Places to Stay the Night

by Ann Hood

  Millie was miserable.

  “There’s no noise here,” she said, opening her arms and indicating the autumn foliage, leaves bursting with bright yellow and red. The smell of wood burning in fireplaces filled the air. “There’s no sirens. No people on the streets. No nothing.”

  “This,” Renata told her, “is how most Americans live.” She banged on her chest, Tarzan style. “Smell this good clean air, Millie.”

  Millie’s face crumpled. “It smells like things rotting.”

  She was right. Under all the other smells, hidden almost, was the smell of earth, of rotting apples and dead leaves.

  Millie dropped to the ground and spread her arms, sweeping them back and forth as if she was making a snow angel in the fallen leaves.

  “Remember how our street used to smell?” she said, her voice dreamy. “First it smelled like espresso from that coffee shop? Then it smelled like cats from that one building. And then it smelled like—”

  “Millie,” Renata said, “kids should be raised in the country.” She looked off toward the horizon where the foothills of the Berkshires rose a smoky blue in the afternoon light.

  Millie sat up. “Remember how at night the boys stood around and played their radios? Real loud? And Mrs. Ramone would lean out her window and yell at them and then they’d put it up louder? Remember how they used to break-dance in the middle of the street and not let cars go by?”

  “You’ll get used to it here,” Renata told her. “Wait and see.”

  Renata got a job as assistant manager of a Waldenbooks at the mall. She wore a name tag that said Ms. Handy and kept a blue pencil tucked behind her ear. Hardly anyone ever came into the store. It was the most boring job she’d ever had. She found herself missing the late night crowds at Goldilox, the teenagers with pierced noses and black leather clothes, the old gray-haired hippies who sat reading poetry to themselves at the counter, the disheveled couples who had stumbled from their beds for challah french toast, the women with their belongings spilling from shopping bags who ordered tea and took their tea bags with them when they left.

  One day Renata even called Liz, forgetting it was the lunch rush at Goldilox. There was no rush at the mall, just a senior citizens group, all dressed in jogging suits, who walked the loop of the mall every day for exercise and waved to Renata as they passed the bookstore.

  “What?” Liz yelled when she finally came to the phone.

  “I was just calling to say hi,” Renata said. She yelled too, her voice exploding in the empty store.

  “Okay,” Liz said. “Hi.” Then to someone in the restaurant she screamed, “Do not put two people at a fourtop! What is the matter with you?”

  “Mall people are weirder than East Village people,” Renata said, dropping her voice. “There are women who still have hair like Farrah Fawcett. Men with gold chains. Young men with gold chains. Millie is miserable and I forgot why the hell this was such a good idea in the first place.”

  “Lentil!” Liz yelled. “The soup today is lentil! Not gazpacho!”

  Renata hung up.

  The senior citizens passed the store and waved. Renata waved back to them, a big enthusiastic wave. Maybe, she thought, she should open a restaurant. A health food restaurant with sandwiches on thick multigrain bread and lentil soup and soba noodles. That’s what this town needed. The people were health-conscious, weren’t they? Didn’t these senior citizens come here every day to walk?

  “My God,” a female voice said, “you’re Renata Handy.”

  Renata looked up and saw a vaguely familiar face. The woman had on magenta lipstick, false eyelashes, and a pink sweatsuit.

  “When on earth did you move back to town?” the woman said.

  Renata studied the face. Suddenly, worse than an LSD flashback, she could see that magenta mouth laughing, smoking in the girls’ room at Holly High, whispering when Renata walked in to pee.

  “Dee-Dee,” Renata said.

  “Renata Handy. I can’t believe it.” Dee-Dee shook her head for emphasis.

  Renata smiled.

  “Look at you,” Dee-Dee said. “You haven’t changed a bit. What have you been up to all this time?”

  “I had an art career, you know,” Renata said, the lie feeling like an egg in her throat. “In New York.”

  “I remember you always were drawing. Like Peter Max.” Dee-Dee rolled her eyes. “You would sit in geometry class and draw instead of paying attention. Swirls and squiggles in bright colors.”

  Renata nodded. “Yes,” she said. “That’s right.”

