The Graybar Hotel

by Curtis Dawkins

  “The womb?”

  “In the basement. Actually, the basement,” she said proudly, smiling. “It’s so perfect.”

  She had written something of the sort a while back, but he had forgotten the details. It was nearly impossible to keep track of all her projects, life changes, and new diets. She never followed through on many of them but apparently the basement project she’d stuck out.

  “Sure,” he said. They walked through the kitchen and he noticed one of her socks was dark gray and the other was blue. At the basement door Clyde lingered at the threshold, hand on the jamb. “I guess this here would be the vagina?”

  “Wow, Clyde!” She studied the frame and the door itself, running her hands over the wood grain on the door. “And look at that—I never noticed it before, but the wood design is perfect.”

  “It was always my experience that the door would be closed and bolted shut.”

  She slapped his shoulder playfully and they walked down the stairs. He tried to think of another metaphor, something funny, but nothing came to mind. After twelve years around men, it didn’t surprise him to be out of practice with flirty jokes.

  Melissa flicked the basement light on. The overhead track lights cast a lavender glow that darkened the rough-spackled, velvety, and placental-pink painted walls. They were hung with four large oil paintings of psychedelic, electric-looking, large-hipped pregnant women. They were all painted with a fluorescent palette of purple, green, red, and yellow, using only curved and circular lines, radiating an energy outside their silhouettes. They were a shock to his drab, prison-accustomed eyes, and they made him dizzy.

  “Well, what do you think about the paintings?” she said.

  “They’re pretty crazy.”

  “Get this, the artist used the freeze-dried placentas from her own children to paint the darker reds. Isn’t this such a healing room? I love it. Let’s just sit here a minute.” She led him to the pink velour couch. Nearby, on a small table against the wall, there was a large white candle made from hundreds of little wax balls. “I think of that as the heart of the room,” she said.

  “It’s a cool candle for sure,” said Clyde. He walked over and pulled one of the little wax marbles from the glass container. Looking from the top, he could see a white wick winding its way down through the spaces between them. It had never been lit.

  “Light it,” she said. “I didn’t realize this until just now, but I guess I’ve been saving it for you.”

  Even the lighter she handed him was dark red. He lit the candle, looked at his hand, and smiled. “A lighter,” he said. “I thought I’d never see one of these again.”

  * * *

  He had met Jesus not long after getting to prison. He was a drug trafficker from Mexico City with a wiry, birdlike build and a beatific portrait of a crucified Christ on his forearm. Every Tuesday Jesus and a few others would make some kind of candy in the dayroom microwave. Clyde never tasted it, as those who made it always split the finished product among themselves, but he had watched it being made perhaps one hundred times. Jesus seemed to be the head chef, combining the powdered milk, water, sugar, and hot sauce in a bowl, then microwaving the ingredients down into a syrupy, sticky goo. The room would stink of burned milk. Clyde figured that was how every cozy adobe in Mexico smelled.

  After all of the ingredients had been microwaved, Jesus would carefully lift the hot bowl by its edges, set it on the table, and use two bright orange chow hall spoons to make the candies. He would scoop a perfectly proportioned glob of the sticky, white concoction and roll it into a ball using only the two spoons—flipping and rolling and squeezing, all the while chatting with his amigos in loud, rapid Spanish. The quick, smooth movements of molding the candy resembled frenzied knitting, yet with the finesse of a magician’s sleight-of-hand trick.

  When the candy was cooler, he’d drop it onto the inside of the bowl’s lid, which held a thick layer of sugar. With his fingertips, Jesus coated the piece of candy, then set each one on the backside of one of the pink disbursement forms everyone used as scrap paper. The forming and rolling of each candy took twenty seconds, and each batch made over fifty marble-size pieces.

  Clyde had never thought much about it until now, but he wanted to taste it more than anything. Back then, overcome by the smell of burned marshmallows and rancid cream, the thought of putting one of them in his mouth had repulsed him. But now he stood there watching the new candle burn and realized for the first time how much he had loved watching the family of Hispanic inmates, and how he would never see them again.

