look.

  “Pink sneakers? T-shirts with Biblical quotes? Crazy?”

  Nothing. Joyce has no idea. MacKenzie shrugs.

  “How did you find out about this, Mom?” Michael asks her.

  “I…saw them in town,” Joyce is vague.

  I notice with interest that she doesn’t mention Derek. How long does she think it will be before Michael finds out that his brother is one of the people behind this?

  Michael still seems more confused than anything. “But why are you here? You’ve never cared before.”

  Joyce doesn’t seem the least bit upset by the implicit accusation. “I thought you should know. I wrote down what they’re saying about you, so I wouldn’t forget.”

  She opens her handbag and methodically rifles through the neatly organized compartments, pulling out a small notepad and a pair of reading glasses.

  “Teenagers drinking on a hill,” she reads aloud. “I don’t know which hill. It was a little confusing.”

  Camila and MacKenzie exchange an odd glance.

  “Rainbow flag on the school,” Joyce continues, ticking off another point on her list. Did Michael get his love of lists from her? I wonder. “The new sign. You’re leading the town’s old people into sin.”

  “We’re doing what?”

  She double-checks her notes. “I think they mean Mr. Broek,” she says.

  MacKenzie actually laughs at that.

  Joyce sighs quietly. “This is going to make life uncomfortable for me,” she says. “Just like last time.”

  “Uncomfortable for you?” Michael sounds astounded.

  “Extremely uncomfortable. I don’t know why everyone can’t just relax. And now you’re all going to get involved, too.”

  She gathers her things and stands up. She seems relieved that the conversation is over. Her eyes seem strangely absent again, as though she has just survived something unpleasant but necessary—a trip to the dentist—and now she can retreat back into herself. She dismisses Michael’s offer to walk her out to the car with a weak wave of her hand.

  “Does Dad know about this?” he asks.

  He should have asked whether Derek knows, I think.

  Joyce pauses. “Why would I get your father involved in my life?” she asks. She wraps her scarf around her head, puts on her sunglasses, and steps out into the rain.

  Michael shakes his head. “I think I should probably give up trying to understand my family,” he says.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Camila asks.

  “They’ve gone crazy,” MacKenzie replies. “Again. That’s what’s going on.”

  The demonstrations begin the very next day.

  * * *

  There are only seven protesters, but they are armed with Bibles, placards, and religious conviction. A tragic, stubborn group on the other side of the road.

  Derek and Cheryl aren’t among them, but I think I recognize the woman in the yellow raincoat. She doesn’t need it today: instead, she is practically drowning in an enormous puffer jacket. Her sweet, grandmotherly face radiates religious zeal as she waves a placard reading Would Jesus Check In Here?

  They manage to make all work at the motel grind to a halt. Everyone gathers in the parking lot to follow the spectacle.

  “That’s actually a pretty interesting question,” Clarence murmurs. “If Jesus was alive today, what kind of place would he check in to?”

  “You’re going to burn in hell!” one of the protesters shouts across at us. Any follow-up is drowned out by the sound of a passing truck.

  “He wouldn’t always be able to find a manger,” Clarence goes on. “And it doesn’t seem likely that he’d check into some luxury hotel. If we can translate the parable with the donkey to the modern day, it doesn’t seem too much of a stretch to say that he’d pull up to a cheap motel in an old car.”

  “Why don’t you go over there and discuss that with them?” Michael drily suggests.

  “Do we know anyone with a water cannon?” MacKenzie asks. “Or a really long hose. A sudden rain shower could wash them away.”

  “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid to annoy them,” Camila begs her.

  “Is that how it’s going to be from now on?” MacKenzie protests. “I’m not allowed to do anything fun.”

  “There’s no reason to stoop to their level. I think we should try to see this as an opportunity. We can let the town get to know us and show them that there’s no war going on. That we’re good for this town.”

  “Oh, there’s definitely a war,” MacKenzie says. “One side refusing to fight won’t change that. It’ll just change who wins.”

  Michael had driven into town earlier that day to pick up one of their leaflets, but we’re none the wiser for it. The headline reads Stop the immorality at Pine Away Motel, and beneath it: No-tell motels are often a breeding ground for crime, prostitution, violence, and drugs. Add your name to
support regulation for a more moral approach to business.

  Alejandro takes a picture of the protesters. “I don’t even know what a ‘no-tell motel’ is,” he says.

