“My name is Dennis Braintree, and I would like a room for the night.”
The woman pressed her lips together. Strangely, she took no action. She didn’t consult any records or look at the computer screen in front of her. Instead, she seemed to perform some sort of mental computation. When she finally spoke, her voice had a dying fall. “I don’t have any rooms.”
“What?”
“I have nothing,” she said simply.
“Nothing? I’m in the middle of nowhere.” Denny waved his arms as if to demonstrate this fact. “Is this a ski lodge or something?”
“The legislature is in session.”
Denny frowned. Was this an entirely new topic? “And?”
“The hotel is chock-a-block with legislators. Through Wednesday. You should come back Thursday.”
Denny laughed. “My goal is not to spend some night in this hotel. It’s to spend this night in any hotel.”
“You’ll find everything else booked up, too.”
A silence fell. Complete silence. Denny looked suspiciously up the dark wooden staircase. “There’s no evidence of activity.”
“The legislators are all across the street. Or in our meeting rooms.” Her eyes fluttered behind her glasses, and she seemed to size him up. “Of course . . .” The woman frowned in thought.
“And?” Denny said, even though it didn’t quite fit.
“Someone brought a suitcase down just now. It could have been Mort Shuler. Bronia said he might have to get back to Brandon early—on account of Freckles, you know.”
The cast of characters had exploded. Was Denny supposed to ask who all these people were?
“I’ll give you the cubby in the meantime. You seem tired, almost peevish.” The front door opened, and she turned toward it and called out, “Have a good outing?”
The woman entering smiled and said, “Yes, I did, Betsy, thanks,” and Betsy told her that someone was waiting in the restaurant for her.
Denny asked Betsy—he was good at catching names and using them—about airport transportation, and she gave him a Vermont Transit bus schedule, along with a warning that the new driver, Charles, wasn’t nearly as friendly as the old driver, Seth, who was laid up with a bad back. Denny thanked her for the heads-up and asked for the room key. She said the room was unlocked. “This is Vermont, after all,” she said.
The elevator was around a corner and down a hall. On his way there, he passed a squat woman staring fiercely at a pay phone. She wore a dull uniform of faded turquoise—a housekeeper. She turned as Denny approached, looked away from him, then looked back sharply as he passed by. The phone rang in her face. She grabbed it and said something in a strange language. This combination of events made Denny feel like a subject of surveillance in a foreign land. She turned to stare at him even after he had stepped into the elevator. He leaned forward and pushed his belly in to check his fly, and he saw that his shirt was splattered with blood. That certainly explained the stare, but it raised a new question. Why hadn’t Betsy shown any reaction? What kind of place was this that took in bloodied guests, no questions asked?
In the elevator, he quoted himself to himself: “My goal is not to spend some night in this hotel. It’s to spend this night in any hotel.” It was a shame that people didn’t enjoy his company more. He had so much to offer. Puns, for example. No one could match him in that department. But he hadn’t punned out loud in more than three months, ever since Ruth had unloaded on him in the snack room. She said that puns were “topic destroyers.” She declared them “essentially antisocial.” While she was at it, she complained about how he was always in the way. In his defense, he pointed out that the snack room was small, and she said he was in the way everywhere—in the copying room, in the hall, in the deli around the corner. “It’s not just your size,” she said. “You seem to know you’re in the way and you stay in the way.” As if she was perfect, slow-talker that she was. Her sentences unfolded so glacially that the only way Denny could make them tolerable was to insert secret words of his own: “I wish [with all my heart] that you [and nobody but you] would scrub [a dub dub] the bowl afterward.” That memorable gem had to do with the staff toilet, which she insisted he swab every time he shed a little weight into it. His boss backed her up, so he had no choice but to grab the blue cleaner from under the sink and get down on his knees and scrub like a fiend. Those two really knew how to kill the afterglow of a bowel movement. Ruth always complained about something else, too, but he forgot what. It was hard to keep track.