  He had lied, Clyde thought. To the officer that morning when he said he would never return. He was back now, and he would return every day for the rest of his life.

  “Did the candle hypnotize you?” Melissa asked.

  “Yeah. I guess so.” He dropped the wax ball next to the flame and sat down beside her on the couch.

  “I think if we had had this room back then,” she said, “you wouldn’t have done it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I would have made you sit down here for at least two hours every night and heal your issues. You had a lot of anger.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve never thought about killing me, have you?”

  “I never meant to kill anyone.”

  “I know,” she said. “I just worry.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and hugged her. “Do you mind if I take a nap? It’s been a long day.”

  She gave him a look he hadn’t seen in twelve years: an intense yet distant stare, as if she was looking through him hoping to find someone she liked better. A slight, pressed-lip smile barely concealed a smoldering fire. He had worked long hours in car sales at a Chevy dealer in Kalamazoo, and on his Sundays and Mondays off he woke well before Melissa so he could work in the yard, smoking his menthol cigarettes in the dewy coolness of the morning. He weeded the flower beds and pulled the dead heads off the flowers, and when the dew burned off he picked up the dog crap and mowed. Later he would nap for a couple of peaceful afternoon hours, and this never failed to infuriate Melissa. When he’d see her again in the kitchen or living room, her body would ring like a bell with disgust. She wouldn’t look him in the eye, could hardly be in his presence until a couple of hours had passed. It wasn’t rational in the least, he thought, but what can you do?

  “Just a little rest,” he said.

  “I thought we might have sex.”

  “If I did that right now, Melissa, I think my brain might explode. I’m used to sleeping a little after lunch. I just need to lie here for a while.”

  “I’m sorry you don’t love me anymore,” she said.

  “What?”

  “How do you think that makes me feel? I feel superrejected right now.”

  “You can sit here and heal until I wake up.”

  She stood abruptly, put her hands on her hips, staring down at him. Clyde could feel her entire body debating whether or not to engage with the issue.

  “Melissa,” he said, but had nothing to follow the plea with. His stomach fluttered. He was out of his element here in her womb-room. It was as if he had never left. He had traveled instantly back in time twelve years. “Holy shit,” he said, without knowing exactly what he meant.

  “That’s just great.” She went over to the candle and blew it out with an aggressive breath of air. “Don’t waste my fucking candle.” She turned off the row of lavender lights, then stomped up the stairs, slamming the door to the womb on her way out.

  * * *

  He awoke around three to the sound of the garage door closing. For a moment he thought it was a neighboring cell door sliding shut. The basement was windowless and completely dark, much darker than it had ever been in prison, where the hall lights were always on and the tall floodlights that lit the grounds outside shone through the small cell windows all night.

  He lay on the couch and could hear Melissa come through the back door. Her car keys hit the counter and slid to the wall. He knew
exactly where they were, just to the left of the kitchen sink. She let the dog in and Margo’s nails clicked on the kitchen linoleum. “Who’s a good girl? Who’s a good, pretty girl, huh?” he heard, and the dog went berserk, racing from the living room and sliding across the kitchen floor. “Oh, boy, she’s a happy girl. Did you bark at the fence while Mommy ran to work? Did you meet Daddy, or is he still asleep?”

  Clyde smiled. He felt good. Maybe the basement really did heal.

  The door at the top of the stairs opened and a muted shaft of light swept away the dark. Melissa came down and turned on the lavender lights. The dog stood at the top of the stairs, unwilling to make the descent.

  “I really like this basement,” Clyde said. “It’s so dark. Do you mind if I hook my TV up down here?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Are you hungry?” She smiled at him. “How about pizza? Do you still like pizza?”

  “Who stops liking pizza?”

  Clyde was sitting upright. He stretched toward the ceiling. Melissa held out her hand, and he took it. She pulled him up from the couch, smiling at him, apparently no longer mad. “You feel like you weigh exactly the same as you always did. That’s crazy, for twelve years. It’s some kind of record, I bet.”

