by David Bell
It was about all of it.
“I’ve been patient, Joshua,” Renee said. “I thought we were moving toward something. Isn’t that why we hooked up again a couple of weeks ago?”
“Maybe, but neither one of us said that out loud.”
“Oh, God.” She laughed, the sound coming through the speaker like a spit. “Do you think I’m so pathetic that I just want some promise from you? A ring or something stupid like that?”
“I didn’t say—”
“It’s fine, Joshua. Go on and do what you have to do. You’re a good guy—I know you are. And I’d see that sometimes, especially the first six months we dated. But I swear, though, Joshua, the last six months or so we dated I couldn’t get you to tell me the most basic thing about your life. Getting you to tell me how your day went felt like pulling teeth. I’d ask you how the food tasted, and you’d barely manage to get out the word ‘fine.’ Every time. And God forbid I ever asked you about your mother. Who knows? But this stranger . . . You were able to talk to a stranger in a bar? Wow. Maybe all of this running around will bring you some clarity.”
“I . . .” But she was right. I did want clarity. Not really about Renee. More about myself, my life. About everything. “I hope so too.”
“Good,” she said. “But when you get back, don’t expect to find me waiting again. Because we are as over as over can be.”
20
I entered Wyckoff, Kentucky, the college town Morgan said she was heading to, and drove along the edge of the campus. It had taken me nearly ninety minutes to get there from Nashville, and the sun was just fading, the sky a darkening blue with skittering black birds lifting off and sweeping across the colors.
College kids, students at Henry Clay University, shuffled along the sidewalks in packs, joking and laughing. Afternoon classes were winding down, and the students would be heading back to the residence halls for dinner, then on to homework or bullshitting, fraternity and sorority meetings, intramural games. Later, perhaps, encounters with romantic partners, either long-term loves or short-term flings, the kinds of relationships that caused hormones and emotions to rocket and then crash to earth.
Nostalgia sank its hooks into me. I existed at a strange intersection in my life. Far enough away from college to remember it with fondness, close enough to believe I could easily go back. For a moment, as I passed by the redbrick Georgian buildings, the kiosks covered with flyers fluttering in the light breeze, the sunshine bouncing off the windows, I allowed myself to wonder how I would do things differently if that mythical time machine existed.
Would I major in illustration as I’d always wanted? Would I spend more time having fun instead of following the narrowly prescribed path that led to the life I lived?
Would I find the guts to say no to my dad when he offered me the chance to start a career in his company? It hurt in a sweetly painful way to think about, like a tongue probing a cold sore. I pushed the thoughts away, tried to accept a past that couldn’t be changed. I’d read something in a fortune cookie once or maybe on a cocktail napkin: The unlived life is not worth examining.
I followed the state road around the north end of campus and took it into the small downtown, the main drag populated by independent businesses. The streets were cobblestone, which made the car jink and bounce like an airplane as I passed dive bars advertising cheap beer, T-shirt shops selling college gear, and sandwich places with overly hip names. More students milled on the sidewalks there, and I scanned the faces, looking for Morgan. Futility landed on me like a heavy cloak. Needle in a haystack much?
I made several circuits of the downtown and then went through the middle of campus twice. I felt like a goldfish in a bowl, bumping up against the same glass over and over. I needed to make a more coherent plan, so when I ended up in the downtown again, I pulled over in front of a coin-operated laundry and looked up hotels on my phone. Would Morgan even be staying in a hotel? Or was she crashing with a friend or a lover or a family member? But I had to start somewhere, and there weren’t too many hotels to search, considering the size of the town. Some were obviously fleabags, based on their locations—far outside of town—or their names. I strongly suspected a place called the Tropical Court and Hideaway wasn’t going to be high-class in Wyckoff, Kentucky. There were also listings for a couple of expensive-sounding bed-and-breakfasts. And why would you go to a bed-and-breakfast if you were trying to hide? At a bed-and-breakfast, everyone knew your business.
Two of the moderately priced hotels sat within a block of each other—a Best Western and a Hampton Inn. Perfect. They were in a commercial area just south of campus, so I headed that way, cutting across town and then driving past a row of fraternity houses where a group of shirtless guys threw a Frisbee around. The marching band practiced in an open field a block farther along, the thumping of the drums and bleating of the tubas coming through the open windows above the rush of the wind.
I found the side-by-side hotels across the street from a giant Walmart and next to an Indian restaurant, which sent the pungent odor of curry into the car. The sun continued to slide, the hotels’ bright signs illuminating the early evening like beacons. I pulled into the Best Western lot and circled the building, hoping . . . what exactly? That I’d find Morgan standing outside, one hand on her hip, eagerly awaiting my arrival, wishing I’d save her skin?
When my initial search proved fruitless, I took another turn around the building, more out of desperation than because I had a plan. I knew I couldn’t just walk in and ask if someone—especially a woman—was staying there. And if Morgan had purchased her plane ticket under an assumed name, why would she stay in the hotel using her real one?
