No Vacancy

by Tziporah Cohen

  “Then you must be the family who bought the Jewel! Bienvenida.” The words roll one after the other off her tongue. “I’m Maria.”

  “I’m Miriam.”

  “Miriam,” she says. “Que lindo.”

  I know she’s speaking Spanish because I heard it a lot back in the city, but aside from recognizing a couple of words on signs, I don’t understand it.

  “What a beautiful name,” she says when I just look at her.

  She explains to me that she works at the motel, cleaning rooms and doing whatever else needs to be done. Dad paid her to stay on while the motel was closed and to keep working here when we took over.

  Mom walks in through the connecting door and I introduce them.

  “Bienvenida,” says Maria as she steps forward to shake Mom’s hand.

  Mom takes a good look at Maria’s necklace and rubs her palm.

  “Maria used to work for the old owners and Dad asked her to stay,” I tell her.

  “We appreciate that,” Mom says. “Do you have the key to the storage room?” She’s speaking a bit more slowly than usual.

  “Which key?” asks Maria.

  “The key,” Mom repeats, saying the words louder and even slower, like she thinks Maria is deaf or stupid. “To … the … storage … room.”

  Maria inspects her big ring of keys. She takes one off and hands it to my mother.

  “This one’s a master. It opens the storage room, the laundry room, the office — just about everything except the guest rooms. I can get a copy made for you later if you want.”

  Mom’s face turns pink. She nods, takes the key and heads back into her room.

  “Las llaves,” Maria says to me, holding up the rest of the ring. “Keys. In Spanish.”

  “Las llaves,” I repeat.

  She steps over to my dresser, grasps the handle of the stuck drawer and yanks downward on it. It slides open.

  “Bienvenida,” Maria says again. “Welcome.” She winks at me as she turns to leave.

  I can’t help but wink back. Her smile is about the only thing really welcoming about this place.

  * * *

  After I unpack my clothes into all four drawers, I go exploring. Sammy trails along until I get frustrated with how slow he is and pick him up.

  Rooms 101 through 110 are on the first floor. Some of the numbers on the doors have come loose and are upside down, so that Room 109 looks like Room 106, with the six hanging down like it’s going to jump off and run away. There’s a vending machine between Rooms 102 and 103, partly filled with bags of chips and candy bars.

  I take an outdoor staircase to the right of Room 110, my parents’ room, up to the second floor, where Rooms 111 to 119 open onto a kind of outdoor hallway-balcony. Sammy’s getting heavy so I put him down and he walk-runs down the strip of carpet between the doors and the cement balcony wall.

  “Me, me,” he says, pounding his little fists on another vending machine, this one filled just with sodas.

  I lean over the balcony. I can see the diner next door, the one from the ad. Down below is the empty parking lot, the dinky playground, and the trees lining the side of the road that I saw on the drive in. I hear the swish of trucks as they fly by on the highway behind the motel, even though I can’t see them.

  What happened to all the green fields and forests and farms that we drove by on the way here? I thought Greenvale would look more like Central Park. This looks more like my old Playmobil playground set, with half the pieces missing.

  I take Sammy down the stairs at the other end, him babbling at me the whole way about something even I can’t understand, and come out right in front of Reception.

  Dad’s at the computer and barely looks up when the bell jingles. I ignore the gross couches and the door to the pool. At the back of the room, a flight of stairs — this one indoors — goes up to the dining room, which is where guests get free breakfast. Next to the stairs is a small elevator. Sammy gets excited when he sees it but there are no buttons, just a place for a key. Service Elevator, the sign on it says.

  The dining room is pretty cool. Lots of small tables and chairs in the middle, with ice and juice machines against one wall, labeled Ice and Orange and Apple. Everything is labeled here. There are two giant thermoses, Coffee and Hot Water, a big toaster that can fit six pieces of bread at once and, best of all, a waffle maker labeled Waffles. In case it wasn’t obvious.

  I try to imagine how the room will look next week, filled with people talking and forks clinking and the smell of waffles and syrup.

