Ann Beattie - The State We're In

“Not really. An app directed us here.” She shrugged. If he said one hundred, she thought he, too, might love her about as much as she loved him: eighty. Eighty, max.

“How’s your brother?” he asked halfheartedly. He liked her brother more than he let on. They’d done some major hikes together in the White Mountains, and he’d treated her brother to a week in Hawaii, when he and the Genius had gone there to talk to clients. They’d flown in a helicopter over a waterfall.

“I don’t know. She didn’t really say anything about him. But Daddy has a new attendant he likes. That’s good news. He mostly hates people.”

“Getting out?”

“Yes. He went to the park today. Or maybe it was yesterday. I don’t remember.”

“We should take him somewhere in the van again.”

“Well, we’re not a couple, so we can’t very easily do that, since Elizabeth’s parents live two doors down from my parents.”

He squinted at her. Seventy, max. Whenever he was being truly selfless, she went in for the kill. That was what he’d said about her at the beginning of the last trip, and she hadn’t forgotten it. He’d made her sound like a dangerous fish.

Thunder, but no lightning.

“I’m not in the mood anymore. I think I’ll get with your program. Where are those coupons?” he said.

“On the table by the door.”

“Are you going to snap out of it, or should I look forward to an evening of sulking?” he said.

“Do you think you might be picking a fight?” she said. “A few minutes ago you loved me one hundred percent, and I was a beautiful woman.”

“But what are you doing with your life? I mean, really. You toss off that editing in your sleep, almost. You were going to start a book, weren’t you? How many people really have the talent to write a good book, but you do.”

“Oh, go drinking with Bob Woodward,” she said, standing up and walking away.

“I’ve only met him once,” Hughes said. “I’m afraid I don’t have his contact information. I don’t think he’d be interested in flying out here and meeting me at the Nevada…”

She went into the room and put the chain on the door. He’d be too embarrassed to let anyone see she’d shut him out. Well, that was what she got for telling Hughes her dream. She was glad she hadn’t shown him the first fifty pages of the manuscript, as she’d been tempted to, when Elizabeth had been given a raise at work. She’d gotten yet another raise — the second in less than a year — and she and her stupid sister were now on a trip to Provence, a girls’ road trip to Aix, Avignon, and Arles. The three As, and wasn’t that just perfect? Such A-plus girls, both of them, one a scarecrow with minor Madonna pecs and hair that fell out because of a nutritional deficiency, the other fat.

The door jerked and trembled. “Oh, this is just so childish,” he said. “What would you do if I got in the car and drove away, huh?”

She considered this and grudgingly opened the door. “Show some respect,” she said, keeping her voice even. “This is not easy for me, and may I remind you, I am not in control of the situation.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll take a quick shower and we can get out of here,” he said.

“I’ve never seen you quite so excited about a free drink,” she said.

“I always go to hotel lobbies if they have free wine, don’t I?”

“That’s different.”

“It’s not much different,” he said. “I loved that place in Philadelphia: the Hotel Monaco.”

“You sent me a selfie of yourself there,” she said. “I remember the name. It reminded me of Grace Kelly. Were she and what’s his name, Cary Grant, lovers or just friends?”

“Don’t know,” he said, going into the bathroom.

She stretched out on the bed. She noticed that today there were three daisies amid the ivy. On the notepad by the bed was written, “You are welcome.” She smiled, then instantly worried that for some reason, Hughes might not like to know their note had been answered. He always tried to seem like a nice guy by telling everyone to call him by his first name, but had his limits with people. She really liked Kunal, wished he could be her father’s attendant — Kunal, her father would be sure to like — but Hughes drew lines in the sand about people: yes, the haircutter was nice, but she was just a haircutter. That sort of thing. She crumpled the note and stuffed it in her pocket. “I do love you, I do, Hughes,” she whispered. She’d made no further progress with the thick novel on the night table. She listened to the water in the shower. She wondered if the owner’s daughter would be painting in the little storage room in the afternoon. She so appreciated her own parents staying together. It hadn’t saved her brother, but then, whatever problems he had probably had little to do with them. They’d been good parents. Pretty good. Her father hadn’t, as the expression went, been very present. Neither, together or separately, could ever have been one of the demons he’d tried to chase away with cocaine and shots. Shots. She certainly no longer did shots. That was gone, like dancing all night until sunup.

* * *

When they returned after having two free drinks apiece (their choice! They’d tried G and Ts with that new gin, Tanqueray Ten), then ordering veggie burgers and leaving a sizable tip, there was some action at the motel. Rooms glowed at each end like luminous bookends. The Norwegians were in their room, but the curtains were closed, so the light was not very noticeable. Only one room remained empty, and Moira felt vaguely happy for the motel owner but also a little disappointed, since so far they’d had such a private vacation. Which was also one day closer to ending. Which increased the pressure to have the talk — to at least give it one more try; to see if they could arrive at any conclusion, even temporary, that might make her feel better, that might be an incentive to get back to work. He was correct that editing the scientific pieces only took a few hours a week now, since the Internet was so much help and she was working with such professional writers that they sent almost all the primary source material to her along with their pieces. The things she’d found out about moth communication. The amygdala. A rare orchid that bloomed underground whose stems might be useful in pain management. Fracking (so depressing).

Two SUVs were wedged into one and a half parking spaces. A motorcycle sat at the opposite end. The motel owner was standing outside the office, chatting with someone inside. She and Hughes waved as they opened their door. Hughes immediately turned on the TV. She went to the bathroom. She peed and fingered her arm for the little matchstick-size Nexplanon the doctor had injected near her armpit. What the doctor had said was true: you could locate it with no trouble, but you couldn’t see it. No birth control pills for her; she’d read enough about what harm they did after a certain age (she was three years older than he). She brushed her hair and thought to put the loose strands into a Kleenex and drop it in the trash basket. Yet again, she avoided looking in the mirror as she took the clip out of her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Past her shoulders, and her mother didn’t approve. “It makes you look older, not younger!” she always said. Her eyes flicked to the mirror, then down. She didn’t have much of a sense of how old she looked. Men still tried to pick her up sometimes. Hughes had called her beautiful. So next would come sex with Hughes, a Coke or a ginger ale from the machine, maybe a little package of Hydrox to split, if he was in a really good mood. There was a knock at the door and she waited while Hughes answered it.

“The people who have just checked in are from Hollywood. Good evening, Hughes. I’m sorry I am so excited, I have hurried to state this information, but the two men in unit one have me a little upset, due to the urgency of their request. They need to light the parking lot and wonder if you will be inconvenienced by their doing that. We did not know about this until only one hour ago, perhaps less. I phoned your room, but you were not back yet. We understand totally if this would not be what you want.”