by Anna Roberts
Stacy - a skinny blonde white woman - looked up from where she was folding table napkins. “But they will,” she said.
Charmaine flicked her on the butt with a dishtowel. “Yeah, I walked into that one,” she said, and turned back to Blue. “You want to start on beds or baths?”
“Um...I...don’t know. Wherever you want me, I guess.”
“Go with Stacy on baths,” said Charmaine. “She’ll show you the ropes. Seven checked out, Stace – it’s a full changeover now.”
“Okay. Cool. You want me to take up the sheets?”
“Nah. Renee will be down in a minute. You go with...” Charmaine frowned and shook her head. “I’m sorry – I’m lousy with names.”
“Blue.”
“Duh. How did I forget that? Easy to remember, what with your eyes.”
“Are those contact lenses?” asked Stacy.
“No,” said Blue.
“Jesus, Stacy,” said Charmaine.
“What? I’m just asking.”
“You wanna ask if her titties are real while you at it? Raised by goddamn wolves, I swear to God. Now get going.”
“Yes ma’am,” said Stacy, tipping a little salute as she led Blue towards the door. “Okay, Blue – let’s get you started.”
They passed Renee on the stairs. She was a soft-faced, middle aged lady who might once have been pretty in a sort of plump, sweet-lipped way, but age hadn’t been kind to her and she looked as though disappointment had somehow let the air out of her face. She didn’t speak.
“Shit,” said Stacy, when she was gone. “I have no idea what to say to her.”
“Why?”
“Her husband was in the hospital. I never know what to say to people when shit like that goes down, you know?” She unlocked the door of room two. The windows were open behind the screen and an electric fan was still spinning away, its blades chopping almost ineffectually at the thick, perfumed air.
Stacy raised her arms and stood in front of it for a second, drying her armpits. On her upper arm, inked on a banner wrapped around the stem of a red rose, was the name AXL. “These hippies hate the aircon,” she said. “Although they still leave the goddamn fan running. Don’t know what they think that runs on. Pixie dust, I guess.”
She flapped the front of her white wife-beater a couple of times and lifted the fallen strap of a cerise bra. “You ready to get started?” she asked.
“I guess.”
“Don’t look so worried. It’s not hard.”
“No, I know. It’s just a lot to remember.”
“You’ll get it. Here.” She took the blue cloth and the dishtowel from the plastic box. “Tuck these two into your belt so they keep dry. Once you get the sponges wet they’ll piss water all in the bottom of your carrier and you don’t want to get your polishing cloths wet. That way you get streaks and Charmaine gets a bug up her ass.”
After the first couple of bathrooms, Blue started to relax. It was just a case of organizing yourself – trash first, then clean glasses and cups, scrub bath, sink and toilet, then clean off shelves, polish mirrors, restock towels and toilet paper and wash the floor. By the third room she was doing it alone and Stacy had gone ahead.
Someone came into the hotel room. Blue heard them sighing on the other side of the half open bathroom door. Then the sounds of sheets being pulled off the bed.
More footsteps at the door. “Girl, you’re going to have to talk about it sometime,” said Charmaine’s voice.
There was another heavy sigh. “I know that,” said another voice, presumably Renee’s.
“Well? Is he okay?”
“As well as you’d expect, for a man with one leg.”
“Oh honey. I’m sorry.”
Renee let out a little huff and Blue heard someone punching pillows into shape. “What can you do? I told him this would happen if he didn’t get control of his weight, but he was too damn stubborn to own up to the fact that he ate too much.”
“That’s men for you. That’s how I knew the Bible was bullshit; I can buy the whole God thing, even raising the dead and walking on water, but you expect me to believe a woman successfully persuaded a man to eat fruit?”
“You shouldn’t talk like that, Charmaine. And I shouldn’t be talking about this anyway - ”
“ - and how come? It’s your husband. His diabetes.”
Yet another sigh. “Well, I guess you’re gonna hear about it sooner or later, although the hospital is crapping their pants about what I might say - ”
“ - holy shit, Renee – what happened? He didn’t get one of those infections, did he? Like a superbug?”
