The Hotel Eden: Stories

by Ron Carlson

  “Always leave them something to look up.”

  “You’re sick, aren’t you?” she said.

  “You look good in that sweater,” he said. When she started to remove it, he added, “Don’t. I’ll get it after class, in just,” he looked at his watch, “two hours and twenty minutes.”

  BUT HE WASN’T there. He wasn’t there all week. The class did experiments with oxidation and Mr. Miles spent two days explaining and diagramming rust. On Friday, Mr. Miles worked with Barbara on the experiments and she asked him what was wrong with Keith. “I’m not sure,” her teacher told her. “But I think he’s on medication.”

  Barbara had a tennis match on Tuesday afternoon at school, and Brian picked her up and drove her home. Usually he came in for an hour or so on these school days and they made out a little and raided the fridge, but for the first time she begged off, claiming homework, kissing him on the cheek and running into her house. But on Friday, during her away match at Viewmont, she felt odd again. She knew Brian was in the stands. When she walked off the court after the match it was nearly dark and Brian was waiting. She gave Trish her rackets and Barbara climbed on Brian’s scooter without a word. “You weren’t that bad,” he said. “Viewmont always has a good team.”

  “Brian, let’s just go home.”

  “You want to stop at Swenson’s, get something to eat?”

  “No.”

  So Brian started his scooter and drove them home. Barbara could tell by the way he was driving that he was mad, and it confused her: she felt strangely glad about it. She didn’t want to invite him in, let him grope her on the couch. She held on as he took the corners too fast and slipped through the stop signs, but all the way home she didn’t put her chin on his shoulder.

  At her house, she got the scene she’d been expecting. “Just what is the matter with you?” Brian said. For some reason when he’d gone to kiss her, she’d averted her face. Her heart burned with pleasure and shame. She was going to make up a lie about tennis, but then just said, “Oh Brian. Just leave me alone for a while, will you? Just go home.”

  Inside, she couldn’t settle down. She didn’t shower or change clothes. She sat in the dark of her room for a while and then, using only the tiny spot of her desk lamp, she copied her chemistry notes for the week and called Trish.

  It was midnight when Trish picked her up quietly by the mailbox on the corner. Trish was smoking one of her Marlboros and blowing smoke into the windshield. She said, “High School Confidential, Part Five: Young Barbara Anderson, still in her foxy tennis clothes, and her old friend Trish meet again at midnight, cruise the Strip, pick up two young men with tattoos, and are never seen alive again. Is that it? Count me in.”

  “Not quite. It goes like this: two sultry babes, one of whom has just been a royal bitch to her boyfriend for no reason, drive to 1147 Fairmont to drop off the week’s chemistry notes.”

  “That would be Keith Zetterstrom’s address, I’d guess.” Trish said.

  “He’s my lab partner.”

  “Of course he is,” Trish said.

  “He missed all last week. Mr. Miles told me that Keith’s on medication.”

  “Oh my god!” Trish clamped the steering wheel. “He’s got cancer. That’s that scary hairdo. He’s sick.”

  “No he doesn’t. I checked the college lists. He’s going to Dickinson.”

  “Not for long, honey. I should have known this.” Trish inhaled and blew smoke thoughtfully out of the side of her mouth. “Bald kids in high school without earrings have got cancer.”

  KEITH WAS IN class the following Monday for the chemistry exam: sulfur and rust. After class, Barbara Anderson took him by the arm and led him to her locker. “Thanks for the notes, partner,” he said. “They were absolutely chemical. I aced the quiz.”

  “You were sick last week.”

  “Last week.” He pondered. “Oh, you mean because I wasn’t here. What do you do, come every day? I just couldn’t; it would take away the something special I feel for this place. I like to come from time to time and keep the dew on the rose, so to speak.”

  “I know what’s the matter with you.”

  “Good for you, Barbara Anderson. And I know what’s the matter with you too; sounds like a promising relationship.”

  Barbara pulled his folded sweater from the locker and handed it to him. As she did, Brian came up and said to them both: “Oh, I see.” He started to walk away.

  “Brian,” Keith said. “Listen. You don’t see. I’m not a threat to you. How could I be a threat to you? Think about it.” Brian stood, his eyes narrowed. Keith went on: “Barbara’s not stupid. What am I going to do, trick her? I’m her lab partner in chemistry. Relax.” Keith went to Brian and took his hand, shook it. “I’m serious, Woodworth.”

