The Four Seasons

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Now, don’t be harsh,” Jilly teased. “At least the poo-brown paint is fairly fresh. And don’t you think that vat of red geraniums at the front door lends it a certain je ne sais quoi? Even if they are fake.”

  “Speaking of pooped, I am. It’s this or keep going,” Birdie announced. “I’m for giving it a try.”

  “Well, it looks cheap,” Rose said.

  “It’d better be,” quipped Jilly.

  They tumbled out from the Land Rover into the moist, frigid northern air, yawning and stretching, each looking at the sorry motel with resignation.

  Birdie went into the office while the others began unpacking the car. Inside the small office was no better. The brown-and-white decor was from the fifties and showed its age. A high motel counter of wood separated the back of the room from the front. It sagged in the middle from too many years of elbows leaning upon it. A stand beside the door was filled with brochures showing people riding Jet Skis and boats in lakes, touring caves and buying clothing at countless outlets for tourist shopping—all of them miles from Hodges in Door County.

  “Hello!” she called out, and waited. No one came out. “Hello!” she called again, louder. Again, not a sound. Great, she thought to herself. There wasn’t a car in the parking lot and he or she probably didn’t get any customers this time of year. Her stomach rumbled and she thought they should probably go look for something to eat and then return. She walked to the window and peered out the yellowed venetian blinds. She groaned, seeing their luggage sitting in the parking lot already.

  “Hello. May I help you?”

  It was the richness of the voice that startled her. And the accent. She put her hand to her breast and spun around on her heel.

  Standing behind the counter was a tall, bronze-skinned man whom she guessed to be East Indian. He wasn’t so much handsome as he was exotic, with prominent cheekbones and a full, sensual mouth. His hair was dark and worn combed back to lightly graze the top of his starched white collar. It was his eyes that arrested her; they were dark and shone with tremendous magnetism.

  “You startled me,” she said, suddenly uneasy.

  “I’m sorry. I was out back and didn’t hear you come in. Were you waiting long?” He spoke with a unique, clipped British accent.

  “No,” she replied, regaining her equilibrium. “We’ve only just arrived. Do you have rooms available?”

  His lips turned upward just enough to hint at amusement. Behind him the wall was covered with keys. “I do,” he replied. “How many rooms will you be requiring?”

  “Two. With double beds. There will be two of us staying in each room.”

  He turned to remove two keys from the wall. “Rooms 101 and 102. They have double beds and a small patio out back facing the river. Though with this weather…” He lifted a brow. “How long will you be staying?”

  Birdie didn’t want to commit without seeing the rooms. The bed-and-breakfast down the block was inviting. “Tonight. Maybe tomorrow, too. We have appointments and are not yet certain.”

  “Very good,” he repeated. Then, as though he’d read her mind, “If you find you’ll need to stay longer, that will be no problem.”

  “I assume there are phones and televisions and…” She left the rest hanging.

  “Of course.”

  They completed their business quickly. She took the keys and, thanking him, hurried from the office. Something about him made her feel nervous. It might have been his foreignness, or his swarthy, masculine good looks, but in that small, warm space, she became very aware that she was a woman and he was a man.

  “Okay, girls,” she called out, shivering when she met a blast of cold air. “Let’s move in.”

  They lugged their bags to the two rooms at the farthermost end of the motel. Birdie opened the door to her room, snaked her hand in to flick on the light, then felt her heart hit her toes.

  “We’re staying here?” Hannah’s voice rang with dismay. “What a dump!”

  Birdie moved farther into the cramped square room, closing the door against the chill air. The air inside wasn’t much better. The first thing she did was to lift the cheap metal heater and push it to High.

  The room was tiny and cramped. Two double beds were squeezed into the room only inches apart from each other. They were permanently affixed to the wood-paneled walls by headboards, which were, in fact, mere extensions of the wall. Beside them, on either side, were two nightstands, each holding a futuristic lamp that was only missing the lava. However, the room smelled of clean soap, and though the furniture was dated and chipped in spots, at least it was real wood.

  Birdie stood for a moment, suitcase still in hand, trying to decide if she should call the others to load the car back up, or toss her stuff on the floor and rough it for one night. Her bladder decided for her.

