The music had gotten lugubrious, so he pushed the “seek” button, thinking wryly, Yes indeed; yes indeed — that’s what I’m out here on the road doing, all right. It was the McCallum mentality, communicable, like a cold. He pushed his thumb against the tiny button above which a green light quivered, locking in Bette Midler singing “Skylark.” Another song that should make him watch his foot on the accelerator. A cop car sat in a gulley where the road sloped, but he’d seen it in time. He looked at his watch, saw that it wasn’t time yet for lunch, and reached into the bag and broke off another piece of muffin. The muffin disintegrated, which made him think again of McCallum, who, the night before, reaching for Marshall’s leftover cornbread, had found himself holding bright yellow crumbs.
The prospect of days without McCallum, the idea of sun, palm trees, ocean breezes, lifted his spirits. He flipped down the visor as the car moved in line with the sun.
19
IN CHARLESTON, South Carolina, he decided to call it a day. For the past three or four hours driving rain had pelted the car, the jagged patches of light between clouds narrowing until early darkness erased what Sonja would have called “the fill-in parts of the puzzle”—the maddening, uniformly toned blue pieces of the one puzzle they owned, which depicted a small, colorful desert below an enormous, even-blue sky. The puzzle had been a gift from Gordon and Beth several Christmases before. Usually they sent a carton of grapefruit and oranges, but that year they had sent the desert, the orderly little desert with its one prairie dog peeking from its hole and its red-flowered cactus blooming. More than he wanted to, he had thought for much of the ride about McCallum, imagining scenarios in which Cheryl’s mother raced into McCallum’s arms, or, alternatively, the woman’s husband taking exception to his presence, going after him the way McCallum’s wife had. He thought that maybe he had gotten addicted to McCallum’s life the way other people got addicted to soap operas, though instead of being allowed to tune in to watch, he had been given constant synopses of what had happened, as if McCallum were reading from outdated issues of TV Guide. It was nothing he and Sonja would have watched on TV, he was sure of that. The jigsaw puzzle had been such a novelty, and they’d been snowed in just after getting it. But other people’s despair and ongoing confusion? It didn’t seem titillating, didn’t figure in their lives.
He stopped outside a small building with a canopy above the entranceway, using McCallum’s shirt to cover his head as he made a mad dash for the front door.
Inside, a man in a three-piece suit was talking to a young woman behind the counter. The counter was flanked by potted palms aglow with tiny coral lights. A woman in a long black raincoat stood peering out the window. It was as different from the motel in Buena Vista as anyone could imagine, which meant that it was exactly where he wanted to stay. When he heard a room was available he didn’t ask the price. He said, “Good,” and waited while the man went behind the counter and got a registration form and put Xs in the two places where Marshall was to sign. The man wore a silver signet ring on his third finger and, on the other wrist, a Rolex. He feigned interest in the young woman’s paperwork as Marshall filled out the form. “We have complimentary continental breakfast in the lobby or in your room between the hours of seven and nine,” the man said. “There is a hot tub in the courtyard I don’t think you’ll be using tonight, and there should be a duvet in your armoire, which also contains the television. I’ll be happy to provide you with a list of complimentary movies you might view on the VCR. Alicia will show you to your room.” He placed an index card of movie titles on the registration desk. “I believe there should be a duplicate list in your room, but you might want to glance at this now so you could take one with you.”
He selected Betrayal, which he’d never heard of, because it starred Jeremy Irons and Ben Kingsley.
“May I help with any luggage?” Alicia said.
“No, no,” he said. “I’ve got a duffel bag in the car I can bring in. I can take the key and find the room myself.”
“I’ll be happy to accompany you. House rules,” Alicia said.
“We don’t want anything not up to standard when you enter the room,” the man said.
“Of course,” Marshall said. “I’m parked right outside. I’ll get my bag.”
“You’re checking in after turndown, so let me give you a Godiva mint also,” the man said.
“Thank you,” Marshall said. He felt as if he were doing a kind of charade: a reenactment of Halloween, from an old-fashioned gentleman’s perspective. There he had been, knocking at the door, and here were these civilized people, offering him mints and movies.
“Please place this inside your windshield in order to avoid parking penalties,” the man said, handing him a laminated card with the hotel’s name on it.
“Certainly,” Marshall said. “Thank you.”
He turned and went outside, reluctantly. It was raining harder, and McCallum’s already damp shirt was almost no protection. He quickly got the bag and locked the car, slightly embarrassed to be reentering the lobby looking like a drowned person.
“There will be chamber music tomorrow at twelve-fifteen,” the man said. “Checkout time is one p.m., which we would be happy to extend.”
Marshall felt the foil-wrapped mint in his pocket, jiggled it like a good-luck charm. Maybe I could live here the rest of my life, Marshall thought. To the man he said, “I’ll have a better idea in the morning.”
“Please,” Alicia said, holding out her hand for his bag. She wore a thick silver cuff bracelet between two narrower gold bracelets. Though he was reluctant to hand a woman his bag, he extended his arm.
“Sir,” the man said, “it would be possible to have your shirt laundered and returned by checkout time.”