  “Well, did you get married? Did you have babies?”

  Renata kept nodding. “Yes,” she said. “But he died in the war.”

  Dee-Dee’s eyes widened. “In the Gulf? Why, you poor thing. I sure had a yellow ribbon on my front door. And so you came home to recover?”

  This part at least was true. “Yes,” Renata said. “And to open a health food restaurant.”

  “How brave,” Dee-Dee said. She hesitated. “Listen. I have a support group, you know? For divorcees and widows? We have a great time. We go ballroom dancing in Albany and we hostess parties where divorced and widowed men come for cocktails and canapés. We would love to have you. I’m divorced myself, you know? I know what it’s like to be alone, believe me.”

  Renata kept nodding and saying yes. She heard herself agree to go to one of their meetings. Dee-Dee wrote her address and phone number on a Waldenbooks bookmark. Her press-on nails were painted pink.

  “So we’ll see you at the meeting, right?” Dee-Dee said.

  “Definitely,” Renata told her.

  By the time Dee-Dee left, Renata was so drained, she could hardly wave when the senior citizens passed her again.

  “A small with pineapple, black olives, and Canadian bacon,” the customer said to Dana. He smiled, flashing two deep dimples. “Please,” he added.

  “Pineapple. Black olives. Canadian bacon,” Dana said.

  One of the rules at Pizza Pizzazz was to repeat the customer’s toppings. Another was to say, “Ten minutes,” even if there were fifty orders ahead of theirs.

  Dana handed the customer his order slip. “Ten minutes,” she mumbled, knowing it would be more like twenty.

  She hated Pizza Pizzazz, PIZZA THE WAY YOU LIKE IT. They had over a hundred toppings to choose from and Dana thought that at least ninety of them were disgusting. But this job, three nights a week and all day Saturday, was her ticket to New York. Caitlin worked at Pizza Pizzazz too. It was Caitlin who always reminded Dana every Saturday that these one hundred toppings were their ticket out.

  They had to wear khaki safari shorts and Hawaiian shirts as uniforms. One more humiliation, Dana thought, tugging at her turquoise high-tops and watching the pineapple, black olive, Canadian bacon guy. He was very cute. Those dimples. Sky blue eyes.

  Caitlin said, “Jalapeno, avocado, mango. Ten minutes.” Then she looked at Dana and crossed her eyes. “An L.A. pizza,” she mumbled.

  Dana had a flash, a quick image like a scene on MTV, of her mother in Ray-Bans sitting on a beach eating a jalapeno, avocado, and mango pizza. Her nails were long and pink, her skin tanned, her lips curled in a smile. Dana blinked her eyes real quick to erase it.

  When she opened them again, she thought she saw the cute guy smile at her. He had on a gray T-shirt that said WILLIAMS. A college boy. Someone smart. Someone who came from somewhere else. Every now and then, after work, she still went out with Mike, but only if Caitlin and Kevin went too. Sometimes, and this was what made her sick to her stomach, she still had sex with him. It was easier than fighting. All she had to do was close her eyes and imagine other places—Fifth Avenue, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty.

  It was funny how you could just separate yourself from what was happening, Dana thought. How you could transpose yourself to a sidewalk cafe while a boy you’ve known since you were seven pushed into you, grunting. How you could zap yourself onto Fifth Avenue, give yourself high heels, a zebra-striped co
at, two Afghans on silver leashes, while someone you’ve never seen before looked at you and said, “Cottage cheese, hamburger, tomato, and chives.”

  “I don’t want to make a habit of this,” Dana told Caitlin as they walked out of Pizza Pizzazz toward Kevin’s Camaro.

  “Saturday nights with these Neanderthals will make for very funny reading someday,” Caitlin said. “You know, in our memoirs.”

  Caitlin wore two different-colored high-tops—one raspberry, one lemon yellow. Dana’s eyes followed those shoes across the street. She didn’t even look up when one of the guys whistled like a sailor.

  “I can’t make a habit of this,” she said again.

  Caitlin blew a big bubble with her gum, then popped it. Dana could smell grape in the air.