  “It’s not that bad,” she lied, hurrying between the retro built-in dresser and the edges of the beds. The space was so narrow she had to turn sideways to pass without bumping her knees. She passed the avocado-green Formica vanity-sink combo so popular in motels and opened a chipped wood-grain door.

  The bathroom was even worse. It was the size of a small closet. A small toilet was squeezed in beside a narrow shower stall with a natural-cotton cloth curtain hanging on metal hooks. She hadn’t seen one of those since summer camp, and that was for the outside shower. Sitting down, she peeked behind the curtain, holding her breath.

  Oh, Lord, she thought, wondering what Hannah would say to this. And Jilly? She put her palm to her head and shook it. The stall was rusting at every joint. The faucet was sticking out from the wall by the metal pipe and the drain on the floor was a hole in the cement slab floor covered by a metal grate. She thought of her home in Wisconsin with its big, tiled bathroom and Jacuzzi tub. The thought of those jets massaging her aching back made her groan again. Dennis used to love to rub her back….

  When she returned to the room a few minutes later, Jilly and Rose were already there commiserating.

  “Welcome to Punjab Palace,” Jilly said with a smirk. “Get a load of the artwork.”

  Birdie looked to see prints of various Hindu gods she couldn’t name.

  “Did you see the bathroom?” Jilly asked, her face aghast. “I use the term loosely, considering there isn’t even a bath.”

  Birdie nodded. “My shower has a grate that goes into the floor.”

  “You’ve got a grate? Ours is an open hole.” She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Look, I know I said I wanted something cheap, but this is beyond the pale. We simply cannot stay here.”

  “It’s late,” Birdie replied, trying not to yawn. “Unless you know of somewhere else we can go…At least this place is clean and there’s a bed.”

  “I don’t care!” Jilly exclaimed, her eyes wildly scanning the room. “There isn’t a bath. No iron, no fridge.” She took a breath. “There’s no room service!”

  “Jilly,” Birdie snapped. “You said you couldn’t afford the three-star hotel we passed down the road. This place we can afford.”

  “This place has no stars. It’s minus stars.”

  “It’s not so bad,” Rose interrupted. “It’s…”

  Suddenly, the air was rent with the sound of grating plumbing as the ancient system tried to deal with the novelty of a flushing toilet. Birdie ran back to the bathroom in time to discover the water in the toilet bowl rising fast to the top.

  “It’s gonna blow!” Birdie ran back. “Quick, call the office!”

  “Where’s the phone?”

  Birdie jumped on one bed then to the other, the quickest route in the crowded room, but the phone wasn’t on either of the nightstands.

  “Here it is, by the TV,” Hannah called. She picked up the receiver and dialed 0. While she reported the flooding toilet, Birdie watched a trickle of water escape from the bathroom.

  “Here it comes!” she screamed, jumping from foot to foot. Then a laugh exploded from her mouth. She didn’t know where it came from, but suddenly the who
le scenario seemed hilarious.

  Jilly caught the absurdity immediately and burst out laughing, collapsing on the other bed. Hannah joined her, kicking her legs in the air while she howled. Only Rose stood somewhat uncertain, staring with horror at the flow of water seeping from the bathroom.

  Thwack. Someone hit Rose with a pillow. She looked up, stunned, her neatly braided hair smooshed by the blow.

  “Why, you little…” Rose kicked off her shoes and leaped to the bed. Instantly, they were all diving for the pillows, fighting for them, the victor getting off a good whap while another pillow found a new victim. They were squealing and jumping like wild women, laughing till the tears and the miles flowed from their eyes.

  No one noticed the door open.

  “Excuse me!” The voice was loud and unmistakably male.

  The hilarity came to a sudden stop. They presented a tableau of twisted shapes, their bodies a blend of bent and grasping legs, pillows, shoulders, their mouths agape with choked laughter, their eyes wide with surprise.

  The man stood at the door, a pillow in hand, his hair disheveled. His thick, dark brows gathered like thunderclouds over his proud, straight nose. His eyes flashed. In his other hand, he held a bucket filled with tools and sponges.

  “I’m Mr. Patel, the manager. I knocked several times….” He was trying to maintain his dignity.

