“That’s your job,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “But I have a line of people out here who need help. Really, a line.”
Vance smiled at her again. He hated her. “I wouldn’t want to infringe on your space.”
“Oh, God,” Love said. “Please help me.”
Vance had the crossword puzzle from the Boston Globe in front of him. Love thought she might cry. She stepped out to the desk. “The coffee is going to be a minute,” she said.
The man in the pajamas pointed a bony finger at her. He was a health-class skeleton with skin. “We pay a lot of money for these rooms,” he said. He looked to the person behind him in line, as though he wanted to organize some kind of group revolt. “I heard you say there are no more VCRs. Why not? Why doesn’t every room have a VCR?”
“I don’t know,” Love said. “It’s not my hotel.”
The phone rang. Love’s hand itched to answer it, but she was afraid that if she did, the guests would storm the desk. The rain had turned the normally well-heeled guests into a class of emotionally needy students, into a band of ruby red Communists. Where was Mack?
An elegant-looking gentleman in an Armani suit was next in line. Love remembered checking him in: Mr. Juarez, room 12. “I have a flight to New York at ten-thirty this morning. Would you be so kind as to call and see if it’s going to be delayed?”
“I’d be happy to,” Love said. This man, at least, was pleasant. She liked his tone of voice. She liked his calm demeanor. She wanted to shake his hand. Gold star student.
Love called the airport and found it was closed temporarily, due to lightning.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Juarez,” she said. “The airport is closed. No one is flying.”
“I have a lunch meeting at one o’clock that can’t be missed,” he said.
“The man at the airport said ‘temporarily,’ “Love said. “So perhaps they’ll resume flying in a little while.”
“Will you call again when you get a chance?” Mr. Juarez asked. He slid a fifty-dollar bill across the desk. Love hesitated. Everyone behind Mr. Juarez was watching.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I can’t accept that.”
Mr. Juarez slipped the bill into his coat pocket. “It’s yours if you get me on a flight.”
The honeymooners from room 20 stepped up; behind them, the room was a carnival. “We’d like lunch reservations,” the wife said. “Somewhere in town. Where do you suggest?”
Sit in your room and feed each other grapes, Love thought. There’s a big bowl of them over there-but when Love looked at the breakfast buffet, she saw the grapes were all gone.
“Why don’t you go into town and try your luck?” Love said. “I can lend you an umbrella.”
“Okay,” the husband said.
“We’d like a reservation,” the wife said. “We’d rather not waste our time.”
The husband nodded along. “That’s right.”
“The Chanticleer serves lunch,” Love said. “So does the Wauwinet. Which would you prefer?”
“I’d prefer coffee,” the skeleton in the pajamas called out. “I’d really like a steaming mug of coffee to drink on this dreary day.”
Back by the piano, two boys were yelling at each other. Love looked over in time to see them hit the floor. “Whose children are those?” she asked. No one answered. “Well, they must belong to somebody.” Still no one. They pulled each other’s hair and started slapping and punching. “Boys!” she said. “Stop it!” Her maternal instincts rose in her like a fever. “Boys!” No one in the line made a move to stop them. Love hoisted herself over the desk, and ran to where the boys were rolling around. They were stuck together, one had a death grip on the other’s hair. Love physically wedged herself between the two boys. Then, perhaps realizing that there would be no more coffee or lunch reservations until this was taken care of, the honeymooners came to help Love hold the boys away from one another. The honeymooners smiled at each other, as if to say, Isn’t this cute, a fight? One of the kids started to cry, and the other’s nose bled all over the carpet. The husband took out a handkerchief and gave it to Mr. Bleeding.
“Are you two brothers?” Love asked.
Mr. Crying shook his head. He was pudgy and sweet looking, and now he had two raised red scratches under his eye. “No. We’re not brothers. We’re friends.”
“I’m not your friend,” Mr. Bleeding said. The handkerchief bloomed with red. “Not anymore.”
Love herded both boys toward the office. She didn’t make eye contact with anyone in line. At Mack’s desk, Vance diligently counted squares on his crossword.
“You can help these two cowboys find their parents,” Love said.
“Cowboys?” Mr. Bleeding said. “We are not cowboys.”
“You’re monsters,” Vance said. He meant it to be derogatory, of course. Love had never heard Mr. I Want a Child Someday call children anything but monsters, but both boys brightened up.
“We’re monsters,” Mr. Crying said. He stopped crying, and nudged Mr. Bleeding.
“Yeah, we’re monsters,” Mr. Bleeding said. He gave Love a withering look. “But we’re not cowboys.”
“Whatever,” Love said.
Reluctantly, Vance stood up. Love returned to the desk, and she heard Vance telling the boys a joke as they moved down the hallway.
Back at the desk, Love saw the skeleton in the pajamas shaking his head.
“What’s your name, sir?” she asked him.
He straightened up and crossed his arms against his chest. “Michael Klutch.”
Mr. Klutch! The man who had booked rooms 4, 5, and 6 all for himself. He was staying in room 5, and the other two rooms were “buffer rooms,” so he didn’t have to hear his neighbors shutting their dresser drawers or flushing their toilets.
“We’re going to make a list,” Love said. “Put your name on the list and I’ll get to you as soon as I can. I am now going to make some coffee.” Love walked back into Mack’s office, and the phone rang. Love tried to walk past it, but the receiver was a magnet.
“Front desk,” Love said.
“This is Audrey Cohn, room seventeen. My son just came in with blood all over his face! I’d like you to call an ambulance right away. There’s blood everywhere.”
“It’s a bloody nose,” Love said. “He was out here in the lobby unsupervised and he got into a fight. All he needs is a wet washcloth.”
“Please call an ambulance,” Audrey Cohn said.
Love was glad it had come to this-sirens and flashing lights-because maybe that would get Mack’s attention. When Love stepped out into the hallway, she bumped into Mr. Juarez.
“I didn’t sign the list,” he said, “because you were helping me before.” He removed the fifty-dollar bill from his pocket and wound it through his slender, tan fingers. “I was hoping you’d be so kind as to call the airport again.”
“Mr. Juarez,” Love said. “I have to make the coffee. Please sign the list.” She hurried into the galley kitchen and closed the door. There, taped to the cabinets, was a piece of paper that had been ripped from the front desk notebook, and on it, a note in Tiny’s handwriting. “Beware the eight weeks of August.”
Love got the coffeemaker chugging and walked back into the lobby. The guests were still standing in a line. Love slowly made her way behind the desk.
“Now,” she said. “Who’s next?”
Before anyone could answer, Love heard the sirens and saw red lights whip around the lobby walls. A paramedic stormed in the lobby doors, black uniformed, self-important, his walkie-talkie alive with raspy static.