“No. Nothing like that. I’m just talking to a lawyer at the moment and I don’t know if...” Something soft thudded to the floor. “...oh darn it. Like I say, you may as well hear it from me than those dumbass local hacks. They lost Greg’s leg.”
Blue, who had been scrubbing the toilet, scrubbed a little harder to cover the fact that she was listening.
“Lost it?” said Charmaine. “How do you mean?”
“Well, the first I heard about it was the police showing up at my house. They came around all official like ‘Are you Mrs. Greg Holcombe?’ so I says yes and they tell me I should sit down.”
“The hell?”
“I know. I was confused. But not as confused as they were when I let them inside and they saw Greg.”
“They thought Greg had been killed?”
“Murdered. They thought the old Keys Cannibal had come out of retirement and chopped him up. They’d found his leg, you see. Still with that stupid Wile E. Coyote tattoo on it.”
Blue quickly flushed the toilet and moved to the top of the bath tub, nearer the door, straining her ears to hear over the flush.
“...in the incinerator?”
“That’s just it. They didn’t. Whoever was supposed to put his leg in the incinerator didn’t. They must have just tossed it in a dumpster where a stray dog got it.”
“Well, someone better be getting fired. What the hell?”
“This big ass dog was just strutting down the street, they said. With Greg’s diabetic foot in his mouth. Trotting on by, wagging his tail and scaring the crap out of the tourists. Someone called the cops and well...you know how Greg and Ryan were old drinking buddies back in the day?”
“Sure.”
“Ryan recognized the tattoo; one night they got drunk and dared each other to get ‘em. So he sees the coyote tattoo and figures ‘Oh boy, someone’s gone and chopped up Greg,’ because I guess he didn’t know Greg was in the hospital. They were kind of on the outs after we got more involved with the church, you know.”
“Right. But what did Ryan do?”
“Well, he showed up at the house, of course. Poor man. He said ‘Renee, I think you might need to sit down for this,’ and my heart was in my mouth right then because I thought it was something with the kids. But then he says he’s found Greg’s leg, only to look over my shoulder and see the rest of Greg sitting in front of the TV drinking a Mountain Dew. And you know what the worst thing was?”
“Honey, I cannot begin to imagine.”
“It wasn’t even diet Mountain Dew,” said Renee, her voice breaking. “After everything that stupid son-of-a-bitch has been through, he couldn’t even switch to diet soda.”
There was a brief silence and Blue quickly ran the bath taps. She had a horrible feeling she was going to laugh.
The water echoed off the sides of the tub as she ducked her head to scrub, so that for a while it was all she could hear. When she straightened up she could hear someone moving in the next room but no more talking. Someone cleared her throat, then Charmaine poked her head around the bathroom door.
“How are you getting on?”
“Um...good. I think?”
Charmaine’s sharp dark eyes scanned the room like those of some kind of house-proud hawk. “Shower screen was a little streaky in two,” she said. “Make sure you get all of the Windex off next time.”
“Okay. I will.”
“We’re going on up to the next floor. Come up and meet us in eight when you’re done.”
The work was harder on the higher floors. The aircon could only do so much to take the edge off when you were moving around, and as the heat rose the upper rooms of the hotel were nearly as stifling as Blue’s own attic room. She had counted herself lucky when she found a hotel that was offering a job and board, but in practice it only doubled the pressure to do well. If she lost this job she would also be homeless. And she didn’t know anyone here in Florida.
It was a long, sweaty morning, broken up only by a quick cold drink somewhere around eleven. By the time they were done, Blue’s head was starting to spin with hunger, adding to her sense of unreality. She had been here for almost a week but she didn’t think she’d ever get used to it. Every time she saw the palms swaying and the light gleaming off the clear blue sea she had to pinch herself; this was really happening to her. She was really here.
She followed the other maids across the lawn, Stacy lugging a vacuum-cleaner and Renee pacing ahead with the sheets she had taken off the bed. Charmaine stopped in her tracks, shaded her eyes and glanced out to sea.
There was a boat at the end of the jetty. Blue could make out a dark, slender figure bending over in the boat.
“Gabriel!”