  Brian stood for a moment longer until Barbara said, “I’ll see you at lunch,” and then he backed and disappeared down the hall. When he was gone, Barbara said, “Are you tricking me?”

  ”I don’t know. Something’s going on. I’m a little confused.”

  “You’re confused. Who are you? Where have you been, Keith Zetterstrom? I’ve been going to school with you all these years and I’ve never even seen you and then we’re delivering bowling balls together and now you’re sick. Where were you last year? What are you doing? What are you going to do next year?”

  “Last year I got a C in Spanish with Mrs. Whitehead. It was gruesome. This year is somewhat worse, with a few exceptions, and all in all, I’d say the sky is the limit.” Keith took her wrist. “Quote me on that.”

  Barbara took a sharp breath through her nose and quietly began to cry.

  “Oh, let’s not,” Keith said, pushing a handkerchief into her hand. “Here. Think of this.” He moved her back against the wall, out of the way of students passing by. “If I was having a good year, I might never have spoken to you. Extreme times require extreme solutions. I went all those years sitting in the back and then I had to get sick to start talking. Now that’s something, isn’t it? Besides, I’ve got a plan. I’ll pick you up at nine. Listen: bring your pajamas and a robe.”

  Barbara looked at him over the handkerchief.”

  “Hey. Trust me. You were the one who was crying. I’ll see you at nine o’clock. This will cheer you up.”

  THE HOSPITAL WAS on the hill, and Keith parked in the farthest corner of the vast parking lot, one hundred yards from the nearest car. Beneath them in the dark night, the city teemed and shimmered, a million lights.

  “It looks like a city on another planet,” Barbara Anderson said as she stepped out of the truck.

  “It does, indeed,” Keith said, grabbing his bag. “Now if we only knew if the residents are friendly.” He took her arm. “And now I’m going to cheer you up. I’m going to take you in that building,” Keith pointed at the huge hospital, lit like an ocean liner in the night, “and buy you a package of gum.”

  They changed clothes in the fifth-floor restrooms and met in the hallway, in pajamas and robes, and stuffed their street clothes into Barbara’s tennis bag.

  “Oh, I feel better already,” Barbara said.

  “Now take my arm like this,” Keith moved next to her and placed her hand above his elbow, “and look down like this.” He put his chin on his chest. Barbara tried it. “No, not such a sad face, more serious, be strong. Good. Now walk just like this, little stab steps, real slow.”

  They started down the hallway, creeping along one side. “How far is it?” Barbara said. People passed them walking quietly in groups of two or three. It was the end of visiting hours. “A hundred yards to the elevators and down three floors, then out a hundred more. Keep your face down.”

  “Are people looking at us?”

  “Well, yes. They’ve never seen a braver couple. And they’ve never seen such chemical pajamas. What are those little deals, lambs?”

  They continued along the windows, through the lobby and down the elevator, in which they stood side by side, their four hands clasped together, while
they were looking at their tennis shoes. The other people in the car gave them room out of respect. The main hall was worse, thick with people, everyone going five miles an hour faster than Barbara and Keith, who shuffled along whispering.

  In the gift shop, finally, they parted the waters. The small room was crowded, but the people stepped aside and Keith and Barbara stood right at the counter. “A package of chewing gum, please,” Keith said.

  “Which kind?” said the candy striper.

  “Sugarless. My sister and I want our teeth to last forever.”

  THEY RAN TO the truck, leaping and swinging their arms. Keith threw the bag containing their clothes into the truck bed and climbed into the cab. Barbara climbed in, laughing, and Keith said, “Come on, face the facts: you feel better! You’re cured!” And she slid across the seat meaning to hug him but it changed for both of them and they kissed. She pulled him to her side and they kissed again, one of her arms around his neck and one of her hands on his face. They fell into a spin there in the truck, eyes closed, holding on to each other in their pajamas, her robe open, their heads against the backseat, kissing. Barbara shifted and Keith sat up; the look they exchanged held. Below them the city’s lights flickered. Barbara cupped her hand carefully on the top of Keith’s bald scalp. She pulled him forward and they kissed. When she looked in his eyes again she knew what was going to happen, and it was a powerful feeling that gave her strange new certainty as she went for his mouth again.

