Blooming at the Texas Sunrise Motel

by Kimberly Willis Holt

  Then Winston says, “Look, go see your aunt. Ask her questions about your dad. She may know the answers I can’t give you.”

  I want to say, But you haven’t answered all of them. I can tell he’s finished by the way he holds up his hand to flag down the waitress for the check.

  I thought his telling me more about what happened would answer everything. But it’s like he’s given me a jigsaw puzzle with pieces missing.

  He stands, as if he’s saying, This is finished.

  “When did my grandmother die?” I ask him.

  Winston sits back down. I think this is the one question he didn’t want to answer. “Was it when we were in New Mexico?”

  Winston stares out the window again and shakes his head. “The year before your dad showed up the first time.”

  He’s still shaking his head when the check arrives.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  ON THE DRIVE BACK to the motel, my head is full of what Winston said. I was two when I left Texas for New Mexico. Even though it’s only a couple of years, it feels like I’ve been robbed of something. Memories. Mom documented everything. It was important to her. Why not this?

  My mind drifts to Louisiana. I always knew Dad was from there, but I thought there wasn’t any family left. If only I’d known that being a good kid, trying never to ask my parents questions that I thought would hurt them, would end up hurting me.

  When we approach the motel, I see something dangling from the sign. A bicycle. Not my bicycle, but a fancy adult-size one with a chain threaded through the spokes.

  Winston slows the car and lets it creep up for a closer look. “What the…?”

  Whoever played this cruel prank trampled the garden to do it. The shrubs and perennials are uprooted and there are muddy footsteps in the soil where I planted seeds and where seedlings had started to sprout.

  This has been a lousy day, and it’s not over yet.

  Winston doesn’t get mad like I thought he would, like I wish he would. I want someone to scream. All the work, all the hope I had for the garden, gone for a silly prank.

  Violet is in the office stacking invoices. “Did you see?”

  Winston says, “Yep. Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet. Do you think we should?”

  Winston stares at her.

  “I’ll call the police.” Violet picks up the phone.

  I step forward. “Just a second, Violet.”

  She pauses.

  I stare out the window. A man is cleaning the swimming pool. I take a deep breath and say, “Your bike was stolen too. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have ridden it to…”

  I’m having trouble saying “Skate Land.” It makes me think of too much bad that happened.

  Violet doesn’t bat an eyelash. She dials the number and tells an officer about the bike hanging from the sign and the pink princessmobile being stolen. She’s on the phone quite a while, listening.

  “I see. Really? Well, that is strange. Thank you, Officer Halbert.” She hangs up.

  Winston and I are waiting for her to say something.

  “Well?” Winston asks.

  “This is a peculiar day. Seems bikes have been stolen all around Little Esther and they’re being found hanging from trees and signs.”

  “Did they demolish any other gardens?” I ask.

  “What?” Violet asks.

  My words come out shaky. “Somebody—I guess the person or persons who hung the bike—destroyed everything in the garden.”

  “Everything?” At least Violet seems to care.

  I try not to look out the window, but I look anyway.

  Violet scoots her chair away from the desk, stands, and puts her arm around me. “You know what you need?”

  When I don’t say anything, she says, “Debbie Reynolds and Gene Kelly.”

  “What?”

  “Singin’ in the Rain. Have you ever seen it?”

  “No.” She means well, but I’m a little annoyed that she thinks old movies are the answer to everything.

  The office door opens, and Roy enters. His face is flushed, like he’s been running. “You’ve got to see this!”

  “We have,” Winston says. “It’s being taking care of.”

  Roy studies me. Violet still has her arm around me.

  “What’s wrong?” Roy asks.

  I want to ask, Didn’t you notice the garden? But I know that it’s not the only thing killing me inside. I slip out of Violet’s hold and walk toward the apartment door. When I touch the knob, I turn. They’re all staring at me.

