"Ok," she said, leaning back in her seat, her head lying heavy against the head rest. In the reflection of the window, I could see that same blank stare she occasionally wore on her face, similar to the stare she had on the ride down from Austin. I wondered what she was thinking about or if she was even thinking about anything at all. I wondered if she was contemplating her place in the universe, if she thought about what she would be doing next year or the year after or the year after that. Was she saving money for her retirement? Did she have health insurance? Did she have someone to love: a man or a woman? I wasn’t really sure which type of partner she would have because I didn't have that kind of intimate knowledge about her. Who has that kind of intimate knowledge about anyone, really? I wondered if I should even ask her what she was thinking but, with a little more contemplation, I decided I just shouldn't say anything at all. Maybe, just maybe, she needed a break, so, I gave her one. We all could use a break every once and a while. Right?
As I drove all of us to the hotel--the kids in the back seat devouring cookies, Nat in the passenger seat staring out her window, the car running well--all I could think about was what Ms. Robyn told me on the way out of Autumn Grove about Sharice. 'She's your dad's girlfriend,' she said. Girlfriend. My dad had a girlfriend. My infirmed dad--weak and withered and grey and dying--had a girlfriend. What the fuck? Not even I--much younger than my gimpy father and in better health and with a job to boot--had a girlfriend. How was this even possible? It was almost too impossible to comprehend and even more bizarre after Ms. Robyn pulled me aside and told me the circumstances surrounding their courtship. Here's what she told me.
After apologizing profusely for what she was about to tell me and, apologizing some more because she thought I already knew this information, she described in great detail the routine Autumn Grove maintained under the direction of my father, Retired Colonel Marvin Burchwood; Marv to the other residents; PeePaw to my kids. Even though my father first arrived at Autumn Grove with a diagnosis of Alzheimer's Disease--a diagnosis certified by three separate specialists and medical practitioners--there were times when he displayed acute lucidity and specificity concerning his own personal care. For example, a few days after he was first admitted--by which time I was already long gone and back in Austin--he appeared in the front office of Autumn Grove with a list of demands and instructions for his stay, moving forward. Like back in the day when he was in command of a team of soldiers, he stormed in Ms. Robyn's office with a handwritten list, written in ball-point pen on a legal pad. He required a steady supply of liquor, particularly scotch or whiskey, with an occasional cigar, particularly Puerto Rican ones. He demanded to be taken to the race track--Retama Park, a horse track just outside of San Antonio--to bet on the horses at least once a week. Also, he insisted on being driven to The Gentlemen's Club--a strip club not too far from Autumn Grove--also once a week, where, after Bernard the limo driver parked, he would push my dad to the entrance in a wheel chair and then PeePaw was whisked away by the staff of the strip club to a private table in a secluded area inside. Bernard was given strict instructions to return for my father in two hours and wait for him to be wheeled back to the entrance by the staff. The Gentleman's Club was where, supposedly, he met Sharice: his 'nurse.' Can you believe this? I almost couldn't believe it because it was almost too good to be true and, like being forced to drink water from a fire hose, too much to consume all at once. How do you drink from a fire hose? You don't. You just get blasted in the face. And there's nothing worse than getting blasted with new, salacious information about your sick father. It's true.
But then, Ms. Robyn said to me, there were the other days when my dad was not so lucid and, in fact, entrenched deeply within his disease. On those days, he was not his normal self and, without warning, would sometimes become quite violent, as was the case for some patients with Alzheimer's Disease, particularly at night. Many times, he would wake up in the middle of the night--screaming his head off and throwing stuff around his room--and when the night staff arrived to assist him, he would throw punches and bite them and fight with them as if they were demons from his nightmares come to life. 'It was awful,' she said. 'Truly awful.' Of course, a facility like Autumn Grove trained their staff to deal with patients like my father but it was still a difficult situation for everybody. Nobody wanted to get hurt, whether it be patients hurting staff or the other way around. Ms. Robyn and the staff took it all in stride and took care of good ol' Marv the best they could, regardless of these violent episodes.
