Lamentation

by Joe Clifford

  “Jay?”

  “Beats me, Charlie,” I said, punching the lighter on the dash. “Who cares if he is?”

  “I don’t care. Just weird, is all. Your brother had so many girls back in the day.”

  “Kitty, Katherine, said he’d meet guys at the truck stop and they’d help him out. So that’s where we’re going to look.” As uncomfortable as it made me to think of my brother that way, it also made sense. Someone had to be putting Chris up all these years, especially in the coldest months. Being homeless in northern New Hampshire wasn’t the same as going alfresco in Arizona or Florida. What else did Chris have to offer in exchange? Nothing in this life comes free.

  “Who’s he go with?” Charlie asked. “Like, what, queer truckers?”

  “Gay truckers. Gay lawyers. Gay whoever.” I stabbed the hot, cherry end of the dashboard lighter to my cigarette and sucked in the sizzle. “How am I supposed to know how this shit works?”

  “Sorry, man,” said Charlie. “I know this must suck, hearing this shit about your own brother.”

  I flipped the wipers on high as snow and ice pelted the windshield like spitballs from a juvenile god. When Nor’easters hit, everything could grind to a halt. Once it got bad enough, the town would stop sending the plows. Then you weren’t going anywhere. Forecast didn’t have it letting up till morning. Which made it a lousy time to be prowling the TC in search of clues, but I didn’t see how holing up in my apartment and waiting for the skies to clear was going to help the situation.

  A giant, orange plow thundered past, going in the other direction. We still had a couple hours. I hoped.

  As we climbed the last hill before the TC, Charlie peered over. “What’s the plan, Hoss? We knock on every window? See who’s feeling lonely?”

  “You check out the Maple. I’ll poke around the semis. If we see anyone who looks like they’d associate with my brother, we ask questions.” Charlie looked like he wanted to laugh. I threw up my hands. “I don’t know, man. I’m new at this investigating stuff.”

  “I’m busting your balls.” Charlie hugged himself. “When are you going to get the fucking heater fixed in this thing? You live above a service station, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  The Travel Center was its own little town, rising like Reno from the barren tundra. Even at this hour, the place was frenzied with truck drivers pulling in and out, grizzled, road-weary warriors disembarking their big rigs to fill up on diesel at the gas station, fuel up on deep-fried at the restaurant. These were all gruff-looking men’s men, with hewn, rough features, leathered lines, and unkempt facial hair. It was hard to pick out who might swing for the other team. Honestly, none of them looked much in the mood for any kind of company.

  Because of the storm, they’d sectioned off most of the parking lot to keep clear for plowing, all cars corralled in a tiny square outside the restaurant. The truckers were still granted the eastern retaining wall, where dozens of semis currently were lined up, butted against the main building and extending farther than the eye could see. We parked outside the Peachtree with the rest of the tourists, which were understandably fewer given the conditions, as booming engines roared past. Whether idling or powering down, the rigs still rumbled the ground beneath your feet hundreds of yards away.

  I watched as heavily flannelled men stalked into the laundry or showering facilities, or stocked up inside the convenience store, skulking back out with chubby paper sacks stuffed with Red Bulls or MiniThins, or whatever other stimulant they’d scored. I didn’t see much haggling for companionship going on. Not sure where that stuff went down, exactly. I imagined they had to be discreet about it. I didn’t see how that was even possible. First off, you had all the employees who worked there, maintenance and grounds personnel, waitresses and busboys, night clerks, cashiers, security guards. Plus all the travelers coming from or heading to Canada, stopping for gas and bathroom breaks, a midnight snack, screaming kids in tow. The place was crawling with people, even on a night like this, infested with all kinds, everyone scurrying to get back behind the wheel before the roads were shut down. I scanned for my brother, or, more accurately, anyone who looked the part. From inside my truck cab, I didn’t see anyone who fit the bill.

