“I still think a lot of things are funny,” MacKenzie tells her, winking at Susan.
“This coffee is very good,” says Mrs. Davies. “The apple pie is exceptional. The protesters are…interesting.”
“We like to think of them as part of our entertainment program.”
“Can’t be good for business?”
“The opposite. Sooner or later, all their shouting will make them hungry. I’m sure they’ll stop by the restaurant any day now.”
“Clear-sightedness, Miss Jones. That’s the key to making it through life.”
“More apple pie?” MacKenzie asks. Susan quickly nods.
* * *
When they leave the restaurant, MacKenzie stays behind to help out with the last few preparations for dinner. I’m curious, so I follow them. I still haven’t decided whether I think Mrs. Davies is fantastic or terrifying—or both.
They have barely set foot outside before Susan grabs Mrs. Davies’s arm. She peers around, lowers her voice, and says quietly but firmly, “I like them, Aunty.”
Mrs. Davies gives her a surprised glance.
“You’re not going to write one of your horrible columns about them, are you?” Susan asks. “So the place isn’t exactly great, but it’s…nice. Remember what happened with that hotel owner in Santa Monica.”
I freeze.
“I didn’t write anything that wasn’t true,” Mrs. Davies calmly replies.
“You had to get a restraining order against the poor man!”
“I did him a favor. Someone with such fragile nerves shouldn’t be working in the service industry.”
“Can’t you just not write something this time? They’ve made an effort for us. What if they’re upset?”
“I can’t be held responsible for their feelings. I would never be able to write anything if I was.” She turns to Susan and seems to soften slightly. “I promise you that everything I write will be true. I won’t make up or twist anything.”
Susan doesn’t seem particularly reassured, and I’m not convinced, either. I have a strong suspicion that her promise won’t be worth all that much. Up ahead, Clarence has decided that he has been sober long enough. The banner sags slightly as he abandons Paul and Buddy to head back to his usual bench.
“A little to the right, boys,” he says, taking out his hip flask.
Mrs. Davies pulls a notepad from her pocket. Susan gives her a pleading look. “It’s just one person,” she says. “I’m sure everyone else here is nice and normal…”
Her voice trails off.
Right at that moment, Dad walks by, clutching my urn.
* * *
I can’t think of a way to warn them about Mrs. Davies. I have no idea what kind of columns she writes, but if she managed to drive a perfectly ordinary hotel owner from Santa Monica to the verge of madness, I don’t want to know what she’s going to write about us.
The nerve of the woman! After they’ve made such an effort for her sake. She pretends to come here because she doesn’t care what people say about us, but in actual fact she is here to look for faults. I wish MacKenzie hadn’t made the banner. Or treated her to apple pie. She doesn’t deserve it. She should be grateful she’s even getting dinner.
I might not be able to do anything to stop her, but there’s no way I’m going to leave her alone. I spend all afternoon following her. On at least one occasion, she glances back over her shoulder as though she can sense my presence. I hope she’s afraid of ghosts.
The first person she talks to is Paul. He is alone, working on the veranda. His face has taken on a new, healthier color from being outdoors, and there is something peaceful about watching him work in the afternoon sun. He moves slowly, almost tenderly, around the wood that will eventually become a handrail, carefully sanding away a slight bump. He is so lost in his own little world that, at first, he doesn’t notice that Mrs. Davies has appeared around the corner.
“Do you mind me asking what you’re doing?” she says. Her notepad is back in her pocket. Paul looks up in surprise, the sandpaper in his hand.
“I’m building a veranda,” he says. “For Henny.”
“Does she work here at the motel?”
“Henny’s dead. I killed her. She just appeared right in front of me. I don’t want to talk about it, but…I didn’t have anywhere else to go after it happened. So I came here. And now I’m building a veranda.”
“For Henny.”
Paul nods. “I need to do something,” he says.
Stacey is the next person Mrs. Davies meets. She has just come back from town and is carrying several shopping bags as Mrs. Davies intercepts her. “Could I ask what you think about the motel?”
“It’s okay, I guess.”
I blink, suddenly emotional. What praise! Then I realize that Mrs. Davies doesn’t know Stacey and has no idea what a compliment that is.
“And why are you staying here?”
“Because my good-for-nothing, cheating husband wants to be a politician,” she replies, heading off to her room. Her phone starts ringing as she walks, but she doesn’t immediately pick up. Instead, she pauses on the stairs and stares down at the phone. I move over to her and peer over her shoulder. Derek, I see on the screen.
Eventually, she answers, but she doesn’t speak.
“Stacey? Stacey?” Derek says. “You there?”
“Yeah.”
More silence.
“Have you seen the latest edition of the Gazette?” he asks after a moment. His voice sounds strained, but that might just be because it feels strange to talk to Stacey.
She doesn’t make things any easier for him.
“No,” she says before falling silent again.
“They’re saying I’m an idiot! They’re criticizing our new proposal. No, they’re mocking us, like it’s crazy to want to make this town better. And they’re saying that I’m even more of a failure as a politician then I was as a quarterback. Stacey? You still there?”