  “Thank you, I guess,” he said, following her up the stairs, holding the hand she trailed behind her. She stopped at the door. “Are you ready to meet Margo?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Then I’m going to surprise you with something. Do we have any milk?”

  In the kitchen Clyde said hello to the dog, who barked twice then curled up with Melissa on the living room couch as she ordered a pizza for delivery. Every five minutes or so, the dog came into the kitchen to bark at Clyde, then went back to Melissa, who had begun taping a program on the Incas for her seventh-grade students. The documentary was called The Trail to Machu Picchu. It followed the husband-and-wife hosts and their supply-carrying donkeys, Cervantes and Donkey Hotey, around the ancient ruins of Cuzco, Peru.

  “Where’s the milk?” Clyde said.

  “Where it always is. In the fridge.”

  “I’m looking there, but I don’t see it.”

  “It’s soy milk. It says Silk. Cow milk is horrible for you, not to mention how they mistreat the cows. Did you hear the names of these donkeys?”

  “Yeah, pretty funny.” After the milk, he found the sugar, which he realized was nonprocessed raw stuff that looked like tiny amber gems in his palm. He found a small container of ground cayenne pepper behind a tiny bottle of vanilla extract. He combined two cups of the soy milk, a half cup of sugar, and a full tablespoon of the pepper.

  “It’s a reference,” said Melissa, “to the writer Cervantes and his most famous book.”

  “Yeah, I got it. Prison didn’t make me stupid. I’ve actually read Don Quixote.” He hadn’t actually read more than two hundred pages, and he immediately felt petty and guilty for lying.

  The general library at E. C. Brooks had consisted of ten tall shelves behind the front desk. He’d had to write down possible books from the card catalog, hand the list to the inmate librarian, and wait patiently for him not to find them. The books were invariably missing, the card catalog horribly outdated. He’d gone along with the broken system until he’d gotten wise to the ways of prison, then bribed the librarian with a bag of coffee and was snuck among the musty-smelling stacks while the staff library head was in her office. Clyde’s heart pounded like he was making a break for it, grabbing at Cervantes and other big classics that would last him a while, among them Moby-Dick, which he’d actually finished.

  He’d never thought about Cervantes again, until now.

  Clyde brought the mixture to a slow boil and walked into the living room. The male host of the show was speeding slightly from chewing coca leaves. He talked quickly and his movements were jerky and involuntary. As he sat atop his donkey speaking to the camera, he kept looking behind him and feeling his head to make sure his sombrero was still there. His partner was silent and Clyde wondered if she was angry about his high.

  “This was used by the Incas to attract hummingbirds,” said the host, pointing to a bright peach-colored flower with drooping, nectar-laden petals and long, brown and yellow stamens. “And down go the donkeys.” The TV bleeped a curse word as Chuck hopped off his donkey, lying down in the center of the trail. “Now watch Donkey Hotey—he’s a follower, and he’ll do the same thing.” His wife climbed off and, as if on cue, the second donkey lay down. “When they get tired,” Chuck said, “there’s no stopping them. They simply take a nap.”

  Clyde watched Melissa. Surely she saw the connection, the vindication. It was animal instinct, which was nothing to be argued with. She had always oohed and aahed over animals on TV: he wanted her to say something about the napping donkeys so he could really address the point. “Do you see the irony?” he would say. But Melissa would say nothing, just sit there watching stoically, her hand scratching the dog; he knew she would never give in and their relationship now was the same as when he’d left. He loved her for this, and knew that without her stubbornness she would not have such strength. It was her strength that had raised his children, kept the home, paid the bills, and stayed with him when he had fully expected her to go after the first couple of years. How could he not love her?

  “Ugh,” Melissa said. “What is that smell?”

  “Oh shit!” He ran to the stove.

  “Jesus, Clyde, it smells like something dead burning.”

  “That’s how it smells,” he said. “That’s how it always smells.”

