The Drowning Game

by LS Hawker

The way she’d said it, “going to a motel” sounded extra special sleazy. Suddenly my stomach felt like it was tumbling in a clothes dryer.

  “If we stayed at a nice place,” I said, feeling my face glow red, “it would be over a hundred a night, easy.”

  “That’s not exactly what I was—­”

  “It’ll only be for a night or two.”

  She went quiet and stared out the window, to my relief.

  We pulled up to the motel, which was made of tan brick. MOTEL 9, said the sign. Best Rates in Town. WiFi. Cable. Phones. Fridge. What looked like old blue terry-­cloth towels hung behind some of the windows while others were sealed up with slabs of particle board. The rooms surrounded the parking lot in a U, and all the doors were red. We got out of the Buick. There were cigarette butts all over the ground, so many of them it almost looked decorative.

  “Maybe we should gather all these up for Ashley,” I said.

  “That’s a joke, right?” she said.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I nodded. “That’s a joke.”

  We stood gazing at the motel.

  “Do you feel weird?” Petty said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “But our cash stash is going to go a lot quicker than you think, so I think we need to stay in the same room.”

  “No,” Petty said. “I mean I’m having a hard time getting enough air, and my heart rate’s way up.” She held two fingers against her jugular.

  Oops. I tried to recover quickly. “That’s the altitude.”

  I led the way into the front office. A wall of what was probably bulletproof glass stood between us and a dried-­up old man shaped like a parenthesis. He wore pants belted just under his armpits and his voice squawked out of the mouth-­high metal speaker embedded in the glass.

  “Room?” His teeth were the color of maple syrup.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “We’re not sure how long we’ll be here, so maybe we should—­”

  “Twenty-­nine dollars a night, one forty-­nine a week.”

  “Right. You have a room available for, I don’t know, like three nights?” I glanced at Petty to see if this seemed reasonable. She had no reaction.

  “Pay up front,” the old man said. “Cash only. No check. No card. Cash only.”

  I could imagine he’d been saying this speech dozens of times a day for the last sixty years in exactly the same way. A metal drawer popped out and knocked Petty in the hip. Inside of it was a pen and card to fill out. I removed them and started writing. Petty reached into her pocket, pulled out five twenty-­dollar bills and put them in the drawer, which retracted.

  “No pets.” The old man counted the cash as he talked and never looked up at us. “No smoking in the rooms. Outside only. Hundred dollar fine we catch you smoking in your room.”

  It was funny he was saying all this, because the inside of the office smelled a lot like Ashley’s apartment. But I figured Petty was glad I’d have to smoke in the parking lot.

  “Here’s your key,” he said, and the drawer popped out again. This time Petty got out of the way. She pulled out the change and the key.

  “Thirty dollars if you lose the key,” the manager said into the metal speaker that made his voice sound like a robot’s.

  “Gotcha,” I said.

  The old man put his mouth up against the metal circle and shouted, “And no drugs!”

  Petty jumped at the sound.

  Outside, I parked the car in front of the door to Room 5, our new home for the next ­couple of days. As I tried to unlock the door to the room, a woman peeked out the window next door. She had crispy yellow hair and sleepy eyes that rolled in my direction, but she looked through me. I snorted. No drugs my ass. I unlocked the door, opened it and went in first. Thousands and thousands of cigarettes had been smoked in that room. The brown carpet resembled felt and was worn to the floorboards in some places.

  Petty glanced in the bathroom, under the double bed and the couch, then she stood staring at me.

  There was only one bed. Every motel room I had ever stayed in had two double beds. I’d thought there would be two. My skin got hot and I couldn’t look at her, because I had a flash of the two of us lying in it together.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, and walked out the door.

  I pulled a cigarette out of my pack and lit it up, gazing up at the sky, which was blue and thin and high. I walked back to the office and rang the bell. The old man came out of the back office and just stared at me.

  “I’m in Room 5, and I wondered—­do you have a different room available with two double beds?”

