“You’d be in good shape if all I did was beat you, Amy Joy. But you’re not getting off that easy. The kind of bruises you’re gonna get out of this scrape ain’t the kind that’ll go away in a week or two. You’ll carry them inside you for as long as you live.”
Amy Joy uncovered her head to let Sicily see the tears in her eyes.
“We love each other.”
“Is that sordid scene I was witness to your idea of love, little girl? My own daughter in a bed of sin out behind my dying sister’s garage.”
“It wasn’t really a bed, Mama.”
“I told Marge not to build that damn garage,” said Sicily, sitting on the end of Amy Joy’s bed. “She doesn’t even own a car. It’s a statement of the times, is what it is. Modern living breeds sin.”
Amy Joy had never before heard her mother use even the mildest of swear words. She sat up, forgetting her tears, to watch this new development.
“Mama, you just said damn.”
“I’m a changed woman,” Sicily said as she aimlessly flicked the trigger of her flashlight on and off.
“We are getting married,” said Amy Joy.
“Amy Joy, you been reading too many magazines.”
“Are you telling Daddy?”
“What do you think?”
“I guess.”
“You guess what?”
“I guess you’re telling.”
“You just hit the nail on the head.”
“I’ll kill myself if you tell.”
“If I tell, you won’t have to kill yourself. Daddy’ll be glad to do it for you.” Sicily turned to look at the frightened girl.
“It wasn’t very long ago, Amy Joy, that all you cared about was collecting material samples out of the Sears and Roebuck. Now look at you.”
The two stared at each other. Amy Joy sensed the sadness in her mother, the betrayal she felt by her only child. Sicily saw a confused little girl. They were both tied to a man neither of them could turn to. A man who attended nonexistent meetings on a night when his wife and daughter needed him most.
“It’s just the two of us, Amy Joy,” Sicily said softly, knowing, as her child did, that Ed Lawler would not be told about the activities that night.
“I guess.”
“Come here, honey,” Sicily said and took the tearful Amy Joy into her arms.
THE ALBERT PINHAM FAMILY MOTEL FILLS UP: NO ROOM AT THE INN
“It used to be that young folks had to drive all the way to Watertown to get themselves a room on their wedding night. Now it’s just a skip and a hop over to Albert’s place.”
—Donnie Henderson, Lumberman
The Albert Pinkham Family Motel was a one-story structure built onto the end of the owner’s two-story house. Pinkham had seen progress encroaching on the town line when a six-room hunters’ lodge was built in neighboring St. Leonard. So amid his wife’s protestations, he went to work on a four-room capacity motel. Albert’s architectural design was not the best, drawn out of penury rather than creativity. Each room had a separate entrance, two in front, two in back. A bathroom consisting of a single tub and commode was added to the upper end of the motel so that the tenants had to leave their rooms to reach it. Having an indoor hallway leading to the bath would have been a great convenience to his customers and would have provided them with privacy as well. But it would also mean added expenses. Nonetheless, not wanting to be outranked by the hunters’ lodge, Albert mixed his own cement and ran a three-inch-high walkway around the entire structure. It made a nice porch for his rocking chair. In the evenings he usually sat in front of room numbers 1 and 2 in the front, if they were empty, and smoked a few cigarettes while watching cars pass.
Hot running water was another matter. No one in Mattagash, not even Marge McKinnon, had pushed that far into the twentieth century. But Albert Pinkham was a man of foresight. Hot water for a quick wash or shave in the mornings was easily available to each tenant by boiling his own on the hot plate in his room. Albert arranged to save a few dollars at the hardware store by buying out the entire stock. Four hot plates made an impressive sale.
