by PW Cooper
“Fuck you!” Jeffrey burst to his feet. His hands clenched uselessly. He wished there was something around for him to hit.
“Don't talk to me like that!” she snarled, her eyes bulging horribly in their sockets. For a second, Jeffrey didn't see his mother's face – he saw the skull beneath, he saw what she would be when she died. And then, as quickly as it had appeared, the angry light faded. She sank back into herself, buried under the dull green.
He looked around the little room. The paint on the walls was faded, peeling away. “This is just... this is too fucked up. I gotta go.”
She watched him, motionless but for the slow rolling of her eyes in their sockets.
He shook his head. “I gotta go.” He was moving, away from his mother and through the door. The sun glared on the horizon, light slivering in the screen door. She didn't say anything to stop him.
Jeffrey stood on the top step. He looked out at the trailer park. He couldn't stay here, he knew that now. But where else was there?
Sally looked quietly up at him from in the dirt. Her arms were wrapped around one of his bags. He wondered how much she'd heard. She hugged the bag tight. “Where you goin', Jeffy?”
He looked out at the pine forest beyond the old movie screen. Where he'd found the body. He didn't think he could face that again just now. “I dunno.”
“Are you coming back?”
He passed a hand across his eyes. Visions of his childhood seemed to be creeping relentlessly through the park. He couldn't bear to look at them. He was so tired. “Yeah. I'll probably be back.”
* * *
10:59 pm, July 1st, 2002
The air in the hotel lobby had a sterile and mechanical edge to it. The woman behind the counter frowned at him. Her name tag said that she was Susan. He didn't think he knew anybody named Susan. There had been that one girl in a drafting class at San Diego, but he hadn't known her, not really. This Susan had long blond hair, the kind of perfect hair that ended up in shampoo commercials, flowing in the soft caress of the wind machines. “Are you alone?” she asked, her voice clipped and professional.
He nodded. “Yeah. Just me.”
She gave him a key connected to a plastic tag with the room number embossed on it in fading gold paint. He'd expected a card; it seemed oddly antiquated, a hotel that still used actual metal keys. He put the key in his pocket.
“Enjoy your stay,” Susan said, and turned back to her computer.
He picked up his bags and dragged them towards the stairs.
The hotel had seen better days, that was clear. It stood alone in an empty cement lot alongside the highway. The old wallpaper was peeling, like a fine skin torn from ancient flesh. The carpet on the steps was worn bald and the luster on the handrail faded.
He'd known kids in High School who came here to hook up, the after prom special, they called it. There was something sad about that, all those hard-faced young gnawing at each other in the befouled autonomy of a hotel room. Not as sad as being there alone, though.
Jeffrey started up the stair, dragging his baggage behind.
* * *
8:23 am, July 2nd, 2002
Jeffrey blinked. The pillow beneath him smelled fresh, he buried his face in it, breathing in the clean odor.
The alarm clock beside him glowed. He'd forgotten to set it. He rubbed his palms into his eyes. What day was it? Tuesday. Fuck. He'd missed work. Hardly slept either, he'd spent most of the night staring at the clock.
A part of him wanted to go back to San Diego. All those scattered pieces were waiting to be picked up, begging to be put in order. He knew he would never go back. School was over, his time there had come to an end.
He'd been so frightened in those last few weeks before he'd left. The pressure had been unbearable, like his skull was in a slowly tightening vice. Every survival instinct in him had been screaming: Get out! Get out while you still can! And so he had come home, back home to this desolation and despair which he'd worked so hard to escape. It was easier to be in pain.
Jeffrey groaned into his pillow. He shut his eyes and tried to force himself back down into the warm oblivion of sleep.
* * *
10:11 am, July 2nd, 2002
The dining room was nearly empty by the time he got there. There were only a few crumbs and cold strips of broken bacon left on the wide table in the center of the room. A few people were still eating, still sipping coffee as they read the morning paper. The sign outside the doorway read: Continental Breakfast, 7:30-10:30.
He hadn't slept well.