  There were other moments that surfaced in the truck in the night above the ancient city. Something Keith did, his hand reminded her of Brian, and then that thought vanished as they were beyond Brian in a moment. Later, well beyond even her notions of what to do and what not to do, lathered and breathing as if in toil, she heard herself say, “Yes.” She said that several times.

  SHE LOOKED FOR Keith everywhere, catching glimpses of his head, his shoulder, in the hallways. In chemistry they didn’t talk; there were final reports, no need to work together. Finally, three days before graduation, they stood side by side cleaning out their chemistry equipment locker, waiting for Mr. Miles to check them off. Keith’s manner was what? Easy, too confident, too neutral. He seemed to take up too much space in the room. She hated the way he kept his face blank and open, as if fishing for the first remark. She held off, feeling the restraint as a physical pang. Mr. Miles inventoried their cupboard and asked for their keys. He had a large ring of thirty or forty of the thin brass keys. Keith handed his to Mr. Miles and then Barbara Anderson found her key in the side of her purse and handed it to the teacher. She hated relinquishing the key; it was the only thing she had that meant she would see Keith, and now with it gone something opened in her and it hurt in a way she’d never hurt before. Keith turned to her and seeing something in her face, shrugged and said, “The end of chemistry as we know it. Which isn’t really very well.”

  “Who are you?” Barbara said, her voice a kind of surprise to her. “You’re so glib. Such a little actor.” Mr. Miles looked up from his check sheet and several students turned toward them. Barbara was speaking loudly; she couldn’t help it. “What are you doing to me? If you ask me this is a pretty chickenshit goodbye.” Everyone was looking at her. Then her face would not work at all, the tears coming from some hot place, and Barbara Anderson walked from the room.

  Keith hadn’t moved. Mr. Miles looked at Keith, alarmed. Keith whispered: “Don’t worry, Mr. Miles. She was addressing her remarks to me.”

  THERE WAS ONE more scene. The night before graduation, while her classmates met in the bright, noisy gym for the yearbook-signing party, Barbara drove out to the airport and met Keith where he said he’d be: at the last gate, H-17. There on an empty stretch of maroon carpet in front of three large banks of seats full of travelers, he was waiting. He handed her a pretty green canvas valise and an empty paper ticket sleeve.

  “You can’t even talk as yourself,” she said. “You always need a setting. Now we’re pretending I’m going somewhere?”

  He looked serious tonight, weary. There were gray shadows under his eyes. “You wanted a goodbye scene,” he said. “I tried not to do this.”

  “It’s all a joke,” she said. “You joke all the time.”

  “You know what my counselor said?” He smiled thinly as if glad to give her this point. “He said that this is a phase, that I’ll stop joking soon.” Their eyes met and the look held again. “Come here,” he said. She stepped close to him. He put his hand on her elbow. “You want a farewell speech. Okay, here you go. You better call Brian and get your scooter back. Tell him I tricked you. Wake up, lady. Get real. I just wanted to see if I could give Barbara Anderson a whirl. And I did. It was selfish, okay? I just screwed you around a little. You said it yourself: it was a joke. That’s my speech. How was it?”

  “You didn’t screw me around, Keith. You didn’t give me a whirl.” Barbara moved his hand and then put her arms around his neck so she could speak in his ear. She could see some of the people watching them. “You made love to me, Keith. It wasn’t a joke. You made love to me and I met you tonight to say—good for you. Extreme times require extreme solutions.” She was whispering as they stood alone on that carpet in their embrace. “I wondered how it was going to happen, but you were a surprise. Way to go. What did you think? That I wanted to go off to college an eighteen-year-old virgin? That pajama bit was great; I’ll remember it.” Now people were deplaning, entering the gate area and streaming around the young couple. Barbara felt Keith begin to tremble, and she closed her eyes. “It wasn’t a joke. There’s this: I made love to you too. You were there, remember? I’m glad for it.” She pulled back slightly and found his lips. For a moment she was keenly aware of the public scene they were making, but that disappeared and they twisted tighter and were just there, kissing. She had dropped the valise and when the mock ticket slipped from her fingers behind his neck, a young woman in a business suit knelt and retrieved it and tapped Barbara on the hand. Barbara clutched the ticket and dropped her head to Keith’s chest.

  “I remember,” he said. “My memory is aces.”

