Ghost Town

by Cherie Claire

  More empty air.

  “Hello?”

  “Can we meet in person?” Sirona finally answers. “I’m not comfortable with this modern technology.”

  Now it’s my turn to sigh. What’s up with people wanting a piece of me today, on their terms? I must make money, to not worry about others and their ethereal pests, and I need to get laid.

  “I’m on the road. And honestly, unless you’re paying, I can’t do this right now.”

  Obviously, I can’t see her nod but I sense it. “I understand.”

  The anger once lifting me to enjoyable heights starts blowing out my pores and I deflate. And yet something urges me to stay the course. “Sirona, I’m broke. I have to get paid.”

  “It’s always about money, isn’t it?”

  My old friend returns. Fast. Like a fuse starting at the base of my spine and racing up to the top of my head.

  “Yeah, it is about money, especially for those of us who make millions because creative people are so valued in this society.” Anger also brings out my other companion, sarcasm. “Or maybe it’s because my family demands so much of me but won’t give me a dime to help me get through the month.”

  I shouldn’t be getting personal. This woman doesn’t care about my finances, but I’m so angry.

  “I’m sorry,” Sirona whispers. “I didn’t mean you.”

  I inhale and let it out so hard I practically see stars. “What did you mean?”

  “Just that. Call me if you want to talk further. I’ll see if I can round up some funds.”

  Now I feel guilty. I’m not an ugly person, I’m really not. “I’m sorry, Sirona. Been a tough month.”

  “Yeah.” The word emerges quiet and laced with pain and the goosebumps return. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  In a beat, the mysterious woman disappears.

  I throw the phone on the seat and scream to the heavens, try to justify why this is not my fault. Who are these people to make demands on me? I yell. Why must I take care of them when I could die at any moment if I have to slam on the brakes? And yet, I feel guilty. Which makes me angry all over again.

  By the time I reach Hattiesburg the euphoria I felt this morning has evaporated and I’m in a foul mood. My angel wings have disappeared and I could be nicer to the woman checking me in at the front desk. I have trouble pulling my credit card out of the wallet sleeve — for “incidentals” that I won’t be using — and I growl when the sleeve’s plastic cuts the skin on my finger.

  “Do you have to have this?” I say sucking on my finger to stem the blood. “My company paid online and I’m not going to buy a movie or raid the bar while I’m here.”

  “It’s policy,” she says, then gently takes my wallet and removes the card, hands the wallet back. I’m almost positive that move was against policy, but I’m thankful for the gesture. Southern people are like that, and Mississippi is about as Southern as you can get. We enter other people’s bubbles all the time with hugs, slaps on the back, and other touchy-feely stuff. Folks up north — and corporate — would probably be horrified but I take note of her name and vow to include a positive assessment of Nettie B. McCarthy.

  Until she begins her spiel, listing every aspect of the Hattiesburg Courtyard Hotel, down to the great biscuits for breakfast and how to turn on the hot tub outside. Then, she asks if I’ve been to Hattiesburg and begins a long diatribe about the tourist attractions when I admit I’ve not graced the city limits. She hands me two brochures and a map and, just before I get aggravated, a customer waltzes in and I make my escape.

  In the elevator, however, I look down at the tourist information and realize there’s a gorgeous old theater, the Lauren Rogers Museum of Art, a historical museum and attractions at the University of Southern Mississippi. This could be good. I might be able to nab a travel story out of this trip.

  My room offers a nice view of woods this time and appears to be in good shape. The A/C blows frigid air, which delights the sweat that accumulated on me from the short walk from the parking lot — yes, it’s that hot and humid. I do my requisite tour, then plop on the bed, wondering where Eric might be. I never got his digits so I have no way of reaching him.

  I check out the brochures again, consider a few places to hit in town, then a nice dinner with the money TB gave me, when I spot a waterpark among the attractions.

  “Hell, yeah!”

  My travel writer brain kicks in, admonishing me for not exploring downtown or choosing a museum, but I refuse to listen. Throwing my body down a water shoot is just what I need in the mood I’m in.