“Some night in this hotel,” he whispered. “This night in any hotel.” If he could reliably perform at that level, he would never lose an argument. When was his next argument scheduled? The airline, certainly. They would blame him for missing his flight. He would have to use the deer again. He could even say, “It was windy, so I wasn’t expecting a deer.” Or maybe “Being that it was windy, I wasn’t expecting a deer.” “Being that” sounded smart. He said the sentence a few times, trying different tones. As the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, he remembered Ruth’s other complaint: he talked to himself.
A stocky, red-cheeked man in a too-tight white dress shirt blocked Denny’s exit from the elevator. His face was buried in a sheaf of papers stapled at the top, and he was whipping through the pages. He suddenly realized he was in the way and stepped back to let Denny exit the elevator.
“Mort!” a man called out. The speaker was leaning out a room down the hall. “Dinner? Marge’ll be there. She’s always fun.”
The stocky man laughed. “Fun,” he said doubtfully. “I can’t anyway. Got to get home.” He held the elevator door open with an extended arm, his back to Denny. His other arm, as if for balance, held the sheaf of papers out to the side, blocking Denny’s progress down the hall.
“To Brandon,” Denny said from behind him.
“That’s right!” Mort said, throwing a look at Denny as he hurried into the elevator.
“Because of Freckles.”
The elevator doors closed, but Denny was able to hear the muffled shout, “Right again!”
Denny chuckled his way down the hall. What a little world he had landed in. Such a dinky town of Betsys and Morts and Marges, and everyone knowing everything because there was so little to know. It was like a model train town full of little people. You could pick them up and put them anywhere you liked.
He followed Betsy’s directions to the cubby: down the hall, a hard right into a rear wing of the building (colder than the main wing; she hadn’t mentioned that), and another turn to a dead end at a brown-painted wooden door without numbering or lettering. This, Betsy had said, was the mark of the cubby: it bore no mark.
The door immediately banged into a metal bed frame. He squeezed in with his bags. The single bed completely filled the room except for about eighteen inches at its foot and on both sides. There were no windows, and the only door was the one he had entered. No bathroom, but no surprise there. Betsy had suggested that he use the public restroom off the lobby—“if you like,” she had added, as if it were one of many options. The cubby lacked a phone on the nightstand. For the record, it also lacked a nightstand. The only object besides the bed was a small purple vinyl box in the corner with a yellow carrying handle. Denny picked it up and set it on the bed. He twisted the heart-shaped plastic latch and opened it. It was a child’s jewelry box, filled with rings, necklaces, and oversized earrings. There were also little plastic containers bearing the label “Polly Pocket.” They opened to reveal almost microscopic dollhouse rooms and half-inch-high people. Denny began to lose himself in one of those rooms. He made himself close the box and put it back in its corner.
He patted his coat pockets in search of his cell phone, then remembered it had been sitting on the front passenger seat when he had spun out of control. It was somewhere in the wreck of his rental, wherever that was. He would have to call the airline from the pay phone downstairs, assuming Miss Stare-a-Lot was done with it. Which reminded him: he should change his shir
t, even though he didn’t really want to. Something about wearing a bloody shirt appealed to him. He thought of the porter in his rec room layout and decided to add a dab of blood to his white shirt. Talk about intrigue! Then he had another thought. Grandpa and Walt ran a maple farm. That’s what they had argued about in the car—something about operations. Before installing the two men in his layout, he would dip their heads in maple syrup, and he would refresh them every week or so. The result, for the viewer, would be evocative in just the right measure.
He studied the bus schedule as he rode down the elevator. The pay phone was not in use, and the airline agent proved surprisingly helpful. She expressed official company sympathy over his accident and booked him on a new flight to Chicago, scheduled to leave Burlington late the next morning at a time that corresponded well with the bus schedule. He didn’t even have to mention the deer. He called the office, but his boss was out. He left a message saying he would try again.
Around the corner at the front desk, Betsy stood wide-eyed and expectant, as if she had done nothing but wait for his return. He asked her where he could buy a cell phone.
