by C. K. Brooke
No, it’s not all right. It’s a rip off, is what it is.
“Forty dollars?” Henry exclaims, coming up behind me. “But that’s half the cost of the room itself.”
“I understand,” says the concierge. “But it covers the service charge of laundering and accommodating another guest.”
In a huff, I grab my wallet out of my handbag. Henry stays my hand. “Let me pay,” he offers.
“No way.”
“Willow—”
“I have a job. You don’t. Coming here was my idea, so chill. I’ve got this.”
“You’re not wasting your money on a freaking cot. For the same price, we could’ve each rented our own room at that dumpy motel.”
“Where none of us wanted to sleep, remember?”
“I’m not proposing we go back there.”
“Then what are you proposing?” I place my hands on my hips. “That we share a bed and cuddle?”
Of course, Mason chooses this exact moment to appear in the lobby. I’m pretty positive he heard my last remark, as he glances between me and a now red-faced Henry.
“What have I missed?” Mason finally asks, an eyebrow cocked.
“I’m sleeping on the floor,” Henry mutters.
I groan. “You drove half the way here. You’re not sleeping on a hotel carpet.”
“Uh,” the concierge interjects, “the room does have an armchair with an ottoman. I could send up an extra set of sheets, no additional charge?”
“There. See? One of us can sleep on the chair.” Relieved, I hand over my debit card. Once the transaction is complete, the concierge gives us a pair of plastic keycards and jots down our room number.
“Third floor,” I tell the guys. We haul our stuff to the elevators.
When we enter the hotel room, I’m glad we chose to stay here. Everything looks crisp and clean, with tidy white sheets and polished surfaces on the desk, TV chest, and double nightstands. At least we won’t have to worry about bed bugs. Hopefully. Outside the parted paneled blinds, though, the late afternoon looks gloomy as hell.
As Henry drops his backpack on the desk and heads for the bathroom, I go to stand by the wall-to-wall window on the opposite end of the room, watching the raindrops race down the glass.
“Hey.”
I glance up. Mason approaches, hands in his pockets. My lip twitches into a half-smile. Then I gaze out again at the blurry and mostly vacant parking lot beneath us.
“So…thinking about dinner yet?” He pauses next to me, watching the rain fall.
I shrug. “My stomach isn’t quite right. Ever since…” I fade. I don’t want to talk about my episode at Mae’s Diner.
“Anything coming back to you?” he asks, more subdued. “Now that we’re here?”
My palm touches the glass. It’s cold as ice. Directly beneath us, the radiator roars to life. White noise fills the room as the raindrops on the other side of the glass kiss my fingertips, disappear, then trickle past my wrists.
“I can’t tell yet,” I answer honestly. “It’s like my strongest feelings are less associated with the place, and more with…the people.”
I don’t have to indicate the direction of the sound of running water, where my stepbrother is washing up at the bathroom sink, to make my point. Mason nods tacitly, his blue eyes pensive.
I work up my courage. “What you said in the car… You were kidding, right?”
He smiles. But it’s transient. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
The glass is too cold. I lower my hand and face him. “Look.” My heart rate climbs. “I’m not trying to play games with anyone here, okay? I’m just looking for answers. That’s all I’ve ever been after.” Not a relationship—not a guy. Not some weird triangle. This isn’t Twilight.
“And I’m here to help you,” he assures me.
My shoulders relax. Mason is my only friend…maybe more. I’ve come this far in my discovery of the past because of him. I haven’t forgotten that.
I don’t want to lose him.
Henry emerges from the bathroom with combed hair. For a second, my gaze travels shamelessly down the form of his chest, beneath the two undone buttons of his polo. My own words to him in the lobby echo in my head: Then what are you proposing? That we share a bed and cuddle?
Catching myself, I look away. But not before my stomach ripples.