  Birdie, Hannah and Rose responded instantly, smoothing their slacks and hair, then stepping from the bed in whatever ladylike manner they could muster.

  “We’re terribly sorry for making you wait,” Birdie said.

  “And for hitting you with a pillow,” added Rose, smoothing her loosened braid from her scarlet face.

  “We…we didn’t know you were there.” Hannah giggled.

  “Excuse me,” he said again, all politeness, but no one could miss his disdain. He looked past them toward the bathroom. As though he’d spoken, Hannah and Rose hurried from the narrow path of walking space to let him pass. He cast a quick, assessing glance at Jilly from under thick lashes, then disappeared into the bathroom.

  Birdie, Rose and Hannah each slapped palms across their mouths to keep from laughing.

  Jilly still stood on the bed, a pillow hanging from her left hand. She had not moved from the moment that she lay eyes on the man at the threshold. His dress and appearance were proper and immaculate. He wore black trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt buttoned high. Nonetheless she saw in him an animal ferocity, like that of a tiger tethered by a slim leash. As quickly as a blink of an eye, however, he had reined himself in, leaving her to wonder if what she had seen in his eyes was really there or a trick of the light. She dropped the pillow, tumbled from the bed, then, grabbing her purse, went out into the cold twilight for a smoke.

  By the time the toilet was repaired and they’d showered, they were too tired to go out in search of food. They were commiserating about what to do when Mr. Patel returned to Birdie’s room carrying a chilled bottle of white wine and four sparkling glasses.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” he said. He didn’t smile but the hard lines of his face had softened.

  Birdie took the wine, handed it to Rose, then accepted the glasses with profuse thanks, assuring him it wasn’t necessary, but very nice. She closed the door, then turned and leaned her back against it, her eyes wide. When she looked into her sisters’ eyes, she knew instantly that they had all gone weak at the sight of the ruthlessly handsome Mr. Patel. Again, they burst out laughing, making a show of fanning themselves. Hannah pretended to be shocked at their lascivious behavior but everyone knew she loved seeing her mom in this new light. For the first time, Hannah was being accepted as a woman.

  They poured the wine. When Jilly raised her eyebrows at Birdie, she splashed some into Hannah’s glass. For dinner they ate runny Brie cheese and French bread left over from the funeral, carrot and celery strips, along with oranges and grapes from Rose’s glorious picnic. It was like a big slumber party. They got into their pajamas, turned on a movie from the cable television—a luxury Hannah was ecstatic to discover the cheesy motel actually had—pulled out their private stashes of chocolate, and just relaxed for a few hours. But the day had proved too long. One by one the eyelids drooped. Yawning, Jilly and Hannah returned to their room.

  When Birdie fell into a fitful sleep, Rose quietly set up her computer to write to DannyBoy.

  He’d asked her for a description, something she was loath to do. She composed and deleted a dozen e-mails that gave a vague description of her appearance. How could she make herself sound attractive without sounding like she was trite or boasting? In the end, she went to the newspaper and studied the personal ads, trying to choose wording that was the least offensive. At last she managed to write a kind of newspaper ad/e-mail combo that she figured was as good as it was going to get.

  Dear DannyBoy,

  Okay, here goes. I’m not very good at describing myself. It makes me feel very uncomfortable, even immodest. But because you asked…

  I’m single, white and thirty-six years old. I’m medium height, have red hair that goes to my waist. Most people describe me as thin. You know I love to collect stamps. I also like to read (a lot), cook, surf the Net, and I’ve recently found I’ve taken a liking to road trips.

  Well, that’s me. I’m quiet but hopefully not dull. I have lots of interests and I’m looking for someone to share them with.

  Rosebud

  It was the most horrid e-mail she’d ever written. She couldn’t believe she was actually writing that about herself. Her hand hovered over the delete button as she read and reread the letter. Beside her, Birdie shifted again in her sleep, muttering fitfully. Birdie had confided about her fight with Dennis. Rose had never known Birdie to be so confused or scared, but when she’d spoken of Dennis, she had wrung her hands, something totally out of character for her. Rose cast a worried look at her and knew she should turn off the light soon.