  “Dwink,” says Sammy.

  I take a paper cup from the stack next to the juice machine and press the button for Apple. Nothing but rusty-looking water comes out, which I won’t give him, which makes him cry. I’m saved by a packet of crackers I find on the counter.

  So, nineteen rooms minus one for my parents and one for me and Sammy means seventeen rooms for customers — guests, I’m supposed to call them. The idea, apparently, is that Mom and Dad will run this place for a couple of years, and since we don’t have to pay rent, they’ll be able to save enough to sell the motel and buy a house. A house with real bedrooms and a backyard, close enough to Manhattan that Mom and Dad can work there and I can still see my friends.

  The Jewel’s old owners, the ones who left, had to move across the country when the man’s mom got sick, so Dad said they sold him the motel at a good price. He told Mom it needed some minor sprucing up, but he didn’t think it was anything we couldn’t handle.

  “Mi-wam?” Sammy pulls at my leg. I pretend-chase him and he toddles away from me as fast as his little legs can go, giggling and leaving a trail of crumbs across the scratched-up floor. He heads right toward a broken chair in the corner with sharp screws sticking out the sides, so I scoop him up again.

  This place needs some major sprucing up.

  Dad said there weren’t a lot of options after he lost his job, and he always wanted to live in a small town anyway. Somehow he got Mom to agree to try this for two years.

  Two years.

  I don’t think we’re going to last two weeks.

  3

  ——

  “Anyone home?”

  There’s a girl standing in the doorway to reception. She’s holding a pie. My stomach rumbles. It’s our first morning here and no one’s gone to the grocery store yet. Dinner last night was soggy leftover tuna sandwiches, and breakfast this morning was cereal we brought from home, without even milk.

  “Are you a guest?” I ask, even though I know she’s not because we’re not open yet and what kid would come to a motel without parents and holding a pie? I can’t get up because my lap is full of invoices that I’m supposed to be putting in order. Someone needs to tell my parents that it’s summer vacation.

  The girl laughs. “I’m Kate. My grandma runs the diner next door.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m Miriam. This is Sammy.” I point to my brother who is covering the other couch with blocks. “Your grandma runs Mabel’s?”

  “Yeah, except her name is Myrna. She sent me over with a welcome pie.”

  She puts it on the counter. A yummy smell fills the room, covering up the chlorine for once.

  “What kind is it?” I ask. It doesn’t smell like apple, my favorite.

  “Guess,” Kate says.

  “Blueberry,” I guess, looking at the purple stain on her T-shirt.

  “Nope.”

  “Plum?”

  “Nope,” says Kate again. “Grape! Grandma’s specialty.”

  “You can make pies from grapes?”

  “You’ll love it. Grandma makes the best grape pies in the county. She won first prize in the county fair three years in a row. They even wrote about it in the paper.”

  I try to imagine someone’s grandmother’s pie making it into the newspaper back home. I can’t.

>   Kate plops down next to me on the couch, sending a pile of sorted invoices to the floor.

  “Shoot,” she says, as Mom comes out of the office.

  “Finally got that miserable printer to work,” Mom says, actually smiling. She sees the pie on the counter. “This smells heavenly.”

  “It’s a grape pie,” I tell her, gathering the invoices off the floor. “Kate’s grandmother, whose name is Myrna but owns Mabel’s Diner, makes them.”

  Mom turns to Kate. “Please tell her thank you, Kate. And sorry we haven’t gone over yet to meet her.”

  “Are you going to church on Sunday? We always eat lunch at the diner after. Mom said to ask you to come. Maria always comes too, and Father Donovan.”

  There’s an awkward silence and then Mom says, “I don’t think so. We don’t go to church.”

  Kate looks surprised. “Really?”

  “We’re Jewish,” I say.

  “Seriously?” says Kate, looking me up and down. “I’ve never had a Jewish friend before.”

  My face gets hot.

