Places to Stay the Night

by Ann Hood

  Still, when she tried to sit close to Billy in the car, he seemed to tense up. And when she asked him what he was doing that night, he snapped at her.

  For the rest of the way, Dana gazed out the window, at the foothills of the Berkshires and the trees still tipped with bright autumn colors. When they drove through Lee she said, “You know that guy in the Dunkin’ Donuts commercial? The guy who says, ‘Time to make the donuts’?”

  Billy shook his head. “No.”

  “Well, I saw him in there once,” Dana said. She pointed to the drugstore, but Billy didn’t look. “I guess he has a weekend house here or something,” she added. Then she looked out the window again.

  Billy’s room had had some posters hanging on the wall—Bette Davis in black and white and Jim Morrison and a sexy woman in a bathing suit. While he showered that morning, Dana had studied them, and the books on the small row of shelves. They were mostly textbooks, and books like Slaughterhouse Five and Rabbit Run. The room looked like any boy’s room. It could have been Troy’s. It could have been Mike’s. On the desk there was a fancy matchbox car, a Ferrari, and Dana just knew that someone had given it to him as a joke. “I got you a car for your birthday,” someone said. And there it was, six inches long, all shiny and red and important-looking. The oldest joke around.

  What bothered Dana were the neatly framed photographs of Billy and a girl with a heart-shaped face and dark brown hair neatly held back in a headband. There were three pictures in all, including one tucked into the edge of the mirror. That one was the kind you take in a Woolworth’s photo booth, small and black and white with the faces slightly exaggerated. If somebody had a girlfriend somewhere, they would not—could not—take another girl to their room and do such intimate things with her.

  On the way home, while she looked out the window, Dana tried to think of ways to phrase a question about the girl. She could start it by saying, “I noticed some pictures in your room …” She could ask, “Do you have a girlfriend or something?” She could laugh when she said it, so he wouldn’t know it mattered.

  They reached the dirt road that led to her house. She lived three miles down.

  “Sometimes,” Dana said, “around this time of year we see deer on this road.”

  “Yeah?” Billy said.

  She tried to think of something else to say but couldn’t.

  “This is real rural,” Billy said.

  His voice startled her. She looked around at all the bright yellow construction machinery, the pink ropes that marked off land that had recently been sold.

  “People from out of town are buying it all up and building on it,” Dana said. That was the wrong thing to say. He was from out of town, after all. “You can stop here,” she said.

  They were still about a mile from her house, but Dana did not want him to see where she lived, to see the dull green chipped paint, the lopsided roof.

  Quietly, she asked, “Where do you live?”

  When she said it, she felt slightly sick to her stomach. This boy was a stranger. She knew nothing about him.

  He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He looked straight ahead.

  “Chappaqua,” he said. “New York.”

  “Oh.”

  He looked at her. “You know it?” He seemed almost hopeful.

  “No,” Dana said. She tried to revive her role from last night. “Are you kidding? I’ve never been farther than Albany. We don’t go anywhere.”

  He nodded.

  She felt almost desperate. Something was very wrong here. “Do you have a pen?” she said. Her eyes darted around the small car. “I’ll give you my phone number.”

  “I don’t,” he said.

  “That’s okay,” she said too quickly. “We’re in the book.” She fumbled with the door handle. She kept thinking about the way she had felt last night, twelve short hours ago. How he had been able to give her that feeling she’d had in the bathtub, how he had whispered things to her. He had said her skin was soft. Like silk, he’d said.

  She was out of the car now. She stepped back, away from it, while he smoothly shifted into reverse.

  And then Dana remembered something.

  “Hey,” she said. She grabbed at the hood of the car as it lurched backward.

  “Harper,” she said. “My last name. It’s Harper.”

  Here in Massachusetts, things grew. Old fruit trees in the yard that had seemed at first to be past their ability to bear fruit, suddenly bloomed with apples and pears. A grapevine that twisted along the back fence developed fat Concord grapes. Renata felt inspired by all the productivity that surrounded her and she started a window box of herbs. That too began to grow, and the smells of fresh rosemary and sage filled the kitchen now.