  “I regret making breakfast for them all these years,” Dolores shouts angrily. “I’ll, I’ll…”

  “Start with lunch,” Camila says firmly. “Did you know that in Chinese, the word for ‘crisis’ is the same as—”

  “The word for ‘unimaginative consultant,’” MacKenzie interjects.

  She pulls out her phone and calls the cops. Sheriff Ed himself drives over, but not even his cool competence can calm the protesters. If anything, they seem invigorated by his presence. They start chanting even more loudly when he shows up. In their eyes, they’re Christian martyrs, valiantly enduring persecution from the police.

  Sheriff Ed crosses the road and the parking lot. “There’s not much I can do,” he says. “If it gets any worse, I can force them to leave on grounds of disturbing the peace, but I’d rather not do that unless I really have to. There’s a risk it’ll just lead to more trouble. Have you thought about trying to reach a compromise with them?”

  “How?” asks Michael. “By going to hell?”

  * * *

  That same day, a group of right-wing Christians picks up on this madness. BuzzFeed publishes a piece covering their craziness, and with that, it has begun. The right-wing Christians launch a campaign to lower our rating on TripAdvisor, and within just a few hours, our page fills up with negative reviews talking about sin and immorality. A number of liberal groups start a countercampaign, giving us only five-star reviews. In their eyes, we’re the brave defenders of freedom and liberal values. None of them have ever even been here.

  MacKenzie is looking after the phones. She cares less about the threats than Camila. Alejandro is tackling the in-box.

  “How many calls about burning in hell?” he asks.

  “I’ve lost count. How’s it looking in the emails?”

  “I’ve been deleting them all afternoon.”

  “I can help out,” Michael says. “I have some savings, if the motel needs money. Just let me know. We can’t let them get away with this.”

  “You’re already helping us by building the veranda,” Camila says. He and Paul head back out again, squelching over the still-damp ground. Before long, the sound of hammers starts echoing across the grass and the meadow on the other side of the river.

  “Henny would say that I should forgive them,” Michael says. “Or she’d remind me that they’re just a tiny minority, at the very least. She had a weird ability to believe in people. Even when they let her down.”

  “There are some things that can’t be forgiven,” Paul says. “Not even by God.”

  “Not their God, in any case,” Michael mutters.

  * * *

  “Do you represent another motel or a travel agency, or…?” MacKenzie asks on the line. She has started to get creative in her responses to all of the phone calls about burning in hell. “Either way, I have a few questions. If I’m going to end up in hell, what are the rooms like? I’d prefer a double bed to two singles. Because I’m assuming my incredibly lesbian girlfriend is going to end up there with me? My next question is about the pillows. They’re very important, don’t you agree? Can’t be too firm, or… Hello? Hello?”

  MacKenzie looks up at Camila. “She hung up without confirming my reservation in hell. I don’t even know when I’m going.”

  “Okay, no more phones for you,” Camila says. Then she raises an eyebrow. “‘My incredibly lesbian girlfriend’?”

  “I was improvising.”

  “I Googled no-tell motels,” Camila tells her. She seems to be rearranging the brochures in the stand. “I had no idea what they were, either. But I found a website full of information from the cops. “Crime in budget motels” or something like that. Anyway, a no-tell motel is a really cheap place that doesn’t care who checks in or how long they stay. The anonymity and the low prices lead to all kinds of dubious behavior.”

  “I can guess,” MacKenzie says.

  “But the interesting thing is that they claimed 80 percent of the guests at a no-tell motel are from the local area. People use them for all kinds of illegal activities. Drugs, prostitution, criminal deals, violence, parties…that kind of thing.”

  “Just like here,” MacKenzie says drily.

  “Right? Who knows what Clarence gets up to in the afternoon. But it actually gave me a few ideas.”

  “Camila, have you been inspired by police warnings about dive motels?”

  “Yeah, when you put it like that, I guess I have.”

  MacKenzie gives her an admiring glance. “That’ll really give Cheryl fuel for her fire. But you’re right. If we could get Dolores to follow up lunch by pushing some drugs, we could really improve our margins. Do you think Mr. Broek would be willing to help out?”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

  “Now that I think about it, maybe Stacey would be better suited. That woman knows how to stand up for herself.”