Stacey nods. Then she realizes what she is doing and replies: “Yeah.”
I glance down at the parking lot, where Mrs. Davies is making her way to reception. I want to keep an eye on everything she gets up to, but I also want to know more about this article in the Gazette.
“It’s lies and slander!” Derek continues. “I was never a failure as a football player.”
Stacey laughs. The sound seems to surprise her. “You were fantastic,” she says, something that surprises them both.
This time, it’s Derek who pauses. “I’m supposed to give a talk at a meeting for local businesses,” he says uncertainly. “That’s what the article was about. Bob says half the town will be there, especially after the Gazette wrote about it. You don’t think you could… Would you come along, too? It’s tomorrow evening.”
“I don’t know, Derek.”
“Just for support. I need someone by my side. They…they’re gonna laugh at me, Stacey.”
“I’ll think about it,” she promises.
* * *
Mrs. Davies has managed to find Dad and his urn in reception. By the time I get over there, he is sitting stiffly on the sofa and staring straight ahead. She has to speak to him three times before he even hears her. He looks up at her and says—as though continuing some kind of inner monologue—“I don’t know what to do anymore. There’s no sense of order in this place. I made apple pie in the middle of the night. That’s not like me. Not like me at all. You bake pies during the day. Yes, I think early afternoon is the right time for baking pies.”
He raises an arm. “What do you think of this coat?”
“Very…colorful.”
Dad nods in confusion. “Not like me at all.”
“How did you end up here? Did you also have nowhere else to go?”
“I have my own house, I’ll have you know. Paid off and
everything. I’ve worked hard and been sensible all my life. But they all gossip so much! Those liquor bottles weren’t even mine!”
Mrs. Davies nods at the urn. “And that there, it’s…a friend?” She is using the kind of exaggeratedly calm voice that people usually reserve for someone crazy and potentially dangerous.
Dad raises his chin. “It’s my daughter,” he says with dignity.
* * *
My only comfort comes from the fact that Mrs. Davies doesn’t manage to talk to Clarence. She is making her way over to him when he suddenly leaps up and says, “Excuse me, time and alcohol wait for no man,” before hurrying off to the pub.
She scribbles something down in her notepad. Buddy is still struggling with the banner, but since he has been left to hold it up alone, it’s impossible to read what it says. The protesters seem to have gained a second wind now that things have calmed down at the motel. Mrs. Davies actually tries to talk to them, but I don’t think she gets very far. They know that she’s staying with us, after all.
After that, thankfully, she goes off to get ready for dinner.
I don’t relax until she is back in her room.
* * *
Dinner is a success, at least considering the vast majority don’t want to be there. Their long table takes up almost the whole of the restaurant. Mrs. Davies is at the head, of course, with the others sitting down in the order they arrived: those who came first are furthest away, and the poor people who arrived last are right next to her. Dolores has outdone herself with the food, and I don’t think anyone has even noticed the frozen protesters on the other side of the road. In the warmth of the restaurant, surrounded by the aroma of Dolores’s food, it’s easy to be generous. Even Mrs. Davies’s terrifying personality becomes easier to handle when accompanied by good food. Dad and Stacey are wise enough to stay away; Dad is in his room, and Stacey has gone into town.
Once dinner is over, Mrs. Davies tracks down MacKenzie. She is leaning against the wall in the half-light, smoking a cigarette that she bummed from one of the teenagers.
The deputy is just trying to organize the protesters’ departure for the night. They wave their signs one last time at the glow of MacKenzie’s cigarette.
“It’s just a motel,” Mrs. Davies says.
MacKenzie sucks on her cigarette. “Yup,” she agrees.
“There are thousands of motels just like this.”
“But the question is: do their have their own Christian mob?”
“There were probably too many motels before you were even born, and things have only gotten worse since. So why do you do it? Why not just sell up and move away?”
“And let them win?”
It’s a more honest answer than MacKenzie meant to give. She makes a face.
“I read about your motel,” Mrs. Davies continues. “That’s why I wanted to visit. You have all kinds of liberal groups supporting you, right-wing Christians threatening you. I read debate pieces and Facebook posts and lots of excessively positive reviews. Then I got here and… Well, it’s just an ordinary motel, with barely a hundred protesters. Seventeen thousand people have reviewed your motel during the last week alone.”
“I never read our reviews,” MacKenzie lies.
“Does this say something about modern society? We’re interlinked, connected, easily upset, but we lack the ability to prioritize which issues or problems deserve our attention. There are real problems out there, but people are arguing about your motel?”
“I’m not. But you seem just as interested as anyone else.”
“Do you think it’s reasonable?”
“We don’t write any debate pieces. We haven’t written a single Facebook post. We don’t share links; we don’t make statements in the media. All she—I mean, we—want to do is run a motel.”
The last few protesters drive away, and the deputy pulls out after them with his blue lights flashing. It looks like they have a police escort.
MacKenzie stubs out her cigarette. “Freedom,” she says.
“That’s what the motel means to you?”
“No. That’s why people stay here. It’s not because they don’t have anywhere else to go. Or not the only reason, anyway. It’s because they’re free here.”