  Even Millie was impressed. As much as she did not want to like Massachusetts, the burst of nature that surrounded them there got to her. She tended the herbs, plucking the fragrant stalks to top homemade pizzas and salads.

  “See, Millie?” Renata told her. “Anything is possible.”

  Millie’s face was smeared with juice from the grapes, dark purple smears that ran down her chin and neck.

  “Maybe this is where you’ll meet Prince Charming,” Millie said. She had a system for eating those grapes—she sucked the insides from the skin first, then ate the rest.

  “Not that again,” Renata said. She was planting bulbs—tulips and crocuses. They had to be put into the ground before the first frost. Then in spring they would be the first to bloom, the first signs of warm weather, of life.

  She remembered going to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on a cold March day and being greeted by a hill alive with daffodils, their bright bursts of yellow and white the only vibrant sign around. The trees were still bare, the grass not even beginning to show green.

  “Wait’ll you see these babies,” Renata said. “In March they’ll poke their heads out and then we’ll know warm weather is on its way.”

  “I thought the groundhog did that,” Millie said.

  Renata concentrated on her planting, on the feel of cold earth against her hands. She could already imagine the shock of pink and purple against dried dirt, the spray of color along this edge of the yard.

  “Mister Russo,” Millie was saying, “he teaches ESL, he’s very handsome. He’s not married.”

  “How do you know?”

  Millie shrugged. “Maybe I asked him.”

  “Millie, don’t do that. Honey, aren’t you happy like this? Just the two of us?”

  Millie plucked another grape, sucked its insides into her mouth. “Sometimes fathers come and pick up their children at school. Like there’s this girl named Brie Conan and sometimes her father is waiting for her outside. He wears plaid shirts and faded jeans and if it’s cold he wears a red down vest. Sometimes he has her baby sister in a caboose on his back.”

  “A caboose,” Renata said, “is part of a train.”

  Millie sighed. “Then they drive off in their van. Home. Like a family.”

  “A papoose is what I think you mean,” Renata said. She stood and studied her work. “This is going to be great. Just you wait until spring.”

  Millie didn’t answer. Renata turned toward her daughter, who sat cross-legged on the grass, as if she had a secret.

  Monday morning Millie said, “Brie Conan is the most beautiful girl in the whole world. She has long straight hair like people in Sweden and she wears light blue sweaters with snowflakes right here.” She pointed to her collar.

  “Brie is the silliest name I ever heard,” Renata said.

  “It’s French! Why do you have to ruin everything?”

  “It’s cheese. What’s her sister’s name, Camembert?”

  Millie stood and stiffly put on her coat. “Sometimes,” she said, “I hate you.”

  “Hey!” Renata said. But Millie was gone, closing the door with a loud smack.

  Renata sat in the quiet kitchen. She could smell rosemary, and a trace of mint. The furnace hummed and banged, then the house was c
ompletely silent. How quiet it was without Millie, Renata thought. How unbearably quiet. Suddenly, she was gripped with fear. What if something really happened to Millie? What if something happened to her today?

  She rushed to the door, opened it, and called, “Millie!” But the bus had come and gone. Renata had heard terrible stories about buses filled with children, Girl Scouts or Little League teams. How foolish to think school buses were safe. What did she know about the driver of that bus? She tried to remember if Millie had ever mentioned who it was. Then it came to her. It was a man with a name like Butch or Spike, and Millie had said he was simpleminded. Like a big overgrown kid, she’d said.

  Renata glanced at the clock. They wouldn’t be at school yet. She imagined Butch stopping for a new group of children. It seemed someone like that could be so easily distracted. A rabbit darting along the road, a child singing off-key. How could they have hired this man to drive children around? She waited as long as she could, then dialed the school.

  “This is Renata Handy,” she said, “I just wondered if bus number twelve is there okay?”

