by William Southern

He drove north on a narrow, winding, two-lane highway, clenching an unlit cigarette between his teeth and rolling it back and forth in his lips until the filter became soaked, when he’d toss it out the window and grab another. He’d bought the cigarettes this morning when he filled up, he’d asked the girl for a few packs of the cheap, generic ones, half-expecting her to say how disappointed in him she was for caving in, disgusted actually, although he’d never met her before. She was young, eighteen maybe, a little overweight and very pale, with black hair and black fingernail polish and a row of earrings in one ear that looked like beer-can pop-tops. He’d wanted to say to her, 'Listen honey, don’t ever start smoking because it’s a real son-of-a-bitch to stop', to which she’d maybe come back with something like, 'Mister, there’s a lot of things that aren’t good for you but you do them anyway, especially if they’re fun…'. Instead he'd stood there smiling at her, his face turning red, and then he left when she gave him a long, bored look.

He was out of the house. Candy had told him to go and he’d left saying how he was going to drive north to look for work. She’d said, "Sure, what are you going to do up there, Jack? Same as you’re doing down here - nothing. If they paid people for doing nothing, you’d be a rich man."

He pushed in the lighter; when it popped out he held it in for another minute until it got good and hot, then he put it an inch away from his cigarette, feeling the heat from the glowing red element on his cheek. He kept it right there for a while, sucking air through the filter, the lighter just far enough away so the cigarette wouldn’t light. For just a second, he thought, for just a split goddamn second there I felt more relaxed than I have in a year.

Last night as she was getting ready for bed Candy had said, "You’re still leaving tomorrow, right? Don’t you think I’ll change my mind, Jack - because I won’t. Believe me. I want you out. Tomorrow."

He had been standing in the bedroom doorway listening to her say this as she hurriedly undressed. She didn’t care if he saw her - that was obvious. She made no effort to cover herself, or to even turn away. It was as if he didn’t count.

"I talked to your brother," she'd said, as she pulled her sweater over her head. "He thinks I should be nominated for sainthood, he said it’s a wonder we lasted this long."

She had stopped then, her sweater still on her arms and her head poking up from behind it, and stared at him without blinking as if she wanted it all to sink in. Then she dropped the sweater, undid a few snaps on her skirt, and let it slide down to the floor. She wobbled a little from one foot to the other as she stepped out and kicked them out of the way. He looked at her for a few seconds, then looked away.

"Your brother thinks you should go back to school," she'd said, as she reached behind her back to unhook her bra. She slipped it off and tossed it casually onto the bed and said, "Work your way through school like he did, find something you want to do and just go for it, pull yourself up. He said you’ll never stand on your own two feet until you’re forced to... And I want to be very clear about this, Jack - I don’t think you realize how much people care about you, how much it hurts us to do this."

She’d slid out of her underwear then and dropped them at her feet. He turned away and looked out the doorway into the kitchen. There was a kettle of water on a burner; he tried to think about that, if the burner was on or not, and if so how long had it been on, and what was it for, tea or something else, and he tried to think about what else you’d boil water in a kettle for if it wasn’t for tea.

Then she’d grabbed her robe off a hook and said, "Your brother’s coming over tomorrow to get the rest of your things, he thinks if you have anything left here, anything at all, a book or a shirt or whatever, you’ll use that as an excuse to just drop by whenever you feel like it. I guess he knows you pretty well, Jack. So if you’re missing anything you’ll have to go over there for it. Understand what I’m saying?"

She’d put on her robe quickly then, tying the belt and pulling it tight, and glared at him for a final moment. When he started to say something she put a hand on his chest and pushed him out into the hallway, and then she slammed the door in his face.

He’d always thought that if you went this far north you’d see dark forests with straight, towering trees and clear, clean rivers and neat log cottages, like in the postcards, but there was nothing like that around here. On either side of the road there was tangled brush and fallen, rotting logs and old stumps and dried up swamps, mile after mile into the distance, as if some great calamity had passed through years ago and things hadn't recovered yet. Occasionally there was a marsh and then you’d see thin groves of stunted, diseased looking pines and patches of red, gooey looking clay with grotesquely large weeds poking up. And all along the road there was dead grass on the shoulders, uncut and flattened, with an occasional fast-food bag or a small animal carcass getting ripped open by large, black birds who barely noticed him as he sped by just inches away from them. 

Once in a while there would be a weathered mobile home or an old camper at the end of a dirt driveway, sometimes two or three of them clumped together like a shanty, with junked cars and rotting outbuildings and crooked power poles and rusting appliances scattered about un-mowed yards. Maybe an abandoned storefront or drive-in sitting just off the highway with broken glass and plywood in the windows, but that was pretty much it, mile after mile.

