“He was beaten to death with a rock. Behind the old Moon Shot Restaurant.”
“Oh, my God!”
“He never came home that night. I thought he was — um — was out, you know, somewhere. They found him when the Moon Shot opened for lunch.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know. We never found out. A drifter, I guess. The cops asked about who was here, in the cabins, you know, so I told them all about everybody. But none of you had anything to do with us. We’d never seen any of you before. They talked with the people who worked for us, but nothing came of it. Just nobody a-tall had a motive. I guess it was just one of those things. He was only twenty-eight.”
Since each “cabin” had only one room and one big bed, they took two cabins next to each other, number three and number four. Donald and Donny took number four and June and Jennifer took three.
“Jeez, this is truly bogus!”Jennifer said when they unlocked their door and she saw the tiny room. June thought it didn’t seem as clean as she remembered it.
From one door away, Donny said to Jennifer, “Hey! I think it’s excellent. How many times do you get to visit the scene of a murder?”
“Get inside, Donny,” Donald said.
“But, Dad, let’s go look at where it happened! She said over by where the restaurant was. Maybe we can find a clue.”
“We are not,” Donald said, veins beginning to stand out on his face, “going to ruin our vacation. And we are not going to say one more word about murder!”
The sign on Interstate 55 said HISTORIC ROUTE 66! EXIT! HERE!
Just past it, there was a second sign: STAY AT HISTORIC ROUTE 66 MOTEL! ORIGINAL! NOT REBUILT!
And a third sign: SATELLITE BURGERS! JUKEBOXES! MALT SHOP! ONE BLOCK ON RIGHT!
As they came to the exit, a series of six signs in a long row swept past them saying,
! ROUTE 66 auto museum!
SIT IN A REAL 1956 BUICK CENTURY — TWO TONE!
DRIVE AN EDSEL!
Smaller letters under the Edsel offer read: OUR CURATOR MUST ACCOMPANY YOU.
CHEVY BEL AIR — NOT ONE, NOT TWO, THE COMPLETE LINE!
FORD FAIRLANE!
The last sign was shaped like a long hand with a pointing finger and added, ARTIFACTS! NEWSPAPERS! NEIL ARMSTRONG WALKS ON MOON! ORIGINAL FRONT PAGES AND BLOW-UPS! 500 HUBCAPS 500!
It was all so different, with its effort at trying to be the same, June thought. And here we are, back here again, and again the reason is a wedding.
Donny, who was twenty-seven, had dropped out of college after a year, gone to work for a concrete company, then decided building wooden forms and troweling ready-mix was not a lifetime career for him. He had just graduated from the University of Champaign in computer engineering. In his last year he’d met Deborah Henry, who’d been in several classes with him. On June thirtieth they were getting married in St. Louis, where Deborah’s family lived.
One more chance, June thought, to drive part of their old, sentimental route.
Jennifer, who was twenty and a junior at Yale, had said, “I’ll fly to St. Louis. I did your nostalgia trip once and once was enough.”
It wasn’t all malt shops and gas-guzzling cars and jukeboxes, June thought. It wasn’t romance. It was a lack of options. Her children really believed she was nostalgic. Children were so simple-minded when it came to parents. She was not nostalgic. If she was looking for anything, it was understanding. A search. Who was I then and why?
What a funny, naive little thing I was when we first came here, she thought, uneasily. Brought up with virtually no knowledge of sex and those unreasonable expectations. All twitterpated at the idea of my wedding night. It was such a big deal. Not like these kids.
She remembered Don’s anger a couple of years ago when they found condoms in Jennifer’s drawer. Fathers can be so unrealistic. And when June tried to tell him condoms were a good thing, and that she had already talked with both children about them, he yelled, “My mother didn’t even know the word ‘condom’ and if she had, she would never have uttered it in my presence.”
“I’m sure, dear,”June had said mildly.
They pulled into the Motel 66 driveway.
“Dad, can I take the car over to that museum shop? They might have moon landing stuff. Memorabilia.”
“Absolutely not. If you want the car, I’ll go with you.”
Donny, who’d been through this before, said indulgently, “Yeah, Dad. I know. What’s yours is yours.” To June he said, “Mom, it’s only two blocks. I’ll walk fast over there and see what they’ve got. Five minutes.”
“Just three minutes,” Donald said. “We need to find a place to eat.”
Historic Motel 66 was surrounded by recently mowed bright green grass. Huge beech trees shaded the cabins, except for a gap down toward the end, where a cabin was missing and half a tree remained next to the space, a split trunk leaning eastward. Lightning, June thought.
The bright white and blue paint looked new. The colors struck a chord in June’s memory, but she couldn’t quite be sure.
She and Donald entered the office. The old cash register was back. The walls were covered with black and white blow-ups of Motel 66, each meticulously dated, and a professionally produced sign above them read, THE HISTORY OF MOTEL 66!
Behind the counter stood a trim white-haired woman in a black power suit over a sapphire blue silk shirt.
June said, “Oh! Isn’t Bertha, uh, Ber — um, isn’t she here anymore?”
“I’m Bertine.”
“Bertine! I wouldn’t have known you!”
Bertine smiled. “I figured if I was gonna spruce up the place I’d spruce up myself too. I kind of remember you, honey, but not quite.”
“We’re what you called the newlyweds. From 1971. June 11, 1971.”
“Oh.” Bertine’s eyes clouded for a few seconds. “I have to say, I’ve brought the place along a bit since then. Pete would still recognize it, though.”
“It looks great!”
“Well, I’m doing okay. This isn’t a way to get rich. But I make decent money. Now. It was hard going for a while.”
Donald pulled out his credit cards. “Let me get the keys,” he said. “We’ve gotta go eat.”
Bertine said, “See, I have the old cash register, but I hardly know how to take cash anymore. My accountant says never take cash and surely never let any of the help take cash.” She laughed. “There’s a fragment of Route 66 from Oklahoma City to Vinita, Oklahoma, if you’re touring. And a piece of historic 66 in Albuquerque.”
June said, “We’re not going to L. A. this time. Just St. Louis.”
She thought about Uncle Mort, who had loaned them his house. Uncle Mort had run off with a girl he met at his health club, where he was working out because his doctor told him to. The girl was a cardio-fitness trainer, but June’s mother would still have called her a flibbertigibbet, if June’s mother were still alive.
June walked over to the photo blow-ups. One showed the construction of the cabins and was dated March 27, 1969. One showed a line of late-sixties cars on the curved driveway near the motel office.
Bertine walked over to the photos behind her. June had stopped in front of a big photo of Bertine and Pete, holding hands under a MOTEL 66 sign at the door of the brand-new office.
Donald said, “Come on, Juney. I’m hungry.”
“Poor Pete,” Bertine said, but June’s back was rigid and she didn’t turn around.