Jeffrey picked at the remnants, wobbly scrambled eggs, damp pancakes and french toast, greasy sausage, bacon, hash browns, chewy bagels, a slimy tin syrup pitcher, an assortment of pastries still wrapped in their individual plastic. None of it was especially appetizing, but he was too hungry to care.
He didn't look up until he'd reached the pastries. There was a small woman standing there, staring down at the stale-looking danish in her hands. Her fingers were bruised across the knuckles. Her wedding ring gleamed eerily in the florescent light.
“Alice?”
The woman flinched, her eyes darting and her hands closing over the little pastry. Her skin was snowy white and smooth, her eyes fragile blue – as cold and vast as the ocean. She had delicate features, and almost avian bone structure. She wore a fuzzy blue sweater and dark jeans.
She looked at him, and seemed confused for a moment. Then she smiled. “Jeff?”
“Hi. You okay?”
She nodded, not altogether convincingly. The two of them embraced. Jeffrey held her gently, afraid he might hurt her somehow. Marriage had changed her. She'd always been small, but she seemed fragile now. That spark of strength she had always carried had gone out.
Alice held him at arm's length, smiling weakly. “You came to meet me?”
“Not really. I didn't know when you were getting into town.”
“But...” She frowned, “you're not staying here?”
Jeffrey shrugged, unsure how to answer.
Alice laughed. “But you can't be living in a hotel! I mean, doesn't that get expensive?”
“I just got here last night.”
“Why?”
He started to answer, but she cut him off: “No no, come on. You don't have to tell me. Let's sit down. We can talk.” She led him to her table back in the sunny corner of the room. There was a ragged paperback book on the table. Call of The Broken Heart. It looked like a cheap romance novel. The cover was of a field dotted with small bright flowers, and beyond the hills the luminous sunset glowed warmly in the sky. She swept the book onto the seat beside her, blushing a little bit.
They spoke around each other, around their circumstances. She asked him about his job, and about his living arrangements. He ate, shrugged, mumbled a yes or no here and there, and tried to change the subject. She in turn conspicuously avoided replying to any of the questions he asked about her husband Robert.
“Oh... he's fine. We're fine,” she said, chewing her lower lip and twisting her fingers together. “We're here looking for a house, you know. He's thinking of buying one here in town.”
“You're moving back to Verden?”
“Oh... I don't know, maybe. He hasn't decided.” She looked out the window, watching the cars wheeling through the parking circle outside.
Jeffrey tapped the dull tongs of his fork on his syrupy plate. “We should do something then. You and me. I mean, if you're not busy.”
There was a distant melancholy in her smile. “A little brother/sister outing, you mean?”
Jeffrey shrugged. “You know, if you want to.”
“Sure I want to. We'll do something this afternoon, get dinner together, maybe?”
Jeffrey nodded.
She grinned, and her keen blue eyes were shining with excitement. “I'll call you at one o'clock.”
“Fine.” He nodded.
“Great. I'll see you then. I... uh... I'd better head back up to the room, though. Robert might need me
.”
He watched her go, dragging the tip of his fork across his plate as his eyes followed her out of the room. Metal scraped over porcelain, squealing faintly. When he got up a few minutes later he saw that she had left her book on the chair. He picked it up. The pages were dog-eared. He looked on the first page. Property of: Alice Burke, age 15, written in her tight cursive. As long as he could remember she had always followed her signature with a declaration of her age, as though it were constantly being called into question and required verification so as to remain a reality. He wondered if she still did that.
The book was part of a series. The Broken Hearts Club. He'd never heard of it, not that that was any great surprise. He wasn't much of a reader, to be honest.
He tucked the book under his arm, he'd return it to her later. Across the room, the hotel staff were clearing away the remains of the meal. Lunch would be coming out soon. The endless cycle. He left them to it.
* * *
11:25 am, July 2nd, 2002
Jeffrey was watching the local news, his eyes glazing over. The newsreader seemed to be staring directly at him, her shocking green eyes boring through the flickering television screen. Some sort of special report on rising levels of crime in the county.