On a flat stretch he saw a gas station coming up, and he slowed and pulled in. There was a single row of rusting, uncovered pumps, with a battered pickup truck blocking the way on his side. He stopped, backed around and cut the wheel hard, then pulled forward and reversed into the other side. He cut it too close and had to pull forward and reverse again. He got out and looked at the pump for a minute like he was studying the directions, then he took the nozzle off the hook, opened the gas pipe, put the nozzle in and squeezed the handle, but nothing happened.

He remembered how Candy had looked this morning, impatient, waiting for him to leave, but with a little bit of satisfaction in her look, too. He got the message and put on his coat, then he walked up to her and said, "Well...", and he pecked her on the cheek. She didn’t move or say anything; she didn’t even flinch. He kissed her on the lips; she didn’t move then either. He reached for her and she stopped him quickly, like she’d been expecting it.

"Why did you do that?" she’d asked, shaking her head at him and backing up like he had a cold she didn’t want to catch.

He’d turned red and smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders.

"Your brother wants me to call him when you leave," she’d said. "Just to make sure you don’t pull anything. What I’m saying is you got to go before I take off for work, Jack. Understand?"

He’d nodded and turned and slowly headed for the door. As he grabbed for the knob he stopped to say something; she’d raised her hand and closed her eyes at him like she didn’t want to hear it.

A girl came out of the gas station wearing sunglasses and an overly large, black leather jacket. She was very thin and looked like she couldn’t have been over sixteen. On her hip was a baby, crying loudly, its mouth red and rubbery looking, its tiny fists balled up and shaking angrily. She got in the truck, laid the baby on the seat, lit a cigarette, and cranked down the window. She said something to the baby, something short and sharp, then she started up the truck and reached for the gearshift. Just before she pulled out she glanced over and saw him staring at her; she took off her sunglasses and stared back at him defiantly, her eyes large and dark and nervous. He smiled at her; she replaced her sunglasses quickly, then put the truck into gear and eased out onto the highway while muttering to herself.

A man stuck his head out of the gas station and yelled something. He didn’t hear him; he put a hand to his ear and shook his head.

"The red goddamn lever!" the man yelled. "Pull it down!"

He looked at the pump and pulled at the lever, first up, then side-to-side, then down. He heard the pump kick in and the gas started flowing.

This morning Candy had come out to the porch while he’d been loading his car up, and said loud enough for the neighbors to hear, "And don’t even think about sneaking back in while I’m at work, Jack. I don’t want to have to change the locks, but I will if I think you’re coming in here."

He’d stood up from where he was arranging things in the trunk and yelled back, "Does Ed have a key?" Ed being his brother.

She’d folded her arms tightly across her chest then and hissed at him, "Right, only you would think of that, Jack. Only you."

But she didn’t deny it either.

After a while the pump stopped. He eased out the nozzle and rehooked it carefully, studying the amount and the price in the little glass windows; by the time he got inside the gas station he’d forgotten how much it had been. He wandered down a single, long isle and took a pack of beef jerky off a rack, went back to a cooler and took out a plastic bottle of Coke, then took a tin of peanuts off a shelf. He looked around for the cash register, but all he could see were displays.

"That it?" he heard. He followed the voice until he saw a short, middle aged man with a three-day beard and a greasy baseball cap standing behind a counter, a stub of a cigar in his mouth, blending in with the racks of tobacco and lottery tickets and snacks. To his side was a small black-and-white TV tuned to a shopping channel.

"Yes, that should do it," he said. He put his things on the counter and pulled out his wallet, took out a twenty, and handed it over to the man. The man looked at it, turned it over carefully and looked at the other side, then made change.

"Any motels around here?" Jack asked. "I need a place to stay for a while."

The man hesitated for a moment, then said, "OK, ten miles north. On the other side of the highway. Cleo’s place."

He laughed and handed Jack a receipt. "Don’t blink," he said, "or you’ll miss it."

"Say," said Jack, "and just for the hell of it, you know anybody around here that needs someone to work? I can do a lot of different things."

"Like?" said the man.

"I don’t know. Name something, I’ll tell you if I can do it."

"What I’m doing," the man said. "Can you do this?"

"Sure," said Jack. "I mean, I bet there's a lot to learn, but I’m pretty bright, I learn quick."

The man stared at him for a minute, then shook his head and said, "I don’t know how smart you gotta be, but you need to stay right here all day and not run off, not even for a few minutes, and not short the till, and not take anything off the shelf without paying for it. You’re the only one here from ten in the morning until six at night. I open up at five A-M, and I close at nine P-M. And if you think your shift sucks, you should try mine."

"Oh," said Jack. "Let me think about it."

"Right," said the man.

"You bet," said Jack. "I’m going to think about it."

"OK. You’re going to want to rent by the week. It’s cheaper."