  “Think of it as an adventure,” Caitlin said.

  Dana laughed. “An adventure is something unexpected. Something you don’t know anything about.” She stopped walking, still several yards from the car. “I know every single thing that will happen when we get in that car. Mike will put his thick arm around my shoulders and say, ‘Hey, babe.’ When Kevin takes a curve too fast they’ll laugh and say. ‘An SOB. Slide Over Babe.’ They’ll have two six-packs of Coors Light and they’ll take us someplace to drink them and then pull our pants off and screw us, which will take about seven minutes.”

  Caitlin had moved close to her. She tried to cover Dana’s mouth with her hand. She was giggling. “Dana,” she whispered, “did you time it? Seven minutes?”

  Dana sighed.

  “What is this?” Kevin said, hanging out of the car window. “Let’s party already.”

  Caitlin squeezed Dana’s arm, right below the sleeve of the Pizza Pizzazz Hawaiian shirt, where palm trees and parrots danced crookedly. “Come on,” she said. “It’s better than nothing.”

  Dana nodded. But she thought that nothing would be much, much better.

  Nadine told Troy the ocean was better than woods or mountains.

  She cited reasons. “No bugs. No humidity. When you sweat, you can jump in the water and cool right off.”

  That was why they should leave. That was why they should go to Florida. He should get a motorcycle and fix it up. Then off they’d go.

  “Into the sunset,” Nadine said.

  Ever since his mother left, Troy felt he was getting younger and younger. He couldn’t make decisions. He wanted to be fed, to be taken care of. He missed things like homework and study hall and the way the rope felt against his skin when he had to shimmy up it in gym class. At first, when he was sure Libby would come back, he didn’t feel like much of anything. But when it hit him she was gone for good, he felt something ooze out of him, like air from a balloon.

  “In Florida,” Nadine said, “you can sleep on the beach. You can make money picking citrus fruit. Lemons. Oranges. Grapefruit.”

  Troy knew that if his mother was here, he’d maybe do it. Fix up a motorcycle and take off to Florida, with crazy Nadine clutching his waist, screaming into the wind. Instead, he bought a three-pack of new white Fruit of the Loom T-shirts at Caldor’s, a three-subject spiral notebook with a bright blue cover, and a fat pack of Bic pens, fine point.

  Nadine eyed his purchases suspiciously.

  “Stuff for school,” he told her.

  That really made her flip out. She started screaming and beating on his chest with her fists.

  “School? I’m talking about a life here. I’m talking about the fucking Atlantic Ocean. And you’re buying stuff for algebra? For fucking American history?”

  He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even try to stop her from punching his chest. He just watched her and wondered how he had ended up here, in this tiny messy apartment with Nadine.

  “We could have a life,” Nadine was shouting. “No snow. No Dixie Cups. All the fucking oranges we can eat.”

  He grabbed both of her wrists in one of his big hands. He could really throw a football with these hands. Somehow he’d stopped doing that too.

  “Listen,” he told her, his voice soft and calm. “I can’t just drop out of school—”

  “You already did,” she said, twisting her hands, trying to break free.

  “Not officially. I can talk to the guidance counselor—”

  “I don’t want to hear this!” Nadine said. Then she opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could.

  Troy stepped back, away from her, letting her hands drop, and just watched her. All he saw was a girl who looked as if she’d had a hard life, as if she’d seen things someone her age shouldn’t have seen yet. Her breasts were flattened weirdly inside her tube top, and her latest tattoo—a sea horse on her ankle—still looked all red and raw. Her hair needed cutting too. Her bangs hung too low across her eyes and the ends kind of fishtailed. All of it made Troy want to run away, fast.

  But he waited until she stopped screaming.

  Then he said, “Maybe, if you feel this strongly about it, we should cool it for a while.”

  Now she stepped back, as if he’d hit her. She even put both hands on her stomach.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She seemed to consider what she was going to say next very carefully. “Education is very important,” she said finally.

  Troy nodded.

  “Please stay,” Nadine said. Now her voice was real squeaky, the way it sometimes got in bed.