  “No.”

  “Could you check?”

  “Don’t need to.”

  “Well, then I’d like my money back so we can go someplace with two double beds.”

  He pointed at a sign on the back wall before disappearing into the back room again.

  NO REFUNDS.

  Maybe we should’ve gone somewhere else, just eaten the hundred dollars, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, for fear Petty would pick up on what I’d been thinking.

  This was going to be torture. Having Petty so close, staying in the same room. I hoped Mrs. Davis would be semi-­lucid tomorrow and tell us where Petty’s real dad was. I would drive her to him, there would be a tearful reunion, then I would get on the road tomorrow to Kansas City with five days to spare. I was suddenly acutely aware of the attraction that had been building. Now that we’d be sleeping in the same room, that attraction hit critical mass. I’d need to practice not thinking about her.

  No way I could sleep in the same bed with her and expect not to have a reflexive physical reaction. I’d have to sleep on the couch.

  I finished my cigarette and went back in the room.

  Petty hadn’t moved from the spot she’d been standing in when I left.

  “Wow,” I said. “This is a shithole, isn’t it? This place makes the motels I stayed in as a kid seem like palaces. I’m going to use the bathroom.”

  “Okay.” Petty sat on the couch, the middle of which sagged into a crater, and dust rose. She sneezed.

  I went in the bathroom and tried to shut the door, but it wouldn’t close. It was too big for the frame. Perfect.

  “I’m going to turn on the TV,” Petty called. I was grateful to her for that. I heard the television switch on.

  Rust ringed the tub, and the corners of the room were packed with pubic hair. There seemed to be a film of ancient filth on everything. So. Gross. I sighed.

  DEKKER CAME OUT of the bathroom and reached for the tan-­colored phone. He punched some buttons. “Hey, hippie,” he said. “We’re here . . . it was fine . . . it’s called Motel 9, and it’s a real shithole, but it’s cheap. We’re in room number five.” He listened for a minute. “Yeah, we saw her about an hour ago. She’s got Alzheimer’s . . . I know. We’re going to try again tomorrow morning . . . I don’t know . . . She’s doing good . . . Okay. Hold on.” He held the phone out to me.

  I felt a deep flush spreading over my neck and face. Curt wanted to talk to me? Why?

  “Hello?” I said.

  “How you doing, petty girl? How do you like Denver?”

  “It’s big. And loud. And dirty.”

  “You feeling overwhelmed?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Whatever you find out there, be bold, and mighty forces will come to your aid. And tell your granny hi for me. I’ll talk to you soon. Give the phone back to Dekker, will you?”

  I handed the phone over. He’d just wanted to say hello, which confused me and made me glad at the same time.

  “Yeah, it’s not exactly what she’s used to,” Dekker said. “I’ll call when I find out anything new. ’Bye.” He hung up. “We have to find a place to buy chocolate-­covered cherries for Mrs. Krantz and some groceries so we don’t have to eat out. I mean, eat
in restaurants.”

  His face got red, but I didn’t know why.

  In the nightstand was a smudgy phone book he paged through until he found what he was looking for and wrote on a little pad of paper. He called the number and asked for directions from Motel 9, which he also wrote down.

  Once we were back in the Buick, I read off the directions while Dekker drove the Denver streets. When he parked in front of the Walmart, I said, “I’ve never seen one in real life. Just on TV.”

  I followed him through the automatic doors. This place was ten times the size of the Walgreens in Salina, and it made me feel dizzy and untethered. The aisles were packed with slow-­moving ­people who all seemed to be talking at once, and loudly. Not long after we got inside, we got separated by the throng and I started hyperventilating. I stopped walking and backed into the shopping carts, making a racket above the general noise. Dekker was taller than most ­people, so I could see the back of his head. But he turned and saw I wasn’t there and pushed his way back through the crowd. He grabbed a shopping cart and put my hands on the push bar then got behind me, not touching me but staying close enough to make me feel safe.

