The Hotel

by Melanie Jones Brownrigg

  Lucas was still pacing the waiting room which concerned me even more. “Have you heard anything?” I asked.

  “Yes, the first test came back fine, but they’re running a second test, just to make sure.”

  I breathed out a sigh of relief. “Good, everything’s going to be fine.”

  “Yeah, I hope so.”

  I wanted to congratulate him on expecting another child, but the timing was off, at least until we received the final news. Instead, I took a seat in one of the few available spots and he came and sat beside me. Troy crawled up in his lap.

  He looked at me and frowned. “Hey, Kay said you didn’t know about Greg quitting racquetball. I’ll just tell you what he told me ... he said he was working.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he told me too ... after I confronted him.”

  His lips flattened together. “Emily, Greg’s never mentioned another woman. He only talks highly about you and Ava. I can’t imagine him having an affair.” He paused when he saw my doubtful eyes. “He and I have always been close. I think he’d tell me.” He waited a beat and then added, “If he had told me, I’d be up-front with you. I’d expect if you knew Kay was cheating on me, you’d have the same courtesy and, likewise, if you found out I was cheating on Kay, I know you’d tell her. I’m telling you what he told me. He said he was working.”

  I nodded, unable to form words. My husband openly admitted to me that he was spending three nights in a hotel with a woman — in the same room. It sounded to me like he was having an affair.

  “Mr. Baker,” a doctor in a solid blue medical uniform called out over the crowd.

  “Here, right here. I’m Lucas Baker ... Kay’s husband.” Lucas bounded to his feet and approached the doctor.

  Dr. Zucker adjusted his face mask down to his neck. “She’s going to be perfectly fine. There’s been no damage found to her or the fetus. They’re both going to be perfectly okay.”

  A loud, relieved breath pushed out of Lucas’s lungs. “Thank God.”

  We waited for Kay to come out. When she did, her face was beaming. Troy ran and clung to her legs. “I got this for you Mommy.” While he shoved the teddy bear at her, Lucas rushed to shower her with hugs and kisses. Though I was glad everything was okay with Kay and the baby, their joyous celebration wasn’t contagious. As I watched their happy reunion, I pictured my husband with Taylor Anderson, and I wanted to leave.

  ◆◆◆

  It was dusky when we left the hospital. As we walked out together, I congratulated them on the baby and told them I was happy everything turned out okay. Then, after a series of goodbye hugs, we parted ways.

  After leaving the hospital, I was in a different area of town from what I normally drove and somehow managed to take a wrong turn along the way. By the time I realized it, I had missed the entrance ramp to the interstate and ended up on Helton Blvd. It was a pain in the butt because at every intersection I had to wait at a red light. And the next entrance ramp was a distance away. While I was stopped for the light to turn green, a car, exactly like Greg’s, turned left in front of me. My eyes followed the tan Toyota Camry as it passed right before me. Under the dim streetlights, I made out the figure of a male driver and, although I wasn’t certain of any passenger, I intended to find out. Looking at the rear of the vehicle, I saw a bumper sticker positioned in the same spot as Greg had one. How in the world did this make sense?

  Because I was in the far-right lane, I had to wait for the light to change. When it did, with a burst of speed, I cut off the cars next to me and moved left, changing over three lanes to get into the turning lane at the next signal light. In my rearview mirror, I tried desperately to keep an eye on the car. It seemed to take forever before the signal permitted a left turn. Doing a U-turn, I headed back in the direction of the car, now a mere speck in the distance.

  “Get out of my way,” I mumbled, passing several law-abiding drivers. Punching the gas, I tried to catch up with the car. Then a large delivery truck pulled in front of me, and I lost sight of my target. Finally passing it, I strained my vision to find the right car, my eyes darting from one vehicle to the next. The traffic thinned as I worked my way down the boulevard to a sleazier part of town.

