Blooming at the Texas Sunrise Motel

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Roy looks down at my luggage. “Is this all you have?”

  I nod. All I have.

  They each take a suitcase, and since they’re on wheels, I don’t object.

  We head out of the station and toward the parking lot.

  Roy stops. “Dad, you forgot something.”

  Arlo quits walking. “What?” Then he smacks his forehead and announces, “Kangaroo!”

  Chapter Three

  GOOD THING ARLO AND ROY ARE SLIM, since I’m squeezed between the two of them in the front seat of their truck. It’s old, but not as old as the one we had. We called ours Big Momma because of her wide bed. Big Momma smelled of gasoline and oil. Arlo’s truck has a pine-scented cardboard tree hanging from the visor. Since it’s dangling right in front of me, I get a good whiff of it every time I inhale.

  “Winston—” Arlo says, “I mean, your grandfather … he would have picked you up himself, but his quarterly taxes are due.”

  “Yeah,” Roy says, “don’t want to mess with the IRS.”

  My grandfather has never seen me. It seems like he would have set aside time to pick me up. Did he know about me before the accident? I think about the older couple at the bus station. They were excited about seeing their grandkids.

  Roy points out the Dallas sights—downtown, the Perot Museum, a round structure atop a skinny building. “That’s Reunion Tower. There’s a restaurant up there that rotates. I wonder how many people puke out their fancy meals before they get their check.”

  “They might do it after they get their check,” Arlo says. Then he adds, “Sorry, Stevie. Don’t mean to be crass. We’re just two old bachelors.”

  “Hey, you may be,” Roy says. Then he focuses on me. “How old are you, anyway?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “Eighth grade?” Roy asks.

  I nod.

  “Me too.” Roy smiles so big that my neck feels warm.

  For a long while, we drive in bumper-to-bumper traffic. But Roy fills the time, telling me about school and which teachers I should avoid. I’m relieved he likes to talk, because then I don’t have to. He asks all kinds of questions about living in Taos. And I’m thankful for the ones he doesn’t ask.

  Traffic eases. The landscape changes to prairie and more sky. If I squint, it sort of reminds me of home. I search for the mountains, but there are only clouds.

  Finally, I notice a faded sign with an orange sun on the horizon: TEXAS SUNRISE MOTEL. Then I see the one-level brown building with peeling paint that horseshoes a parking lot with a small pool. No trees, no shrubs, no flowers. Just grass or maybe mowed weeds. VACANCY flashes in neon-red letters.

  “Welcome to the Texas Sunrise,” Roy says in a strong Texas drawl. “Ain’t she purty?”

  I’m not sure if he’s teasing, so I don’t laugh or answer. Because the motel is anything but pretty.

  “Town is a half mile west of the motel,” Arlo says.

  He parks the truck. My gut burns. I’m nervous and dreading what’s next.

  Arlo and Roy each take a suitcase, and I follow them toward a door posted with THE BLOOMIN’ OFFICE in handmade letters.

  Roy announces it in an Australian accent: “The Bloomin’ Office.”

  The trill of an adding machine sounds through the door. When Arlo opens it, a bell sounds.

  A woman who appears to be about my mom’s age glances up from the machine and smiles. An older man with slicked-back white hair and a trim beard stands behind her, staring over her shoulder at the numbers. He reads them aloud.

  “Five hundred and forty-seven. Eighty-nine and some odd cents.” He sighs.

  When the door shuts behind us, he pauses but doesn’t glance our way.

  “You took longer than I thought,” he says, finally looking up.

  “Um, well…,” I stammer, but then I realize my grandfather is talking to Arlo.

  “Oil spill on Thirty-Five,” Arlo says, taking a clipboard from the lady.

  “Room Seventeen complained about the air conditioner this morning.”

  Maybe this isn’t my grandfather. Maybe this is the manager.

  “I’ll check on it,” says Arlo. He goes to leave but turns back and stares at the old guy, then says to me, “Stevie, it’s been a pleasure to meet you. I hope you’ll feel at home here.”

  Roy starts to follow his dad. “See you around the Sunrise. You should get Violet to tell you the story behind the Bloomin’ Office.”