  We pulled out into the human traffic. I turned and looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  We navigated through the aisles to the stuff we needed. We each had to buy some clothes—­luckily, Walmart’s stuff was pretty cheap. I got a pack of underwear, pajamas, two pairs of jeans, and three T-­shirts for less than fifty dollars.

  Dekker insisted on using his own money to buy his clothes. I insisted on buying the food.

  I was so glad to get out of there.

  Back at the motel, Dekker put the food away then flopped on the bed with the TV remote.

  “I’m going to get ready for bed,” I said. I took my Walmart bag into the bathroom, then brushed my teeth, washed my face, and put on my pajamas, feeling shy about Dekker seeing me like this. But I couldn’t sleep in the tub.

  “My turn,” Dekker said, and took his stuff into the bathroom.

  I found an old blanket on a plywood shelf above the little fridge. I spread it out on the couch and took one of the lifeless pillows from the bed. Then I crawled into my couch bed, lay on my side and faced the wall.

  I heard the toilet flush, the bathroom door open and the light go off. “Petty, where are—­what are you doing?”

  I turned over and looked at him. “What?”

  “Why are you on the couch?”

  “We can’t sleep in the same bed.”

  “Yes, we can,” Dekker said. “I’m not going to—­I’d never—­you don’t have to worry about me.”

  “I know you wouldn’t do anything on purpose,” I said. “But as a guy, you have certain reflexes you can’t control.” I was glad my back was to him, because my face flamed with embarrassment.

  “What does that mean?”

  “My dad told me boys can’t help overpowering girls. It’s something their bodies are programmed to do. It’s not your fault. But I can’t be in the same bed with you.”

  “That is so sick,” Dekker said.

  “I know, but you can’t help it.”

  “That’s not what I mean. What your dad told you was a lie. It’s not true. Anyone is capable of self-­control. Nobody is ‘programmed’ to ‘overpower’ anyone else.”

  “Of course you’re going to say that,” I said. “You can’t help it.”

  “I can help it! If you don’t believe me, look it up on the Internet.”

  I sat up and faced him.

  “Your dad,” Dekker said, “Charlie Moshen, Michael Rhones, whatever the hell his name was—­was a total skeev. He made it his life’s mission to fuck with your head. He lied to you about—­well, about everything, as far as I can tell. You need to understand that. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m already here, and you’re too tall. Now go to bed.” I turned over again.

  He sighed, exasperated, and got in bed.

  Thursday

  IT WAS A restless night. There were lots of sirens, howling dogs, ­people yelling in English and Spanish. Plus the smell of rot, ancient cigarette smoke, mildew, and B.O. was so ingrained in every fiber of the room, I couldn’t escape it. I also couldn’t stop hearing my grandmother’s creepy low voice in my head saying, Ma ma ma ma.

  My disappointment at not being able to ask Jeannie a ton of questions was heavier than I would have expected. I hoped today would be different. I had a whole list: What was my mom like as a kid? How did they get along? What was I like as a baby? What exactly happened between Michael Rhones, my mom, and my real dad?

  I guess I’d expected to feel some sort of instant connection with her, but all I’d felt was fear and revulsion. This person meant nothing to me, and I wondered what life would have been like had Michael Rhones not taken me away. I wondered if I’d have spent time over at my grandma’s house, baking cookies and coloring and sewing like I’d seen on TV.

  I knew about Alzheimer’s disease, but I’d never seen it in real life. It was scary and life-­shattering.

  I woke up earlier than Dekker and tried to go back to sleep, but my back hurt and my legs were stiff from being bent all night. Plus my sinuses and throat were so dry they ached. I got up and went to the bathroom. When I came out, Dekker’s eyes were open.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Hey,” he said, sleepy.

  “You ready to get going?”

  He rubbed his eyes. “Something you need to know about me,” he said. “I wake up slowly. You need to give me about thirty minutes before you try to talk to me.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  I was antsy, anxious about going back to the Village at Xanthia. I couldn’t just sit there and wait, so I got over my self-­consciousness and did push-­ups, sit-­ups, squats, lunges, tricep dips.

