Creatures of Habit

by Jill McCorkle

  “Niagara Falls or the Poconos.” She had stated her choices firmly so that he wouldn’t talk her into some place like Italy or Hawaii, places she might want to visit as an older person. And of course going to a place known for honeymoons was corny but that was part of the fun of it all. She imagined they would take photos of the two of them lounging in a heart-shaped tub. It would be the sort of thing you could pull out and laugh about for the rest of your life. Alan said he had taken Susan Hunter on a cruise, and even though he could not afford it at the time, the two of them had always been so happy that they splurged and did it up big.

  “Well, this is what I want,” she said and showed him all the pictures in the magazines. “There is a swimming pool right in your room.”

  “Oh God,” he sighed his worldly sigh and laughed. “If this is what you want then, okay.”

  There was condescension in his voice; she heard it loud and clear, but she would prove him wrong. Now, as she stood looking around the hotel entryway, she anticipated his saying I told you so. It looked nothing like the pictures. It looked as much like the Bates Motel as it did the pictures. She had read recently that Janet Leigh never showered after making Psycho. Who could blame her? Janet was in Psycho and Tony Curtis played the Boston Strangler. No wonder Jamie Lee Curtis wound up making those Halloween movies. She said all of this to Alan, but he claimed to know nothing about cult movies and horror shows. He only knew films and he was likely to not like what other people liked. He called it discriminating. There was a time less than a year ago when she would have called it boring. Randy would have said So who died and made you the goddamn authority?

  Heart-shaped tubs and round beds. Fireplaces. Jacuzzis. It was clear that at one time this place had been the place to go—like maybe in the sixties. The nightclub entry was lined with photos of stars who had visited in the past: Milton Berle, Soupy Sales, and Charo, one of the most recent, the giggling Spanish woman who got famous by screaming “kichie kichie” while beating on a guitar and wearing next to nothing.

  While they waited, Alan commented that Lisa looked sad and then explained that what she was feeling was a kind of postpartum after all the excitement of the wedding. He said that Susan Hunter had experienced something very similar after their wedding and after the births of both children. “It’s one of those female things,” he said. Randy would have had something sarcastic to say back to that, something smart and cynical. She realized then that part of her honeymoon fantasy had always been that Randy would be there. Other than family vacations, she had never traveled anywhere without him. He loved nothing better than a road trip.

  Once during her sophomore year in college, they had headed out with no destination in mind. At every fork, he’d ask her to choose left or right. They finally wound up near the beach on old Highway 301 in what looked like a ghost town of little pastel cinder-block buildings. Other than the Days Inn where they got a room, there was a rundown shopping center with a grocery store and Laundromat. When they asked the person at the motel desk what there was to do, she pointed them in the direction of what she called the arcade. It was an old gas station that now housed several pinball machines and a pool table. The main attraction was the dancing chicken. Deposit a quarter outside its glass cage and kernels of corn were made available behind a chute that would open if the chicken danced over the red button on the floor. Sometimes the chicken kept dancing even when the chute was empty. It reminded Lisa of the story of the red shoes and that poor girl who couldn’t stop dancing; her choices were to dance herself to death or to cut off her feet. They had so much fun that they came back the next semester with several friends in tow. Nothing had changed. Not even the sheets on the motel beds, they joked. But that was before they went to the arcade to find that the dancing chicken had been replaced by a big rat snake who occasionally ate a live mouse but otherwise did nothing. There was a sign saying DON’T TAP THE GLASS so of course everyone did. They never saw anyone who actually worked at the arcade, so there was no way to find out what happened to the chicken. Lisa was sure that it had danced itself to death. Randy suggested that it had eaten itself to death, that maybe a tour bus of lost but well-meaning travelers pumped quarter after quarter into the slot. Or maybe somebody got hungry one night and wrung its neck, fried it up. Either way, it was gone.