“You’ll find a phone store right next to where Gretchen’s bakery used to be.”
Denny failed to picture this. “Is there still a sign there that says ‘Gretchen’s Bakery’?”
“My lands, no. The building burned to the ground ages ago.”
“What stands in its place?”
“The lot’s still empty.”
“So you could say”—Denny started to wave his arms but caught himself—“the cell phone store is next to an empty lot?”
“I could, yes, but you just did.” She bent down for something under the counter. This allowed Denny to bug his eyes out at her. She rose holding a tall pair of black winter boots, fringed at the top. “Wear these.”
“What?”
“What you’re wearin’ ain’t right for what’s out there. I can tell. What are they—sneakers?” She looked at his face, as if the sight of his shoes repulsed her.
“Yes, sneakers.”
She shook the boots in her hand. “Wear these.”
“I’m fine. As long as I stay on the sidewalk—”
“Put ’em on.”
Denny sighed, slipped out of his shoes, and eased his feet into the boots. They fit quite nicely. He picked up his sneakers and extended them to Betsy. She reached for them, but a gap of a foot remained between her hands and the shoes. When she failed to close it, he looked into her face and realized with a shock that she could not see. He eased the shoes into her hands and she took them in a natural way. “Bear in mind now,” she said as she set them under the counter, “that you’ll have to make do with Little Timmy at the phone store. His dad’ll be out scoutin’ toms. Big Timmy come up empty in deer season—took his rifle out for a walk, you might say—and he’s gonna make some tom pay.”
As Denny buttoned his overcoat, he looked at Betsy and resisted the urge to ask her what it was like to be blind. He knew it would be wrong. Usually he knew something was wrong when it was too late and he had already spoken, but now he knew it in time to shut up, though he could feel the words banging against the inside of his lips like a crowd trying to crash through a door.
Outside, he headed toward what looked like the business district and kept an eye out for an empty lot. It was late afternoon, and the snow had stopped, but a gray mass of cloud seemed to press down on the town and contain it like a tight lid. Some movement on top of a roof caught his attention. It was a man clearing snow with a scoop, sending it cascading down the side of the three-story building into an alley. All of the buildings on the street had flat roofs. Why did they build them that way? Didn’t they know it snowed here? A feature like that could look wrong in a layout even though it was actually right. Denny liked the idea of seeming wrong but being right.
“Nice coat.”
It didn’t register with Denny that these words were meant for him until the speaker had passed by. The man was going the other way, and by the time Denny turned, his back was already to him, a hand waving as if he knew he was being observed. The comment, though decidedly odd, was right—it was a nice coat, a big black wool overcoat that Denny liked to swoop around in. He called it his Secret Agent Man coat.
Denny reached a “T” where the street ended—the hub of town, such as it was. No empty lot was in sight, and he didn’t know which way to go. He caught the eye of a pale, thin, bearded young man approaching with long strides. “Phone store?” Denny asked.
The man immediately stopped and walked backwards in the opposite direction, the reversal so abrupt that it made Denny think of a pinball recoiling from a bumper. After a few backward strides, the pale fellow stopped at a narrow pedestrian walkway between two brick buildings and pointed dramatically, like an explorer on a commemorative postage stamp. Denny joined him and peered down the walkway. At its end he glimpsed what seemed to be an empty lot—Gretchen’s remains, presumably. Denny thanked the mime and looked closely at his beard. It was a two-tone affair, with a red triangle at the chin set against a blond background.
In the store, a more conventional mortal assisted Denny and sent him on his way with a new cell phone. Denny stopped at a sandwich shop and loaded up for dinner. On his way out, he nearly bumped into a woman about his age. She backed up, held the door for him, and then did a double-take. “That’s some coat.” She laughed. “Who died?”
Denny hurried on. It was true that his black coat suggested mourning. It was also true that apparently no one else in this town wore a full-length winter overcoat. They all seemed to wrap themselves in fleecy things and parkas and plaid get-ups. Still, he had never had a social experience quite like this one, where strangers felt at liberty to comment on his appearance. Weren’t New Englanders supposed to be close-mouthed?