  “All the buses are,” the secretary said. She had a bright peppy voice that Renata found annoying.

  “Number twelve is there?” Renata said.

  “They’re all in their places with bright shining faces,” the woman said, practically chirping.

  “Well,” Renata said, feeling suddenly foolish. “Thanks.”

  She could pick out Brie Conan’s father immediately—red plaid shirt, faded jeans bleached white at the crotch and knees. He had a beard, worn boots, the red down vest and a baby asleep in the carrier on his back. She guessed that he worked outdoors from the color in his cheeks and the way his hair seemed to have sun highlights in it. If this man had an indoor job, Renata speculated, he wouldn’t have so much gold in his beard, he would look as pale as all the other New Englanders did this time of year.

  She went over to him. He leaned against the back of his van. The van was black and dusty.

  “Hi,” she said. “You must be Brie’s father.”

  He nodded. He was good-looking in a rugged kind of way. She guessed he wasn’t very smart. Conan the Barbarian, she thought, and smiled.

  “I’m Millie’s mother,” she said. “Renata.” She was glad she was still dressed from work, that she looked nice.

  “Millie,” he said, rolling the name around on his tongue. “Was she at the party Saturday?”

  Renata tried not to look surprised. “No,” she said. “She wasn’t.”

  “What a zoo that was,” he said, smiling. When he smiled, nice crinkles appeared around his eyes. “A dozen little girls. M and M’s everywhere. All these tiny little Barbie shoes.” He held his thumb and forefinger up to show just how tiny. “You know how it is.”

  “Yes,” Renata said.

  But she didn’t. Millie had never had a birthday party like that, with a cake shaped like the Cookie Monster and kids playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey. Last year they had gone for Indian food on East Sixth Street and she’d let Millie order anything she wanted. They’d had red snapper tandoori and extra nan.

  “I’m sorry,” Brie’s father was saying, “I can’t place Millie.”

  “We just moved here,” Renata said. She hated this man. She hated his little blond daughter with the Barbies and the snow-flake sweaters.

  “We did too,” he said. “Well, in July. From Boston. I was working in advertising and needed to quit the rat race.” He held up his calloused hands. “So here we are.”

  He wasn’t dumb after all. She hated him even more. He had slid closer to her and she got a whiff of the baby, soapy and powdered. The school doors opened and a flood of children spilled out, pushing and shouting.

  “What do you do out here in the boondocks?” Renata asked him. She didn’t look at him. She was making a plan.

  “I own a nursery,” he said. He laughed again. “The tree kind.”

  Renata caught sight of Millie, walking alone, head bent, her wig bobbing as if it had a life of its own.

  “I just planted some bulbs,” Renata said. “My first time. Usually I kill everything I touch.” She looked him full in the eyes. His were dark green. “Maybe you could stop by and check them out?”

  He shrugged, then looked toward the children approaching.

  “I make a mean martini,” Renata said.

  He nodded. Renata turned back toward the children. Millie was lagging behind, dragging her school bag on the ground. Renata gave him directions to the house. Then Brie was there, surrounded by other little girls, all giggling and pigtailed. She was the leader of this group, that was clear.

  “Who wants a ride?” her father shouted.

  He picked up his daughter and spun her around. One big happy family, Renata thought. Then went to meet Millie.

  He made a pretense of checking her bulbs, bending and examining what she’d done. Then he pronounced them “just fine.”

  “Good,” Renata said. She wore a T-shirt and no bra, knowing the cold air would make her nipples hard against the thin cotton. Knowing this man would see them. She wasn’t sure why she was doing this, she just knew she had to.

  Last night Millie had told her, “I saw you talking to Mr. Conan. I wish they weren’t quite such a happy family. Then maybe he’d be your Prince Charming and Brie could be my sister. And we’d all live happily ever after.”

  “There are no Cleavers,” Renata said.

  “What are Cleavers?”

  “They’re like Huxtables,” she told Millie. “Make-believe.”