  “I just meant that we could strengthen our local ties. So that’s what I’ve done. Look.” She holds up a leaflet, and MacKenzie moves closer to take a look at it.

  “Ten percent discount for relatives of Pine Creek residents,” MacKenzie reads aloud. “You should’ve added that no relative is too crazy for us. We’ll even take parents-in-law.”

  “I’ve got some other ideas, too,” Camila goes on. “Do you remember Juan Esteban’s Christmas greetings? We could send out real cards, not digital ones, to all our favorite guests, and…”

  MacKenzie raises her hands and softly cups Camila’s face. Camila blinks, as though she has forgotten what they were talking about.

  “You know it’s not going to work, don’t you?” MacKenzie asks.

  “I know, I know. No expectations. You’re going to break my heart.”

  “That wasn’t actually what I meant. I was talking about the motel. You’ll never win them over. Deep down, you must know that. They’ve got all the time in the world, and it’s easier to fling crap than it is to defend yourself against it.”

  “Things are different now.”

  “I haven’t been involved in any campaigns since Measure Nine.”

  “It’s not the same,” says Camila. “And we have to try, at the very least.”

  MacKenzie kisses her as though she is trying to make the whole world disappear. “I just don’t want you to be disappointed,” she says.

  Camila looks away.

  “Let’s make sure we don’t lose, then,” she says.

  Chapter 39

  I Corinthians 6:9–10

  I don’t know whether I ever gave much thought to God before I died, but I did grow up with him.

  There were so many evenings when MacKenzie needed to avoid her dad, and she and I soon felt more at home in the town’s many churches than she ever did in her actual home. No one cared that we attended several different churches, either. All the Catholic church asked of us was that we didn’t take Communion. The priest even allowed MacKenzie to confess, but that might just have been because he liked listening to her stories.

  MacKenzie was adamant that we should keep going to church after the campaign began. The proposal had split the congregations down the middle: both the Methodists and the Catholics distanced themselves from the measure, but the Sacred Faith Evangelical Church was in favor. MacKenzie didn’t care about that. She was convinced they would change their minds. Hadn’t they welcomed us for coffee and cookies all these years? And didn’t they have the most entertaining services? None of the others put as much feeling into their singing.

  Still, I couldn’t help but glance at her and wonder whether she regretted that decision as we sat on the uncomfortable pews and listened to the pastor speak.

  “My question for you is: Do y
ou follow God’s message, or do you defy it? Do you live by the rules that have existed for thousands of years, or do you live by your own rules?

  “I had a worrying call today, from Mr. Lou Mabon at the Oregon Citizens Alliance. ‘Did you know that homosexuals are taking over our schools?’ he asked me. He wanted to know whether I—whether this congregation—would be brave enough to take up the fight against this development. That is the question I put to you today: Are we brave enough? Will we put up a fight? Will we stand up for the Bible and our children, or will we give in to sin? San Francisco has already fallen. Naked men walk shamelessly down its streets. Unless we take a stand now, our town will be next.”

  “Honestly, I seriously doubt Pine Creek is going to be the new Castro,” MacKenzie whispered to me. “We’ll never be able to compete with San Francisco’s gay district.”

  But her face was worryingly pale.

  “And if we permit homosexuality, what next? Sadism? Pedophilia? I say to you now: if we as a society decide that homosexuality is normal, we will have no choice but to say the same about pedophilia. Is that the road we want to go down? Are we willing to accept that our politicians have chosen this direction for us?”

  The woman sitting next to us shook her head eagerly.

  “The Bible is clear. The first epistle to the Corinthians in the English Standard Version tells us ‘Do not be deceived: neither the sexually immoral, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor men who practice homosexuality…will inherit the kingdom of God.’”

  MacKenzie attempted to smile, but it was stiff and forced and came nowhere close to her eyes. “At least I’m safe,” she said.

  “Homosexuality is deviant behavior; it is abnormal, perverse, and it will be punished. God says that they will die, and die they shall. They will then burn in hell.”

  “Okay, maybe not.”

  “God created our bodies, he created us, and he knows what works. He knew what would happen if a man lay with another man the way he lays with a woman. He knew that AIDs would emerge. Homosexuality is a perverse, dangerous way to live.”

  MacKenzie leaped up and left the church in the middle of the sermon. Heads turned to watch as I hurried out after her with our coats in my arms.