Very near the hotel, a man with two golden retrievers called out something to Denny and hurried to him. The dogs heeled without leashes and stayed close by their owner. Denny kept a sharp eye on them and inched toward the hotel entrance. He could feel his fear mounting. He could see it take physical form, a vapor that wafted from his pores into the dogs’ nostrils.
“Man, is this the Florida style?” the dog owner said, eyeing, of course, the coat. “Seems kind of warm for down there. But I’d recognize those pussy boots anywhere.”
Florida? thought Denny. Pussy boots? The dogs sniffed the fringe on his boots, and their tails began a gentle wag, bumping lightly into each other.
“They’re happy to see you,” the man said.
“And I’m happy to see them.” Denny hoped the dogs could not detect insincerity. He eased away slowly, slowly, slowly, and then broke into a run the last few steps to the door.
THREE
“HAVE A GOOD OUTING?” BETSY CALLED FROM BEHIND THE counter.
Denny saw right away what she was doing. She was pretending to know who had just come in the door. For all she knew, he could have been one of those dogs outside. The thought made him want to bark—and he did, a happy puppy bark.
“Ah, Mr. Braintree. I’ll take that as a yes. Here—I have a new key for you.” She slapped it on the counter with more noise than she had intended, judging from the guilty little face she made. Denny picked it up. “Mort has checked out,” Betsy went on. “You’ll be in 408 now. You may move at any time, though the sooner, the better. You see, I just learned my nephew’s back in town.” She sighed. “He’s been gone so long, poor boy. Three years. It makes me happy to think he’s home again. Happy and sad, too.”
Denny liked it when he knew what he was supposed to say. “Why sad?”
“Because if he’s in town, why didn’t he come give me a hug?”
Denny knew the next thing to say, too. “Maybe he tried to find you and couldn’t.”
“Thank you for saying that.” She reached out as if to touch him. He hesitated, then brushed his hand near where hers had come to rest atop the counter so that she would know it was there, and she covered it with her own. It
gave Denny a strange feeling. “He stays here sometimes,” she continued. “When he wants company. When he wants a meal cooked by someone who loves him. That big old farmhouse can be too much for him. He becomes troubled. He likes the cubby—his ‘crash pad,’ he calls it.”
“He’s welcome to it,” Denny said. “No offense.”
“None taken.” She released his hand, bent down behind the counter, and came up with his shoes. He took off the boots and made sure when he held them out for her that they made contact with her hands.
She mused aloud as he tied his shoelaces. “It’s a good thing Mort left and freed up the cubby. I don’t know where I’d have put my Homer otherwise. He rented out the farmhouse to Chip Dougherty. There’s Sarah’s place, but . . .” Her voice drifted off. Denny felt the burden of names again. The front door opened, and she swung toward it. “Have a good outing?” she called out.
“Yes, Betsy, I did,” the woman who had entered said brightly.
The phone rang, and Betsy stabbed a hand out and grabbed it. Denny eased away from the counter, then thought perhaps he should let her know he was leaving, so he cleared his throat when he was a few steps away. Still speaking on the phone, and giving the illusion of unbroken eye contact as she tracked the woman across the lobby, Betsy waved a goodbye to Denny. She was good, no doubt about it.
Back in his cubby, he tried reaching his boss but got the office machine again. He left a message giving his new cell phone number. Then he bid adieu to the little room and its box of trinkets and moved down the hall. It was quite an upgrade: two couches, a small refrigerator, and, over the king bed, a chandelier with candle-like bulbs. French doors led to a small wrought-iron balcony. He opened the drapes over a desk next to the balcony doors. Across the street, beyond a broad sweep of grass, was the golden-domed capitol. A statue atop it seemed to look at Denny. He glanced down and saw a real person actually looking at him. It was Two-Tone, the street mime, sitting on a bus-stop bench across the street. His gaze had fallen on Denny at the window, but now he seemed to be challenging him to a stare-off.
From Away Page 2