Durable Goods_ A Novel - Elizabeth Berg [39]
I put the Bible back, shut the drawer, take an eyeball tour of the room. A double bed, brown-and-orange-striped bedspread, and iron-smell sheets. Two pillows, no extra—I used Dickie’s jacket for my pillow. A high, narrow rectangle of a window. A small desk below it. An orange chair in the corner, wooden arms. A nightstand and there you are, that is it. Oh, and a closet, small, with a few lonely hangers, not new.
I tiptoe into the bathroom. Here is a tub and a sink and a toilet that comes with a break-away paper band that makes you feel like the Queen of Sheba, even if the toilet is five hundred years old. There are white towels and little bars of soap stacked up, enough so we can each have our own. Well, I could wash. I open a soap, smell it, turn on the water slow and quiet. I wash my face and hands, dry off, fold up the towel, wrap up the soap. Then I tiptoe to my suitcase, get my pen, and go back to the bathroom to write my name on my soap wrapper. I will use the soap here, then bring along what’s left. We will need soap. I look into the mirror for a while. I wish I’d brought a nail file. Cherylanne always carries one in her purse. In a nothing-to-do emergency, she will pull it out and get to work.
I go out into the room and sit in the orange chair, watch them sleep. I am a little hungry. Where will we eat? I wonder. Probably at a restaurant with booths, and place mats with stars for cities. Who has money? I think only Dickie does.
I get out my poetry notebook, close my eyes, and wait for an idea. Sometimes they are swirled around in there deep, and I have to tell them they can come out. But nothing comes to me. A, I think. Nothing. B. C. Nothing. D. E. Eternity. Eternity. I write:
I hate eternity.
Really, friend, don’t you?
What could stay good so long?
Not even a great zoo.
Well, this is silly.
I write:
Think of how long
Eternity can last
Nothing. I take in a breath, sigh, then worry that it is too loud. I’ll go outside. I don’t like to think about eternity. It scares me. It’s like a too-tight winter muffler, acting like it’s there to help you when all it’s doing is cutting off your breathing. What could you do for so long? Sometimes when I think of heaven, I think all it is is people looking down and missing things. And if God came walking through and said, “Anybody want to go down there again?” everybody would raise their hand yes, even if their time here had been hard.
I open the door. The rain has stopped, the sun is out, and the slice of day that leaks in falls directly on Diane’s face. She opens her eyes, crabby. Well, there is nothing to do about it now. “I’m going out,” I say, and she frowns, nods, turns over on her other side.
I guess I have messed up. I will make it up to her later. But who could sit in a small dark room that is not your own, with nothing but two people sleeping, and you don’t know for how long?
There is a small swimming pool in front of the motel. No one is in it. I wish I’d brought a suit, but of course I didn’t know you could go swimming when you are running away. I open the gate, go sit by the edge of the pool to hang my feet in. The water feels cool and fine, like liquid silk. I close my eyes, spread out my toes, make the pool bigger in my mind to feel more luxurious.
I won’t get to go to the pool anymore with Cherylanne. The last time, I didn’t know it was the last time. I should have paid more attention. The best was our diving, how good we got at back dives. Of course, I never did learn the high dive. I see Cherylanne coming off it, one smooth letting go. She often smiled when she dived; I wonder if she knew it. I see myself back up on that high board, and hairs on the back of my neck rise up to remember it too.
My father must know by now. He must have seen our empty rooms. Maybe he looked for me at Cherylanne’s. “I don’t know!” Cherylanne would say and he would not quite believe her, probably. Belle would