  I pull on my bathing suit, — I refuse to look in the mirror — grab a towel and slip on flip flops and sunglasses, and plant barrettes in my curly hair that’s turn wild with the humidity. As I open the door who should be standing in the hallway but the asshole of Biloxi.

  “Pool time?”

  I push the sunglasses down to get a better look at him. “How did you know I was here?”

  He leans against the doorframe like a movie star and his Polo shirt stretches across his chest. I could easily bypass the water park.

  “I have inside knowledge, remember?”

  “Jacob called you.”

  He smiles and that dimple appears. “Yeah, Jacob called. Wow, you’re good.”

  I lean back on the opposite doorframe and grin smugly. “Yes, I am.”

  Again, I surprise myself, and both the revelation and the action feels good. Maybe I should be the asshole for a while.

  “There’s a waterpark in town. Wanna go?”

  He straightens and frowns. “Water park? Not my scene. I was actually heading to the bar. If you want to join me and include a trip to the pool…it is part of your review, you know?”

  There’s a twinkle in that eye, which I interpret to mean “Join me and I’ll offer lagniappe at the end of the day,” so I open the door wider and let Eric in. I pull on jeans and a T-shirt over my bathing suit and grab my purse. Before we make it back to the door, he delivers a long and delicious kiss. Images of waterparks and tours of downtown for travel stories disappear.

  We head to the pool, which unfortunately is loaded down with screaming kids and ignoring parents, so we choose the bar instead, load up on a couple of rum drinks, and nab a quieter corner on the patio by the hot tub. I take off the shirt and jeans and lounge in the sticky summer heat, enjoying the sun for a change, even if it’s causing me to break out in droplets on every inch of my body. I don’t care about being seen in a bathing suit, either. This letting-the-anger-flow thing has given me confidence.

  “Funny how we happened to meet up again,” Eric says, sipping his rum drink behind those dark sunglasses so I can’t gauge his emotions.

  “Did you arrange this?”

  He shrugs. “Let’s just say Jacob needed an angel — although not anytime soon — and I knew of one driving back to New Orleans who could easily detour this way.”

  I think to correct him that I live in Lafayette now but why bother? To the world Louisiana is New Orleans. I smile instead, one of those coquettish grins that says both thank you and let me show my appreciation later.

  Eric leans over to show his gratitude now, and I’m tingling with anticipation of that kiss when three of the noisiest kids discover our oasis and plunge into the spa, squealing about the temperature.

  “Yeah, it’s hot,” Eric admonishes them. “Now, get the hell outta here.”

  The youngest splits but the other two, both wearing cutoff jeans and T-shirts announcing some school fundraiser, send us defiant looks and start splashing. The water flies but misses us by an inch but my jeans and shirt lying at the end of my lounge chair are soaked. The kid with the funky haircut sends us a sly smile, proud of his actions, and I want to reach over and slap that grin away.

  Eric sits up, primed for action, but thankfully Nettie arrives and tells the hoodlums that the spa is for adults only. They begin to argue so Eric stands and gives them both what I’d call the “daddy look.”

  “D
id you hear what this lady said,” he tells the boys, raising his voice to add, “Get the hell outta here.”

  The boys take off and I can see them relaying the information to their parents, who send us the evil eye. Nettie notices the interchange and appears nervous, rubs her hands on the front of her skirt. I sense she’s embarrassed he came to her rescue, partly because he used foul language to customers.

  “Thank you,” she says shyly to Eric. “Usually the kids stay out of the hot tub.”

  “Doubtful. Sounds more like they run the place.”

  It’s difficult to find anyone to police a hotel pool so my vote is for Nettie as all-around counter woman of the year, but I know Eric’s doing his job. I remain quiet even though Nettie appears as if she’s been slapped. I think to come to her defense to soften the blows of Eric the Asshole. Until she opens her mouth.

  Nettie turns on the Southern charm, explaining in her adorable Mississippi accent how the work staff must take turns manning the pool and sometimes it falls to the desk staff, but she had a line of conventioneers coming through and just now saw the situation….

  Eric holds up a hand. “Obviously, it’s not working so maybe you need to….”