"What?"

"The Wigwam Motel. The one up the road. Ten miles."

"Thanks," said Jack. "I’ll be talking to you."

"Sure," said the man. "I’ll be waiting."

As he got in the car he wondered if he should call Candy to tell her he’d gotten a job. He stuck an unlit cigarette in his mouth and started thinking about just what he'd say, and he pulled out.

Exactly ten miles up the road, in a large, neatly mowed clearing, sat four small, identical cabins facing the highway across a frontage road. Each cabin had shiny log siding, bright green shingles, a round, black metal chimney, and a new air-conditioner sticking conspicuously out if its side. In front of the cabins were concrete slabs for porches, with plastic chairs and plastic tables and bright, white plastic vases full of fresh wildflowers. Beside each cabin was a parking stall carefully outlined by half-buried railroad ties, and on each door there was a large yellow number painted on a silhouette of a moose.

He turned in and slowed down, then followed the frontage road to a ranch-style family home. It was as neat and tidy as a pin, with neon signs that said ‘Manager’ and ‘Vacancy’ sitting in a carefully manicured garden.

As he pulled in front of the house an overweight woman in blue stretch pants and a yellow halter-top came out and smiled broadly at him. Her face was red, and her eyes were bright and wide like she had just been surprised.

"Howdy," she said, catching her breath and dabbing at her face with a towel. "You looking for a room?"

"Well I guess so," he said.

For a moment they stared at each other, then he said, "Sure, I don’t know for how long yet, but a week at least."

"Ahh," she said. "C’mon in and sign up. The mister’s out, I’ll have to write you up. Will that be cash or credit card or....?"

He looked into her round, friendly face and smiled and shrugged, then he followed her up a few stairs, through a screen door, and into a small office. He smelled something cooking; a timer dinged and they both looked down the hallway into a brightly lit kitchen. She glanced back at him and cleared her throat; for a second he wondered if she was going to invite him to eat with her.

"Credit card," he finally said.

He pulled out his wallet, took out a card and handed it to her. She ran it through a machine, then after a minute she punched a few buttons and ran it through again, then shook her head. "Well it says the card’s maxed," she said, staring at the machine nervously. "Says so right on this little window if you don’t believe me..."

She turned the machine towards him and went a little red and started biting on her lip.

"Maybe there’s something wrong with this," she said, "I can run it through again but the mister really doesn’t like that because sometimes it charges twice and then it's real hard to get them to reverse that... "

He wanted to tell her something that would relax her.

"Here, I have cash," he said quickly. "Go ahead and cancel that. The ex-wife, she still has one. I should really close the account, in fact I think I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. This has happened before."

She told him the price and he handed over some twenties. Her hands shook as she took the money and made change, and he felt sorry for her. He thought about what it must be like to run a little motel like this way up in the middle of nowhere on a dark highway, wondering all the time what kind of people you have staying right next to your home, maybe some not-so-good people, listening to them complain about the rooms and trying to get you to lower the rate because of this or that, hearing them arguing among themselves and yelling at their kids, cleaning up God-knows-what after they left. She must judge people by their messes, he thought, she must lump everyone into groups by how much noise they make and what kind and how much of a mess they leave behind.

"Thanks," he said.

She pushed a card his way and withdrew her hand quickly; be picked up a pen from the counter and signed his name, putting in his old address and phone number. She looked at the card carefully, then gave him a key and said, "You need anything just come over and knock. Or you can call, the number’s by the phone... Jack... ice machine and pop by number three... The mister..."

"Thanks," he said quickly, looking at her face and smiling.

Her eyes narrowed, then widened again. She looked away and said, "Just so you know, there’s no smoking in bed, and we really prefer you smoke outside, if you do smoke that is, there’s a coffee can by the door for that, and no parties, please, the others don’t pay to listen to someone partying all night long..."

She relaxed a little as she talked, shrugging as if they weren’t her rules and she could sympathize with him if he didn’t like them.

As she went on he thought about how Candy had once wanted to set up some rules for him, like a behavior contract, with everything discussed and negotiated and written down and signed. She said she’d seen something on TV about that and thought it might be a good idea for them to try it.

"Why?" he’d said to her.

"So everything’s out in the open," Candy had replied, rolling her eyes at the ceiling.

"I already got a pretty good idea."

"I don’t think you do, Jack."

"I’ll tell you what. If I start wondering what I can and can’t do, I’ll check with you."

Right then he’d known. It was something that his brother had pulled on his own wife, just before their divorce. He had bragged about it once.

As he was leaving the office he stopped and turned to the manager, like he’d just thought of it, and said, "Say... just for conversation... you know anybody around here that’s hiring? I’m thinking of moving up this way if I can find some work."

