Emily Rubin - Stalina

“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.

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.”

“She must love him very much,” I added.

“She passed away last year, but Harry was a momma’s boy—still is.”

Mothers. My mother, Sophia. I’m due to send money to her this week.

“Harry likes to wear nice clothes,” Joanie said as she stroked his blue serge suit that hung over a chair. She picked it up and hung it in the closet.

“His suit always smells of menthol cigarettes and spicy cologne, mmm.” She buried her head in the sleeve and reached into the pocket to pull out a pack of cigarettes.

I decorated the area outside the closet to look like a game booth at an amusement park. I painted stacks of bottles on the back wall and nailed a lime green snake, a pink pig wearing a tutu, a purple spider, and a monkey with a top hat securely to the wall. At first Mr. Suri thought people might steal the stuffed animals. No one has touched them, and Harry’s suit moving in front of the fan looked like someone gearing up and waving his arms—no hands—to throw a ball at the targets.

“Harry once won me a giant panda bear at a fair.”

A panda bear is a good idea for an addition to my design.

“Where was the fair?” I asked. “I like to do such things.”

“I gave the bear to my niece. About an hour and a half from here in Millerton. No one knows us there. We have to go places where no one will know us.”

I had sympathy for her situation. She lit a cigarette. The menthol smoke circled our heads and spread over Harry like a fog.

“Careful with Harry. He’s heavy around the middle.”

I waved my hands to spread the smoke. “I’ll count to three and we’ll lift,” I told her.

Joanie took off her high heels. The cigarette was dangling from her lips. We counted together.

“One, two, three, lift!”

Harry’s weight slowed us down, but with a couple of steps and one final heave we landed him safely on the bed. A moment later one of his legs started to slide off the side. I put my hip against it and pushed his limp body into the middle of the bed. Joanie and I sat next to each other. She stroked his forehead again with her hand. His eyes twitched, and he breathed deeply as she caressed his face.

“Harry’s a good guy,” Joanie said. “He can be a lot of fun when he’s not too stressed out.”

The expression was new to me.

“Are there many pressures in his out-stressed life?” I asked.

“I like that, out-stressed. That’s putting it mildly,” she answered.

“Does he have a great deal of money?” I thought to ask something practical.

“Sort of, but he has two ex-wives and a new wife, who is soon to be another ex-wife. They all cost.”

“And you?” I wondered where she fit in.

“I’ve known Harry forever; we went to high school together. We started spending time together when he was leaving his first wife, Felice. She was a friend. We’re all from Hartford.”