  Deciding I needed to give up and get myself to safer ground, I suddenly caught a glimpse of taillights going off into a seedy motel parking lot. As I passed by, I saw that it was the same car. Unfortunately, I hadn’t noticed it in time to make the same turn and, being across the road from the motel, I had to travel down to the next turn lane rather than risk jumping the median curb which might have caused damage to my car. By the time I was able to turn around, retrace the drive and wheel into the parking lot, the car was already vacated. After a close inspection of the vehicle and seeing the “No Bad Days” bumper sticker, I was positive that it was Greg’s car.

  A pretend seminar? Did this mean he was with Taylor Anderson, or Lisa Jacobs, or someone else entirely?

  Pulling down to the end of the parking lot, I watched for him to come out of the registration office. After fifteen minutes I realized he must have already checked in and he and his lover had merely entered the motel room. Unfortunately, this meant I wasn’t sure which room he and his tramp occupied. While I waited in my Honda, staring at Greg’s Camry, I felt my heart beating faster than I would’ve liked ... like I was on the verge of a heart attack.

  As I gazed around at the place, it blew my mind that Greg would’ve brought his hussy here for a romp. Weeds sprouted from wide cracks in the cement parking lot. The hum of an outside ice machine buzzed away. The front-and-center pool was no longer filled with water, having long ago been abandoned. The chain-link protective barrier skirting the pool had fallen to the ground at one end. The motel was in an area of town that was completely unsafe, even in the safety of my own car. It was surprising this dump was even still in business. Who in their right mind would think of staying here? Well, apparently my husband and his floozy. It was funny when I thought about what Greg said to me: “Emily, it was the only room available unless you get into the seedier hotels. Even this place isn’t my choice of stay. But considering the options, it’s the only safe and practical thing to do.” I couldn’t have found a seedier place if I would’ve tried.

  With only a half-dozen cars in the parking lot, it seemed reasonable to deduce which room Greg was in. First off, I assumed Greg parked close to his room, rather than any of the multitude of other vacant spaces. Unfortunately, there was a car slotted two spaces to the right from Greg’s, and another one four spaces to the left. This led me to believe that Greg could be in any of the upper or lower units, either shy of the car parked down from him, or a short distance away from the one on the other side.

  While I assumed Greg and his lover checked in together, one of the other cars, probably the closer one, could be his lover’s car and they may have been out to dinner together and simply returned. After all, it appeared the room had already been secured. Dusk was settling in and with only one dim parking lot light and most of the lettering in the neon lights of the “HOTEL VACANCY” sign having been burned out such that it read, “HOT ANCY,” I could barely distinguish the make of the vehicles to each side of Greg’s. After letting my eyes adjust, I noted the one closest and to the right, was a newer white Nissan Altima. A few cars down, and further from Greg’s, I made out a blue Ford Focus. Neither vehicle belonged to anyone I knew, which meant nothing in the bigger scheme of things, because I had no idea what Taylor Anderson or Lisa Jacobs drove.

  Twenty minutes later, I hadn’t moved from my position at the rear of the parking lot. During each excruciating minute I had tried to come up with a plan. I wanted to confront Greg, throw it in his face that he was a bastard and I hoped he dropped off the face of the earth. I wanted to scream at him as to how he no doubt will have broken Ava’s tender heart. I wanted to scratch his wench’s eyeballs out and kick Greg in the nuts. I wanted to tear him from limb to limb and slap the face off that Jezebel. The longer I sat in my car, the more deviant
my thoughts became ... even ratcheting myself up to the point I contemplated the tire tool in the cargo area and was eyeing the gun in my console. All seemed like marvelous ideas, but for one thing ... which room was my traitorous husband and that conniving harlot in?

  The run-down motor inn, even though it was billed as a hotel, was nothing more than an old-style motel, a two-story building painted a mixture of dirty white, peach and plum. Faded pink-colored doors led directly into each room, rather than entering the check-in area and finding your room from the interior. There were no elevators. The only way to reach the upper level was by a staircase at each end of the complex. And there was not one thing about this place that didn’t need remodeling. It surprised me that health and safety code restrictions hadn’t shut the place down.