  Mom clears her throat. “It’s good to meet you, Kate, and please thank your grandmother for the pie, but we’ve got a ton of work to do if we’re going to open in less than a week.”

  “No problem,” says Kate, hopping up. “See you later!” The bell jingles and she’s gone.

  Mom exhales slowly.

  “When you’re done with the invoices, Miriam, your dad could use some help with inventory in the dining room.”

  “Honestly, Mom,” I say. I could hardly sleep last night and I need a nap. It’s way too quiet here, even with the window open. No honking horns or police sirens. Just the sound of crickets and cars on the highway and Sammy tossing in the other bed, behind the bed rail Dad put up so he doesn’t fall out.

  “Teamwork,” Mom says, tossing me a box of paper clips.

  I open my mouth to tell her that my two best friends are having fun this summer while I’m sorting invoices, but she shoots me an End-of-Discussion look and goes back into the office.

  This team member just wants to go home.

  After two hours of counting, I’m still tired but now I’m starving too. Mom gives me a ten-dollar bill and sends me over to the diner.

  Signs in the window advertise Breakfast All Day! and Homemade Concord Grape Pies!

  A bell rings when I open the door, just like at Reception.

  “Yoo-hoo! In the kitchen,” a voice calls.

  “Hello?” I say.

  A woman wearing a blue-stained apron comes out of the back.

  “Oh, I thought you were Kate,” she says. “You must be Miriam. Kate told me about you. Welcome! I’m Myrna Whitley.” She sticks out her hand.

  “Hi,” I say, shaking it. “Why is the diner called Mabel’s if your name is Myrna?”

  She has a low, rumbly laugh. “Sign company confused two jobs. There’s a woman in Spartanburg named Mabel who goes to work every day at Myrna’s Hair Salon. They said they could fix it or I could keep the mistake for free. Everyone around here knows my name anyway.”

  She waves me into a booth.

  “You guys must be busy next door. With the motel being closed for the past month, there must be a lot to get ready. Can I make you some lunch?”

  “That’s what Mom sent me here for.” I show her the ten-dollar bill. “Oh, and she says thanks for the pie. She’s saving it for dinner.”

  “You can put your money away. Today’s lunch is on me. Grilled cheese is Mr. Whitley’s specialty, if you like that.”

  Sounds good to me. “With tomato?”

  “One grilled cheese with tomato coming up,” says a man’s voice, his head peeking from the window into the kitchen.

  “Mr. Whitley does the cooking,” Mrs. Whitley says. “Except for the pies. That’s my job.”

  She tilts her head at me. “You know, it’s tourist season now and with you guys getting the motel up and running again, I’ll need someone to help peel grapes. The local Concord grapes aren’t ripe yet, so a truck delivers grapes from California once a week. Kate’s at camp during the day so she can’t help. You’d be the perfect person, if you want to. We’ll have to ask your parents, of course.”

  “Sure,” I say. It sounds like fun, and I’d rather work in a diner than sweep the parking lot or whatever job I’m going to get stuck with next. And I didn’t even know you could peel grapes.

  Looks like I’m going to learn a new skill set too.

  4

  ——

  As it turns out, I don’t get back to the diner for the next two days. I spend all my time scrubbing the juice machine and sorting key cards and counting soaps.

  My parents start every sentence with, “Miriam, could you …” or “Miriam, please go get …” or “Miriam, have you seen …” Even Sammy’s in on it, saying, “Mi-wam” over and over until I pick him up or hand him a toy or tickle him. Maria’s the only one who takes the time to answer my questions, and even she doesn’t stop moving when she talks.

  Mom was right. Running a motel is a ton of work and we don’t even have people staying here yet. Every time I try to ask her about working in the diner, I get the eyes of death and chicken out.

  Today my job is keeping Sammy out of the way. We did finger paints this morning and I sang him ten rounds of “The Itsy Bitsy Spider,” which for some reason cracks him up, and then pushed him on the swing.