Sarah Pinkham was furious at what she considered her husband’s excesses. The night he came home with the four boxes and stacked them on the table, she broke down and wept. It was not until Albert’s plan was laid out before her on paper that the tears in her eyes were replaced with dollar signs. Each hot plate cost, with tax, $9.42. The total purchase of four was $27.68, with ten dollars knocked off for the quantity bought. Albert’s idea was to charge each room a quarter a day if they wished to use the hot plate for heating water or cooking purposes. Not only would the hot plates be paid off in no time, but they would continue to make money as time went on. And residents would be supplied with a makeshift kitchen that would save them money at the diners in Watertown.
Sarah was less than pleased to learn how the hot water for bathing in the tub would be made available to boarders. On large index cards left in each room (Albert’s nearsighted daughter Belle was given the task of writing them up) appeared the following information:
THE ALBERT PINKHAM FAMILY MOTEL
WELCOME! TOURISTS, HUNTERS, FISHERMEN, AND NEWLYWEDS.
Here is a list of conveniences for you, courtesy of:
ALBERT PINKHAM AND FAMILY
Hot Plate Usage: ............................ 25¢ per day
(Hot plates can be obtained in the living room from family members only. A day’s deposit required. Go around to front door and knock. Dog doesn’t bite.)
HOT BATH WATER ............................ 50¢ per day
(Hot bath water for the tub must be asked for in advance since it has to be heated on the stove. Plan for your bath ahead of time. That way no one will have to wait. Bath water available between 5:45 p.m. and 8:00 p.m. only. Forty-five minutes of bath time for each room, unless other boarders don’t need the tub.)
PLEASE fill out list below:
Room Number __________
__________ YES, I do want to rent a hot plate
__________ YES, I do want to take a bath
I plan to bathe at:
__________ 5:45
__________ 6:30
__________ 7:15
__________ 8:00
First come, first served. Thank you for staying at the all modern:
ALBERT PINKHAM FAMILY MOTEL
“How will I get supper for us and boil water for the boarders at the same time? I only got that one stove,” Sarah Pinkham complained to her husband. “Can’t we start the bath time later?”
“If we get done at eight o’clock we can watch Milton Berle each week.”
“Well, why don’t we have the time earlier on Tuesday nights only?” Sarah asked.
“Consistency,” Albert Pinkham told his distraught wife. “We gotta be known for our consistency.”
“Sounds more like stupidity,” Sarah later said to Belle.
“Well, there’s no more room on the card anyway,” said Belle, who picked a doughboy out of the chicken stew, mistaking it, due to her eye condition, for a potato.
Albert’s luck after six months in business ran in spurts. First of all, his best room, number 3, which faced away from the road and had a window opening on Sarah’s flower garden, was permanently rented by a young woman who said she was a modern dancer and would be studying psychology one night a week at the high school in Watertown. The room soon took on the atmosphere of hominess. A window box full of geraniums appeared the second day of her arrival. A small clothes rack sat outside her door on the third day, decorated with delicate female underthings, and was taken in only when the dainty articles were dry. The addition of a braided rug on the cement outside and a bowl in the window with two shimmering goldfish catching the sun convinced Sarah that the attractive young woman meant to stay for a while. The last thing Sarah wanted encamped beneath t
heir bedroom window was the likes of Violet La Forge. Albert behaved like a silly puppy whenever Violet came into the living room to inquire about certain fixtures in the room and to ask permission to make changes in the decor.
“She’s painting the room pink,” Albert told his wife after one such visit.
“What’s wrong with the beige? I just painted that room.” Sarah was testing Albert to see how quickly he sided with the new tenant. Aware of her tactics, Albert said simply, “We’ll have to get used to spoiled clients.”
Sarah tried another approach, one even dearer to Albert’s heart than an attractive young woman.
“It’ll cost us money to repaint that room,” she said.
“She brought her own paint with her. She said she had it left over after she painted her bed.”
“She’s got a pink bed?” Sarah asked in disbelief.
“Our bed,” Albert said. “She painted our bed pink.”
“Well, of all the nerve!” Sarah began listing the reasons it would be in the best interest of the motel to ask Violet La Forge to leave, but Albert stopped her.
