Lamar stranded in the parking lot, two hibiscus bushes at his feet.
They didn’t say much to each other during the drive; it was always this way, both of them content and secure enough in their relationship to avoid the aggravation of unnecessary small talk.
They pulled into the Clarksville Motel parking lot; it was an L shaped building and they parked at the side, at the bottom of the L, and made their way back to the office. Lamar opened the door, Laura stalled, not taking the initiative to walk through and stuck a solitary finger out signaling Lamar in ahead of her. A tired old spaniel got up and moseyed out the door in the instance it was opened, as if he had been waiting for his moment to escape. There was a desk in front of them, a door to another room behind it. They were alone. Lamar reached out and dropped a finger on the bell, the lone object on the desk. The raspy voiced lady appeared in unison with the injured sound of the bell, a coincidence which fraudulently hinted at efficiency.
“Good evening,” she said, glancing up over the bifocals resting on her nose.
“Hello, I’m Lamar Gordon.”
“Yes, we spoke this morning Mr. Gordon,” she said, her chin still down, her eyes wide and avoiding the glass ovals perched on her pudgy fat nose.
“Here’s my credit card,” Lamar said reaching out with his little plastic life line.
The woman took the card and examined it. “Are you sure you want to pay by credit card?” she said, glancing at Laura, “you usually pay cash don’t you?”
“Yeah, but you take credit cards don’t you. I mean you have the little sticker things on the door.”
“Oh, yes Mr. Gordon,” she said smiling broadly now, the glasses off and in her hand. “We take credit cards but are you sure that you want to use a credit card?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Well, they do send these little statements to the house. Some of our customers want to avoid that if you know what I mean,” she said, her tone condescending.
The obvious slowly dawned on Lamar and Laura. “We’re married,” Laura said, more than a hint of annoyance in her voice. Lamar nodded, and put his hands in his pockets.
“Ah right, sorry,” the raspy voiced woman said, her voice void of belief. “Angel,” she called into the other room. A thin blonde girl, cigarette hanging out of her mouth, a tattoo of a rose adorning the left side of her neck ambled out. The hair wasn’t blonde at the roots and her heavy eye makeup might have been exaggerated on purpose—it was hard to tell.
Lamar gave the girl a thin lipped smile.
“Angel, can you put the credit card charge through. Now this is Mr. and Mrs. Gordon; their married apparently, and they’d like to stay with us for . . . five hours is that right Mr. Gordon,” she said and looked at Lamar.
Lamar thought about putting this woman in her place. She was grating on his nerves with her phlegm and her trashy little Angel and her amusement at their awkwardness. What ever happened to discretion? Weren’t these places supposed to be good at this type of thing? Wasn’t it their bread and butter? People didn’t actually come to these places and spend the entire night did they? He looked at Laura who he knew was angry, but was also, like him, past caring, and then slowly nodded in Angel’s direction.
Angel proved to be very efficient with the credit card and they were done in a moment. Her thin pale hand reached out with a key; he took it, avoiding any contact, and they were off. As they left through the door, one last raspy grenade was thrown their way. “Good luck honey,” the older woman said to Laura. Laura didn’t turn back.
Lamar closed the motel room door behind them. Checking in had been as awkward as it always was. But neither of them cared now. Lamar turned toward his wife.
“Finally,” he said and moved towards her. They kissed in the centre of the room. “You get changed in the washroom. Let me take my things out of the bag,” he said. Lamar reached into the bag and took his things out. Laura disappeared into the washroom.
She emerged, several minutes later, warm flannel pajamas covering her from head to toe, her hair up, makeup removed. Lamar was in a t-shirt and underwear, a sleeping mask on his forehead not yet covering his eyes. He turned out the lights and they climbed into bed. He dropped his mask over his eyes and spooned his wife, nuzzling his face into her neck and wrapping his arms around her. Laura placed her hands on Lamar’s and they settled in . . . for five hours of beautiful, uninterrupted sleep.
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Timothy Quinlan
About Timothy Quinlan
Timothy Quinlan is a Canadian author who lives in Oakville, Ontario with his wife and two sons. Rumours & Lies is a collection of short stories inspired by a lifetime of parenting, loving, working, and finding the humour and irony in most things he experiences. He is currently working on a second book of short stories that will be available by the end of 2014.
Rumours & Lies Page 27