Then, one day out of the blue, Sharice came back from The Gentlemen's Club with Marv, in the limo. When Bernard was helping Marv out of the car under the covered, front drive of Autumn Grove, Ms. Robyn was waiting for him when Sharice hopped out of the limo, dressed in a way that immediately told Ms. Robyn that she was an employee of The Gentlemen's Club, all bedazzled and overly made-up with glittery makeup in hues of red and purple and pinks--bright enough to illuminate the darkest of back alleys--and smelling of cheap perfume and cigarette smoke and stale beer. It was a strange scenario that did not have a precedent or protocol at the retirement home. But with her frequent, regular visits and insistence from my dad that she be the one to help him with his care, Ms. Robyn eventually and reluctantly relinquished much of the staff from helping retired Colonel Burchwood, except in the direst of circumstances or emergencies. Besides, she said, he had plenty of money to pay her. When she told me this, I was a little confused.
"Plenty of money?" I said, quite perplexed.
"In the trust fund," she said, reluctantly.
"Trust fund?"
"Oh boy," she said, covering her mouth. "You don't know about the trust fund, either, do you? What have I done?"
"I don't know anything about a trust fund."
"I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. I've broken a sacred trust." She buried her face in her hands, her breath sputtering from either a panic attack or anxiety or both. I didn't know what to do.
"I'm glad you told me," I said, placing my hand on her shoulder which startled her a bit. "I need to know about these things."
"I still shouldn't have said anything but I've just been so worried about your father." She dropped her hands, her face red from being concealed, her skin flush with embarrassment and stress. She looked like she wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but at Autumn Grove talking to me about my philandering father.
"I know," I said, consoling her. She was on the verge of tears. I could tell that she really cared about her clients a lot, my father included. She was the perfect person to manage Autumn Grove. I mean, who decides that they believe managing an old-folks home is their calling in life? An angel, that's who. It's true.
Anyway, as I was rehashing all this while driving to the hotel, I was interrupted by good ol' Sammie Boy from the backseat of the car, his mouth full of half-chewed, chocolate chip cookies, tapping my shoulder with his little, slender index finger. Kids have a way of doing that--interrupting your thoughts at the wrong time and all. Sammie was a real pro at that.
"Daddy, can I ask you a question," he said, spitting out bits of cookie and chocolate while he talked.
"Sure, son. Go ahead."
"Can I have the tape?"
"What tape?"
"That tape--there!" he said, his finger emerging from the back of the car and pointing to the roll of duct tape on the dash--the one left by Tony the Fixer--his index finger so taut that it bent downward at the middle knuckle.
"Sure," I said, reaching for the duct tape. In the time from when Tony left it on the dash earlier until then, the roll of tape adhered itself slightly to the vinyl dash, making it a tad more difficult to pick up than expected, like pulling a snail reluctantly from a wood plank. The sound of it coming unstuck from the vinyl dash attracted the eyeballs of the others in the car, all watching me. "Why do you want it?"
"For my collection!"
"Collection? Collection of what?" I said, handing him the roll of tape.
"My collection of
survival stuff. For me and Budgie," he said, grabbing it, then sitting back down.
"For you and Budgie? Really?"
"Really!" He was as overjoyed as can be. Kids love collecting that kind of stuff. Weird, right? They get pleasure out of stockpiling things that most adults don't give a shit about, things like random rolls of tape and stranded paper clips and empty water bottles and dilapidated cardboard boxes and old razor blades and sticky popsicle sticks and anything he could get his hands on really. It was almost like he was a hoarder--my sweet, little hoarder. I'm not sure what he meant by survival stuff. Should I have taken that literally or figuratively? Was he saving up for the apocalypse? Or for recess at school? I'd have to dig deeper another time.