  Standing here now, trying not to shiver, Renata wondered if she had to prove that to Millie, or to herself.

  “I’ve got those martinis,” she said.

  “I hardly earned them,” he said, showing those crinkles around his eyes. But he followed her inside.

  His name was Joe. Renata asked him, “Now that’s a nice straightforward name. How did you ever settle on Brie?”

  He shrugged and laughed again. “The baby’s Star,” he told her. “Does that make you feel better?”

  She refilled his glass, making sure to brush against him. It had been a long time and she was surprised how easily it all came back to her.

  “They’re both awful,” she said.

  Joe grabbed her around the waist. His hands were big.

  “Here you have this little baby,” Renata said, “this beautiful child, a wife. What are you doing here?”

  “Checking your bulbs,” he said.

  It had proven nothing except that she did, in a way, miss sex. Joe Conan cheated on his wife. This wasn’t the first time, Renata was sure of that. And he would keep doing it. She was sure of that too. All along she had believed that there were really no happy families, that things were not what they seemed. And she was right.

  Three days earlier Joe Conan had been serving cake at his daughter’s birthday party. This afternoon he’d been making love to her right on the kitchen floor. Right now, she thought, he was probably standing in front of the school, his baby on his back, waiting like a good father for his little girl. Being with him here had made her feel good for a couple of hours. But now she felt like hell.

  Millie practically danced through the door. Renata was still in her bathrobe, sipping tea. She had stayed under a hot shower for a very long time.

  “Mama, guess what happened?” Millie said. She jumped onto Renata’s lap.

  “You won the lottery?”

  “Brie Conan’s father gave me a ride home. And they invited me over on Saturday.”

  “That is news,” Renata said.

  “I wish I wish I wish they were not such a big happy family. Oh, Mama,” she said, resting her head on Renata’s shoulder, “I know that’s an awful wish, but I wish it anyway.”

  Dana felt dreamy, foggy, confused.

  “That,” Caitlin told her, “is love.” Caitlin produced evidence. Books with a woman wearing a torn dress on the cover, her breasts almost completely exposed. A fire raged behind her. A man rushe
d toward the woman. “‘When Lamont was away from her, Cassandra could not think straight,’” Caitlin read. “‘She couldn’t remember even the simple things—how to bake bread, how to cut back the rose bushes.’”

  Dana looked out her bedroom window, at the messy piles of dead leaves, the tangle of weeds. “Rose bushes,” she said. She imagined that Billy’s house in Chappaqua, New York, was lined with tall dark green hedges, perfectly shaped and trimmed. That there was a colorful garden where flowers and bushes grew in an interesting geometric shape. She made the house brick with ivy climbing one side.

  “‘With Lamont,’” Caitlin was reading, “‘nothing else mattered. Cassandra could forget the war that raged in the real world, the world outside his arms. She smiled, remembering the pressure of his manhood against her thigh, his mouth on her breasts …’”

  Dana flopped back on her bed and groaned. “Please,” she said, closing her eyes. No, she thought. Billy’s house would be large and white, with black shutters and big columns in the front.” She gave him two sheepdogs, a gazebo in back. She made his mother look like a young Katharine Hepburn in baggy trousers and a straw hat to protect her fair skin from the sun. She added long gloves, to protect her arms from the thorns when she had to cut back the roses.

  “‘No, Cassandra reminded herself. The real world was Lamont’s arms.’” Caitlin sighed and tossed the book at Dana. “Chapter twelve,” she said. “‘Love.’”

  Every time the door at Pizza Pizzazz opened, Dana looked up, expecting to see Billy. He would come in late, she decided, and drive her back to Williams with him. They would go to another party. In her backpack, she’d put her toothbrush and the apricot soap she used to wash her face. She’d put a pair of clean underwear and extra socks.

  Two girls walked up to the counter.

  “Hi,” one of them said. She had very straight, very long brown hair. “Danielle, right?”

  Dana frowned and shook her head.

  “From the party?” the girl said. “Last week?”