  FINALLY THEY WERE all checked in just in time for a flock of kids to rush past and into a room off of the lobby as big as a skating rink and just as loud. There was a clown entertaining children. He had a cotton-candy machine. There was a popcorn machine. There were canisters of helium for balloons that he twisted and shaped into animals that children wore on their heads. There was a magician and someone who could cornrow the girls’ hair and apply henna tattoos. It was a bar mitzvah. Oy. Funny what manhood looks like from a distance.

  This was so not what she had expected but she clung to the notion of the little pool in the room and how she was going to stretch out on that round bed fully clothed and fall into a deep deep sleep. She didn’t care if she slept through the honeymoon night and on into the next day. All she wanted now was sleep and rest. It was the postwedding jitters, that was all, and come morning, she would be okay again. She would see, by the light of day, that she had made the right decision, that this was the beginning of a wonderful life together.

  But they had only an hour left to be served in the dining room, so Alan checked their bags and off they went down mazes of hallways, following signs for the restaurant. Outside the door to the restaurant, where they had to wait in line yet again, there was someone drawing caricatures, someone selling costume jewelry, and a psychic. Her little sign said ask rose and there were other little signs featuring comments from satisfied customers. Things like ROSE SAVED MY LIFE, POCONOS ROSE KNOWS, I WILL NEVER SAY NEVER AGAIN. Apparently Rose did palms, tarot, or she would simply talk to you about what lay ahead.

  Lisa was watching several women huddled together waiting their turn. Rose looked up and directly at her. The gaze was so strong and intentional, Lisa looked around to see if there might be someone else Rose was staring at. There was no one else. Alan had struck up a conversation with the couple in front of them, a couple closer to his age who were also disappointed in the accommodations. Lisa attempted a smile to acknowledge the dark gaze but Rose just lifted her chin as if to say I know your secret.

  Lisa was leaning toward the ASK ROSE table, but then Alan was pulling her into the dining room and over to a far, darkened corner he had tipped the maître d’ to get. “What is it?” he asked, but she didn’t dare tell him what she was thinking. That she felt her mind had been read. That perhaps this woman knew more than she did, or maybe knew what Lisa wasn’t willing to admit to herself. She just said that she was tired. And when they were finally served and finished and about to head up to the bridal suite, all of the vendors in the hallway were gone, leaving little cardboard placards with their hours and specialties behind. She stood staring at the sign for Poconos Rose, hoping for some clue, some reason to believe she was a total phony and that the look she gave Lisa meant absolutely nothing.

  Their room was drab with stained wall-to-wall carpeting, old floral spread and drapes (red and yellow). It was something not so different from what you’d see in a Days Inn. Back then, with Randy, it was funny. Back then she didn’t feel embarrassed the way she did now as she and Alan stood in the doorway. He wanted to lift her over the threshold but she reminded him of his bad back. Anyway, she was very busy taking in the disappointing sights. There was a cheap painting of a mountain scene. There was a bidet but this was not a bidet of elegance; rather, it was more like a kind of sexhygiene thing—quick spritz and you’re ready for more. She could die. She sat on the bed and started crying and when she did Alan was right there behind her, telling her how he understood. He didn’t even say I told you so.

  He said, “Don’t worry. Honeymoons can be a bit of a letdown.”

  She excused herself, locked the bathroom door, and looked around in disgust. Where were the heated t
ile floors they had advertised? The towel warmers? The European spa towels? Where was the round bed with gossamer netting to make you feel you were floating on a cloud? Was she the first person to ever feel this way? This washover of sick regret?

  She dried her eyes and stepped back into the room. She willed herself to picture Randy on this sad evening. He was sitting out on the stoop of his parents’ house where the two of them had sat hundreds of nights waiting for steaks to grill and staring out at the pastures and tobacco fields. Poor brooding Randy, heartbroken. He was sorry now that he had not stepped forward and intervened. He would always regret it; one day he would tell her so and then she would say that she regretted it, too, and then they would go back to where they had always been—a couple—partners for life. They would not be able to remember which came first, his infidelity or her desire for something more in a relationship. It wouldn’t even be important.

