Robert Butler - A Small Hotel

And then she says, “There are things I need. Things I’ve always needed.”

And Michael turns around beneath the moon at Oak Alley Plantation, even as he hears himself say to Kelly “What things do you need?” He faces the cottage where Laurie waits. And he stands before Kelly.

“Was I pretty tonight?” she says.

“Of course,” he says.

“There are things I need,” she says.

“What things do you need?” he says.

“I’ve been sleeping with a man,” she says.

And he stops this now. His hand goes to his phone. He’ll try once more to get through. He flips open the cell and he has a message. The number is hers. It couldn’t have been long ago. He starts the message and puts the phone to his ear.

And Kelly’s voice says, “It’s me. With things unsaid between us — forever unsaid — I didn’t want this all to end without my saying I’m sorry. I am. For this. For everything. You did the best you could. So did I … I hoped to hear a train tonight and just fade away with it down the river. But I know it’s almost time now, and there’s only silence … I love this room. Can you love a room? Or is that just a word? No. I love this room. I always have. Maybe I’ll haunt it … And my darling, I love you too. I always have.”

Michael redials her number and he knows what will happen but he has to try, he has to hold himself in suspension till at least he tries. Her phone rings and rings and rings and rings and rings and it rings and it clicks and her voice message begins and Michael snaps his phone shut. He sprints to the cottage and he slams through the screen door and the front door and he rushes toward the bedroom. Laurie has heard the violence of his entry and when Michael bursts into the room she has scrambled against the headboard. He sees her eyes wide and her hands flat hard against the mattress, pressing her backwards. “God no,” he says. “It’s not about you. I had a phone message. I think Kelly’s trying to kill herself.”

Laurie rises to her knees. “Oh, Michael.”

“I have to go,” he says, moving to the dresser. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she says. “Do what you have to do.”

He grabs his wallet and his keys and he turns back to Laurie.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he says.

“Go,” she says.

Michael nods and he rushes out of the room.

Laurie sinks back down, presses herself against the headboard once more. She closes her eyes hard, waits for the tears. She wants Kelly to live. But she knows that whatever happens, she has lost Michael.

∼

And Michael roars down the perimeter road of the plantation, not thinking yet, and the intersection with Highway 18 looms ahead and he hits his brakes hard and he feels a flutter of fishtail in his car and he asserts his mind, realizing he can’t help Kelly if he ends up in a ditch. He makes the full stop at 18. He has thought of a thing to do first. He opens his phone and scans through the phone directory and finds the number for the Olivier House. He dials the number even as he slides out onto the highway and accelerates, going as fast as he can and still control his car with one hand. He puts the phone to his ear and a woman’s voice answers.

“Olivier House.” A familiar voice.

“This is Michael Hays.”

“Mr. Hays?”

“Yes. I need to speak to my wife.”

“She’s not here.”

“Room 303,” he says.

“She’s not registered here, Mr. Hays.”

Michael feels a slamming of brakes in him. Maybe he’s wrong. No. She was talking about their room at the Olivier, clearly. He says, “It’s Ramona, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Ramona, I feel certain she’s there.”

“I know Mrs. Hays quite well,” she says. “She’s definitely not here.”

“You’re on nights,” Michael says. “You simply haven’t seen her. Room 303. Try 303.”

And Ramona says, “Oh, I know who’s in Room 303. It’s not Mrs. Hays.”

Michael just drives for a moment, just rushes in the dark past the stubbled cane fields white in the moonlight. He does have a shard of a doubt. He has to advocate here. For Kelly’s sake, he has to act as if it’s true. He says, “She’s told you to say this, Ramona. But listen very carefully. I have good reason to believe she’s harming herself. Right now. In your hotel.”

There is a beat of silence on the other end. He wishes he could see this woman. He wishes he could watch her eyes. Is she hesitating because he’s right? Or is she offended at being called a liar when she’s not?

Ramona says, “I’m telling you she’s not here.”

“Please at least check on her,” Michael says. “Please.”

“On who, Mr. Hays?” Ramona says. “I have to go now. I have someone checking in.”

And she’s gone.

Michael snaps his phone shut and lays it on the seat next to him. He has to act as if she’s lying. “Take your time, baby,” he says aloud as he puts both hands on the wheel and leans into the wide, white column of light he’s pushing before him. “Take your time.” And he accelerates, he races as fast as he dare along the river.

∼

And at the Olivier House front desk, Ramona stares at the phone. She is not a natural liar. She is a reluctant liar. She hates to lie. She hates it so much, she knows the count. Six. She has lied six times in the past minute and a half. But it’s for a good cause. The husband was scary. Too intense. She could feel it over the phone. She could understand Mrs. Hays asking her to do this, to lie. And she needs to find something other than “Mrs. Hays” to call her. Would “Kelly” be too familiar? But even as she feels whatever is going on here is something sadly typical between a man and woman, Ramona, too, has a shard of doubt beginning to tumble through her head. A small shard, but a shard nonetheless.

She pushes back from the desk and rises. She turns and crosses to the double doors at the back of the entrance hall and she opens them and steps out. She pauses. She doesn’t want to disturb Kelly. But if there is even a small chance that Mr. Hays is right, then she must. She moves on into the deep shadow of the loggia, the pool glowing ahead, and she emerges into the courtyard, focused now on making sure Kelly is all right. Vaguely aware, as she always is, of the thirty-foot ficus on the far side of the pool, a crazy overgrown thing, she turns to the staircase, utterly unaware of the young man and young woman from Room 107 in the middle of the pool, both of them naked, holding each other close. Their laughter, at their own paralyzed panic at nearly being caught, follows Ramona up the stairs.

She is oblivious to it. She’s climbing the stairs quickly now, quickly, wanting to get this over with, wanting to put her own mind at ease. She emerges on the third floor and steps to the door of Room 303. She hesitates once more, but she must do this. She knocks. Too lightly, she knows. There’s no response. She knocks harder. “Mrs. Hays,” she says. “It’s Ramona.”

She hears nothing from within. She’s hesitant. Kelly is getting some needed rest. Ramona’s disturbing her at the say-so of a controlling man. But she decides to try again. And she hears her own mistake. “I’m sorry,” she says through the door. “I mean … Kelly, isn’t it? Kelly, it’s Ramona.”

Nothing. Ramona raises her hand again to the door. But she stops, unable to do a thing. She should just go. She should knock again. She should go.

And the door opens. It’s Kelly.

Clearly she’s been crying. Her eyes are wet. And they are trying to droop shut. She smells strongly of liquor. She deserves to get drunk in peace. Ramona has made a terrible mistake.

“What is it, Ramona?” Kelly says.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she says, though she does have to ask, for the record. “Are you okay?”