  Nettie launches into another explanation, this one dealing with staff hours and how summertime they get locals wanting staycations so they check into the hotel for the use of the pool and tend to space out and let the kids go wild.

  At this point, and in the mood that’s been my ugly friend all day, I’ve had enough of listening to this sorority girl from Ole Miss chat on about her job. I say, and in a not-so-Southern-polite voice, “Okay, okay, we get the picture. Can you stop talking and just keep these brats away from us. Please?”

  Nettie stops talking, thank you Jesus, and nods nervously and turns to leave, her head bowed all the way back to the counter and a few straggling conventioneers.

  “Thank you, sweetheart. I thought that diatribe would never end.”

  I send Eric a smile but my heart plummets somewhere near my belly button. I’m not the asshole. What has gotten into me today?

  Eric distracts me, however, leaning over and whispering in my ear, “Why don’t we forgo the pool and enjoy these drinks upstairs.”

  Yes, I think, wild sex with this man is what I need, pour my frustrations and agitation in something resulting in pleasure, something that’s been missing in my life for quite some time. I let him take my hand as he rises, forgetting that swim, my bitchy sister, and my clinging ex-husband back in Lafayette. Forget the creepy ghost town of central Louisiana where residents can’t make up their minds if they need me or not.

  As I pass Nettie at the counter, her countenance now one of an unsmiling busy person, she doesn’t look up. I long to apologize, explain the bad month I’ve been having, explain how I received this gift of speaking to the dead but my daughter’s not on the list, but I keep walking, following Eric up to Room 315 and another afternoon of carnal bliss.

  The phone wakes me from a deep, rum-infused sleep and I slap the side table trying to shut it up. The phone goes flying, hits the wall and turns silent, which jolts me more awake than the alarm. I stumble out of bed, getting tangled in the sheets and hit the floor, my cheek skidding across the carpet. I turn on my back and howl a few expletives while feeling the floor to my left until it hits the dang phone. Before I gaze at my link to the outside world, I close my eyes and beg God, “Oh please, not the cell phone.”

  In my hangover state, feet still tangled in sheets on the bed about a foot higher than my head, my cheek burning from the carpet contact, I swear God is laughing his tootsie off. Either that or uttering, “Serves you right.”

  I flip it open to find the time staring me in the face, no harm done. I close my eyes again and thank God this time. Looking through the phone’s history, I spot messages from TB, my aunt Mimi in Alabama, and Elijah, the last one making me wonder if Sirona had called him and pleaded my case. First things, first. I slide my butt closer to the bed and reach up to free my feet. I sit up, ready to face the day, when my head explodes and I want only to crawl back into those delicious sheets that only hotels can deliver.

  Why did I drink so much for the second night in a row? I went to LSU, studied drinking, so I know not to mix alcohol and imbibe as much as I did. Eric and I had taken our rum drinks to the room and disposed of clothes and common thinking. Once that performance was out of the way, we donned bathrobes we found in the closet and called room service for another round of rum. When the staff appeared at our door, there was a bottle of cabernet, a cheese plate and a note from Nettie apologizing for both the kids in the pool and her actions.

  Oh, and the two rum cocktails we ordered. All gratis.

  “Told you being a jerk pays off,” Eric said, reading the card. “Although this is one cheap ass bottle of wine.”

  We slurped the cocktails first and watched porn — which I absolutely despise but Eric thought it’d be funny, — then drank every last drop of that cheap ass bottle of cab during which we tangled our whole bodies in his sheets doing the nasty. And, of course, I stole away close to midnight because Eric likes to sleep alone.

  “So, do I,” I told him with a laugh, “hate to snuggle with drunk assholes,” but something about his dismissal pinched a nerve. That and the fact that he had a dozen condoms in his suitcase.

  I stand, knowing it’s time to shower, dress and finish my review, but my head forces me back on the bed. I cradle my cranium in my hands and wonder when I got so stupid. Yes, I wanted sex with this man and the unabashed drinking was fun, but I took this job to pay bills and I should have toured the town for travel writing fodder. Mais Yeah! magazine will be calling soon for a travel idea and I have none.