  I opened my wallet and pulled out an old picture of Chris and me, taken not long after our folks had died. In it, Chris was about forty pounds heavier, still had his teeth, and didn’t look like he’d just stuck his head in a lawn mower. I gave it to Charlie. It was all I had.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” he asked, taking the photo from me and staring at it. “Jesus, you look like a baby.”

  “Show it to people. Ask if anyone’s seen him. Try the motor lodge next door first, ask the desk clerk, any riffraff you see slinking in the shadows. I’ll try the store, then go down that row of trucks.”

  “Your brother don’t look anything like this anymore, y’know.” Charlie stared at the picture. “Hell, he looks like … a normal person.”

  “Best I can do, man. Just say you’re looking for a friend who’s missing. I’ll meet you at the Peachtree in half an hour.”

  Despite the storm and the late hour, the TC still bustled, the snow really coming down now, visibility only a few feet. I wrapped my wool coat tighter around me as I made my way past the restaurant windows. Helmet-haired waitresses, all looking like variations of Flo from the old Alice TV show, poured coffee and slung hash, ringing up tabs with fried-hair sass. A family, taking a break from the road, shoveled in food. Mom, dad, two little boys. All wore matching white sweatshirts with giant red maple leafs. They looked so happy to be together, warm and indoors.

  The Peachtree led into to the Travel Center lobby, exiting by a row of arcade games and bank of pay phones, clearly leftover from a time when people actually used pay phones. Restrooms and showers splintered down the hall, running past vending, soda, and ATM machines. Another set of doors led from the lobby into the convenience store, which was more like a Walmart, so much stuff in there.

  Place was huge, offering everything from groceries, to a well-stocked automotive section, and, of course, skiing accessories. Skiing and snowboarding were a big deal up here, with the Black Mountain Resort only sixty minutes away.

  The lights from the gas station island burned like a thousand stars, blinding through the windows and illumining the aisles, which I prowled, keeping an eye peeled for truckers and other customers and—I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, but, like art or irony, I figured I’d know it when I saw it.

  Shoppers were growing scarce. A few employees stocked shelves with the cheery disposition of anyone stuck working the night shift in the middle of a snowstorm, on their knees or perched on ladders, barely acknowledging my presence, except to scowl uninvitingly and make it clear not to ask any questions.

  I filled a coffee and bought a pack of Marlboros, then headed south into the swirling gusts and snowfall.

  The south exit opened up to the far back edge of the complex, which is where they’d found Pete Naginis’ body floating face-down in the runoff. I walked to the edge of the embankment, and peered down the culvert into the rippling black water cutting through ice crusts.

  The violence of Pete’s death finally hit me. Until then, his murder had been a minor plot detail in someone else’s story. Standing there, so close to where they’d found him, I could only imagine what those final moments must’ve been like for him, having someone beat you so savagely that you can’t defend yourself, the helplessness, the hopelessness of knowing that no one’s coming to save you. What it must truly feel like to be alone.

  I lit a cigarette, thinking of the ghosts I was running from, and made for the long row of tractor-trailers along the retaining wall. Truckers passed by, ball caps pulled low, shielding their eyes, rubbing the five-day scruff, scrubbing away life on the road. Didn’t even peek my way.

  It would help if I knew what I was trying to find. Through the mounting snow, I didn’t see any junkies
or truckers exchanging money for drugs, or blowing one another in the shadows. I found no one sneaking into the backs of rigs, and I guessed, when I really thought about it, I hadn’t much expected to. Prostitutes aren’t trolling parking lots in the middle of a goddamn Nor’easter.

  I walked the entire length of those slumbering semis, which easily ran the length of a couple football fields, pushing so far south that by the time I’d reached the end, most of the blazing light behind me had faded from view, the complex all but a soft, haloed ring, a distant moon. I was just turning around to go meet Charlie, hoping maybe he’d had better luck, when he called on my cell.

  “What’s up?” I asked. “I’m headed back to the Peachtree to meet you.”

