Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

— The maid did all that did she?

Room 414 and room 603 were like identical lamps. One lit, one unlit. I stood inside the new room.

Needing that shower I went to the bathroom but found I was scared of the nozzle. I turned the knob, but as soon as the water ran I imagined another mishap. Two ruined rooms would snuff the last of Hampton Inn’s goodwill. I had a panic attack, that’s all. Like a grief counselor I soothed myself, saying, — It’s fine. Take a shower in a little while. Do something else. Not just yet. Soon. Turn off the water.

With the receiver of the hotel phone to my ear I listened to the dial tone stutter: a signal there were messages for me. They were transferred from room 603. Two were Nabisase’s, at nine-thirty and eleven that morning. The first was the sound of annoyance, asking where was I. The second just dejection; —I guess you and Mom are busy.

The third message was from Mom, but hardly recognizable. Her voice was a bouncy trill. I’d have thought it was a teenager, not a middle-aged woman. At three-eighteen PM she said. — I need to get the dogs from the car, but I’ll send them to you later. Don’t worry, Anthony. I will reach you in my own way.

— Walk over there, I said out loud to myself. Get up and find your folks.

I called our answering machine in Queens, but for what? Nabisase had more friends than the rest of us and she only had two. Checking home messages was just a way to avoid getting up.

To my surprise we had five. Five for Anthony. Which, I don’t know why, made me feel handsome.

The first was one of the managers at Sparkle asking again if I’d like some weekend work. The other four were from the same man, one who clearly hadn’t listened when I said we were leaving town:

— Hello, this is a message for Anthony. Give me a call. You know who this is?

— This is Ledric, I’m sorry if it’s late and all.

— Nabisase, could you pick up and let me talk to Anthony?

— (groaning) I am the dumbest motherfucker on two feet.

The Dodge Neon’s trunk was broken open. Its lock looked attacked by claws. Chips of white paint on the Hampton Inn parking lot. My duffel bag was still inside, but Mom’s eighteen figurines were gone.

I forgot about Ledric like lickety-split, opened my bag to make sure my clean suits were there. It’s possible that there was a gewgaw thief in Lumpkin, but I doubted it. I unfolded one suit, shook it out and changed in the backseat of the broken car. Though I tried a few times to slam the trunk closed, it wouldn’t shut.

Stepped out then walked the eighty-five feet back to Comfort Inn. A girl in the employee uniform, jacket and smile, walked me back outside and pointed southwest to a huge carnation-red building where ceremonies were to be held.

The Blue Ridge Theatre.

— I think that’s what you’re looking for, sir.

Preliminary events, like casual and athletic wear, were going to run at eight o’clock.

— That’s a half hour, I said.

— We have a bar inside, if you’d like to pass some time.

— I shouldn’t start drinking, I told her. I’ve got to drive somewhere tonight.

— Is your daughter in it?

— My sister. Did you see that other contest this afternoon?

— Uncle Allen’s? Oh sure. A lot bigger this year. My cousins were in it ’93 and ’94.

— Why not you?

— My life’s been pretty good, she said.

I borrowed twine from the clerk to tie the trunk of our Dodge Neon closed. How sad the sight made me. Just a day before, on November 10th, Mom brought this car home; it made the block seem brighter because it was unspoiled. Now with the white string looped through the trunk this car looked like any of the duds double-parked up Hillside Avenue.

I started the car and left Lumpkin, Virginia, at seven-forty-five.

Miser’s Wend was an even smaller town forty miles south of Lumpkin. The two were separated by the larger city of Winchester, Virginia. Miser’s Wend would never have an exit on I-81 today if not for the Quakers who came in 1773. These facts, the year of founding and who did it, were stamped on plaques every eight feet within town limits. Declaring stones, curbs, cigarette butts as historic Quaker landmarks. But by 1995 the Quakers were aged right out of importance. When I drove into Miser’s Wend I entered an extinct society.

Downtown was only four blocks long with one bookstore, a food market, a dry cleaner; their store fronts had all been built before the Civil War. I felt a mix of admiration and aching back. Sleeping in a car seat all morning still hurt me.

A Quaker meeting hall was in a large field, left to itself. Fifty feet by fifty, one story with a gabled roof. I wouldn’t say it looked like a religious building except for the way it seemed to shine under direct focus from the moon. The wood became whiter. There was a porch on the right side of the meeting house with one small chair out there. It faced me; I drove by.

I touched the passenger seat where my sister had been on Friday. When I thought of her on stage with Grandma I regretted the mistakes I’d made today. Missing her phone calls and now, driving forty miles just because she’d hurt my feelings. When we came back to Rosedale from Ithaca on September 3rd, Nabisase helped me clean out the crowded basement so I’d have a neat place to sleep. If I was going to turn around and keep her orphan’s secret there were still a few miles to decide.

Uncle Arms had written the driving directions on the back of a car loan application.

They were too damn specific for me.

Get up. Wipe off the dirt. Walk back to your hotel. Eventually get in your car. East on Jubal Early Drive. Take the on ramp for I-81 South. Merge onto I-81 South. Drive forty-six miles on I-81 South. Reach exit 303—Miser’s Wend. Use exit 303—Miser’s Wend. Follow off ramp to traffic light. Make right at traffic light onto Strop Street. Drive straight.

I entered the saccharine half of this community, where private homes were modest in size if not expense; their walls were limestone; their lights were out. Every house around. Beautiful, but forsaken. By eight o’clock the sun was well under the trees.

Turn right on McCutcheon. The house on the corner has an orange mailbox. Do not knock on any other doors. Drive slowly on this smaller road.

By now the directions were insulting. Maybe Uncle Arms acted the asshole with everyone. Was there a way I spoke or looked that made people think they needed to carry me with tongs? I’d thought I hid my confused state expertly.

After driving McCutcheon for ten minutes there was a private way to my right; thin as typewriter ribbon and it had no sign. His last direction read:

My road is nameless. Watch for lights in the woods. Come to them.

Uncle Arms stood on the front steps of his limestone home and waved. Even though it was two-and-a-half stories the house seemed small because it was narrow. There were three small chimney stacks on the long, pitched roof, one at either end of the house and the third in the middle. The place was fixed onto a plain but well-maintained field. In fact it was beautiful. The thin road became a driveway that continued around behind the house.

I wanted to drive back to the rear just so I could see the whole property, but he gestured for me to pull onto the front grass.

There really isn’t any comfort in a rural night for me. I’m happy to see a traffic copter overhead. I decided that the cloudless star-filled sky looked like a busy switchboard, and it relaxed me.

Uncle Arms was still short, but wasn’t wearing the gold teeth. His brown suit was better than the one he’d worn in the tent that afternoon. I touched his shoulder and the fabric felt softer than cold cream.