  Considering the clientele staying at a place of this caliber, I didn’t fancy myself going from door to door and banging on each one until I finally found my husband. Besides, in doing so, I’d probably make such a racket he wouldn’t have dared to answer the door to my pounding fists. Decidedly, my plan needed a little more development.

  Taking a hard look at my surroundings, in addition to Greg’s car, there were six others in the parking lot. Once again, by process of elimination, I assumed each car was parked within proximity to the door of their room. And by a count of lights, I noted four rooms lit up near Greg’s vehicle and one of them was directly in front of Greg’s car. While I felt fairly confident this was his room, I kept my butt in place hoping for a more definitive calculation. Within five more minutes, the light went out and I jumped to the conclusion they were now in the throes of passion.

  Even so, I waited, thinking it might be any of six or seven rooms, depending on whether his wench rode with him or drove separately. After a while, a burly looking guy emitted from a room on the upper left end and smoked a cigarette. Since I didn’t think Greg had changed playing fields, I removed his room as a possibility. Only a few minutes later a man and woman came out and got in a car and drove off. Less than five minutes more, a young guy came out and headed for the vending machine at the end of the hotel next to the registration office. As I ticked off the possibilities, a chunky middle-aged woman emitted with a bucket, stuck her head in the ice machine and then returned to her room. I waited another thirty minutes, but no other activities were forthcoming. However, by now, I was even more assured of which room Greg was in.

  Starting my engine and circling through the parking lot, I passed by the trunk of his car and noted the room was number seven. Lucky seven. The Lady Luck. Vegas. It almost fit together.

  I came to a stop under the “HOT ANCY” and tried to come up with a strategic game plan. Did I bang on the door and simply confront him? Would it better to wait for him to come out, catch him by surprise, and then accost him with my vicious words? I might just ring him on the phone and warn him he had a flat tire. Now there was an idea. Slashing his tires came to mind. But then I’d probably have to pay him back in our divorce settlement. Skip that thought.

  Pondering over my options, I began to wonder why Greg would choose this locale. It was such a degrading place to bring a lover. I thought better of Greg. And what did it say about the girl? Skank was probably more accurate than I thought. Would Taylor Anderson or Lisa Jacobs stoop to coming here? The more I thought about it, the more I wondered if Greg was inside with a hooker, rather than a girlfriend. This place didn’t make sense at all. With a three-day pass, surely, he could have found a better spot. Well, I guess it made perfect sense if you wanted to be absolutely, positively certain that no one you knew would ever in their right mind happen upon you ... and then, of all people in the whole world, his wife did.

  ◆◆◆

  After spending a long time with my thoughts, I decided I wanted absolute proof that Greg was having an affair. Right now, if I banged on the door or waited for him to come outside, he’d have time to put his clothes on. And time to come up with a lie. I imagined him telling me he was with a witness in some sort of protection plan, or maybe he was with an impoverished victim of family abuse and this was the most she could afford right now. He might say he had a case involving a prostitute and he was here interviewing another hooker for an upcoming trial. Of course, any of these reasons could be foreseeable in his line of work. However, under the circumstances, none of them sounded logical. And there needed to be no room for wiggling.

  When I was a child, my parents often stayed in places like this, back when it was the acceptable norm. I remembered the walls being paper-thin, such that you could hear every little noise in the rooms to either side of you. So, after careful consideration, I decided to procure a room right next to his.

  Cranking the engine, I idled down to the front of the hotel office and parked. Taking in a courageous breath, I grabbed my purse and went inside the glass door covered in fingerprints. Inside, everything was old-school. Instead of a computer behind the orange Formica counter, there was an old-timey cash register. A Rolodex was next to a rotary phone. On the back counter a heavy, tube-styled TV was playing a rerun of The Beverly Hillbillies.

  No one was at the counter, so I cleared my throat several times and called out a friendly hello. Several minutes later, I dinged the hell out of the desk bell, my impatience thinning by the second.

  Finally, an overweight pimply guy in his mid-twenties appeared and asked, “Can I help you?”

