“Yes, well we have a man unconscious in room two.”
“Oh great, now the police will come. That’s all we need.”
“His lady friend didn’t want any help.”
“He’s alive, I hope?”
“I haven’t seen him, but all she wanted was ice.”
“I could use a drink myself.”
I liked how honest he was. “I have vodka,” I told him.
“They want me to contribute five hundred dollars to become a member of the local chapter, and then they’ll give me the permit to hire another member to dig the leach field that we need to make a proper septic system.”
“Leeches?” I asked.
“I wonder how many of the Kiwanis Club brothers are motel customers,” he asked. “I’ll see at the next meeting I go to.”
“That could be very good for business. Five hundred dollars is a small investment,” I added.
He played with his mustache. “What about this gentleman in room two?” he asked.
“I added another hour to their stay.”
“They have until four forty-five?” he asked.
“Correct. I’ll go knock on the door to see how they are doing.”
“I don’t think you should get involved, Stalina.”
“His lady friend sounded upset. I don’t mind helping out.”
“It’s on your own time,” he said sternly.
He put his hand on top of mine. His touch embarrassed and distracted me, and I dropped Svetlana. She scrambled under the desk and was trying to wiggle through a hole in the wall.
“I hope that cat will earn her keep and catch some mice,” he said, suddenly placing the hand that touched mine into his slacks pocket, and he jingled some loose coins. I stared at the pocket. The bottle of vodka was in the cabinet under the desk in between a broken fax machine and several rolls of toilet paper. I fumbled around for the cat and at the same time picked up the vodka.
“What’s that cat’s name again? Vodka?”
“No, Svet-lana,” I pronounced her name slowly, “like Stalin’s daughter, but Vodka’s a good name for a cat. Why leeches?”
“Stalina, didn’t you have plumbing in Russia?”
“Leningrad is a very civilized city. There is central plumbing. Sort of.”
“And what about in the country?”
“Leeches had nothing to do with it,” I said indignantly.
“Some other time I’ll explain about leach fields. What about room two? Or excuse me, the ‘Roller Coaster Fun Park.’ Those rooms might be causing more trouble than we need.”
I loved his efficiency, but he worried too much. Little Svetlana would be a good mouse catcher, and the rooms would make him money.
“The kitten needs to go back to the linen room, and then I’ll see what’s going on in roller coaster land.”
“Let her stay here—maybe she’ll catch something. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Stalina, please stop calling me sir.”
“Suri, I meant, Mr. Sur-i.”
Outside the wind had picked up again. I’d been monitoring the cracks in the concrete path along the front of the motel. They were getting bigger. The roots from the pine trees were growing under the driveway and breaking up the cement. Mr. Suri’s Delta ’88 was parked near the trees. He loved that car. It was his symbol of America. My symbol was the Liberty Motel and all it offered its guests. The freedom to love, to share an intimate time away from all your worries. Through my room designs, I had made a place for my customers to let their minds travel beyond their difficult circumstances. They could enjoy happiness, no oppression, for a short time, and it did not cost so much. There was great freedom in the value of my fantasy rooms. They might not be for everyone, but those who came kept returning. I took great pride in this, and it was here I found happiness I had never known. I thought the Liberty Motel was a place of beauty for the soul.
I walked with the vodka bottle in my hand over to the linen room, where Mara was asleep. I hoped she had brought the ice to the Roller Coaster Room couple. The pink door to the linen room stuck like all the other doors.
“Mara,” I said as the door whined.
The light was out.
“Mara!”
“Huh,” she responded, sounding dazed. “I was having such a bad dream.”
“Did you bring the ice to room two?”
“I knocked, but no one came to the door. There was something about a vacuum in my dream. I was outside vacuuming, and one of those crows that lives in the pine trees got sucked into the tube. The vacuum took over and was pulling up everything in sight, including the clouds and the stoplights on Windsor Avenue. I couldn’t let go, and the whole time the crow was screeching CAW! CAW! from inside the vacuum.”
“I think it reflects your conflicts about work.”
“Please, don’t analyze me. Isn’t your shift over?”
“Never mind,” I said, closing the door.
“Stalina, what are you going to do with that bottle of vodka?” she said as I closed the door.
“It is to help a difficult situation,” I replied.
The door to room two looked like all the others, painted pink with a hammered copper number nailed to the front. I could smell cigarette smoke, menthol mixed with our pine disinfectant. A nice smell, I thought.
Chapter Eleven: Vodka
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
Knock. Knock.
I hear a bit of scuffling.
“Who’s there?” a raspy woman’s voice asked from behind the door.
“It’s the front desk receptionist. We spoke on the phone.”
Still from behind the door she said, “I thought someone was going to bring me ice for Harry’s head.”
“I have the ice.”
“Door’s unlocked.”
The door scraped against the wood frame and concrete entrance as it opened and was tilted to one side like an old person stiff and pitched at an angle by arthritis.
“Hello, I’m Stalina. I thought you might need some assistance.”
“I’m Joanie. I don’t think Harry is getting up anytime soon. Maybe I should throw a bucket of water on him,” she said, leaning on the door.
“How about we get him off the floor? Sometimes if you put the feet up it can help.”
“He’s too big for me to lift.”
She was very thin, and like many women in America she had her hair dyed bleach blond. I myself find black hair has more mystery and drama. Claudette Colbert and Greta Garbo were my role models. Dark and sultry women.
“I can help you.”
I put down the ice bucket in which I had placed the vodka.
“Vodka? Good going, I could use a drink. You must be Russian; I like your accent.”
“I thought the situation might call for vodka. It is like smelling salts, and yes, I am Russian.”
“I had a Russian boss once. Harry looks pretty peaceful like this, don’t you think? He was having such a good time on the bed, or roller coaster, whatever it is. He got carried away, landed on his head.”
“I’m glad he was having a good time. The ‘bed-coaster’ is of my own design.”
“I was cheering him on,” she said as she touched his forehead with her hand. Her nails were long and painted with elaborate designs. She had dressed Harry in his boxer shorts and an undershirt.
“I gave him these.” She waved her hands, indicating the shorts with red hearts. “He likes to wear them when we’re together,” she said coyly.
“And the shirt?” I asked. It was blue with the word “Waikiki” spelled across it in letters that looked like bamboo.
“His mother got that for him in Honolulu. She used to buy him T-shirts from wherever she went.”