The body of Michael Edmond Conner was discovered in May by a Verden resident, she said, her voice as coolly dispassionate as if she was describing the pattern of a rather dull sweater. The Verden Police Department's investigation, she said, was ongoing. They had not yet ruled out murder, she said, just one of the many recent atrocities which had rocked the county.
It took him a moment to realize that the woman had been talking about him. He was the “resident.” For a moment the thought crossed his mind that he should call up the TV station and correct them, tell them that, no, he didn't live there anymore, he hadn't lived there for some time.
The telephone rang. He picked it up automatically.
“Did you see that?” It was Alice's voice, tense and breathless.
“What?”
“The news! There was something about Michael, it was just on on, uh... channel eight?”
“I saw the end. What was it about?”
“Jeffrey! They said that someone murdered Mike! No one even told me that he was dead, Jesus! We grew up together. Don't you remember?”
Jeffrey muted the TV. “Of course I remember Mike.”
“But... why didn't you say anything this morning?”
“Honestly, Alice, I haven't thought about it.”
Alice seemed at a lost for words. He would have thought the connection had been broken had he not heard the hissing sounds of her breath on the line. Finally, she said, “How did it happen?”
“No idea.”
“Am I still going to see you later?”
“Yeah.”
“...Okay. Uh... that's good then. We'll talk.” She hung up.
Jeffrey held the receiver. He stared at the ceiling for a long while.
* * *
1:03 pm, July 2nd, 2002
“Let go of me!” There was a crashing sound from inside Room 216, like something had fallen and broken on the floor. The walls of the hotel were filthy. They had once been eggshell white and were now a sickly yellow. Jeffrey knocked on the door.
“Jesus Christ, what is it?” said the gruff voice on the other side of the door. It was a voice that Jeffrey had hoped never to hear again.
He swallowed hard. “It's Jeff Burke.”
“Who?” The man's voice again, then a quieter voice, probably Alice's.
“Get in here!” he bellowed, cutting her off abruptly. Jeffrey did as he was told. The door wasn't locked.
Alice sat in the sofa chair beside the TV, rubbing her wrists and glaring at her husband.
Robert Summers stood at the far end of the room, framed by the open balcony door. He wore a cheap gray suit, the coat draped over one shoulder and the sweaty undershirt sticking to his broad chest. The glass in his hand was half-full of an amber liquid. There was an open bottle on the bedside table, the crumpled aluminum cap scrunched awkwardly back on over the cork. Jeffrey tried not to look at it. The sight made his throat feel dry.
Robert was about six feet fall, powerfully built. He had an angular face, all cheekbones and jawline. His eyes were deep-set, shaped in an expression of constant mourning which was made to look grotesquely perverse by his sneering mouth and sharp features. His dull brown hair was plastered roughly back on his skull. He eyed Jeffrey with naked distaste. “I keep forgetting.” his voice grated, always sounding like he needed to clear his throat. “You're one of those... shit, whatta ya call 'em, melano?”
“Mulatto,” Alice said quietly, studying the arm of the chair and looked terribly uncomfortable.
“Yeah, that's it.” Robert pointed to her when he spoke, like he was hosting a TV game show. “She knows what I mean. Huh. If only all mothers were as inclusive as Kimberly.” He laughed. “Come on in, Jeff. How the fuck have you been?” He stretched out his hand towards Jeffrey.
“I guess I'm okay,” Jeffrey shook his brother-in-law's hand. He'd half expected a fight. A moment ago, he'd wanted it, had been ready to hit someone. The feeling drained out of him when Robert took his hand. Now he wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and sleep for the rest of the day. He didn't want to see any of this, didn't want to hear it or think about it. Robert's skin was cool and dry, like old paper.
“So, you're the bastard who's stealing my wife?” Robert's eyes glittered with coiled mirth.
“Alice said you were working today and-”
Robert cut him off with a slashing hand motion. He downed the remains of his drink and went to pour another. “I am working. I'm working all day today.”
