Hob Broun - Inner Tube

Just now I am having an affair with the maid at my motel. Heidi is straitened, but a woman who breathes freely no matter what. She has hard eyes and a ninety-six pound whippet body. Her face is a battlefield — long nose, prominent teeth, and the acne scars that shame her, that she tries to disguise with Max Factor foundation, which cakes up like silt in the pits. There is ambivalence in her, but no confusion. Families are the affliction of her life. The family she came from, the one she helped to start. Heidi needs to be alone. I want to help her.

She was fourteen in Zanesville, Ohio, when her mother died like this: Working part-time at a luncheonette, she was badly burned by the deep-fat fryer. A friend volunteered to drive her to a hospital but the manager said for insurance purposes she should go in an ambulance. The ambulance hit a patch of ice, flew into a lake, and all aboard were drowned. Heidi answered the phone and it was a state trooper calling.

A couple of months later she moved west with her sisters and her father, the mine inspector. She went to high school in five different states and married the first man who thought to ask her.

I had been at the Golconda less than two weeks. It was a Saturday morning and a girl let herself into my room with a key. I was naked in bed, smoking and watching the set: cartoons with no sound. Like a lush-worker on New Year’s Eve, wasting no time, she started right in on me.

“You got any complaints about the room, mister, I’d like to hear them.”

The best I could do was “No,” and spread out the sheet a little.

“Okay then. Maybe you’re from Canada or somewhere, but we got a deal out here where you leave a little something for the girl who does up your room. I been waiting on you, figure maybe you’re one of those end-of-the-week, hide-it-under-the-pillow types. But nothing. Not gratuity one do I see from you. Maybe you think I don’t mind bending over to wipe scum off the toilet rim or pick toenails off the carpet. But it’s some shabby work moving through strangers’ crap every day. They pay me like an Indian and never once…”

She waved it all away, turned to one side. “Oh God,” pressing fingertips against her hairline, “you must think I’m a total idiot acting like this.”

“No. You’re right. It’s me. I have a way of missing out on obvious details. My jacket. It’s rolled up behind that chair. Go ahead in the pocket and take whatever you think’s fair.”

“You’re serious?”

“So they tell me.”

She drew a bill from my pocket with two fingers, then looked over at me plucking hairs above my sternum. She had a laugh like a tropical bird, a trill I could watch moving up her throat.

Lifting her eyes to the ceiling, “Mama, this ain’t how it looks.”

“Not at all. I had a lovely time. What’s your name, anyhow?”

“Linda,” she said, leaving no doubt it was a lie.

“Linda. That’s Spanish, isn’t it?”

She went out the door, then curled her head back around. “Something else you could do for me is quit throwing your dental floss in the sink.”

Monday morning I was ready for her. I’d called in to the facility, reported car trouble, and when she showed around ten I had candles burning and a bottle of Solano County champagne iced down in the sink. Leaning up against her utility cart with bangs awry, she had a sullen white-trash look of too many years’ macaroni and soup beans.

“What the hell are you up to?” she said.

And I wondered myself. But once I’d coaxed her inside I sensed as before her scrawny heat, and desire rose in me like nausea. I popped the cork.

She looked suspiciously into her glass. “If this is about the other day…Listen, I was under some pressure, driving all around for a place to let it out, and you got elected, that’s all.”

“ Salud, ” I said.

“What I mean is don’t take me at face value, okay?” Then she grimaced, tossed her head in a way that told me she had realized a possible reference to her homely features.

“Sit back and relax,” I suggested.

She turned from me to look out the window at the cars.

“Linda,” I said, “I’m not worried about values at all. Now why don’t you sit down here and watch while I take care of the room.”

I grabbed fresh linen off the cart and started stripping the bed.

“You must be drunk already.” She reached for the bottle, willing to catch up with me.

I wiped the ashtrays, emptied the wastebaskets, laid in fresh soap and towels. I made merry with brushes and spray bottles, touched up with aerosol disinfectant.

“Very nice.” She was rolling soft candle wax in her fingers. “Is there a point I’m not getting?”

“Now we’re on equal ground,” I said, having no idea what I meant.

We sat watching television for an hour or so, and then I left for work.

You were, I suppose, expecting a seduction. As there was no disappointment on my part, let there be none on yours. I cannot change the facts: Lust no more obviates the need for skepticism than it cures banality.

Heidi was compliant in her thoughtless way, positioning herself amid the furniture like a showroom mannequin. Compliant but inapproachable. Something forced me back from my impulses to put on a tape of Enroll Garner playing “Penthouse Serenade,” to slide my hand along her spine and look for her heartbeat in the wrong place; some nameless instinct did this. But all I can be sure of is what I don’t know.

On Tuesday I got her name and number from Opatowski, who volunteered that he’d only hired her because she looked so underfed.

Her husband picked up the phone, instantly truculent.

“Mrs. Romar, please,” I said in my own voice.

“Yeah, who wants her?”

I pretended to be from a national recipe contest, first prize a trip to Tokyo and ten thousand cash. He put her on.

“Hi, it’s room six. Did I get you at a bad time?”

She agreed. She agreed to everything. We would meet at a neutral site after midnight and take it from there. I purposely arrived fifteen minutes early, but she was already waiting.

“I’ve never done anything like this before,” she said.

“Me too.”

The stars were like pinpricks. We went behind some rocks, laid a blanket on the ground, and fucked like prairie dogs.

ABOUT SIXTY TIMES A second. That’s how fast the hummingbirds beat their wings as they hovered at the bottle of red sugar water that hung outside our bedroom window. Violet brightened on mornings they’d arrive, taking it as an omen of sweetness for the rest of the day. At night, like the birds, she would lapse into a state of torpor. It wasn’t the casuistries of the Soc-Anthro industry getting her down, but me. This was during my early wanderlust, after the first thirteen weeks of marriage had played.

Violet was altogether charmed by the idea of “keeping” me, and for a span so was I. It’s not easy to denounce pampering no matter how kenneled up you start to feel. So I donned the Chinese silk pajamas, shaved more often than was necessary, tried different fruit combinations in the juicer (her parents’ hesitant wedding gift), and when toward evening I grew punchy, I would sometimes read aloud to myself of infant mortality patterns in Southern Asia or of Uzbek shamanism from the scholarly journals my wife stacked like furtive beaver mags in her closet. A day would perish by a kind of melting process. Never fully awake, I found it the most natural thing to slither into bed whenever Violet came in. Dinner was brought to me on a tray.

Still, it was a purely expository interlude, like the tumbling calendar leaves of an old movie. A vague fragrance of bed linen followed me everywhere and I started to cut myself up while shaving. Violet crayoned in my silences with the records she brought home by the armload; guaguancos and sambas, gamlans and cane flutes. Soon my nastiness was uncontainable.