So I guided the car over to the Hampton Inn, where I saw an elderly couple unloading luggage in the parking lot but no one else. I circled once and then one more time, and that was when I caught a break. A hotel employee, a young guy, college age, pushed a large bin of trash out the back door, heading for the Dumpster. I pulled my car alongside him and climbed out. Either he was trying to ignore me or he was so focused on his work that he didn’t react until I cleared my throat. He finally turned and looked at me.
“Help you with something, sir?” He sounded unconcerned, as if asking the question out of reflex. He was thin and wiry with floppy hair that fell over his forehead, requiring him to constantly brush it off his face. His name tag read BILLY.
“I’m looking for someone.”
“A hotel guest?”
“Possibly.”
“You can ask at the front desk,” he said. “But they aren’t at liberty to give much information out.”
“That’s what I thought.” I brought out my phone and showed him the picture of Morgan from her Facebook page. “Have you seen her?”
Billy finished dumping the trash and then pushed his hair away again. He leaned over, studying the picture. “I don’t know, man. I don’t interact with the guests much.”
“This lot is pretty empty, which means the hotel is pretty empty too, right? Couldn’t you maybe just go in and wander around and look? Or ask someone at the desk if they’ve seen someone who looks like her? You must know the people who work the desk, right?”
He stared at me. His hair tumbled down again, but this time he ignored it.
I reached into my pocket and brought out two twenties. “She’s a friend of mine. I’m not going to hurt her. I’m here to help her. Just let me know if she’s here.”
Billy studied the two bills in my hand. The wind blew, shaking them like leaves. I thought he was going to walk away and leave me hanging, but then he reached out, took them, and tucked the bills into his shirt pocket right behind his name tag.
“You’ve got to give me a minute, okay?” he said. “I need to take this back in and dump another load.”
“Sure.”
He shrugged and pushed the bin toward the building. I got back into my rental car, pulled
into an empty spot, and waited.
21
It took fifteen minutes for the security guard to come out the same door Billy had gone in with his trash bin, his floppy hair, and my forty bucks. The guard made a beeline for my car, a large walkie-talkie in his right hand.
“Thanks, Billy, you little bastard,” I said to myself. Apparently forty bucks wasn’t the going rate for buying off a garbage boy in a college-town hotel.
I should have driven away, but the guard was next to the car so quickly I couldn’t unless I wanted to run him over. He bent down by the hood, studying the plate, then came along the driver’s-side window.
“Are you looking for someone, sir?” he asked, his voice higher pitched than I would have expected.
He had a shaved head that could have been used as a battering ram and wore a dark suit two sizes too big. Up close I saw he wasn’t much older than Billy, but he believed in his mission a lot more. He chewed a wad of gum with teeth stained yellow from either neglect or smoking, and he looked on the verge of breathing fire into my car.
“Just a friend,” I said. “She told me she’d be here.”
“But she didn’t tell you her room number?”
“I guess we miscommunicated. Maybe I have the wrong hotel. Maybe I’m in the wrong state.”
“The police might like to know that you’re here bribing hotel employees for information about one of our guests.” He said the word “guests” in a weirdly proprietary way, like a cult leader speaking of his flock.
“They might,” I said. “But I didn’t really think of it as a bribe. I thought of it more as a donation to his college fund. You know, helping a working kid out.”
“You need to leave, sir,” the guard said, unmoved by my positive spin on bribery and snooping. “And I’ve taken down the plate number on your car. If I see you back, I will call the police.”
“Sure, sure. I prefer the Marriott anyway.”
He didn’t smile. If he had, his face might have cracked.
I pulled out of the space under his watchful, almost predatory, eye. I flipped my headlights on to cut through the encroaching evening and looked back once. He was still in place, staring after me as I drove away. I decided it wouldn’t do me any good to go to the Best Western right then either, since the security guard might call over and alert them to my presence. So I left.
I didn’t know where to go except to some of the dive hotels. I hated to think of Morgan staying in one of those, but it sounded more pleasant to be in the Tropical Court than the Hampton Inn just then. At the Tropical Court, forty dollars would likely secure a room for the night and all the information I needed.
Three blocks from the Hampton Inn and Best Western, I saw a figure trudging along the side of the street, his hands tucked in his pockets. I recognized his floppy hair and the sickly green uniform he wore. I pulled over, powering down the passenger-side window. He must have heard the engine, because he turned to look at me.
“Thanks for ratting me out.”
Billy looked both ways up and down the street, then stepped over to my car. “I didn’t rat you out. Sean overheard me talking to the desk clerk. He creeps around all over that place, listening to everybody.” He dug in his pocket, bringing out the two twenties. “You can have this back if you want.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. You didn’t get fired or anything, did you?”
“No, I’m off now. The last thing I do is take the trash out.”
“Do you need a ride?” I asked.
“I’m cool. My girlfriend lives up here.” He nodded toward the next block.