  I ask Winston, “Can I go see my aunt next week?”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  THIRTY-SEVEN BIKES were reported missing, and thirty-eight have been found. It’s been the talk of Little Esther.

  “I wonder where they got the extra one,” Roy says.

  “This is like a Nancy Drew mystery,” Violet says. “The title could be The Mystery of One Found Bicycle.”

  Officer Halbert told Violet that we might have to wait until the end of the week to get the bike. The city couldn’t quite figure out who was responsible for gathering the bikes and returning them to their owners. The police department said the fire department should have to do it, and the fire department said they had more important things to do than rescue kittens and pull bikes out of trees and off signs. We still didn’t know where the Pink Princess was.

  Arlo, Roy, and I decide to take a ride around town to see the hanging bicycles. Maybe we’ll find Violet’s. After a few miles, we spot our first, in a crepe myrtle in front of Julio’s, a Mexican and Italian restaurant about a mile off the square. It’s not the pink princessmobile, though.

  Mrs. Crump’s next-door neighbor has one dangling in the shade of a giant oak tree. A crowd is gathered around it, staring up, and some people take pictures. We park and get out of the truck to ask if anybody knows where other bikes are.

  “There’s one at the end of Third Avenue, in front of the yellow house,” a boy on a bike tells us.

  “Looks like you lucked out,” Arlo tells him.

  “Huh?”

  “No one took your bike.”

  The boy leans on his handlebars. “Nah, but I sure wish they had. That would have been awesome.”

  “Why would you think that?” Arlo asks.

  “You’d get it back. And your bike would have had an adventure.”

  One lady shows us a list she’s made from all the sightings. “I think it’s art,” she says. She drove all the way from North Dallas to see them.

  We thank the lady but decide it’s more fun discovering them on our own.

  Back in the truck, Arlo says, “Crazy lady. Art? Give me a break.”

  Roy laughs. “She’s from Dallas. What do you expect?”

  After seventeen bike discoveries, none being Violet’s, we decide to go back. It’s getting dark, anyway.

  Roy has been kind of quiet, but now he asks, “Are you going to live with your aunt?”

  “I don’t even know her.” And I don’t know why she wants to know me now. Hasn’t she had years to find out about me?

  I wake up to the sounds of kids laughing and splashing. It’s Memorial Day weekend. The pool is finally open.

  * * *

  AT BREAKFAST, Winston shoves the Dallas Morning News across to me. The headline reads LITTLE ESTHER BIKE MYSTERY, ART OR CRIME? There’s a picture on page two of a bike hanging from a tree. There are a lot of people gathered around it, but I can see Skate Land in the background. I look closely at the picture. There’s a banana seat and a little bell on the handlebars, next to a basket. It’s my bike. I mean Violet’s. It was there at Skate Land the whole time.

  “But we looked around Skate Land. All around it.”

  “Did you look up?” Winston asks.

  “We didn’t look up.”

  He chuckles.

  I’m feeling relieved. I shake my head and laugh a little. I keep thinking about what that boy said, how your bike could go on an adventure. I
’d rather be on the adventure myself. That’s how I’ve decided to look at the visit with my aunt. An adventure. Like it or not, something is bound to happen.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  WINSTON BUYS A TICKET for me to Alexandria, Louisiana. He says my aunt Teresa has a plant nursery in a small town called Forest Hill. I leave tomorrow, but first I need to do something important. I need to let Frida know how sorry I am that I thought she took my bike. Violet’s bike. Four university students admitted to the prank. Their entire fraternity was suspended for a semester, but they probably got a lot of slaps on the back from admirers. It gave people around here something to talk about for a few days. In my opinion, that’s more interesting than hearing everyone talk about when they think it might rain.

  When I ask Roy if he knows where Frida lives, he tells me she lives about five miles away on the other side of town in a little green house.

  He’s been acting funny ever since Skate Land. Maybe he wishes he hadn’t asked me. Maybe he wishes he hadn’t kissed me too.

  Then he says, “If you want, I’ll go with you.”