Though it stuns me to indulge in it, my senses quiver with a sort of longing at the thought of settling into the crook of his arm and resting my head upon his chest…draping an arm around his waist, being enclosed in his hold…
Willow! My conscious mind snaps, somewhere between outrage and bewilderment. This is Henry you’re thinking about. Henry-Henry. Our Henry. Stepsisters don’t daydream about their stepbrothers. Not kosher!
I shake my head, attempting to dislodge the inappropriate thoughts, and turn back to Mason. “Do you need the bathroom?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “All yours.”
Henry’s checking his phone, thankfully oblivious to the conflict in my head. I move past them and shut myself inside the small hotel bathroom.
I turn the faucet on and splash water over my face, trying to wake myself up. We’ve only just arrived, and already I feel dazed and misplaced in my own skin.
There’s a knock at the main door. I open the bathroom door to peek, and watch as Mason accepts a set of blankets from housekeeping. He brings them over to the chair with the ottoman and begins stretching the fitted sheet over the furniture.
Henry glances up from his phone. “I’ll sleep there.”
“It’s fine,” says Mason shortly. “I’ve got it.”
“No, I’m serious.” Henry won’t break his gaze from Mason. Mason won’t look at him.
I bite my lower lip. Seriously? They’re going to have a pissing match over who’s macho enough to sleep on the chair?
“I insist.” Mason spreads the comforter over the sheets. He’s still not making eye contact with my stepbrother, who, in turn, is watching him like a hawk.
“How about I take the chair?” I butt in. “I’m shorter than the two of you. It’ll be more comfortable for me.”
They both speak over each other to deny me, and tell me how that wouldn’t be right. I exit the bathroom, heft up my duffel, and toss it down over the now-blanketed armchair. “Too bad. Claimed it.”
Mason massages his goatee, and Henry rakes a hand through his hair that he’s just combed. It looks disheveled again.
I plop down on the ottoman and pull out my phone. “Let’s Google someplace halfway decent to eat.”
#
Apart from an Arby’s drive-through, Elms Creek is apparently too small a town to have any popular restaurants. We could drive into the next city, but none of us wants to be in the car for very long again. Plus, we don’t want to get stuck in rush-hour traffic.
There’s a bar I’m too young to enter, and a small family restaurant that looks packed. So we settle on the last of our local choices, a restaurant called The Bleaker Inn.
‘Bleak’ is the right word for the shoddy, cabin-style establishment as we turn in to the parking lot beneath the hammering rain. The asphalt’s so worn and the downpour so heavy, Mason has to guess at the parking spaces.
Hoods overhead, we dash for the door and dart inside. Though I’d tried to protect my hair, my waves flare up; I can see strands puffing out in my periphery.
Classic country western music is blaring. I lower my hood, glancing between the wood-paneled walls. If I’d thought the buck head at the diner earlier today was disconcerting, this joint is practically a symposium for taxidermy animals.
Mason leans in as a hostess greets us and gathers up the menus. “Is it just me,” he murmurs by my ear, “or are all these dead animals—ironically—unappetizing?”
“You eat dead animals,” Henry points out.
“Hence the irony,” Mason retorts flatly.
I know where he’s coming from. “It’s not like we want to eat them while lookin
g at them like that,” I tell my stepbrother, “with all their fur and everything still on.”
Henry mutters something about living in a society that’s completely removed from our food, and the hostess leads us to a table. I notice we’re in an elevated section of the restaurant, and down a half-flight of stairs is a bar and open floor. A row of older people is assembled there, most wearing cowboy hats, fringe chaps, and gaudy boots with rhinestones.
Before I have a chance to question what that’s all about, a young waitress appears and chirps in a hearty twang, “Welcome to the Bleaker Inn! Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink awhile?”
We order our drinks, and she informs us, “Just so you know, the soup and salad bar’s all-you-can-eat for just four ninety-nine tonight.”
We immediately hand back our menus, declaring unanimously: “Salad bar.”
“Plates are up there.” She nods. “Help yourselves.”
After draping our dripping coats over the backs of our chairs, we go for it. I peruse the selection first. Mason’s already ladling soup into a bowl, and Henry’s inspecting a spot on a plate like he’s about to perform surgery on it.