  “I’ll save that for you, Roy.” Her voice is high-pitched and feathery.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Roy says, “I’ll look forward to it.” A bell chimes as the door opens and closes behind them.

  I feel awkward, like I don’t know where to put my feet.

  “I’m Violet,” the woman says, smiling. Her hair is pulled back severely with a wide headband. She’s kind of pretty with her creamy skin and brown eyes like a deer.

  “Good to meet you,” I tell her.

  The man holds the end of the adding-machine paper, stretching it up as high as his arms can reach.

  “Winston,” Violet says.

  He looks at her and she nudges her head toward me.

  This is my grandfather. My parents were right to never tell me about him.

  “You look like your father,” Winston says.

  “That’s what everyone says. Except for my eyes.”

  Winston flinches but looks back down at his paper.

  I have my mother’s blue eyes. Carmen once told me, “Your mom and dad don’t look alike at all, but you’re the spitting image of both of them mixed together.”

  Winston comes from around the desk and stands there, staring at me awkwardly. “I’ll give you a tour.”

  I’m feeling grumpy. I’m tired and hungry, but I say, “Okay!” so chipper and squeaky, as if he’s asked me to go to Disney World. Sometimes I hate myself for acting like everything is okay when it’s not. But I’m relieved to know what to do next, even if it’s only a short tour.

  A Hispanic lady walks into the office just as we’re about to leave.

  “This is Mercedes,” Violet says. “She’s the motel housekeeper. Hola, Mercedes!” Violet says loudly, like Mercedes is deaf.

  “Hello,” Mercedes mutters.

  “This is Stevie,” Violet tells her.

  Mercedes nods.

  “Hello,” I say back. I could have said hola and more, because I’d learned quite a lot of Spanish from my neighbors and friends. They liked that I tried. But I have a hunch that won’t fly with Mercedes.

  Mercedes is younger than Violet, but I can’t tell her age. She’s petite and curvy. If the boys back home could see her, they’d whistle even if she was wearing her burgundy polyester uniform.

  Mercedes tells Winston in a matter-of-fact tone, “You need Ajax and two sheet sets.”

  “Two sheets sets?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “A thief and the other you don’t want to know.” Her eyes peer sideways at Violet.

  “Tell me later,” Winston says.

  “I have a queasy stomach,” Violet explains to me.

  Winston uses a key to open a deep drawer. He pulls out an old cigar box, lifts the lid, and takes out two twenty-dollar bills for Mercedes. Then he motions for me to follow him out of the office. He walks fast and speaks without hesitation, like he’s done this tour before. “There are thirty rooms, all with two double beds. The bathrooms have a tub/shower combo. There’s a coffeemaker with one package of coffee. If they want more, each additional pack costs a buck.”

  Maybe he’s confused and thinks I’m applying for a job. Or maybe he’s old and forgetful.

  When he doesn’t say anything for a long moment, I ask, “Are there microwaves in the rooms?”

  I have no idea why I ask that.

  He startles. “Ah, no. I’ve considered it, but our customers would rip us off.”

  He nods to the swimming pool. It’s filled partway with murky green water. “The pool won’t open until M
emorial Day weekend.” There’s a sign posted on the back fence with rules. I half expect him to read them to me, but he keeps walking. I’m not a pool person anyway. Give me rivers and lakes. I learned to swim in Eagle Nest Lake and rafted on the Rio Grande.

  Then I look back at the pool. Is that where Mom learned to swim? A lump gathers in my throat. I swallow, but it won’t budge. I’m glad Winston isn’t asking me any questions.

  “Violet works the front desk when I’m off. She also keeps the books.” We walk back into the office.

  Violet has applied a fresh coat of red lipstick since my tour, and she greets us with a big smile. The color makes her look ghostly.

  “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” she says.

  Winston raises his eyebrows. “Are you?”

  “Well, maybe a little.”

  Winston leads me to another door. When he opens it, I realize I’m in his living quarters. The front room is filled with books—lots of books, stacked all over the table, shelves, and floor. There’s a little kitchen area next to the living room. Winston opens the pantry. Three shelves are stocked full with Campbell’s soup cans—Cream of Mushroom, Chicken Noodle, Chicken with Rice, and on and on. Once, I saw a bunch of paintings of Campbell’s soup cans at the museum. That artist would have loved Winston’s pantry.