With that, she heads back into the restaurant and gets started on the dishes.
* * *
For God’s sake, I think irritably as I see Stacey sneaking out of her room at four in the morning. Now is not the right moment for a break-in.
But she doesn’t care. She knocks firmly on Dad’s door with her free hand. The other is clutching four bags from a clothing shop.
Dad opens his door ten minutes later, wearing his suit trousers, a shirt, and a cardigan. His hair is the only thing he hasn’t had time to fix, but he uses his hands to try to smooth it out.
“It’s four o’clock,” he points out. Then he notices the bags in Stacey’s hand. “I don’t need any more clothes!” he quickly blurts out.
“They’re not for you. They’re for me. I need your help.”
“Apple pie?”
“Cherry. And that’s not what I need help with.”
This time, it’s Stacey who has planned ahead in the restaurant. The ingredients for a cherry pie are ready and waiting on the small section of countertop that isn’t still full of dishes from the previous evening’s dinner.
“It’s an evening for local business, whatever that means,” Stacey explains. Dad carefully measures out coffee. “Derek is giving a speech. That’s all I know. So I need to be…dressed appropriately. Stay here.”
She tiptoes off to the bathroom and gets changed. She reemerges five minutes later. Dad has already started with the pastry.
“Don’t laugh,” Stacey tells him.
But she looks good. Jeans and boots might not be what Dad would call appropriate, but her blouse is really nice.
“It’s four in the morning,” Dad says. “Why are you trying on clothes now? Why didn’t you just ask the clothing store for help? I don’t know anything about fashion.”
“And have them laugh and talk about me behind my back? No thanks. All right, next outfit.”
Dad ends up making most of the pie himself, because Stacey is constantly running back and forth to the bathroom to try on another outfit. “What do you think about this? Does it radiate boring politician’s wife?”
“Very fitting.”
“Don’t go anywhere.”
Each new outfit comes with another pained comment from Dad, until finally they make up their minds. Not that it makes Stacey any calmer. “The clothes are just one part of it,” she says. “I’ll have to talk to people, too. Ideally without making a fool of myself. But how the hell do I do that?”
“Say as little as possible. Don’t swear. And no jokes!”
“Sounds like a goddamn blast. Sorry, that was a joke.” Stacey sighs. “I hope all this is worth it. The new clothes, not swearing, no joking—I’m not going to be myself at all!”
“I thought you wanted to learn how to behave properly.”
“I do.”
“Then I don’t know what ‘being yourself’ has to do with it. You can be yourself some other time.”
Stacey laughs. Dad looks surprised.
That’s when a handful of flour hits him.
Dad stares at Stacey in shock as the flour rains down on him. It gets everywhere: in his hair, on his neat gray pullover, on the floor all around him, and on the countertop he just cleaned.
“Stacey, I don’t know whether Dad is quite ready for…” I begin.
“What are you doing?” Dad asks. He runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head to try to get rid of the flour, but that just makes it spread even more. Some of it lands on his cheek.
Stacey gives him an expectant look. “Come on!” she says.
“I’v
e got flour in my hair,” Dad moans. He automatically hits his hands against his trousers. “And now I’ve got it on my pants, too.”
“You have to throw it back!”
Dad stands stiffly in front of her.
“Who knows? Maybe you’ll like being young and reckless,” Stacey tells him.
He does actually glance at the flour. Stacey nods encouragingly, and Dad reaches out. He quickly pulls back his hand.
“I can’t!” he shouts. He laughs nervously. Maybe he’s worried about having come so close to relaxing and having fun.
“With scruples like that, you’re never going to win a food fight,” Stacey says. She grabs a fistful of flour and threateningly raises her arm.
“It’ll make a mess!”
“We can clean up. We’ve got plenty of time. Come on. Live a little.”
For a brief moment, I think I can see Mrs. Davies’s face in the window, but when I look again, she’s gone. It must have been my imagination, I think. I hope.
Stacey throws the flour. Most of it hits his hair, but a little of it sticks to his forehead. When he blinks, there is flour in his eyelashes.
But this time, he doesn’t brush it away. No. Instead, he grabs some flour and throws it at her before he has time to reconsider. It hits her square in the face, making her look just as ridiculous as him.
“Oops,” Dad blurts out. “I didn’t mean to… Sorry, sorry. Here, take some paper towels. Or a tissue?”
Stacey shakes her head and laughs. “Perfect shot!” she says. Then, before he has time to defend himself, she launches another fistful at him.
* * *
This time, they leave the restaurant before breakfast, and it’s probably just as well. I would have thought that most of the guests would still be full after Dolores’s dinner, but they all show up. I watch as scrambled eggs, bacon, and fried bread are shoveled into hungry mouths, followed by gallons of coffee and orange juice, all while everyone does their best to avoid Mrs. Davies.
She herself has an egg sandwich and two cups of coffee, and she actually leaves people in peace. The only time she speaks is to remind one of the fathers about his cholesterol levels, but she says it kindly, without any hope that he is going to abstain from the mountain of bacon on his plate.
Check in at the Pine Away Motel (ARC) Page 35