  I looked for a name tag, but failing to find one, I stared instead at his SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt that had ridden up to expose a very hair belly. “Yes, I’d like a room. Either number 6 or number 8, whichever one is available.” When he looked funny at me, I added, “I’m superstitious and those are my lucky numbers. It must be one of those rooms or the gods will become angry.”

  “Oh,” he drawled out. “Well, okay. How many hours?”

  It took a moment before I realized just why this place was still in business. “I have a lot of work ahead of me,” I said with a straight face. “Make it the whole night.”

  He arched his bushy black eyebrows at me, and I stifled a gag. “That’ll be thirty-five dollars. You’re saving a lot by going the whole night. Then again, our hourly customers don’t normally show up until later.”

  I fished for my wallet and handed him cash. “Here.”

  He counted it out. “Do you need a receipt? Most people don’t want one.”

  “No, I don’t believe I do either.” That’s all I needed, a record of me staying here.

  “You need to sign the register book though. You don’t have to put your real name. It’s just for a tax thing.”

  “Okay,” I agreed. He turned a hardback book around to face me and handed me a blue ink pen. I quickly scanned the names listed for today’s date.

  The Hulk. I wondered if that was the burly guy smoking a cigarette.

  Boy Wonder. Possibly the young man?

  Lewis and Mary Whitaker — Most likely the man and woman who got in a car and drove off.

  Big Bunny — maybe that was the chunky middle-aged woman who came out for ice?

  There were four other names listed: Sonny Boner, Studly Whiplash, Joystick and Roland N. Doe.

  I wondered which name Greg signed himself in under. None of those aliases seemed to fit his personality. Then again, what did I know about my husband these days?

  I had planned to sign in as Jane Doe but, not wanting to be associated with the Roland N. Doe, I simply signed in as Lost Hope.

  “Here you go,” SpongeBob said, handing me a key attached to an old-styled plastic fob with the number “6” on it.

  Perfect. 6 reminded me of 666. While I’d be in hell, my husband would be in lucky 7.

  “Thank you,” I said and left.

  Getting back in my car, I moved it down to the far end of the parking lot and on the other side of an eighteen-wheeler, possibly operated by Joystick. But then again, Joystick could’ve been the young male who might like to play video games. At any rate, it hid my car in case Greg came out.

  Without goin
g into detail, I texted my mother and told her Kay and the baby were both fine, but I wouldn’t be picking up Ava tonight. Then, eyeballing the place, I decided to stash my gun in my purse in case I needed protection. Hopefully, I wouldn’t use it on Greg. I hoped. Locking my car, I walked briskly across the dimly lit parking lot. The burly guy from the second level came back out for another smoke and I felt his eyes tracking me as I made my way from my car to the room. With each step, I carefully avoided the wide cracks in the cement parking lot, reminding myself of that rhyme from grade school about stepping on a crack, and breaking your mother’s back. No need to tempt fate. My mother had enough problems without having a broken back.

  The burly guy called down, “Hey, you want to come up and join me? I’ll make sure you have a good time.”

  Stupidly, I gazed up at him. Then I felt a need to respond. “No, I have other customers lined up down here. Maybe next time.” In my distraction, I stepped on a crack.

  Jesus Christ.

  My path led me to pass by room number 7, before getting to room 6. The heavy-duty curtains were pulled shut, making it where they wouldn’t see me. For a moment, I listened outside the door but, with the rumbling noise from the window a/c unit, I couldn’t hear anything but the fan motor. Believing my cheating husband was on the other side, I reconsidered banging like hell on their door and drawing Greg outside for a much-deserved confrontation.

  Then I rationalized (if rationalization could possibly find its way into my mind), that I could enter my room, listen through the wall, and then, at any time, I could go over and confront him. At this point, there was no need to rush my approach.

  Double-checking that I was standing before number 6, I reached in my front jean pocket and brought out the key. With an uncertain hand clasped around the plastic fob with the hotel’s name on it, The Bliss Hotel, the key was inserted into the keyhole and I twisted open the lock.