The figure straightened up and Blue saw it was a young man, his shoulders stiffened by Charmaine’s yell. He was wearing a wetsuit skinned down to his waist, and his skin was brown and smooth, his muscles clearly visible. He walked back up the jetty with a hangdog air, a mask dangling limply from his hand. Charmaine stood waiting, her hands on her hips.
“You better tell that Joe Lutesinger to get his ass back here,” she said.
Gabriel screwed up his face and cupped a hand to his ear. “What?”
“You heard me. Tell Joe to get back here and do whatever he didn’t do in those restaurant bathrooms. The toilets aren’t flushing right and it smells like something died.”
“Okay,” he yelled back. “Will do.”
And with that he kept on walking towards the boatshed, the mask swinging now in time with the fresh bounce in his stride.
Blue watched him for a moment then realized she was staring like an idiot. She picked up her feet and hurried across the lawn.
“Hey, do you wanna go get something to eat?” asked Stacy, when they were back in the laundry.
“Sure. I’m starving.”
Blue was shaking every time she stood still enough to notice, and she had no desire to hang around Renee in particular; she had a weird, self-conscious fear that somehow the older woman knew how close she had come to inappropriate laughter.
Stacy drove a pickup truck that looked like it dated back from when the Beatles were still together. Not only did it still have a cassette player, but the thing was still in use. Beneath gaped a compartment filled with a bargain bin jumble of ancient tapes – Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Baby Genius Sing-A-Long.
“You have children?” asked Blue, as they pulled up outside a dusty diner.
“Three,” said Stacy, pulling a face. “All boys. I was hoping number three would be a girl, but nope. I’m doomed to spend my life surrounded by crusty socks and porn. You?”
Blue shook her head. “No.”
“Smart girl,” said Stacy. She pushed open the diner door and led the way to the counter. “Don’t have any until you’re at least thirty. I had my eldest when I was just seventeen. I mean, I love the little fucker and all, but they eat your goddamn life and spit out the pieces. I should have been out getting high and screwing around but for like eighteen months I was some kind of milk-zombie with this child thing just hanging on my hip, you know? And the colic. Jesus, nothing prepares you for a baby with colic. That’s some Guantanamo-level shit right there.”
A red-headed waitress came over with two cups of coffee.
“Hey Darla,” said Stacy. “Can I get the croque monsieur and a fried egg?”
“Sure thing.”
Darla glanced at Blue, who hadn’t even had a chance to look at the menu. “I’ll have the same, thanks,” said Blue. When she reached for the cup she was conscious of her hands shaking from low blood sugar.
“Coming right up,” said Darla.
“Good choice,” said Stacy. “Fuck that low carb shit, I say. Low carb is for rich broads who don’t burn their calories scrubbing crappers. How’d you find it, by the way?”
“Oh, it was everything I expected,” said Blue.
Stacy laughed. “And more.” She raised her coffee cup in a toast. “Living the dream, huh?”
Blue laughed along with her and dumped a good dose of sugar in her coffee. “It sounds silly,” she said. “But I kind of am.”
“Really? Because you should probably raise your expectations.”
“No, I don’t mean the toilet cleaning thing,” she said.
“I should hope not.”
Blue took a careful sip of hot, sugary coffee and set down her cup. “It’s dumb,” she said. “But I figured if I was going to spend my life making hotel beds I may as well do it somewhere...extraordinary. And I always thought the Keys looked like paradise.”
Stacy nodded. “They do look great, it’s true.”
“Some of it might have had something to do with seeing Orlando Bloom in Pirates of the Caribbean at too young an age...”
Stacy laughed again. “Oh, I hear you. Still gives me the tingles, even though I switched teams.”
“Oh. Are you...?”
“Taken. Relax. You’re too young for me, anyway.”
Darla brought their meals, but she didn’t look them in the eye. She stared straight over their heads at something behind. “Oh boy,” she said. “Hurricane Gloria at one o’clock.”
The glass door swung open and in walked an old white lady. She was barely skin and bones. Her lint pale hair straggled around a tiny face sunken by the lack of dentures.