  “Don’t,” he said. “Come to the Maple Motor Inn next door. Room 14. Hurry.”

  “Why? What’d you find?”

  “Hurry,” he said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “You’ve got to see this.”

  “Well, give me a minute. I’m way at the other end, past the trucks.” I began hoofing it, winds assaulting, making it difficult to move or breathe. My eyes teared up, nearly stopping me in my tracks. “I’m glad you found something, because … Charlie?”

  I checked my cell. The call had dropped.

  I did my best to cover ground. Getting back to the main building took forever. I retraced my footsteps through the store and lobby, emerging in front of the Peachtree. The restaurant jutted out, concealing the motor lodge, which was still a short trek up the hill and access road.

  I’d just started across the parking lot when a pair of huge snow plows arrived, dropping their straight-blade loaders to the pavement and scraping the tarmac, cutting me off, blasting my eardrums, and blocking my view as they circled around me a few times.

  What had Charlie found? I stumbled across the courtyard, clomping snowy boots, past the darkened check-in office and the first thirteen rooms, all the way to number 14, which curled around the corner into the woods, where a railroad tie fence was missing half its ties.

  I knocked. No one answered. I knocked harder. Nothing.

  The curtains were open. I cupped my hands and peered through the glass, squinting into darkness.

  There was no one there.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It hadn’t taken me more than seven, ten minutes to get to the Maple Motor Inn. Maybe twelve, tops. Certainly not long enough that Charlie would’ve grown tired of waiting and up and split. But he wasn’t there. I called his name, knocked louder, which was pointless since I could see inside. Entire room was the size of my kitchen. There’d be nowhere to hide except under the bed. Maybe I’d misheard him or gotten the room number wrong. I scanned the courtyard and the rest of the units, all dark, and then out into the snow, the wild blustery gale yielding little. No lights on in the yard, no lights on in any rooms. He’d definitely said “Room 14.” Where the hell could he be? I pulled my cell and tried him again. Straight to voice mail.

  The Maple Motor Inn was its own separate business and technically not part of the TC, even though traffic clearly spilled over from one to the other. Because of the snow and its location, the motor lodge, which was arranged in the classic U-shaped, auto-court style from the 1950s, hadn’t provided the best view as I walked up, and I’d been unable to see the far side of the building where the soda and ice machines and actual rooms were. But Charlie couldn’t have waltzed past me, which meant he’d have to have left via car, and not from the main lot, either. The entire way back, I’d seen just one set of headlights pulling in for gas.

  There was another, smaller parking area obscured by the lodge that was specifically for the Maple, up an embankment and big enough only for a few cars.

  I trekked up the little hill. There were several footprints, shapeless from slippage on the incline, and therefore impossible to deduce how recent. The parking spots were all empty anyway. One set of tracks looked fresher than the others, but how fresh, exactly, I couldn’t tell. Besides, who would take off into this squall unless they had to?

  Back at the room, I planted my ass on the doorstep, staring into a curtain of white. I extracted my new Marlboros, packing them against my wrist, a strictly amateur move. Didn’t do a damn thing. Force of habit. I peeled the cellophane wrapper, struck a match. What a night.

  “Got an extra one of those?”

  She was young, early twenties, maybe. But haggard as hell. Skin puckered and parched as a Dust Bowl mother. She might’ve been pretty at one time, but it was obvious that time was long gone. And it was just as clear where she’d lost it.

  The girl leaned inside the frame next door, hooded sweatshirt pulled over a tattered, twisted skirt, sedated eyelids and noodle legs fighting to stay up. I thought she might pass out just from standing there.

  I hoisted myself and offered her the flipped-open pack. She reached out apprehensively, carefully considering her options, as though some future happiness hinged on making the correct choice.

  I cupped a match and lit it for her.

  She struck a seductive pose. Or, rather, she approximated what she thought one looked like from watching movies and TV, arching her back, arm crooked and draped above her head, knee up, sultry pout. The more I studied her, the younger I thought she might’ve been.