  “Take your pick,” he says.

  My mother hated processed food. She especially hated Campbell’s soup and used to joke about the recipes people made with them. The labels seem to shout out at me. I’m suddenly hungry for Mom’s black bean soup. She’d cook it all day with onion and cumin.

  “Bean with Bacon,” I tell Winston.

  He grabs a can and says, “I’ll heat it for you while you clean up. You’ll be staying in the room to the right.”

  Chapter Four

  THE APARTMENT IS TINY, smaller than the Rockasita—a couple of bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a living area crowded with books, mostly Westerns. The only Western Dad liked was Lonesome Dove. He usually read short stories.

  Winston says I can have one of the two bathrooms for myself. The Rockasita had only one bathroom. Once when Dad went to Denver for a few days to an heirloom-seed show, Mom and I took turns taking long bubble baths and blaring Billy Joel on the record player. Dad didn’t appreciate Joel’s talent. That was Mom’s nice way of putting it.

  I stare at the bedroom, and at my two suitcases. This will be my room. Then I realize if Mom grew up here, this must have been her room too. A chill rushes through my body. I open the dresser drawers. I get on all fours and check under the bed, hoping to see a shred of proof that my mother was here. There’re only a few wire hangers in the closet. Nothing else.

  “Soup’s ready,” Winston calls out.

  He goes back to work, and I sit at the table, alone with three empty chairs. A mantel clock on top of the bookcase ticks. I lift the spoon to my mouth, but it’s hard to swallow. Between bites, I survey the apartment, on the lookout for pictures. But there are none. Every trace of my mother has been swept away from this room, this apartment, his life.

  I wish I were at the farm. If there was any other place to go, I would flee to it this very minute.

  But there is no place.

  I finish my soup, wash the bowl and spoon, then head to my new room. Outside the window, the sunset has become a pink sombrero on the rooftop. The motel and vacancy signs reflect on the swimming pool. A breeze travels through my room and flaps the window shade. I try to imagine Mom standing in this very spot. A gust of wind comes without any warning and causes the window to fall and shut on its own. When I discover my own face in the glass, I cup my hands around my eyes. Her eyes. For a long moment, I stand there. Pink sky melts to pale yellow. I slip my finger through the shade’s pull and begin to ease it downward. But I stop halfway. She touched this.

  I fall back onto the bed, hold the pillow over my face, and scream.

  Chapter Five

  WHEN THE SCHOOL BUS DOOR squeaks open, I wake, gasping. For a moment, I think I’m back in Taos and have overslept. That never happens. Almost never. Once, I did oversleep. Jorge, the bus driver, had honked and honked the horn. Mom had rushed into my room from the garden.

  “Stevie,” she’d yelled, “Hop to it!”

  Jorge waited.

  I got dressed in two minutes flat, beating the world record. By the time I stepped onto the bus, everyone applauded. “Good going, Stevie!” Carmen had hollered from the backseat.

  I look out the window and see Roy dashing for the bus. His blond hair looks messy, like he just rolled out of bed himself. He and his dad must live here too. I wonder if he has a girlfriend.

  Will Winston enroll me in school today? The thought of meeting a whole bunch of new kids makes my stomach flop, but school will keep my mind busy. Because all I think about now is what I left behind and what left me. Back home, I loved school. Everything but math. Carmen would call me teacher’s pet, but she was just teasing. I miss my language arts teacher, Mr. Connor, most. “Words are your tools,” he’d say. Some days, we’d walk to the plaza and collect them in our notebooks—adobe, artist, paint, silver, turquoise, sculpture. I glance around the room. Closet, bed, window, empty. I spot the Australia jar on the corner of the dresser. My mind drifts back to the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me, talking about our plans to go to Australia. Now it will be only me.

  The smell of coffee lingers in the kitchen, but the Mr. Coffee is empty and clean. Two newspapers are stacked neatly across from me, the Dallas Morning News and the Fort Worth Star-Telegram. Winston must have gotten up really early to have already read them and had his coffee. There’s a note on the table by the papers. Pop-Tarts in pantry. Milk in fridge.