We drove a mile or two before finding the Motel 6 where I had a reservation for two adjoining rooms--one for me and the kids and the other for Nat--the configuration I thought best for the four of us. I mean, I could have reserved just one room and I'm certain we could have made it through with two double beds and a roll-away bed for Sammie and Jessie but, as much as that sounds doable and all, there wouldn't have been very much privacy for any of us. The kids probably wouldn't have cared but I'm certain Nat would prefer a modicum of privacy, even for twenty minutes, to take a shower or put up her feet or sleep undisturbed or whatever. If there was one thing I was certain of, most women like their privacy. It's true. Trust me on this one, OK?
The Motel 6 where I made the reservations was in the process of being remodeled--as the customer support lady told me over the phone while making the reservation and she assured me that it wouldn't affect our stay--so I wasn't surprised to see construction vehicles and construction materials and construction workers in the parking lot as we turned in. I was reassured by Vicky--the dedicated Motel 6 employee over the phone--that the corporate motel chain was determined to upgrade their image to a more appealing traveler destination for lodging than what people previously thought Motel 6 to be: the motel of choice for pimps, prostitutes, drug dealers, unscrupulous transients, and murderers. Their new goal--if I understood this properly--was to attract business travelers and, more specifically, middle and upper-middle class families with lots of kids and pets. That was their goal, anyway. A pretty modest goal, in my opinion, and they were starting in the right place with a little family like mine. Vicky just wanted to reassure me that even though there was quite a bit of construction and remodeling going on, that our stay was still going to be pleasant, enjoyable, and serene. That's right: serene. That's the exact word she used. That's a funny way to describe an overnight stay at a corporate hotel chain. That's like calling a frozen dinner exquisite. What an awkward word choice. Maybe her dream was to be a writer, too; it seemed possible, the way she talked and described things.
The reality was that the Motel 6 was a simple, beige, rectangular building with dark brown, tinted, square windows in a symmetrical pattern, without a lick of decoration or adornment or fanciness at all. The only break from this simple design was a tiny, covered, circular drive, the place where guests could park briefly to check-in, jutting from the side of the beige rectangle, haphazardly attached by stucco and caulk and metal flashing, like a child's attempt to construct a monument from the pieces of a cardboard box and random art supplies. I parked the Volvo S70 in that precarious place and informed my brood that I would check-in and get the keys to the room. I asked Nat if she could stay with the kids in the car and she said, "Like, of course." I shut off the car and ran inside.
I noticed right away that the reception area was dual purpose: a lobby for guests to check-in or ask questions to the right and a dining area for an all-you-can-eat breakfast of cereal and oatmeal and frozen waffles and bland fruit that was served every morning promptly at 6 o'clock, to the left. No one was in the dining area (since it was closer to dinner time and the hotel didn't serve all-you-can-eat dinner) but music serenaded the empty tables anyway, contemporary country music playing from speakers mounted flush in the ceiling. A small hallway that began where the check-in desk ended revealed a window at the other end of the hall, the glass foggy from humidity on the other side and a sign posted underneath the window that read, 'SWIMMING POOL,' and the pleasant sound of children playing and laughing could be heard. If any sound in this building was something close to serenity, then the sound of children playing and laughing was probably it. I made my way to the reception desk to check-in.
As soon as I placed my hands on the desk, the hotel clerk appeared from a side office, as if out of thin air (POOF!), short and rotund, her face seemed familiar to me although I couldn't make out which singer or movie actress or TV star she certainly reminded me of. Her hair was mostly sculpted in a business-like fashion except for a few strands that broke free from the auburn, hair-sprayed dome, the renegade hairs slithering through the air, like seaweed pulled back and forth by an undercurrent, as she walked toward me. Her dark blue business suit cried "mostly serious" and the single button holding the jacket together strained to keep its composure. She wore a gold name tag that read, "B. Smith."
"Can I help you?" she said, not smiling, not pleasant, not anything.
"I'd like to check-in."
"Your last name?" she blurted.
"Burchwood."
