Ann Beattie - The State We're In

“What do you mean, Kunal? They’re making the motel into a movie set?”

“Yes, that is exactly it, but they are not now making a movie. They will send a video to the director, and he must decide how to proceed. To be honest, this is a sudden plan and yes, we will be given some money, though we honor the wishes of our other guests, and except for perhaps buying you dinner — if you have not had dinner — we are wondering whether the matter of a couple of hours would truly inconvenience you.”

“It’s fine,” Moira said, coming out of the bathroom. Her molar hurt, as well as the place she’d rubbed repeatedly under her arm. “No big deal. Can we watch?”

Hughes turned toward her. She could see that he was about to say something, then decided against it. She had a quick flash of them the night before — no, two nights before — entangled on the bed, the sweat on his face, the curtains not pulled together tightly enough, but no one was there, no one but the Norwegians, who seemed to sleep all day and night.

“Of course,” Hughes said. “But yes, do ask if we keep out of their way, whether we could sit back by the pool and watch.”

“I will ask,” Kunal said. “Thank you. Tomorrow night, Mr. Reed would like to buy you dinner, then. You have been a pleasure to have at the motel.”

“You sound like you’re out of central casting,” Hughes said, smiling a bit.

“Sir?”

Again, Hughes altered his expression. “I mean, we all suddenly become extras, or something,” he said. “We’ll just sit out by the pool and see if this amuses us.”

“Okay,” Kunal said, bowing slightly as he turned away. Then he stopped and turned toward the still-open doorway. “I turn like that man, Columbo!” he said. “Do you remember that show? He would take his leave and then turn and say, ‘One more thing,’ or something like that?”

“Yes,” Hughes said, smiling. “Peter Falk. That was a great show.”

“So for this minute I become Columbo,” Kunal said. “Were you saying before — this is my one more thing — did you mean I said something that sounded like an actor who would be hired from central casting?”

“What?” Hughes said. “I was just joking.”

“Of course. It’s what I thought,” Kunal said, turning without bowing. “Good, then, I will make arrangements for you to sit outside.”

Hughes shook his head and closed the door. He’d lied. He’d suddenly realized Kunal was a stereotype. A stock character.

“People do notice when you’re being a shit. You must realize that. I happen not to be able to do without you, but you’re far from a perfect person.”

“That’s a backhanded compliment,” he said.

“No, it’s a straightforward comment. I save my backhand for tennis.”

“Well, aren’t you the clever person?”

“Let’s leave that a rhetorical question and not miss the goings-on.”

“Really?” he said suddenly. “You’d get off on watching some stupid movie made in this obscure little motel? That’s your best thought for tonight?”

“You could have said no,” Moira said, sliding her hands in the pockets of her Bermuda shorts. “Were you deferring to me when you agreed it would be great to have everything lit up? Or maybe you were deferring to the servant, Kunal?”

“The servant? He’s not my servant. What the fuck! You’re this way on two drinks?”

“That’s a low blow. You know two drinks certainly are not affecting anything I say.”

“Oh, okay, I’ll just throw open the door and they can film around us. They can get two for the price of one: some pointless couple arguing in their little room and then whatever else they’re filming.”

“Listen to yourself. You think you’re pointless?”

“You can be so maddening, Moira. You listen, yourself. You’re being a bitch. Let’s not do this, okay? Let’s sit outside.”

“Sure, sure, the world’s for our entertainment,” Moira said, walking past him.

The wind chimes tinkled. Would the film people take them down? Or would they like ambient sound? In the distance, the owner raised a hand again as he hurried into the locked closet and came out with a vacuum, which he carried to the man with the motorcycle in the far room. There were five or six — six — men already in the parking lot. “Don’t move the cars, leave ’em where they are,” one shouted. “No way!” another shouted back. “We move the cars and see what the light’s like first.” “That’s unnecessary, I’m telling ya,” the first man said. Well — good. They wouldn’t have to move their car.

In front of the fence around the pool sat two chairs side by side. Moira sat in one, unnoticed by the work crew. Hughes came out of the motel room, pulling the door shut. She could only hope he’d remembered a key, since she hadn’t. Not like her, but she’d been rattled.

She saw the key flash in his hand, then his hand plunge into his pants pocket. Or she saw no such thing — she saw only that something was being held, something disappeared. “Have the key?” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Yup,” he said. He sat down beside her. He said, “I’m surprised he didn’t put a table between the chairs and maybe drag out two of those plastic footstools.”

She looked at him. He looked older than she expected in the shadows. “Maybe free popcorn’s still to come,” she said, again trying to sound neutral. Casual and neutral: were they the same thing? Was she going to be wondering about little distinctions when she was old and gray — was she going to be one of those stereotypes, the amoral woman who does whatever she wants, but who never gets what she wants, because she doesn’t even know what that would be?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the Norwegian couple, the woman in a cropped top and tight silver pants, the man in jeans and pointed-toe boots and a Western shirt in a crazy shade of yellow decorated with dark brown arrows. The Norwegians? Was this their version of going native? “Over there, step out of that light into that other one,” the older man called and they moved immediately, in unison, where they were told to go. The woman’s hair looked longer than Moira remembered. Maybe it was extensions. They were clearly actors. Part of the film. Startled at the same realization, Hughes punched her lightly in the arm. “The ghouls are stars!” he said. “What do you know!”

Kunal came out of the Norwegians’ room, carrying an ice bucket holding an upended bottle. He didn’t look in their direction. “Move more to the left, that’s right,” one of the men rolling lights said to the couple. “You know what you’re doing, right?” They nodded. Hughes continued to stare, slowly shaking his head. Kunal and the owner stood outside the office in a huddle. “James, back it up a little,” one of the men called to another. “That’s right, follow Rick. I think I fucked up placing that last camera over there.”

The Norwegians stood shoulder to shoulder. Tinkle, tinkle went the wind chimes. Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Moira thought. How I wonder what you are. She’d once played that, slowly, on her xylophone. Her brother had taught her how to read music. Her father had taught her to play tennis, then beat her every time. Her mother had taught her that kindness was a virtue and tried to see that her two children lived that way, even if her husband started fights in restaurants and once deliberately knocked over a glass of water on a tablecloth.

She was on her feet before she realized she was in motion. It was now thought that actions often started first, and explanations or rationalizations followed: I jumped up because I was mad! No, the person jumped up and then had to find a reason why.

Moira said to Kunal, “I know you’re busy, but I wanted to apologize for him. We’re not married, you know, and he’s never going to marry me, but that’s neither here nor there. You’ve seen to it that we had a lovely time here, and he appreciates that as much as I do. He’s just one of those guys. You read him right. I apologize.” She leaned forward slightly, the owner looking at her, perplexed. She kissed Kunal lightly on his forehead, a chaste, sister-brother kiss, which startled him and made him blush, though she could see from the sparkle in his eye that it was okay.