  “Tell me, Keith,” she said. “What are these people thinking? Make something up.”

  “No need. They’ve got it right. That’s why we came out here. They think we’re saying goodbye.”

  SIMPLY PUT, THAT was the last time Barbara Anderson saw Keith Zetterstrom. That fall when she arrived in Providence for her freshman year at Brown, there was one package waiting for her, a large trophy topped by a girl on a motorcycle. She had seen it before. She kept it in her dorm window, where it was visible four stories from the ground, and she told her roommates that it meant a lot to her, that it represented a lot of fun and hard work but her goal had been to win the Widowmaker Hill Climb, and once she had done that, she sold her bikes and gave up her motorcycles forever.

  THE PRISONER OF BLUESTONE

  THERE WAS A camera. Mr. Ruckelbar was helping load the crushed sedan onto DiPaulo’s tow truck when an old Nikon camera fell from the gashed trunk well and hit him on the shoulder. At first he thought it was a rock or a taillight assembly; things had fallen on him before as he and DiPaulo had wrestled the ruined vehicles onto the tiltbed of DiPaulo’s big custom Ford, and of course DiPaulo wasn’t there to be hit. He had a bad back and was in the cab working the hydraulics and calling, “Good? Are we good yet?”

  “Whoa, that’s enough!” he called. Now Ruckelbar would have to clamber up and set the chains. DiPaulo, he thought, the wrecker with the bad back.

  It was a thick gray twilight in the last week of October, chilly now with the sun gone. This vehicle had been out back for too long. The end of summer was always bad. After the Labor Day weekend, he always took in a couple cars. He stored them out in a fenced lot behind his Sunoco station, getting twenty dollars a week until the insurance paperwork was completed, all of them the same really, totaled and sold to DiPaulo, who took them out to Junk World, his four acres of damaged vehicles near Torrington. Ruckelbar was glad to see this sil
ver Saab go. It had been weird having the kid almost every afternoon since it had arrived, sitting out in the crushed thing full of leaves and beads of glass, just sitting there until dark sometimes, then walking back toward town along the two-lane without a proper jacket, some boy, the brother he said he was, some kid you didn’t need sitting in a totaled Saab, some skinny kid maybe fourteen years old.

  Ruckelbar cinched the final chain hitch and climbed down. “What’d you get?” It was DiPaulo. The small old man had limped back in the new dark and had picked the camera up. “This has got to be worth something.”

  “It’s that kid’s. It was his sister’s car.”

  DiPaulo handed him back the camera. “That kid. That kid doesn’t need to see this. I’d chuck it in the river before I let him see it. He’s nutty enough.” DiPaulo shook his head. “What’s he going to do when he sees the car is finally gone?”

  “Lord knows,” Ruckelbar said. “Maybe he’ll find someplace else to go.”

  “Well, that car’s been here a long time, summer’s over, and that camera,” DiPaulo poked it with one of his short stained fingers, “is long gone to everybody. Let you leave the sleeping dogs asleep. Just put it in a drawer. You listen to your old pal. Your father would.” DiPaulo took Ruckelbar’s shoulder in his hand for a second. “See you. I’ll be back Wednesday for that van. You take care.” The little old man turned one more time and pointed at Ruckelbar. “And for god’s sakes, don’t tell that kid where this car is going.”

  DiPaulo had known Ruckelbar’s father, “for a thousand years before you came along,” he’d say, and Ruckelbar could remember DiPaulo saying “Leave sleeping dogs asleep” throughout the years in friendly arguments every time there was some sort of cash windfall. The elder Ruckelbar would smile and say that DiPaulo should have been a tax attorney.

  After DiPaulo left, Ruckelbar rolled the wooden desk chair back inside the office of the Sunoco station and locked up. The building was a local landmark really, such an old little stone edifice painted blue, sitting all alone out on Route 21, where the woods had grown up around it and made it appear a hut in a fairy tale, with two gas pumps. The Bluestone everyone called it, and it was used to mark the quarry turnoff; “four miles past the Bluestone.” It certainly marked Ruckelbar’s life, was his life. He had met Clare at a community bonfire at the Quarry Meadows when she was still a student at Woodbine Prep, and above there at the Upper Quarry, remote and private, one night a year later she had helped him undo both of them in his father’s truck and urgently had begun a sex life that wouldn’t last five years.