  I flip open the phone and realize I have two hours until checkout so I let out a groan that would have attracted a moose and head to the showers. Hangover or not, I have work to do.

  I clean up fast, am even faster when it comes to packing. My sister writes dissertations faster than packing, sweating over every last piece of clothing, but I can throw things together in a heartbeat. I grin doing it now, rolling my clothes built for travel, many flimsy shirts that go well over black, a pair of jeans and a pair of shorts, my bathing suit I nabbed at Dillard’s during their awesome sixty-five percent off sale and an extra pair of shoes. Add my ditty bag containing everything from emergency Band-Aids and a wine opener to those little shampoos and moisturizers I bring home from hotels. As I zip up my suitcase that still has room to spare, I mutter, “Take that, Portia.”

  I suddenly think of Carmine insisting I want my family’s approval, but I push that thought away. I grab my notebook and head to breakfast, this time ten minutes before deadline and they’re still serving those biscuits Nettie raved about. Since I’m an Angel, and need to remember that, I hang in the back of the restaurant inhaling my coffee and reading the local newspaper, while outside a summer thunderstorm shakes the building with its lightning and thunder display.

  Nettie pops in, all smiles and bubbles, asking another staff member for more coffee and thanking her profusely when said woman fills her cup. She glances my way and the smile disappears. I wave, hoping that she might saunter over and I can apologize. Instead, Nettie frowns, turns to the staff woman, points out a dirty table and walks away. The sweet smile of the woman who waited on her disappears as well.

  Stones in a pond, I think.

  On days like today Lillye loved the thunderstorms, couldn’t wait until the lightning died down so she could run outside and play in the puddles. I bought her these adorable plastic waders with Hello Kitty on the side. Of course, they were on sale, a size too large and a bit too big for her tiny feet. I felt guilty watching her play in those oversized waders that I skimped on which turned out to be her favorite shoes. But she didn’t care. That’s the beauty of children; they don’t see the imperfections of the world. She would don those big boots and head out to the waterlogged yard and jump so hard in those puddles she would be covered in mud, including dirty inside
those giant waders. And all the while she would laugh, arms outstretched to the world.

  I take a sip of coffee and it lodges in my throat. I swallow hard but that gulp of coffee goes down hard.

  “Watch, Mommy,” I remember Lillye instructing me as she planted both feet into a puddle, then jumped backwards. “See the wavy lines?”

  I explained how one stone in a pond would create waves that traveled all the way to the edges of the water and Lillye watched fascinated. She gave up destroying the puddles, instead throwing pebbles into the water to watch the waves float away.

  “It’s all connected,” she told me once, although I never knew what she meant. Staring into my coffee cup, watching how the thunder rocking the outside world creates waves in my caffeine, I know now.

  I throw down a twenty, not worrying about my receipt for reimbursement, and I head to the lobby. Nettie’s at the counter and she’s not happy to see me. I reach over and take her hand like a Southerner because that’s what we touchy-feely people do.

  “I’m really sorry. I was tired, in a bad mood and it was so hot. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  Nettie’s countenance shifts. Also, like a Southerner, she begins that female dance, saying things like “No worries” and “It’s all good,” but I insist I was being a brat and that I shouldn’t have said what I said and please accept my apology. Finally, she acquiesces and we’re now best friends. We both have moist eyes and if there wasn’t a counter between us we’d hug. If only the world leaders would emulate Southern women.

  Before she gets too comfortable and starts talking my ear off again, I ask to check out and excuse myself to visit the ladies room while she’s doing the paperwork. Actually, I’m touring the rest of the downstairs, indeed checking out the bathroom but also the business center, the laundry, the meeting room, and the state of the pool area now empty of screaming kids due to the rain.

  When I come back fifteen minutes later, Nettie doesn’t inquire. We’re women, and it’s not unusual for us to linger in restrooms. I grab my bill and thank Nettie once more. She comes around the counter and gives me a hug. Now, she’s apologizing. Southern women really are insufferable, but like I said, we should rule the world.