His words struck a chord. They sounded so simple and so uncomplicated. A quick stroll up the street, a warm greeting from a beautiful young woman. A night together. The possibilities seemed endless.
“Well, have fun. Okay?” I said. “Enjoy it while you can.”
First Billy looked puzzled, then like he wanted to say more. He leaned down, casting his eyes both ways before resting his hands on the windowsill.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“My friend Bridget, who works the desk. Did you see her? Sometimes she works at the hotel next door too. The Best Western. We all get moved back and forth between the two places if they need us. They’re both owned by the same people. An Indian family.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”
“She was over there earlier today, helping out. She says a lady like the one you showed me checked in there. She might be the one you’re looking for.”
“Are you shitting me?” I asked.
“No. I was hoping I’d see you, but I had to sneak out before Sean busted me. Don’t worry. He didn’t call the cops, but he did take your license plate down. He’ll call them if you go back, that’s for sure. He’s kind of crazy. He once hit a guy with his flashlight.”
“The clerk thinks this woman who checked in was my friend? The one I’m looking for?”
“Might be,” he said. “She couldn’t remember the exact room number, but it’s on the third floor. Three ten? Three fourteen? Three eighteen? Something like that.”
“Okay.” I felt better. At least I had something. “Thanks. That’s great.”
“She remembered her because she was so pretty, like that picture you showed me,” he said. “And she seemed kind of jumpy.”
“Jumpy? Really?”
“Yeah, and she was crying. Crying the whole time she checked in.”
22
I walked through the lobby of the Best Western like I belonged there. The desk clerk, who was busy talking on the phone, nodding as she listened intently to the caller, barely looked my way as I breezed past. I hopped on the elevator and pressed 3, anxious until the doors closed.
It had to be her.
But what happens when I get to her room? Would she be alone? Why was she holed up in this hotel? Why was she crying?
The doors opened and I stepped onto the third floor. The carpet matched Billy’s uniform, a dark puke green. Bright bulbs in gold sconces guided the way, illuminating ugly tan wallpaper. A musty smell reached my nose, as though there had been a leak that had not been properly dried.
The room numbers Billy had mentioned were to the left, so I went that way. From behind a closed door, I heard a loud TV, and some kind of sad Muzak leaked through unseen speakers overhead. Aside from that, the atmosphere felt hushed and sterile, like I was in a nursing home for wayward travelers.
Room 310 came in sight, the first possibility Billy had given me. I stopped in front of the door, listening, but heard nothing. I drew a deep breath, and then I knocked.
It took a minute, and then the door opened, revealing a massive guy who wore only a white towel and had a garishly colored eagle tattooed on his hairless chest. He had a Fu Manchu mustache and looked at me like I was a bug he wanted to step on.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m looking for Morgan.”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree, bud.”
“Yeah, maybe I am.” But I still looked past him into the room. I saw a neatly made bed, a discarded pair of jeans, and work boots with a thick coating of mud on the soles. The TV played a liberal cable news program. I wanted to see if Morgan was in there, somehow being protected by the middle linebacker in front of me.
“Need something else?” he asked. He didn’t sound like a patient man. And he’d stopped calling me “bud,” which meant we weren’t as good friends as we had been just seconds before.
“Not really—”
He closed the door in my face, generating a gust of wind so strong it brushed my hair back. So I went to the next room Billy mentioned, hoping for either better results or a less massive occupant. I knocked but no one answered, so I knocked again. No answer. I worried that at some point someone might complain to the front desk about me stopping at every door asking questions. It w
as possible the guy with the eagle tattoo already had, although he seemed like the type to solve his own problems without relying on others.
I moved on and knocked on yet another door without receiving an answer. And then I came to room 306. With sore knuckles and fading hopes, I knocked.
A light glowed from behind the peephole, and then something blocked it for a moment, meaning someone was looking out. But the door didn’t open, and no one said anything. The person remained at the peephole a long time, longer than it should take to see who was outside and make a decision about opening the door.
For all I knew, the person was calling the front desk right then, summoning Sean, his overworked gum, and his deadly flashlight.
I knocked one more time.
“Hello?” I said.
I took a step back, ready to give up, and that’s when I heard the lock being undone from the other side with a series of rattles and clacks. The door came open, and it was her. Morgan. No hat, no sunglasses, but wearing the same clothes she’d worn in the airport. The hallway light struck her face, catching her eyes, and the breath stuck in my throat. Damn, I thought.
She was as beautiful as I remembered.
Her face was as blank as the hotel’s walls. She stared at me, her lips pressed together. She didn’t speak, and I understood she must have regarded me like one would an unexpected package that might explode. Her eyes darted to either side of me, up the hallway and down. When they settled on me again, they narrowed.
“Shit,” she said. “What in the name of God are you doing here?”
“I followed you,” I said. “I was worried.”
She let out a long sigh, the sound of a punctured tire rapidly losing air. Her shoulders slumped. She shook her head, taking in the human form of a perpetually returning bad penny.
“Get in here,” she said, waving me into the room.