“I want some oatmeal, Charlotte,” she said, hauling herself up onto one of the red plastic seats alongside Blue. Her voice was clear and surprisingly loud. “Forty grams. No more. Made with skim milk, if you’d be so kind. I got to get these last few pounds off or I’ll be busting out of my dress.”
She turned to Blue and laughed. “Here comes the bride, all fat and wide,” she sang. There were a few teeth left in her bottom jaw, but her upper was all gums, giving her the featureless dark smile of a Greek comedy mask.
“Gloria, honey,” said Darla, in a slow, loud, patient voice. “Did you come out on your own again?”
Gloria shook her head like a dog with a fly in its ear. “I ain’t childish, Charlotte,” she said. “So don’t talk to me like I am. Now, can you get me some blueberries with my oatmeal? For the antioxidants.”
Stacy and Darla exchanged a look. “I’ll call Gabe,” said Stacy, taking out her phone.
Gloria turned to Blue and peered at her. Her eyes were cloudy blue but somehow they retained a kind of changeling brightness. Her small, bony hands reached out and caught hold of Blue’s, and her grip was surprisingly strong.
“Now,” she said, with another comedy-mask smile. “Who’s this shiny new thing?” She gave Blue’s hands an emphatic shake. “My name is Gloria. G – L – O – R – I – A. It’s easy to remember – a big round name. A golden name. Shines like the moon, don’t it?”
Blue nodded.
“I can see the colors in names,” said Gloria. “Taste them too. Smell them. Charlotte here smells like pie. Apple and cinnamon.” She jerked her head at the space behind Blue’s shoulder, where she couldn’t see. “Poor Stacy there – she’s as bland as cardboard to taste, but she makes up for it by being such a pretty shade of green. Like a Granny Smith apple.” She gave Blue’s hands another shake. “And what about you, shiny-new? What do they call you?”
“Blue.”
Gloria frowned. Her eyebrows were thin, as if they’d been overplucked sometime in the Seventies. When she’d been young, maybe even beautiful.
“Are you making fun of me?” she said, with a sudden, fierce seriousness.
“No,” said Blue. She could hear Stacy talking quietly but urgently on the phone behind her. “That’s my name. Blue Beaufort.”
Gloria’s frown smoothed out a little. “Huh,” she said. “A stormy name.” She sniffed. “Smells like that wind before the hurricane comes. A whisper of cold salt. Pierces your senses in the warm.” She squeezed Blue’s hands, her thumbs moving over the pulse points. “Trouble coming,” she said. “Are you trouble, Miss Shiny-new?”
Blue swallowed hard, her head spinning and her stomach rumbling. All she really wanted was food and it was right there in front of her – a big grilled cheese and ham sandwich with an egg on top – but she was too polite to turn away and stuff her face the way she wanted to.
And Gloria had a hold of her. There was no way to end the conversation without some kind of physical withdrawal.
Then just like that Gloria drifted off somewhere else. Or else her mind had snapped back to attention. “Oatmeal, Charlotte,” she said, and marched off in the direction of the jukebox.
“Is she okay?” asked Blue, although she knew it was a stupid question.
“Nope,” said Darla. “Charlotte was my mother. She’s been dead ten years.”
“Oh. I’m so sorry.”
Darla sighed and set down the coffee pot. "Poor old thing," she said, looking over at Gloria. "She just keeps on getting worse."
2
The truck was parked askew in the drive. There was a tire track across the parched lawn, leading directly to the bathtub shrine, where St. Benedict usually stood upright.
Today the old man, together with his crook and his book, was leaning at a boozy angle, the peeling paint on his plaster eyeballs giving him the remote, fishy look of an incorrigible souse.
Gabe slammed the car door harder than necessary. “Awesome,” he said. How the hell was he supposed to keep up the fiction that he was a bad-but-superstitious Catholic when he couldn’t even keep poor old San Benito from getting dinged by Lutherans?
He went into the house. The tiny kitchenette opened onto an empty living area. The coffee table was covered in folded laundry, which took the edge off his temper and almost made him feel bad about the things he was about to say. Almost. The socks were balled together all wrong; green and tan, gray and purple.