  “Are you looking for something?” she asked, voice dropping to a throaty purr. Between her pale, skinny legs and dead, droopy eyes, there was nothing sexy going on.

  “Actually, yes. I am. My friend.”

  “Oh,” she said, and, realizing there was no chance for a sale, planted both bare feet on the cold concrete.

  “Did you see anyone leave this room?” I asked.

  She shrugged, then slinked back inside, leaving the door open, which I took as an invitation.

  The girl plopped on the bed, Indian style, and grabbed the remote, flicking on the bulky set with the disinterest of a precocious seven-year-old child already bored by Saturday morning cartoons. A gray glow cast over her pallid features. I stood in the entranceway, unsure if I should fully commit, or just ask what I needed to know from where I stood. I didn’t think I wanted to step into this girl’s world.

  “My friend called me from the room next door,” I said. “About ten minutes ago. But he’s not there now.”

  She glanced in my general direction. “Maybe he left,” she said with a shrug. “You can come in. But close the door. It’s cold.”

  Didn’t have any other leads. I stepped inside and softly shut the door.

  Poor television reception flickered like a strobe. If how Pete Naginis died had startled me, then how this girl lived was outright revolting. The room stank like foul, old sponge, and despite my work boots and two pairs of socks, the carpet squinched between my toes with a moist fungus. She made no effort to conceal her addiction. A pair of charred spoons and BIC lighters, cigarette filter, teeth-torn and balled for cotton, rested atop an end table a few feet away.

  She set her lit cigarette right on the spread and tugged the sweatshirt over her head. Plucked the smoke, swatted the ash, and fell back, reclining on elbows, bony breasts poking out. Her skirt hitched enough to reveal a stretched-out red thong that had probably been peeled more times than bulk potatoes in a soup kitchen.

  She stared at me, and I got a good look into those dead eyes. In her own environment, I couldn’t even put her at eighteen.

  “What are you out in this mess for?” she finally asked.

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “You in a hurry?”

  Good point. Besides, I couldn’t leave Charlie stranded at the TC. He’d have to come back sooner or later.

  “Sit down,” she said, drawing on the cigarette, letting the long ash fall unheeded. “I won’t bite.”

  I glanced over at the only place to sit beside the bed, the chair next to the drug station, giving it a quick once-over to make sure I wasn’t going to jab my ass with a hypodermic.

  I pointed through the wall, as if the pantomime would elicit the answer I wanted. “You sure yo
u didn’t hear anything next door? Anything at all?”

  “I heard you calling for somebody. That’s why I poked my head out.” She held up the rapidly dissipating cigarette. “I was out.”

  I pulled out my cell to check if I’d missed any calls. I felt like a teenager making sure the phone still worked because my crush of the moment hadn’t called back yet. Ridiculous. I’d feel it vibrate. I sent Charlie a quick text that I was next door, just in case.

  “You don’t know Chris Porter, by any chance, do you?” I knew it was a long shot.

  “Sorry,” she said, fidgeting with her legs, tugging her skirt down, all of a sudden acting self-conscious, or maybe simply cold, even though the radiator was jacked to a hundred.

  “He’s my brother. He’s missing. He’s a junkie. I was hoping maybe you’d seen him around the truck stop. I heard he spends a lot of time here. A friend of his told me. She said he goes with guys, y’know?”

  “I get it,” she said.

  I don’t know why I’d blurted confessions to an underage prostitute in an auto court motel in the middle of a snowstorm. Maybe I needed to talk to someone, since I had a billion thoughts squirming around in my head and no other way to let them out.

  “Honestly,” she said, “I wouldn’t know if I had seen him. I make it a point not to get to know people around here. It’s hard enough taking care of me.”

  I got it. Unless there was a chance to make some money, what was the point? Friendships with drug addicts equated to more mouths to feed. Everyone down here was a kitten in a cardboard box, an orphan begging for more.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.