  She was about to laugh just thinking of the two of them getting back together, but then realized how false that fantasy was—false and hopeless. He probably never even thought of her that day, or if he did it was to decide not to put on a suit and go to the wedding. It probably never crossed his mind that he should go and object, that she might need his intervention.

  SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE, but as she lay down beside Alan, she let herself think of being with Randy as they bounced through the fields in his truck, one of his dogs squeezed between them on the front seat. His hair was wild and windblown, and the Marshall Tucker Band blasted from the speakers. They drove down the dirt roads to the river and then sneaked into the old deserted ice plant, a place they believed none of the other kids had discovered, or if they had, hadn’t dared to ease through the chained doorway into the cool darkness.

  IN THE MORNING, when Alan suggested they go to the exercise room and then sit in the whirlpool awhile, she begged off with extreme, perhaps irrational, fears of community mold and bacteria that incubate in such an environment. She said she would lounge a bit, walk around, but she knew exactly where she was going. Rose had not arrived yet and there was already a line, two of the women who had been there the night before. Lisa felt uncomfortable sitting there eavesdropping so she wandered down the hall and into the ladies’ room, where she found Poconos Rose herself, stripped of all makeup and jewelry, brushing her dark hair and twisting it up on top of her head. She was pinning it in place when her gaze in the mirror caught Lisa’s.

  “Do I know you?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t you know that answer?” Lisa answered. When there was no laughter she apologized and started again. “I saw you last night at your table.”

  “Yeah, it’s busy around here,” she said. “But the line moves pretty quick if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “No, I’m not worried.”

  “What then?” Rose pulled a big purse onto the counter and took out her makeup bag. She applied black eyeliner and a maroon-colored lipstick, both items that made her look much older. “I’m priced reasonably.”

  “Oh no, that’s not it,” Lisa said. “You were looking at me last night.”

  “I was?” She put her hand to her chest and squinted as if trying to remember. Her eyes were a brilliant emerald green, clearly contacts.

  “Yes, I was in line to go to dinner and I noticed that you were watching me, staring really. I think you saw something.”

  “Oh?” Rose crossed her arms over her thin chest and studied Lisa from head to toe. “Were you with a guy in a suit? A little older? Kind of executive looking?”

  “Yes.”

  “Newlywed.”

  “Yes!” Lisa was getting excited.

  “That’s no vision, honey,” she said. “Here’s what comes here: you got the newlyweds; you got the old ones trying to recapture the first honeymoon—they’re my favorites actually, no offense; you got the bar mitzvah crowd, like last night? Lord. You got an occasional reunion.”

  “So there wasn’t something about me?”

  “Should I have seen something?”

  “I don’t know. I really thought you did.” Lisa turned and perched on the edge of an old vinyl chair near the door.

  “Sounds like you wanted me to see something.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Like maybe you made a mistake?”

  Lisa looked up, eyes wide. Rose was not much older than Lisa if at all, but the way she talked, the way she looked Lisa dead in the eye made it clear she had already seen far more than Lisa probably would in a lifetime. She had a hard, muscular stance that made Lisa feel inadequate.

  “You think I did?”

  “Do you?” Rose threw her lipstick back into her floppy macramé bag, then turned, exasperated by all the questions. “Look. I really have had a vision or two, okay? Else I wouldn’t be in this particular business. But what I see in you is what anybody who took two seconds to look could see.”

  Lisa paused, afraid to ask another question and afraid not to. “Can you tell me what you see?” She stared down at her hands to avoid Rose’s eyes.

  “Well okay, last night what I saw was a young woman wearing the kind of suit worn by business women, church ladies, and girls who take the time to plan a going-away outfit. Am I right?” Lisa nodded. “You’re clearly not one of the first two, and your husband,” she paused, giving the word extra weight, “still had one of those flower things stuck up near his neck.”

  “Oh. A boutonniere.”