  “Yeah,” Troy said. “Of course.” Even though his greatest desire right then was to go home. He wanted to flop down on the couch in the living room and watch Saturday Afternoon at the Movies. Or call some of his buddies and throw a ball around. He wanted to take long gulps of milk, straight from the carton.

  “I get carried away,” Nadine was saying. “I’d die if you left me.”

  “You wouldn’t die,” he said, feeling suddenly bad. Not just for Nadine, but for himself. He pulled her over to him. “Come on,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Promise?” she said in that squeaky voice.

  “Promise,” he lied.

  Mr. Burns, the guidance counselor, thought he was real cool, like one of the kids. He thought everybody loved him. But really they all laughed at him and his bright shirts with the alligators on the chest and his fat stomach that jiggled when he walked and his mustache that seemed to collect things—cat hair, lint, pieces of food.

  Today, Troy saw what looked like cookie crumbs clinging there. Maybe Oreos. And Mr. Burns’s shirt was a deep red, with the collar standing straight up as if he’d ironed it that way. Mr. Burns had a habit of always running his fingers through his thinning hair. Troy supposed it was to make sure the bald spot way in the back was covered.

  “Hey, buddy,” Mr. Burns was saying. “Where’ve you been? Huh?” He slapped Troy on the arm playfully.

  Troy had his whole sad story all thought out. “We’ve had a real tough time at home, Mr. Burns,” he said.

  Mr. Burns nodded. His face filled with great sympathy and understanding. “I heard,” he said. “What can I tell you? I wish I had all the answers. But I don’t. You know, I was in school with them. With your parents. Your dad’s a great guy.” His face brightened. “And what an athlete, huh?”

  Troy nodded.

  There was an awkward silence then. Troy glanced around the room. On one wall was an antidrug poster of an egg frying. On another was a navy recruiting poster of a happy sailor. Outside, Troy saw the cheerleaders practicing. They looked beautiful, he thought. They had shiny hair pulled back in ponytails, tanned faces, smiles like girls in toothpaste commercials.

  “I want to make it all up,” he said. “I missed so much last year—”

  “You should have gone to summer school, Troy,” Mr. Burns said, shaking his head, reading a file that said in black letters TROY T. HARPER. Under his name someone had scrawled Dropout????

  “I didn’t have any plans or anything then,” Troy said. “I do now, though. Really.” He looked back out the window, at those girls jumping in unison.

  “Don’t worry, you can come back.
We can fix it so you can do your senior year, graduate with your class, then do some make-up classes in the summer.”

  Mr. Burns gave Troy one of his good buddy smiles. “Maybe your sister can help you catch up.”

  Troy shrugged. He doubted that Dana would help him at all.

  “Hey,” Mr. Burns said, “don’t look so grim, we’ll work something out.”

  The hallways in the high school were each painted a different color. Baby blue or bright orange or sea green over cinder block. Mr. Burns’s office was on the blue hall, and once Troy finally got out of there, he leaned against the blue cinder blocks and took big deep breaths. No more pot, he told himself. Then he amended the vow. Except on weekends. And he would work at his father’s garage on Saturdays. He would find a nice sweet girlfriend with shiny hair and a bright smile. He took another deep breath. He would show his mother.

  He smiled to himself, imagining his new routine. Getting up early, never missing classes, doing homework. Dumping Nadine. Another deep breath. Then he stepped outside, into the bright sunshine.

  The cheerleaders had finished practice and were starting to disperse into small groups. They were beautiful, Troy thought. Every one of them. He passed a group of three and waved. They waved back and whispered. He had a reputation, he knew. He was bad. Wild.

  At the end of the drive that led onto the road, Troy saw two girls part.

  “I’ll call you when I get home,” one of them called to the other.

  Jessica Tremont, Troy thought. A real snob. But the other girl was unfamiliar. Blond blond hair. Big blue eyes. Braces on her teeth. Freckles on her nose. She looked like she’d stepped right out of a Norman Rockwell picture of an American teenager.

  “Hi,” Troy said, walking up beside her.

  She looked down at the ground.

  He did too. His heart soared. She was wearing pure white Keds! And white ankle socks! Her calves were tanned and firm, her knees were beautiful.