What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [75]
Over at the girl’s apartment, no other cheap bouquets ever showed up, and she began to wonder if there might even be another story attached to the one she had seen. Maybe it hadn’t even been left in memory, but was the remnant of a date gone wrong, some young people at the bowling alley, perhaps.
August passed. The fall came, with the light softening in the window. December rolled past, and with it the first anniversary of that young girl’s death, but no one looked at Arlene in silent knowing. Not the other waitresses, not Vernon, not Cal, not that young deputy who would come in for a grilled cheese, home fries, and a cola.
People were going to forget that girl, Arlene realized. Just as they were beginning to forget her—Arlene Watson.
The days kept going. She spread the news of the world on the café counter and watched the stories swallow up her hands, ink all over her fingertips. The light stung in the windows again, announcing spring, anticipating summer.
“Has anyone come to see you about your motel, Mrs. Watson?” Cal asked.
It was July. It was 1961. She looked up at Cal.
“You’ve been asking me that question for years, Cal.”
“The planning is over,” he said, pointing to the newspaper. “They’re building.”
She had known they were. She didn’t let on that she had stood on the edge of the motel parking lot, shading her eyes west. Past the fiery line of sunset, she could see nothing but empty space there, a horizon pulled taut. She didn’t know what she had expected to see—cranes, maybe, or the elevated ramps and thick pillars of highways like she had seen on television.
“Why would they come see me?”
“Are they anywhere close to your property? Could they buy you out?”
There hadn’t been much letup in her motel bookings. Sometimes weekends were slow, but that had always been the case. Still, from the banter of some of her more talkative customers, she knew the route was being built well west of her.
“I have no idea how close I’ll be to the highway.”
“It’s a freeway, not a highway,” said Vernon.
“Freeway or highway, what’s the difference?” she asked.
“We already have a highway,” said Vernon. “That’s the problem.” He sopped at his eggs over easy with a piece of bread and grabbed his silverware to demonstrate. “See these two lanes?” He placed the fork and knife next to each other. “They’re going in the same direction. There’s two other lanes right next to them going in the opposite direction. Just like the highway we have now.” He hovered his hand over the silverware, as if it were a car traveling. “Problem right now is that we run right through Bakersfield and Tulare and Kings-burg and so forth. The city traffic slows for all sorts of reasons. Stop signs or speed limits or cars pulling into motel parking lots.” Vernon motioned his hovering hand slowly to the right of the silverware. “With the new freeway, you don’t have none of that. Just a straight shot through. You get on by a ramp and you get off by a ramp. Easy breezy. No stop signs, nothing to slow the traffic down.”
“So?” she asked. “How’s that different?”
“Come on, Mrs. Watson,” said Cal. “Don’t tell me you can’t do the math. If I’m paying a trucker to get a load of eggs to Sacramento, do I want him there in five hours or seven? He could do five on the freeway because he never, ever has to stop or slow down. Unless he wants a cup of coffee.” He held out his cup. “That’s a different story.”
She poured, and Vernon finished with the silverware demonstration, taking them back up once again for his breakfast. “I hate to say it, but Cal was right all along. You should start thinking about selling that motel if you can.”
“No, Vernon, I can’t let that go.”
“Darlin’,” he said, putting down his utensils, “you’re just not going to have people stopping at the motel anymore. Not unless one of those ramps is close by.”
“People will still use the old Ninety-nine. Why wouldn’t they? You don’t just tear up a road that goes through town.”
“Arlene, you want to see it? You want to see the freeway with your