Of course, there’s salad and all its trappings—sliced veggies, croutons, diced bacon, an assortment of dressings. There’s also melon, cottage cheese, and Jell-O, and two pots of soup with a basket of saltine and oyster crackers on the opposite end of the stand.
I’m still debating whether I want broccoli cheddar or tomato vegetable when the opening notes of Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Born on the Bayou” belts out of the speakers on the lower level. I pause to look on as the older folks below us form a line, hands on their hips. They move across the floor in a choreographed fashion while a woman wearing a huge, white cowboy hat instructs them loudly.
I giggle. “What the hell?”
Henry comes up behind me, watching over my shoulder. “You’ve never seen line dancing before?”
“Can’t say I have. Not up close, anyway.”
“Wanna go join them?”
He’s got to be joking. “Um, negative?”
“Come on,” he goads me. “Or are you just embarrassed because you know you can’t dance?”
I swivel around, unable to help the hike in my lips. Eyeing him in the restaurant’s dim lighting, I notice his face has a little five-o’-clock shadow going on. It’s suddenly unreasonably warm in here.
After a disorienting few seconds, I find my voice—and my wit—again. “Oh, and you’re Justin Timberlake?”
Henry smirks. I swallow.
“Fine,” he calls over the music, as they’ve cranked it up louder still. “Maybe I can’t line dance either. But my grandma took me square dancing once.”
“Must be why you turned out to be such a big square.”
“Ha, ha.” My feet are planted in place as he takes my hands. “Come on, you’re as stiff as a slab of concrete.” He pulls me to his right. “Circle to the right—do sa do, now circle to the left…”
I bust out laughing as he brings me to his left in rhythm with the old song. “Henry. What are you—?”
“Do sa do, now back to the right…”
I can’t control it; I’m cracking up. I can barely catch my breath as he circles me around the salad bar to the deafening blare of John Fogerty wailing about being born on the baaaaayou. “Um… People are staring.”
“Who cares?” Henry circles me back, timing our steps to the music. “We don’t look any stupider than they do down there.”
I accidentally step on his shoe. Losing my footing, I nearly trip. Before I can faceplant to the floor, Henry hooks his arm around my waist, securing me upright.
Our eyes lock. Gazing up at him, I’m acutely aware of his chest pressed against mine, the feel of his arm firmly around me, supporting me…the way he smells faintly of clover and this morning’s aftershave…
“And you thought I looked down my nose at this hillbilly stuff,” he utters, gently releasing me.
“Are you two gonna get some food?” Mason interjects, returning to our table with his bowl of soup. “Or do you need to visit the hotel room for a little while without me?” he adds with his back to us.
14
After dinner last night, the rest of the evening was shot. Exhausted from waking up so early and the process of traveling, the three of us passed out before we’d even finished flipping through all the local TV stations. We never did find anything good to watch.
Saturday morning greets me with the sound of running water. Curled up on the armchair underneath the blankets, I notice my back is stiff. Inhaling, I stretch it out. The clock on the nearest nightstand tells me it’s five minutes past eight A.M.
I glance around the hotel room, regaining my bearings. There’s still the sound of the shower running, and my stepbrother is rummaging through his backpack, fully dressed. Must be Mason in the shower.
Mason in the shower… The idea produces a pleasant visual, but Henry interrupts it by saying good morning to me. In response, I yawn.
I hear the water shut off. A couple of minutes later, Mason emerges in blue jeans and a clean white T. He pulls on a black sweater overhead and grins at me beneath his damp hair. My heart rattles in my chest a little, and while it’s nerve-inciting, it also comes as a relief.
Not lusting for my stepbrother this morning. That’s better…
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Mason greets me. “Go get ready and we’ll grab some breakfast in the lobby, ’kay?”
Nodding, I shove off the covers and head into the bathroom to brush my teeth. Afterward, the water in the shower doesn’t take long to heat up. I shower off quickly, towel-dry my hair, and apply a bit of metallic plum eyeshadow and liquid eyeliner before judging myself presentable.