  I’m relieved and grateful.

  I think about saying yes, but instead I say, “This is something I need to do by myself.”

  The garden is in shambles, but I notice the blooms on the white rosebush, the only thing that might have a chance if someone waters it. That won’t be me. I’ll be in Louisiana, and even if I wasn’t, I don’t know if I have it in me to rebuild the garden. What use is it to make something beautiful if someone’s going to come along and destroy it?

  I cut a few of the roses and find some green tissue paper in the supply closet. Violet says it’s left over from Christmas decorations. I twist the tissue paper around the stems and secure it with some twine the way I saw Mom do a million times for customers.

  Then I put the bouquet in the bike’s basket, hop on the seat, and pedal to the little green house on the other side of town.

  Frida’s neighborhood is nothing like Mrs. Crump’s and Violet’s. The houses are small and the yards are closer together. But there are people mowing their lawns and kids running through a sprinkler system. A green house is at the end of a cul-de-sac. There’s no lawn. Instead, half a dozen raised beds with vegetables fill the front yard. A huge rosemary plant grows next to the front door. The garage door is open, and Mrs. James’s motorcycle is parked next to a long table with a bunch of stained glass on one end. The piles are organized by colors—purple blue, and red.

  I start toward the front door when I realize Mrs. James is at the back of the garage. I’d recognize that long braid and the leather pants anywhere.

  “Mrs. James?”

  She turns. She’s wearing gloves and safety glasses.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. James, I’m Stevie, Frida’s … classmate.”

  She pushes the glasses up so that they are resting atop her head. A pair of pliers is in her hand. “Oh, yeah. I’ve seen you. You’re the girl with the pink bike.” I wonder if she knows I accused Frida of stealing it.

  “Is Frida here?”

  “She’s in San Diego.”

  “Oh, well, I guess I’ll wait until she gets back.”

  “That might be a while. Frida called last night and said she’s staying there for good.” Mrs. James says this in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Oh.” I’m wishing I could think of something else to say. The overhead light reflects against a piece of emerald-green glass on the table.

  “She’ll be back,” Mrs. James says. “This isn’t the first time. She thinks her dad created the planet, but she’ll see what it’s like now that he has a new wife and kid.”

  I don’t say “oh” again. I just stay quiet.

  “Are the flowers for her?”

  I look down at the roses. They look kind of pitiful compared with Mrs. James’s garden. “Yes, they were, but you can have them.”

  She walks over and takes the roses from me. She gives them a long whiff. “Mmm, Autumn Delight. Love old-fashioned roses. Thanks, Stevie.”

  Now that she’s stepped away from the table, I can see the entire piece that she’s working on. Yellow roses with ivy loop around the edges. “That’s beautiful. Do you do a lot of stained glass?”

  She lightly strokes the piece with one finger. “It’s my job.”

  “You’re an artist, Mrs. James.”

  She shrugs. “I try. Frida’s an artist too. You should see the amazing job she did on my friend Hal’s porch. Holy moly, what she can do with a can of spray paint.”

  My face burns remembering the day I thought I caught Frida doing graffiti. I guess I read her all wrong. Except for the skipping. She’s as guilty as Carmen when it comes to that.

  Mrs. James interrupts my thoughts. “You be looking for Frida to come back. She won’t stay long in San Diego. Mark my word.”

  I turn to leave, then turn back again. “Mrs. James, did you know my mom?”

  “I knew her. She was Winston Himmel’s daughter, and for a while everyone knew Winston.”

  “Because of the motel?” I ask.

  She pulls off the goggles and says, “Because of the motel? Stevie, your grandfather was one of the best jazz musicians in Texas. It’s not my kind of music, but my parents loved his band. So did a lot of people.”

  “What instrument did he play?”

  “He played everything, but he was known for the piano. Your mom never told you about his band?”

  I barely shake my head.