  “You make me feel lazy,” Dekker said.

  “Nineteen,” I said, “twenty, twenty-­one . . .”

  I was halfway through my strength exercises before I realized that I’d dreamed Dekker and I had been lying on that bed, kissing for hours. I was appalled by how uncontrolled my brain was—­why hadn’t Michael Rhones told me about this, trained me to manage my subconscious?

  Suddenly, I was afraid Dekker could read my thoughts, see into my head, and shame engulfed me like a tidal wave. I’d only ever had dreams like that about actors on TV, never a real person. It was as if I had violated him, done things to him without his permission, like when Randy had attacked me a few nights before. I knew it wasn’t the same thing, but I was still disturbed and felt like apologizing to him. But I knew that would be inappropriate.

  Would Dekker be able to tell that I’d dreamed about him? Would it show on my face somehow?

  And did I want to kiss Dekker?

  I pushed this thought out of my head and went back to my workout, pushing myself, doing more reps, imagining Michael Rhones shouting at me to try harder. Even so, I could feel I wasn’t getting the oxygen I needed, because I hit muscle failure long before I normally did.

  “How does anyone breathe this air?” I said. “There’s nothing to it.”

  Dekker stretched and yawned. “Yeah, but isn’t it kind of nice not feeling moist all the time?” He startled, as if he’d said something wrong. “I mean, feeling like you’re wet? The humidity, I mean. I don’t miss it. That’s what I’m saying.”

  I took a shower before dressing in the bathroom, and then Dekker took his turn in there while I watched TV. The thought of visiting my grandma again made me fidgety and nervous. What if she still couldn’t talk? How were we supposed to find my real dad? This whole trip would be for nothing, and then what would I do?

  I reached for Mom’s silver necklace and realized I’d forgotten to put it on. When had I taken it off? It must have been the night before. But where did I put it? I couldn’t remember. The
necklace wasn’t in my shoes, the Walmart bags, or in any of my pockets. I felt around on the bed and peeled back the sheets and blankets, then felt around on the floor. I brought the lamp off the nightstand and looked under the bed for it. It was gone.

  Dekker came out of the bathroom, bringing a cloud of steam with him. “What are you doing?” he said.

  “My mom’s necklace,” I said. “It’s gone.”

  “I’ll bet you lost it in the tornado,” he said as he folded yesterday’s clothes.

  “No,” I said. “I had it after that.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe—­”

  “Yes. I had it yesterday.”

  I was annoyed that he didn’t seem to understand how important this was to me. The necklace was the only thing of my mother’s I had, and I’d only had it for two days. I mourned its loss.

  “It’ll turn up,” he said. “You ready for this?”

  We walked out the door. It was chilly, but the dazzling morning sunshine made me squint. Frost covered the Buick.

  I walked to the passenger door then stopped and stared.

  “Did you roll down my window?” I said.

  “What?” Dekker said. “Why would I—­oh, shit. Oh, no.”

  When he got to the driver’s side, he went limp then started jumping up and down. “Shit! Shitshitshit!”

  I went around to where he stood and saw that someone had scratched CRAKER into the paint on the door. I looked around the parking lot and saw faces peeking around terry-­cloth curtains, shaking their heads. I went back to the passenger side of the car and opened the door. Glass dropped to the ground and there was more on the seat. I brushed it off before I got in.

  Dekker sat rocking in his seat, pulling his hair with both hands. It was then I saw the radio had been wrenched out of the dash. And the glove box was open.

  “What does ‘craker’ mean?” I said.

  He banged the heels of his hands against his forehead.

  “Did they mean to write ‘cracker,’ like white trash?” I thought about the run-­down, jerry-­rigged house I’d grown up in and the crappy trailer homes in Saw Pole, and I figured the key artist was pretty accurate.

  “Will you shut up?” Dekker said. “Don’t you see what happened here? We were robbed!”