Jeffrey watched the other man drink. Robert tossed the liquor back with a bird-like snapping of his neck, like a chick choking down a worm.
“Oh.” Jeffrey said.
“Where you taking her?” Robert tossed the empty glass on the bed. A few drops of dark liquid spilled on the white sheets. There was a note of accusation to everything Robert said.
“We hadn't really talked about it yet.” Jeffrey had done his best to avoid the other man, before and after the wedding. He wondered what side of the man his sister saw. He thought of her bruised fingers.
“Well, take good care of her, alright. I want her back the way I send her out, you got it?”
Alice nodded, her eyes turning listlessly to the generic lake-scene paintings on the walls. “We'll be fine, Robert, I promise.” The mallards winged motionlessly from the surface, their long green necks straining towards the autumn wood on the banks of a great black water.
Robert Summers smiled tightly. “You kids have fun now, alright?”
* * *
1:42 pm, July 2nd, 2002
“I don't want to go in there.” Alice stood obstinately on the sidewalk, squinting up into the sun. The day spilled white light around her, drawing out her long shadow across the road.
“I want to show you something.” Jeffrey stood in the shade, one foot on the stone steps.
Alice shook her head.
“It's only a church. And it's Tuesday, it'll be empty, I swear.”
Alice shaded her eyes, looking again at the old stone building. “What do you want to go into a church for anyway? You didn't get religious in California, did you?”
He ignored her. The building was cool inside, and dark. Stone buildings were always cold, heavy with a sunless portention. He liked the feel of it, like going underground. The huge doors were ribbed with corroded iron.
Alice followed reluctantly, holding herself against the chill. “Okay. What am I looking at?”
It was a traditional catholic design, a long nave leading towards a raised pulpit. Stone statues lined the walls, watching over the hard wood pews. Colored light fell through stained-glass, painting blurry images on the floor like reflections seen in an oil slick.
“This is one of the oldest buildings in the city.” Jeffrey stared up into the
high ceiling. His voice echoed. “It's almost a hundred and fifty years old.”
Alice crossed her arms. “It's... big.”
“People built this place with their hands, you know. One stone on top of the other.” Jeffrey turned in slow circles to take in the whole of the building, “We could build something like this today so easily... No one wants to. Buildings today just don't...” he trailed off, searching for the right words.
“Don't what?” Alice sounded impatient.
Jeffrey's lip twitched. “They don't mean anything.” He looked back down at the floor. Smooth patterned stonework, thick with dust and tracked dirt. “There aren't any old things in this country. Everything's just passing on. Disposable shit, it's all made to break.”
“Are you okay, Jeff?”
“I should ask you that.”
“So ask me.”
“Are you okay?”
“No.”
“I'm sorry.”
Alice sat on the furthest bench from the pulpit. She pulled her feet up underneath her. “What's going on between you and Mom?”
“What do you mean? Nothing's going on.”
She scoffed. “Give me a break, Jeff! You're living in a hotel for Christ's sake. She kick you out or something?”
“I'm not going back there.”
“Why not? Is it something to do with Michael?”
“No, no... not Mike. It's nothing to do with that. It's Mom, the way she lives. I just... fuck, I can't take that again. I mean, you couldn't wait to get out of here.” He rounded on her, “That's why you married that creep, isn't it?”
Alice was crumpled in her seat, arms folded tightly around her legs. “Don't talk about my husband that way,” her voice was small, her objection purely obligatory, conditioned.
Jeffrey shook his head. “Anyway, she's got a new boyfriend. I can't deal with the shit anymore. I'd live on the street first.”
Alice looked away, her eyes narrowing. “Can you believe that we ever fell for that?”
Jeffrey slumped down at the edge of one of the pews. “What?”
Alice let go of herself, unfolding. “You know what I'm talking about.”
“Not really.”
“You know, Mom's 'boyfriends.'” Alice rolled her eyes.
“Huh?”
She frowned. “Are you serious?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Alice?” He felt a stirring in his gut. Like a part of him knew already what she was going to say.