“I won’t have you throwing out a paying guest during such a slack time of year. We’re lucky to get someone that permanent with the harvest still going.”
With that he went out to talk with fishermen who had just pulled in for some last-of-the-season fishing. Looking out the window as Violet La Forge unloaded a small orange tree in a wooden bucket from the backseat of her little Volkswagen, Sarah said nothing. “Let him go,” she thought. “I’ll find out what Miss Modern Dancer is all about. I’ll rattle the skeletons in her closet. Oranges this far north.”
The fishermen brought their wives with them to stay behind at the room and enjoy a few days of girl talk while the men fished. The two couples rented rooms 1 and 2, facing the road. There was only one room left, number 4, next to Violet La Forge, when the sorrowful Packard limped into the driveway of the Albert Pinkham Family Motel. But it was not a happy family that pulled up to Albert’s front door. Drawing from a primitive instinct for survival, Thelma had ridden in the camper for the rest of the trip, where she kept the children in tow. Marvin Sr. drove while a bewailing Junior was hospitalized in the backseat by his doting mother. Pearl saw to it that even old wounds were securely bound and had finally calmed Junior down from the exasperating day. With Thelma riding herd over the children, the rest of the trip had passed uneventfully, which was fine with the disgruntled passengers of the Packard.
Since there was only room for Marvin and Pearl in the Albert Pinkham Family Motel, and since there was still enough daylight, Junior decided to pitch camp for his family. Pearl called Sicily to announce their arrival and ask about Marge’s condition. Hearing that Marge was still on her last breath, they carried their suitcases into Room 4.
“That’s one hell of a long breath,” said Marvin Sr. “She’s been drawing it since the phone call yesterday afternoon.” Pearl flopped down onto the bed.
“A nice hot bath,” she told Marvin. “All I want in this earthly life is a nice hot bath.”
“You’d better fill this out then,” said Marvin, who had been reading Belle’s artwork. He passed the index card to Pearl, who read it slowly. She looked at Marvin.
“What does this mean?” she asked.
“This ain’t Portland, Pearl. There’s no hot water.”
“What time is it? Quick!”
Marvin pulled out his pocket watch.
“It’s seven thirty.”
“Quick, give me a pen!” Pearl shouted. “We still got time for the eight o’clock water if we hurry.”
When Pearl came back to Room 4, Marvin had taken off his shoes and was listening to the radio.
“How’d it go?”
Pearl slumped on the bed and said nothing. She appeared ready to cry.
“How’d it go, Pearl? What’s wrong?”
“A fisherman’s wife in number one just signed up for the last hot water tonight. We can’t take a real bath in a tub until five forty-five tomorrow night.”
“There now,” said Marvin and took her into his arms.
“All day long, ever since the accident, it’s all I thought of,” Pearl said, her voice breaking. “A nice hot bath and a clean bed.”
“Don’t cry, Pearly,” Marvin said as he rocked Pearl back and forth on the bed. “I’ll go get one of his hot plates and we’ll freshen up a bit here in the room.”
“A French whore’s bath!” cried Pearl. “I’ve driven three hundred seventy miles with birdbrained Thelma and those three heathens just to take a whore’s bath!”
“It’s better than nothing, sweetheart,” said Marvin Sr., whose usual endearment was simply Pearly. He knew sweetheart had calming effects on her. Darling was medicinal. That one he saved for the serious occasions, when he feared another breakdown like the one when they were first married. Earlier, when Pearl raised her hand to strike Thelma for asking, “Do you still want me to drive?” after the Packard had been retrieved from the clover field, Marvin Sr. almost brought out a darling. But the policeman’s presence put a damper on Pearl’s fiery temper. By the time he left, Thelma had wisely barricaded herself inside the safety of the camper.
True to form, Pearl stopped crying and said, “I suppose it could be worse.”
“Of course it could.”
“Junior could have been crippled for life.”