  Now he’s napping so I finally get a break. I’m standing outside in front of the first-floor vending machine, trying to figure out how many people will have to buy Ring Pops before the watermelon one gets to the front. Of course, I could just ask Mom for the key and open the machine and take the one I want, but that would be cheating.

  “Hey, squirt!”

  I whirl around at the voice. “Uncle Mordy!”

  Uncle Mordy drops his giant duffel bag and wraps me in a huge hug.

  “I didn’t know you were coming,” I say when I can breathe again.

  “Came to help out. Heard the old owners took off.”

  He takes his bag and I follow him into Reception.

  “How long will you be here? Are you staying in one of the rooms?”

  “I’ll be here as long as your parents need me, or at least until I have to go back and set up my classroom for the new year. And I didn’t bring a tent, so I hope there’s a deluxe suite ready for me.”

  He obviously hasn’t had a tour yet.

  He drops down onto one of the couches. A small cloud of dust rises around him.

  “I’m starving. Anything to eat around here?”

  “There’s some breakfast stuff upstairs in the little kitchen in the back of the dining room. We can cook there but we don’t have our own dining room. We just use the motel one. And Mabel’s Diner is next door. Mr. Whitley makes awesome grilled cheese, but he’s never heard of challah and makes it from regular bread.” I stop, remembering that Uncle Mordy won’t eat in a restaurant that isn’t kosher.

  He reaches into his bag and pulls out two big challahs. No poppy or sesame seeds. Just plain on top, the way I like them.

  “Good thing it’s Friday,” he says. “We’ll take the leftovers to him on Sunday and you can show him how to make the real thing.”

  I tell Uncle Mordy about the grape pies and about my job peeling grapes, which I haven’t started yet because Mom says family comes first and they still need my help.

  “Grape pie?”

  “I know, right? It’s even better than apple. And it turns your tongue totally purple. What room are you staying in?”

  “No idea. Let’s go find your mom and dad and ask.”

  “And you have to meet Maria.”

  I’m just about to tell him more about learning Spanish when Mom walks in holding Sammy, who is rubbing his eyes, still half asleep.

  “Mordechai! You m
ade good time.” She gives him a kiss on the cheek. “You have no idea how glad I am to see —”

  Sammy wakes up enough to recognize Uncle Mordy and shrieks, practically leaping out of Mom’s arms.

  “Mo-dee take poo! Take Sammy poo!”

  Uncle Mordy looks horrified.

  “He wants you to take him to the pool,” I say, being the family expert in Sammy-speak.

  “Oh,” Uncle Mordy says. “Whew. There’s a pool?”

  I motion toward the pool door, which I still haven’t been through. “The pool cleaner guy came yesterday so now we can use it but Mom hasn’t had time to take him.”

  Uncle Mordy holds Sammy above his head and Sammy stretches his legs out straight to be an airplane and giggles.

  “So, Deborah, should I take my nephew swimming or is there something else you want me to do first? Other than find some lunch.”

  Mom sinks into the sagging couch. “Oh, Mordy, the pool would be great. Then Miriam can help pick up the trash that’s blown all over the parking lot while I make some phone calls. She’s been a great help.” She pats my knee.

  Pick up trash? If I’m forced to work away my summer vacation, why can’t I do something that’s fun, at least, like take reservations or fill the soda machine?

  Mom puts her head back and closes her eyes. “What a mess.”

  “Have no fear,” says Uncle Mordy. “Mordy is here.” He turns Sammy upside down over his shoulder and another squeal fills the room.

  He grabs his duffel with his free hand and turns to me. “How about you show me the way to that kitchen, Miriam? I need a snack and to get tonight’s dinner into the fridge.”

  I really hope there’s some of Uncle Mordy’s barbecued chicken in that duffel. When it comes to Shabbat dinner, even grilled cheese won’t cut it.

  “Hey, squirt, you coming in?”

  I finally finished picking up all the disgusting cigarette butts and sticky popsicle sticks and dirty napkins from the parking lot and slipped into the pool room, figuring it’s the last place Mom will look to find me and put me to work doing something else.