She typed something on a keyboard in front of her, the keys covered with a dingy, once-clear, rubber protective covering that was supposed to be replaced periodically, but never was. Why place a temporary, rubber, protective covering over a keyboard then never replace it? I fixated on that conundrum. "First name: Simon?" she said. When I confirmed, she typed some more. "Check-out is at noon tomorrow. Breakfast starts at 6am. The pool is open until 10pm." She slid two key cards on the desktop to me, the Motel 6 logo emblazoned on them in red and blue.
"Thank you," I said, taking the key cards.
"Enjoy your stay," she said, turning unceremoniously to walk back to the side office: her cave, her chamber of solitude.
Right then and there, I knew who she reminded me of: movie actress Anne Ramsey. She was the cantankerous, homely actress who played the momma in the movie Throw Momma from the Train. I knew she reminded me of someone I recognized and I had to ask her if she was aware of the unfortunate likeness she had to this actress.
"Excuse me!" I said, leaning on the reception desk. "Can I ask you a question?"
She stopped in her tracks and turned to me, her face as grim and sour and shriveled as Anne Ramsey's face, put off that I stopped her from doing what she was going to do in that side office. What was she going to do in there? Maybe sip some gin? Maybe take a valium? Possibly, take a nap? I didn't really know.
"Yes?" she said, irritated.
"Has anyone ever told you that you look like the actress from the movie--"
"Throw Momma from the Train?"
Stunned, I didn't know how to respond. Sometimes, when you think you have some insight into something, you really don't. You're just as annoying and irritating and socially awkward as the next person. "You've seen it?"
"No, never seen it," she said. She turned and continued to the side office. I heard a succession of clicking noises and then a small plume of smoke billowed from the office, the smell of maple syrup and chemical cleaner with it. I looked at the key cards, both nestled in a paper envelope, the numbers 47 and 49 written on the inside flap of the envelope in black marker. I slid the key cards into my pant pocket and returned outside, where Nat and my kids were waiting in the car. Bob Marley was playing on the stereo when I got in; Three Little Birds, I think. The kids loved that song.
"All good?" Nat said.
"I think so," I said, starting the car and driving to the back of the building.
At the back, the parking lot was mostly empty, and on the building was a sign indicating which room numbers were on which floor. It appeared number 47 and 49 were on the fourth floor: the top floor. The kids in the backseat were so excited that they could hardly contain themselves. When I parked the car, they quickly gathered up all of their belongings and were out the car doors, c
hasing each other around a cigarette receptacle by the back entrance to the building. Nat and I got out of the car and gathered the bags from the trunk, and fortunately, there weren't too many of them. Locking up the car, we approached the back entrance, the key cards in my hand, and Nat tried to corral good ol' Sammie and little Jessie, although they were quick little buggers and weren't going to let her easily corral them. I opened the door, unlocking it with the key card, and propped the door open for my family. The two kids quickly ran inside, running for the elevator down the hall.
"Hold the elevator!" I said, calling to them, and they did once the door slid open, both propping the door open with their little bodies. Nat and I got in the elevator then they did, too. Sammie looked at me for direction, then I said, "Press number four." And he did. The elevator door slid shut and carried us to the top floor. Once there, the door slid open again and the two banshees stormed out, yelling and screaming as they chased each other to who-knows-where they were going. They had no idea where they were going or what they were doing. They were just adolescent energy incarnate. "Look for rooms 47 and 49!" I said, calling to them again.
"They're, like, so excited," Nat said, smiling. "It's, like, they think we're on a vacation."
"I wish we were," I said, holding the elevator door so Nat could walk out, releasing a sigh from my mouth so heavy that I thought I'd trip over it. Nat was so tall that she had to duck her head as she stepped out of the elevator. We headed down the hallway toward the kids, who were both dancing and pointing to a doorway toward the end of the hall. "Our rooms," I said, imagining that they had discovered them the way they were dancing and pointing like that. They were acting like a couple of wild animals--hooting and hollering and pointing and jumping around, making a racket. I handed Nat the key card for room 49 and, when we got there, she opened the door to her room and I opened the door to ours: me, Sammie, and Jessie.
Sammie & Budgie Page 23