  The bottom of the pot had burned black but above it the sugar in the mixture had caramelized, reducing the mixture into a thick, slowly churning concoction, turning darker by the second. Clyde turned the flame off. He tried rolling the mud-colored taffy into balls using spoons but couldn’t, so he rinsed Melissa’s yellow dish gloves and rolled about twenty balls with gloved hands, coating them in the raw, brown, crystalline sugar. He laid them on a white, plastic plate for presentation. They looked like tiny Christmas ornaments coated with dangerous smoked glass.

  The dog clicked into the kitchen and before Clyde thought better of it, he tossed one of the candies to her. She chewed it up, then gagged and forced most of it out of her mouth. She lapped up water from her bowl for nearly a minute. “You didn’t give Margo one of those stinky sugar balls, did you?” Melissa called.

  “No,” he said, wiping up the mess with paper towels. He couldn’t remember one instance of lying during his entire stint in prison. Now he had just lied twice in the past twenty minutes.

  The doorbell rang and the pizza arrived. Melissa set the box on the dining room table next to Clyde’s TV. He set the plate of candy on the counter, then picked up his television set. “What kind of pizza?” he asked.

  “Oh, no. I got vegetarian without thinking. I guess I forgot you were here.”

  He looked down at Margo, who stuck close to the water bowl—even despite the pizza delivery person at the door. Clyde shook his head. “Did I ever leave?” he asked the dog.

  He took his TV in one arm and picked a piece of candy off the plate. He walked down to the basement, lit the candle, and popped the candy into his mouth. He set the TV on the floor and hooked it up to the cable jack. The candy was sweet at first, then quickly turned a burned marshmallow bitter, which was bearable until the heat began, as if it was a candied jalapeño. It singed his tongue and caused his entire head to itch with a cold sweat. He turned on the television. The stations ran up to 100, showing nothing but static. He reconnected the jack, but nothing changed. He flipped the channels and the room flashed from static bright to a dim red darkness, like a crude strobe light. He turned off the TV, then spit out the hideous candy into the melting pool of wax balls.

  For a moment he stood above the flame, feeling the pulse of light from the candle. Where was he? Physically, he knew—572 Lancelot Lane, just outside of Kalamazoo. But he had to find a job. He had to get a driver’s license and make contact with his parole o
fficer. He was at the beginning again in the middle of his life, and all the good parts appeared to be over: the kids growing up, climbing the career ladder, family trips everyone would always remember. Creating those memories must be the “good” part of life, yet he’d spent all those golden years behind bars. He’d known it then; at night, waves of pain radiated out from the life he was missing, rocking him with gusts of intense sadness. And now, a similar pain belted him, as intense as the heat from the horrible candy.

  He heard the dog whining at the top of the stairs. Wasn’t it good to be here? Wasn’t it good to be free? Clyde felt his face warm from the candle’s flame.

  He would love Melissa like he was supposed to. He would be a productive contributor to society again. He would get the cable fixed in the basement, teach the dog to descend the stairs, and spend many hours there with her as he healed. And once he had, once he was finished, he would do everything better than he ever had—after he felt more at home. When he felt like this was his basement, Melissa was his partner, Margo his dog, the yard and the house, all his. When this world felt like his again, he would begin.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  The night I killed a man was a horrible ordeal, especially for his family, my family—everyone traumatized by my actions. I still struggle with guilt and sorrow. There’s often so much sadness and grief in my heart, it feels like I might explode. But you learn within twenty-four hours of hearing a prison door slam shut, either you will die regretting the past or you’ll learn to live in the present. For me, fiction is a large part of that present, and I hold on to it like a lifeboat drifting daily from the fog.

  * * *

  Though this book may feel too thin to hold the weight of all these thanks, I’m not taking for granted that I will ever pass this way again, so:

  * * *

  A huge debt of gratitude goes to my sister, Nicole Browning, and her family: Bill, Tyler, and Morgan. Nicole, besides being a mother of teens and having a separate full-time job, has typed everything I’ve ever sent her. She does it cheerfully and without pay. Like an angel.