"Maybe," she said slowly. "You know, we could use some help around here coming up. We’re thinking about adding two more cabins and remodeling, so there will be plenty enough to do off-season. You have to be able to do a lot of different things, framing and roofing and electrical and plumbing, all that. We have a guy in for the concrete, but other than that we do it all ourselves. Not that any of it’s too hard, but it has to be done just exactly right because of the codes..."

As she talked her eyes blinked a lot, and she looked around the room as if someone else were watching them.

"I’ll think about it," he said. "I’m pretty handy once I get the swing of things."

"Sure," she said. "I’ll talk to the mister... when he gets here."

"OK," he said. He looked at the key for the room number, then said, "You have a really nice place here. You can tell that someone cares."

She turned red again and said, "Well, we do what we can. It’s important to us that people have a nice stay. We like to think we help them get away from it all when they come up. That’s why we like it quiet and peaceful. And clean. We really like things to be clean and neat so people don’t have to worry about that."

He opened the screen door to leave and said, "I believe that. I can see how much work you put into it."

He felt her looking after him as he went down the stairs to his car.

He drove slowly until he came to his cabin, then backed into the tiny lot carefully, swinging the wheel back and forth until the car was parked perfectly straight. He got out and opened the trunk, took out his suitcase and a small box of books, and went to the door and unlocked it. As he went in the first thing he smelled was old cigarette smoke, the second thing was a slight greasy smell from cooking, and the third was a vague woman’s smell, like an old lady’s perfume. Dust floated in the air in the afternoon sunlight, and a fly was quietly buzzing around somewhere. He stood there looking at everything, breathing deeply and getting a feel for the place.

After a few minutes he moved the telephone to the top of the bedside table so it would be in easy reach, picked a few books out of the box and tossed them on the bed, then he found a small saucer that would work for an ashtray and placed that next to the telephone. He opened the curtains so he could see the traffic on the highway, opened the window as wide as it would go, then he turned out the lights, stripped down to his underwear, and lay down flat on the bed. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, thinking of nothing, then he reached over and took out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. He lit a match, picked up the telephone, and dialed his brother’s number. When his brother answered he said, "So, how long you been doing her, Ed? How long’s that been going on?"

He put down the phone, shook out the match, and lit another. When he heard his brother stop yelling he put the phone back up to his ear and said, "Just remember Ed, that whatever you do to her, I did it to her first. Everywhere you go on her, I was there before you."

He hung up the phone. He watched the traffic going by, still sparse, but a little thicker now as people drove home for dinner. If he stuck out his feet and squinted it looked like the cars were driving over his toes.

When he tired of that he looked around the room for a list of restaurants, and came across a flyer about the motel that looked like it had been typewritten on an old machine, and then photocopied a little crooked. It was in a plastic cover, yellowed and cracked around the edges. It said:

‘The Wigwam Motel, built by Mr. Edgar James in the nineteen-fifties. When he passed away it fell on his daughter, Cleo, and her husband, Art, to keep it going. Then when Art passed away Cleo was faced with a difficult decision... she’s worked hard to keep the Wigwam in its original look, even down to the bathroom fixtures... lovingly restored... carefully maintained...’

He picked up the phone again and dialed the manager’s number.

"Cleo?" he said.

"Yes?" she replied. Her breath sounded short again, like she’d been exercising.

"This is Jack. In number 4. I was just thinking that I haven’t had dinner yet, and if you can get away maybe you can show me a good place to eat. My treat, of course. Because I’m new around here."

There was silence, then she said, "Well, the mister... I mean... oh hell... I suppose you figured that out..."

As she talked he got up and looked across the lot at the house. He could see her standing in front of a window; he heard her take a deep breath and hold it, saw her put a hand to her hair and muss it up, then smooth it out. He saw her light a cigarette, and heard her take a long puff.

"Well," she said, "you know, I... well hell... things are slow this time of year so I guess..."

She moved out of sight, then she sighed and said quietly, "OK. Anything to get out of the house, you know what I mean?"

She laughed abruptly, then moved back in front of the window. He saw her carefully put out her cigarette and put the stub back into her pack.

He said he’d be over in a little bit, and he hung up.

He put another cigarette in his mouth and watched the traffic some more. They all had their lights on now; it was getting darker by the minute.

He dialed Candy; it rang a dozen times before she answered.

"Hey!" he said brightly.

"Jesus Christ!" she yelled. "I was just in the goddamn tub, I can’t believe you..."

He stood up and looked across the parking lot to the manager’s house while Candy went on. He saw Cleo pick up her phone and dial a number and start talking, quickly and animatedly.

"Listen," he said. He pretended to take a puff off a cigarette; he coughed a little, blew air across the mouthpiece, and said, "Hey - guess what? I got a job."