Once we’re ready, we take the stairs down to the “complimentary breakfast” in the lobby. It’s not much more than some bruised apples, bananas, and lukewarm sausage links I won’t touch. I settle on fixing a Styrofoam bowl of cereal with fat-free milk from a paper carton. Hey, at least it’s free.
When we’re done eating, we head outside to Mason’s car. The morning feels brittle, and I wish I would’ve taken the time to properly blow dry my hair. I zip my coat to the neck and lift my hood to keep my scalp from freezing.
It isn’t raining anymore. It’s still cloudy and gray, but for the first time, I can actually see the town around us. Flat roads and dormant brown fields stretch for miles. Puddles have accumulated everywhere in the parking lot; it looks like there’s been a flood.
Mason unlocks the doors with his key fob. “I think it’s almost flatter here than in Middling.”
“Here, yes,” I say automatically, “but it gets hillier the closer you get to Tennessee and Kentucky.” An eerie rush sweeps through me as I watch the clouds collecting on the horizon. How did I know that?
I sense Mason eying me meaningfully, but he evidently decides not to comment. He ducks into the driver’s seat, I slip in beside him, and Henry occupies the back. Mason sticks the key into the ignition but doesn’t turn it yet. “So…where do we start?”
They’re both looking at me now.
“Um…” I clear my throat. “How about the library? Maybe they’ll have one of those old newspaper archive things?”
“You mean a microfilm machine?” says Henry.
“Yeah—that.” I pull on my seatbelt. “We could look for an article about Susan’s accident from the sixties or something.”
“Well, hang on.” Henry leans forward, his elbows on the center console between us. “What is it you’re hoping to find in an old newspaper article anyway, Willow?”
I wrinkle my forehead at him. Shouldn’t it be obvious? “I want to know her full name, the date it happened. I don’t know, maybe I can find her tombstone or something.” Go pay my respects…to myself?
“Then shouldn’t we just search the graveyards?” suggests Henry.
Mason turns to survey him, as if shocked he’s making sense.
Henry shrugs. “It could take
days to scroll through old microfilms. Assuming the library here even has a machine for that.”
“Assuming this town even has a library.” Mason smirks.
“Right.” Henry nods. “A town this small can’t have that many cemeteries, though. If you want proof that a girl named Susan really lived—and died—in Elms Creek, why not head straight for the stones?”
“What if she wasn’t buried here?” I challenge. “What if she was cremated?”
But Mason’s already tapping away on his phone. “According to Google Maps, there are three cemeteries in Elms Creek.” He looks up. “Just three. And one’s for veterans.”
“So that leaves two where Susan could be buried.” I exhale, my breath visible in front of me. Seeming to notice this, Mason quickly turns the key in the ignition, starting up the engine. He switches on the heat.
“Why don’t we check those out, then?” Henry glances between us. “If nothing turns up, the archives can be our backup plan.”
I look to Mason for approval. He simply holds out his phone, showing me the results on his web search. “Which one do you want to visit first?” he asks. “Any instincts?”
I eye both options, but neither in particular speaks to me. No alarm bells ring in my head, telling me which location holds more promise on behalf of Susan. “Let’s just start with the closest one,” I decide.
Mason taps the first result, and the map transforms into driving instructions. He commences on the route as the phone tells him to head west.
After a minute, he jacks up the heat some more. Finally regaining some feeling in my earlobes and fingertips, I lower my hood.
We reach the first cemetery after a short and uneventful drive. As Mason slows the vehicle, I peer out my window. The place is tiny. There’s an unassuming, little white chapel beside it that may or may not be in operation; it’s hard to tell.
“Are you sure this place isn’t private?” Henry shifts behind us. “It feels like we’re trespassing.”
“Gate’s open.” I point.
Mason pulls into the tiny chapel lot. For a few seconds, we remain inside, engine idling. Finally, I unfasten my seatbelt. “Anyone wanna come?”