“Maybe never walk again,” said Marvin.
“And there really could have been a fire.”
“It would have blown us to bits.”
“The policeman said if it hadn’t been for the rock pile we’d have gone into the river.”
“We’d have probably drowned.”
“Will you go for the hot plate, then?” Pearl blew her nose.
“Right this minute,” said Marvin.
“And put us down for hot water as early tomorrow night as possible?”
“I’ll put us down. Where’s the card?”
“I gave it to Mr. Pinkham and told him to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
“That could be just about anywhere this far north,” Marvin said. Pearl’s bottom lip began to flutter again.
“I’ll get a new one then. You just stay here and rest, sweetheart.”
“You’re a good husband, Marvin.”
“You’re a good wife.”
When Marvin came back, Pearly had undressed and was waiting in her housecoat for the hot plate. Along with the appliance, Marvin had brought back a small aluminum pan full of water from the bathroom.
“The bathroom’s outside at the end of the motel. I’ll carry this down for you when it’s hot.”
“Didn’t they give you a bigger pan?”
“Mr. Pinkham said he’s trying to discourage people from heating their own bathwater. Seems a couple of hunters were doing that and he had to put a stop to it. He made a joke about it. Said he told the hunters he was losing money down the drain.”
“That’s not very funny,” said Pearl.
“He thought it was.”
“Is there a flush in there?” she asked.
“There’s a flush.”
“Do we have to fill out a card when we want to flush the damn thing?” Pearl almost seemed to blame Marvin for this predicament.
“Only rooms number 1 and 2 can flush it! Get it?” said Marvin, pleased that he had stumbled upon a joke. “Number 1 and number 2. Get it, Pearl?”
“Silly,” said Pearl, getting into a better mood.
“Funny thing next door,” said Marvin. He slipped off his loafers and socks, then held the socks to his nose to see if they would hold up one more day. He held them up to Pearl for her opinion, but as soon as they dangled within a foot of her nose she made a face and waved them away.
“What about next door?” Pearl stuck her index finger into the pan, waiti
ng for a sign of warmth.
“There’s a young woman in leotards doing exercises on the cement outside Room 3.”
“What?”
“I swear,” said Marvin.
Pearl opened the door. Violet La Forge was doing sit-ups. Her body suit was stretched across her large breasts, which seemed to hold her back like boulders when she sat up to touch her toes. After three more sit-ups, Violet saw Pearl in the doorway of number 4.
“Hello, neighbor,” she said, stopping the exercise.
“Hello,” Pearl said suspiciously.
“I’m Violet La Forge. I’m renting here on a permanent basis.”
“You live here?”
“Until I decide what I want to do with my career. I might become a psychologist, but right now I’m a modern dancer. I dance in the ballroom of the Watertown Hotel.”
“When did they turn that little saloon into a ballroom?” Pearl asked, thinking they must be talking about two different buildings. The downstairs bar at the Watertown Hotel wasn’t any bigger than the mourner’s room at the Ivy Funeral Home. Violet ignored the slight. Isadora Duncan, she reminded herself, put up with countless insults and innuendoes before being accepted as a true artist.
“If I decide to study psychology, I’ll give up dancing.”
“That’s smart,” said Pearl. “What kind of dancer did you say you were?”
“A modern one,” said Violet. “Trained in the school of modern dance.”
“Well, you’d need a ballroom for that all right,” said Pearl.
Violet drew on inner strength to rise above this rude neighbor. As a believer of reincarnation, she knew all about accepting and abiding bitches in the present life. Otherwise, she’d be tested again, somewhere down the line. And although they’d just met, Violet La Forge didn’t want to encounter Pearl again. For karma’s sake, she smiled.
“Are you here for just one night?” It was her sweet voice, the one Violet had been trained to bring forth when her male customers wanted to touch beneath the flowing scarves of her dancing costumes.
The Funeral Makers Page 5