  “Whatever. You’re standing there with your arms crossed over your chest looking like you’re at a funeral and concentrating on my business instead of your own.” She laughed. “And what was I thinking? I was thinking about how I was in a hurry to get to my kid’s piano lesson.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She shook her head and smiled. “We’ve all been there. Maybe this lifetime, maybe another, but we’ve been there.” Rose pulled a multicolored scarf from the bag and draped it over one shoulder. She saw Lisa watching and stopped short again; she seemed to be getting impatient. “Okay, so I dress up a little. Most of those people out there wouldn’t pay me the time of day if I didn’t look like what they expect me to look like, you know? I mean I’m really a blonde, a natural blonde, but who knows a blond fortune teller?” She leaned close and pointed to her eyebrows, the fair hairs clearly crayoned over with black pencil. “Men are that way. Friends. Mothers. There’s a certain look we expect, you know? Sometimes the image is true and sometimes it isn’t.” She turned her head from side to side, admiring the swirl of her earrings in the mirror. “We’re all hoping that we can see beyond what the eye sees, but for most it’s just trial and error. You know, you reach a certain age and it’s time to fly the coop, no time to think about anything other than that very moment. There’s never the perfect time. We’d all do something a little different if given another chance.”

  “I was fine before the wedding and now all of a sudden I’m terrified. It’s crazy.”

  “Doesn’t sound crazy to me.” Rose put her bag on her shoulder and took one last look at her reflection. “I’d call it everyday business for somebody like me.” She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, raised her arms up high, and swayed back and forth. “There, I’m ready.” She was about to open the door but then turned back once more. “You know, nobody knows everything. If we did there would be no reason to live. At least you weren’t too chicken to try. A lot of people are, you know, and what do they wind up with? And remember—you’re nothing but a human bean—that’s what my kid would say. Human bean.” Rose laughed and disappeared in a swirl of gold and imitation silk. The door wheezed shut, and immediately Lisa could hear the clamoring—a shrill peep of needy people, like chickens at feeding time, pushing to be first in line. Though tempted to turn and look, Lisa shielded her eyes and ran back to the honeymoon suite. If she could just concentrate on what lay immediately before her, she would be all right. If she could just take it day by day, picking and choosing what best suited her life. She wasn’t a chicken, and she wasn’t a
bout to be pecked to death. And if she felt frightened, Alan would be there with an outstretched palm and a promise that he might, or might not, be able to keep.

  Hominids

  “I’M THINKING I will have myself a restaurant known as Peckers, and as my model I will use Hooters, where one of Bill’s buddies likes to go on Friday night. I will have a woodpecker instead of an owl and waiters instead of waitresses. They will wear uniforms that are, shall I say, a bit revealing below the belt and as manager my job will be saying who looks good in the outfit and who doesn’t. Sorry, that’s business. It’s not harassment if you say right up front that Peckers is all about peckers. The Pecker Burger, the Pecker Shake, the foot-long Peckerdog, the Pecker who serves you. There will be lots of cute puns about wood, redheaded, etc. I think it will be a huge success.”

  I make this speech to the group—Bill’s old friends and their wives—gathered for the golf weekend Bill pulls together every year. Golf is the excuse for the get-together even though sometimes only a couple of them actually play. Most of the time is spent drinking and telling tales. Bill has just told how he and the boys could not help but pull off of I-95 and check out Cafe Risqué, which advertises all up and down the highway. I also say, “So why not South of the Border? They have lots of billboards on the highway, too, and they have liquor by the drink. They even have fireworks you can buy. Sombreros. Enchiladas. As a matter of fact, you can buy just about anything at South of the Border, except for the señoritas, unless,” I add, feigning great surprise, “that’s why you went to Cafe Risqué instead.”

  THE SIGNS SAY that Cafe Risqué is open all night and that the women are topless. The women on the signs look like supermodels—shiny healthy hair and white well-cared-for teeth. I’m certain that what’s on the billboards is not what you find inside, especially at eight o’clock in the morning, or two o’clock in the afternoon. Or any time, for that matter. I’m betting you find track marks, illiteracy, scars of at least one abusive relationship. At least that would be my uneducated guess.