  Even breakfast makes me miss home. Most mornings, we ate eggs from our chickens. Collecting eggs was another one of my chores, one I didn’t mind doing. I loved our chickens. We had thirteen, a baker’s dozen—Rhode Island Reds, Leghorns, and even a Silkie that looked like it was dressed in a white fur coat and hat. We named her after the singer Madonna, because she was such a diva. She pranced around, and if any other chicken got in her space, she went to squawking. Paco said I should sell the chickens for a little extra cash. He said he’d handle it for me. But I gave them to Angelina Cruz instead. She already owned some. I couldn’t bear thinking of selling to someone who wanted to raise chickens on a whim. We’d seen so many abandoned ones wandering along the roads. “There goes more coyote bait,” Dad used to say.

  I toast the Pop-Tarts and eat. There’s no dishwasher, so after I finish I fill the sink with hot water and squirt liquid soap under the faucet. I’m not used to a dishwasher anyway. While I rub the sponge against the plate, I search around the room for pictures of Mom or my grandmother. Not one photo. Everything is neat and sterile, as impersonal as a freshly cleaned motel room.

  A few minutes later, I slip into the office. Winston is standing behind the desk. He’s with a customer. The man wears a tie with a wrinkled white shirt. I don’t remember Winston showing me any irons in the motel rooms.

  “How was your stay?” Winston asks, but he doesn’t really sound interested in knowing.

  “Fine, except—” The man pauses.

  He’s going to ask about the iron.

  “I couldn’t get the cable to work.”

  “There isn’t any,” says Winston. His tone is matter-of-fact.

  “You’re kidding? No cable?”

  “That’s what makes us unique.”

  The man folds his receipt and tucks it into his pocket. “Cheap,” he mutters before opening the door.

  “Yes, we are,” Winston says.

  When the man leaves, I step forward. I want to know about school.

  “Morning,” my grandfather says without turning to face me.

  “Where’s Violet?” I ask because I don’t feel like saying “good morning.”

  “She works afternoons.”

  “I saw Roy leave for school.”

  He stares down at his ledger.

  “Doesn’t he go to
the middle school?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  “I believe so.”

  “Shouldn’t I be in school?” My words come out firm, and I’m kind of proud of myself about that.

  He meets my gaze and frowns. “I’ll take care of your education needs tomorrow.”

  My blood boils. I walk outside, wondering if he has a list of obligations with my name at the top.

  STEVIE’S NEEDS

  1.  Roof over head

  2.  Soup

  3.  Education

  Outside, I settle on a wooden bench. My jaw hurts from me gritting my teeth. Before I arrived, I hardly ever got mad. Traffic zooms pass. Don’t stop here. I want to tell every car that. Get the heck as far away as you can from Little Esther, Texas.

  Another person comes out of a room and puts his luggage in the trunk of a car before heading to the office. A moment later, I see Arlo on a ladder, changing a lightbulb outside one of the rooms. He steps down and waves in my direction. I wave back.

  Mercedes drives up in an old gold car with a loud muffler. When she stops the engine, her car makes a put-put-put sound. “Good morning, Stevie.”

  “Hi, Mercedes.”

  She’s wearing a chunky beige cardigan over her burgundy uniform. New Mexico mornings are chilly in the spring. It’s not that cool outside here, but I guess for Texans it must feel like it is.

  “You should go to school. It will make you smart.” With that, she walks away, heading toward the laundry room.

  The passing cars on the highway hypnotize me.

  “Hello.”

  Startled, I swing around and discover a man and woman in wheelchairs. The man sits upright, his back as straight as a soldier’s. His lower legs are missing. The woman’s head tilts to the right as if her neck can’t handle the weight. Her dark, wispy hair brushes her shoulder.

  “Hi,” I say.

  The woman’s head bobs a little, and her mouth struggles to form the word “Hi-i.” I think she may have cerebral palsy, like Betty, one of Mom’s friends. Betty’s mother used to bring her by the stand every Thursday afternoon. She loved the flowers, and Mom said she’d smell every bouquet before settling on one.