Craig Lancaster - Edward Adrift

Holy shit!

Kyle’s face appears to lose all color. He climbs down off the back of the oil pump and walks over to me. He doesn’t say anything. I’m breathing hard. I try to speak.

“I—”

“Wow, Edward.”

“I—”

“‘Little fucking shitball’?”

“I—”

“Wow.”

“I—I don’t know where that came from. I’m sorry,” I say.

“Don’t be sorry. That was cool.”

“No, it wasn’t. Also, Kyle, you shouldn’t say ‘fucking’ or ‘shitball.’ I know I did just now, again, but it’s not nice to say things like that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry again, Kyle.”

“I’m sorry, too. What happened to your pants?” He points at the hole on the backside of my legs.

“That dumb fence,” I say.

“It tore your pants up pretty good.”

“I know, Kyle. It hurts, too. I’m lucky I didn’t snag my balls.”

We’re making our way to the Cadillac DTS slowly, because I’m limping. I look to the sky now and I can see what the motel owner—why do I not know her name?—warned us about. It’s not the bright blue it was this morning; instead, it’s that gray color that forebodes (I love the word “forebodes”) a storm. I think about R.E.M. and the song that was playing as we drove out of Cheyenne Wells, the one where Michael Stipe sings about a sky that looks like a Man Ray painting.

I also think about the awful thing I said to Kyle and where it must have come from. Actually, I know where it came from. When I called him a “little fucking shitball,” that came from Scott Shamwell the pressman. He usually said that about Elliott Overbay, the copy desk chief, but never when Elliott Overbay could hear him. When I said “you’re pretty high and far out,” I was quoting Sergeant Joe Friday from the first episode of Dragnet 1967 , which originally aired on January 12, 1967. It’s one of my favorites.

The last part, when I said “fuck you and the horse you’re riding on” to Kyle, is easy. That’s my father. Those are his words. I am flabbergasted (I love the word “flabbergasted”) that they ended up on my tongue. Not literally, of course. That’s a figure of speech.

Two things are clear. First, when it comes to yelling at people, I am derivative (I love the word “derivative”). Second, I have no business telling Kyle what he should or shouldn’t say. I can’t control my own mouth.

Kyle again shimmies under the fence, and then he steps on the middle strand and lifts the top one so I can dip my head and sneak through.

We get in the car, and I turn it on. Michael Stipe is singing about the flowers of Guatemala and how they cover everything. I make a U-turn on the dirt road and head back to the two-lane highway that will lead us to town, and that’s when the first fat snowflake hits the windshield.

By the time we get back to the motel, it’s an onslaught (I love the word “onslaught”) of snow. The flakes are fat and wet, and they cling to the windshield almost as fast as I can use the wipers to get rid of them. The streets of Cheyenne Wells fill quickly with snow, and the Cadillac DTS fishtails as we pull into the parking lot.

Inside, the motel owner is waiting for us.

“I was watching for you,” she says. “I told you a storm was coming.”

I rub the top of my head with my hand, feeling the snow melt in my hair, and Kyle stomps on the entryway rug to get the snow off his shoes.

“It came on with no warning,” I say.

“No,” she says, “I warned you. I told you ‘storm’s coming.’ I couldn’t have been more clear than I was.”

Again, her eyes are playing games with me. Every time she speaks they sparkle, or seem to. I know this is a trick of the light. And her mouth crinkles like she’s holding something back—it flummoxes me that I can’t tell if it’s a grin or disdain for how stupid I was, getting caught in the storm like that.

“I don’t believe I got your name,” I say to her. Kyle tugs at my jacket and asks for the room key because “this is boring.” I hand it to him, and he skips down the hallway.

“I don’t believe I offered it to you,” she says. “My name is Sheila Renfro.”

She extends her right hand to me, and I take it in my right hand. Her fingers feel rough and chalky. She shakes my hand firmly, up and down three times, and then she lets go.

“I think I stayed in this motel when I was a little boy, with my father.”

“It’s the only motel in town. If you stayed in Cheyenne Wells, you stayed here.”

“It was nineteen seventy-eight. I was nine years old.”

“When in nineteen seventy-eight?”

“June.”

“What day in June?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I was either two years old or three years old. I was born June fifteenth, nineteen seventy-five, so it depends on when you were here.”

“When I was here, the motel was run by a big, fat guy who had white hair.”

“That was my father. He wasn’t fat. He was pleasantly plump. He’s in the ground now.”

“He and his wife had a little girl.”

“That was me.”

“That was you?”

She narrows her blue eyes at me. “Yes, silly. I just told you.”

“So we’ve met before?”

“I guess we have.”

“Do you remember me?”

“No, silly. I was just a little girl. Plus, you only have to remember a couple of people. Do you think I can remember everyone who has ever come to this motel? Sure, I could look at the register and see who’s been here, but that doesn’t mean I would remember them.”

I’m really foundering (I love the word “foundering,” but I hate to do it). I keep saying dumb things, and she keeps pointing out that they’re dumb. And yet, I do not want to stop talking to Sheila Renfro. She fascinates me.

I decide to change the subject.

“Why do your hands feel so weird?”

She rubs her palms on the hips of her blue jeans twice. “They’re not weird. I’m working. I’m doing drywall in room number eight.”

“Papered or fiberglass?”

“Papered.”

“Bathroom or living quarters?”

“Living quarters.”

“I’m pretty handy with drywall. Do you need help?”

“Are you offering or do you expect to be paid?”

“I don’t need to get paid. I’m fucking loaded.”

“Don’t curse around me. I would like your help, yes.”

I excuse myself so I can go tell Kyle what I’m doing, and I tell Sheila Renfro that I will meet her in room number eight in a few minutes. She offers me another handshake. I happily accept, and this time, her hand doesn’t feel weird at all.

As I’m walking down the hallway to the room I share with Kyle, room number four, I feel a little light-headed and funny in my stomach, like birds are flying around in it, which is of course impossible.

I cannot stop thinking about Sheila Renfro. At 9:47 p.m., Kyle and I left her cottage, which is attached to this motel, and came back to our room. We watched the 10:00 p.m. news out of Denver, although I must concede that I wasn’t really paying attention because I kept thinking about Sheila Renfro. At 10:32, I shut off the light and listened as Kyle quickly fell asleep. That was three hours and nine minutes ago—it’s 1:41 a.m. now—and I haven’t closed my eyes even once, except when I blink. Kyle is snoring in the bed next to mine. He’s lucky.

I’ve been lying here and thinking about Sheila Renfro. What an interesting lady. And a very no-nonsense woman, too.

The drywall work went well. As I told Sheila Renfro, I’m very handy with drywall. She needed help replacing a seven-foot-by-nine-foot section of the south wall in room number eight. By the time I got involved, she already had the old wall torn out, so I didn’t get to see the original damage. Sheila Renfro said it was pretty bad, that the room had been “lived in hard” over the years. The final indignation occurred a week ago, when a young man and his girlfriend were staying in the room and got into a serious fight.