  She presses her lips together, then says, “Well, he stopped playing after his wife died. At least, that’s what I heard. Your grandmother was a nice lady. I used to see her at the diner a lot. She always spoke to me. Not everyone in this town is friendly to people who ride motorcycles. They treat us like we’re in the Hell’s Angels.

  “Your mom was a little younger than me, but I remember sometimes seeing her walking around town, carrying you on her hip like a little monkey. She always looked sad. But I could tell she was crazy about you.”

  “Well, I guess I’d better be going. When you talk to Frida, tell her I said hello.” Then I ask, “Can I have her mailing address? There’s something I have to tell her.”

  “Of course.” Mrs. James jots down the address on a notepad from a drawer and hands it to me.

  When I turn to leave, Mrs. James says, “Stevie, don’t hold it against your mom for not telling you about your granddad. She must have had her reasons.”

  Yeah, I’m thinking. He was cold and he was tough on her.

  Then Mrs. James says, “Maybe she missed him but she didn’t know how to come back. Now Frida, she knows how to come back. And this door will always be open for her.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  SINCE I’M LEAVING TOMORROW, I make dinner tonight. I have time because it took only fifteen minutes for me to pack. I don’t even know how long I’ll be gone. Winston said for me to decide after I’ve been there a few days and he’ll buy a return ticket for me. He’ll send it to my aunt. I’m not sure what to think about that. Does he want me to stay all summer?

  I decide to make chicken-fried steak again since Winston liked it so much. Before I begin cooking, I go through Winston’s record stash, but I don’t see any covers that look like Winston or any that have his name anywhere. If Winston stopped playing after my grandmother died, maybe he got rid of his recordings.

  I take time on the potatoes, mashing them to a smooth, creamy pile. I make extra gravy because I noticed how Winston ate every drop last time. Since I’m through cooking before Winston comes in from the office, I wash the pots and pans.

  From the kitchen window, I see Horace and Ida sitting out by the pool. They are dark silhouettes against the setting sun. They’re watching a dad teach his little girl how to float on her back. Dad showed me how to do that at Eagle Nest Lake. I must have been about three or four. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to remember before then. When I was here, in this very apartment. I look around the room, searching for something familiar. This was
my first home and I don’t remember anything about it.

  Winston interrupts my thoughts. “Dinner smells wonderful.” He sounds cheerful. Maybe because he’s getting rid of me for a while.

  “Thank you.”

  When we sit at the table he says, “You shouldn’t have gone to this trouble.”

  I shrug. “We have to eat.”

  “There’s always soup.” He’s smiling.

  I don’t know why, but right here at the table, I break down.

  Winston looks helpless. He was just about to take his first bite and I’ve ruined it. I put my napkin to my face, but I’m not hiding anything.

  His chair scrapes against the floor and I figure he’s going to leave me alone, let me get myself under control. But then I feel a hand on my right shoulder. Then my left. “I know.” There’s that crack in his voice again. The one I heard when he talked about Mom leaving.

  I drop the napkin and ask, “Why didn’t you ever visit us?”

  Winston lets go of my shoulders. “We said things … things that couldn’t be taken back.”

  I push my chair away from the table and stand. “Then you were all stupid.”

  Winston nods. “You’re right. The three biggest fools that ever lived.”

  For a long moment, we’re silent, staring at our untouched meals. Then I clear my throat and say, “Mrs. James said you played the piano in a band.”

  His head jerks a little. “She did, huh? I’m surprised she would know that. I doubt we played her kind of music.”

  “She knows more about you than I do. Everyone does.”

  Winston gazes out the window. Then suddenly he stands and says, “Come on.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s go for a ride.”

  “Our supper…”

  “Just cover it with Saran Wrap.” He looks down at my bare feet. “Then put on your shoes and meet me in the van.”

  A few minutes later, I’m walking outside wearing my flip-flops. Winston has hung the BE BACK SOON sign on the door.

  I buckle up and ask, “Where are we going?”

  “Be patient,” he says, but I can tell he’s not mad.