  She shifted her hand, then pushed Send. As soon as she sent it, her stomach fell and she wished she could take it back.

  He must have been waiting for her letter, though, for he wrote back almost instantly.

  Dear Rosebud,

  You’re late tonight. I hoped it was because you were on the road and not because I asked you what you looked like. Maybe I shouldn’t have. You seem a bit put off. Please don’t be. Now I can imagine a face behind the words. A real nice face. But you didn’t tell me the most important thing. What color are your eyes?

  DannyBoy

  She took a deep sigh of relief that he’d written back. A short laugh escaped her as she wrote her reply.

  Uh-uh, DannyBoy. You have to describe yourself first.

  Rosebud

  Before she could receive his reply, she turned off the computer, and a moment later, the overhead light as well.

  12

  JILLY WOKE UP THE FOLLOWING morning to what sounded like a tornado roaring through her room. She sat bolt upright, clutching her blanket close to her chest.

  Hannah scrambled from the bed and pulled open the dusty paisley curtains to the sight of a rumbling, clanking, grinding freight train just on the far side of the parking lot. The water in the glasses shook from the vibrations that Jilly felt clear to her marrow. On the grassy hill alongside the tracks, a scruffy white dog with a patch of black over its eye was barking ferociously at the train, his whole body lifting from the ground with the effort. Jilly let out a hearty laugh, lifting her knees and hugging them close.

  Hannah slumped against the window, rubbed her eyes and yawned. “Good morning.” She had to shout to be heard over the rattle.

  “I haven’t seen a good ol’ American freight train like this in more than twenty-five years,” Jilly called back, staring out the window with a child’s excitement. “We used to count the cars.”

  Hannah turned to look at her face. Her aunt Jilly looked older, less luminous in the morning sun. Without any makeup her skin revealed faint vertical lines at the tips of her full lips, crow�
��s-feet at the eyes and deeply etched, interconnecting lines evident even when her face was passive. Still, she had the look of a model, Hannah thought, with that elegance of line that she saw in magazines. She wished she could look like that rather than big and stocky, like her mother. She wished her aunt Jilly were her mother. She looked out again at the rumbling train. “Here comes the caboose. And it’s red!”

  Sure enough, an old, rather dilapidated red caboose chugged past their window. From the room next door they heard Birdie’s and Rose’s voices sing out, “Woooo-woooo!”

  Hannah and Jilly shared a look, then in unison called back, “Wooo-wooo!”

  This, and an arm motion imitating an old train whistle being pulled, was de rigueur for the sisters growing up. Jilly was glad to see that Birdie had passed on the tradition to her daughter.

  A moment later, their phone rang.

  “How did you like the wake-up call?” It was Birdie and she was in high spirits.

  “Innovative,” Jilly replied. “Nothing but first class all the way for the Seasons.”

  “I’m hungry. Mr. Patel said there was a nice restaurant in town that we could walk to.”

  “Talking to Mr. Patel already, are we?”

  She heard Birdie tsk. “Want to go eat in about twenty minutes?”

  Jilly looked at her watch. It was already eight-fifteen. She wanted to get an early start for Marian House. “Be there or be square,” she replied.

  “God, Jilly, I haven’t heard that in ages.”

  “I haven’t said that in ages. I think we’re regressing.”

  “You think? Nah…Well, see you later, alligator.”

  “After a while, crocodile.” Jilly hung up, chuckling at how they were all beginning to dip into the well of their expressions and behaviors. After all these years, it felt good.

  It was a cool, sunny morning that promised to warm up by noon. They left the motel together in good spirits, walking in pairs across the parking lot and the train tracks to Main Street. Jilly was chic as usual, all in black, from her tailored slacks to her soft, knee-length Italian leather coat. She looked too European for this tiny town in remote northern Wisconsin and drew the attention of the locals. They turned their heads as she passed but Jilly was oblivious. Hannah walked beside her, showing her youth in flared jeans and a white puffy parka. Birdie wore a long khaki skirt and her navy pea coat. She kept her arm linked with Rose, who was again wearing her calf-length denim skirt and a camel-hair jacket that had once been their mother’s and was a bit frayed at the cuffs.