nothing to see. We’ve got a Waffle House and a pawnshop.”
“What did you like about it?”
“I liked leaving it. Small-town life and me. Like this.” She held her two index fingers three inches apart.
The cab driver took the first exit for Sweetgum and pulled into a motor court that advertised rooms for $29.99 a night. It was between a restaurant called Shoney’s and a used-car dealership. Above it loomed a billboard that advertised a place called Billy’s that was selling fireworks and oranges a quarter mile down the road.
“You wait here while I make sure they have rooms?”
The driver peered out the passenger-side window at the row of empty parking spaces in front of the vinyl-sided motel. “I think they’ll have a room,” he said. George paid his sixty dollars and walked across the lot to the front office. It was late afternoon, but still warm, and he realized he’d forgotten to pack a pair of shorts.
The motel took cash up front for two nights. He filled out the card, leaving the information for the car blank.
“No car?” asked the desk clerk, a yellow-skinned old lady with a black tooth.
“No car,” George said. “What’s the best way to get around Sweetgum?”
“With a car.”
“You think I might be able to rent one? I’m not twenty-five.”
“That how old you have to be to rent a car?” She laughed. “Try Dan next door. He might lend you one of his tin cans for cash. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m eighteen,” he said.
“Well, that’s about how old you look too.”
His room had beige carpet, a shiny floral bedspread, and poorly papered walls. The front window that overlooked the parking lot and exit ramp was darkened by a grimy venetian blind; the back window was propped open and fitted with an air conditioner, currently turned off. George threw his bag onto the bed, stripped, and showered.
I’m in Audrey’s town, he thought as the water battered at the back of his neck. Maybe it’s all been a mistake, and she is here, still alive, recovering in a hospital. That thought had been hiding at the back of his mind, a secret hope. As he toweled off, the steam fading from the mirror, he took a look at himself, at the plain brown hair that curled out like wings when it got too long, an unexceptional face, a nose maybe a little too big, a dimple in the chin that made up for it. His eyes were a light brown, the color of grocery bags. It was a face that Audrey had stared into as recently as a few weeks ago. What had she been thinking? And where were those thoughts now? He tried to feel her presence, but could not.
He dressed in a pair of Levis and a dark green polo shirt with horizontal yellow stripes. The top drawer of the bedside table contained a Gideon Bible and a telephone book. There were two Becks listed in Sweetgum: a C. Beck, and a Sam and Patricia Beck. He guessed Sam and Patricia, lit a cigarette, and dialed their number. A man answered.
“Mr. Beck?”
“Who’s this?”
“Hi, it’s George Foss. I was a close friend of your daughter’s. At Mather. I don’t know if she mentioned me . . . ?”
“Maybe to my wife. . . . I don’t really know.”
“I was so sorry to hear what happened.”
“Yep.”
“I was wondering . . . I’ve come down to Florida. . . . I was wondering if I could come and talk with you and your wife?”
“Jesus Christ. Hold on a moment.”
He heard Audrey’s father yell out, “It’s some boyfriend. He wants to come here.”
George took a deep breath through his nostrils, then nervously yawned.
“Honey, who’s this?” It was a woman’s voice, on the line after a click.
“George Foss. I knew your daughter at Mather.”
He heard another click, probably Mr. Beck hanging up his end. He pictured Mrs. Beck in her bedroom, a framed picture of Audrey in her lap.
“George, honey, did you come all the way from Connecticut? That’s so sweet.” She sounded drunk, slurring a little bit on the word
“What did you like about it?”
“I liked leaving it. Small-town life and me. Like this.” She held her two index fingers three inches apart.
The cab driver took the first exit for Sweetgum and pulled into a motor court that advertised rooms for $29.99 a night. It was between a restaurant called Shoney’s and a used-car dealership. Above it loomed a billboard that advertised a place called Billy’s that was selling fireworks and oranges a quarter mile down the road.
“You wait here while I make sure they have rooms?”
The driver peered out the passenger-side window at the row of empty parking spaces in front of the vinyl-sided motel. “I think they’ll have a room,” he said. George paid his sixty dollars and walked across the lot to the front office. It was late afternoon, but still warm, and he realized he’d forgotten to pack a pair of shorts.
The motel took cash up front for two nights. He filled out the card, leaving the information for the car blank.
“No car?” asked the desk clerk, a yellow-skinned old lady with a black tooth.
“No car,” George said. “What’s the best way to get around Sweetgum?”
“With a car.”
“You think I might be able to rent one? I’m not twenty-five.”
“That how old you have to be to rent a car?” She laughed. “Try Dan next door. He might lend you one of his tin cans for cash. How old are you anyway?”
“I’m eighteen,” he said.
“Well, that’s about how old you look too.”
His room had beige carpet, a shiny floral bedspread, and poorly papered walls. The front window that overlooked the parking lot and exit ramp was darkened by a grimy venetian blind; the back window was propped open and fitted with an air conditioner, currently turned off. George threw his bag onto the bed, stripped, and showered.
I’m in Audrey’s town, he thought as the water battered at the back of his neck. Maybe it’s all been a mistake, and she is here, still alive, recovering in a hospital. That thought had been hiding at the back of his mind, a secret hope. As he toweled off, the steam fading from the mirror, he took a look at himself, at the plain brown hair that curled out like wings when it got too long, an unexceptional face, a nose maybe a little too big, a dimple in the chin that made up for it. His eyes were a light brown, the color of grocery bags. It was a face that Audrey had stared into as recently as a few weeks ago. What had she been thinking? And where were those thoughts now? He tried to feel her presence, but could not.
He dressed in a pair of Levis and a dark green polo shirt with horizontal yellow stripes. The top drawer of the bedside table contained a Gideon Bible and a telephone book. There were two Becks listed in Sweetgum: a C. Beck, and a Sam and Patricia Beck. He guessed Sam and Patricia, lit a cigarette, and dialed their number. A man answered.
“Mr. Beck?”
“Who’s this?”
“Hi, it’s George Foss. I was a close friend of your daughter’s. At Mather. I don’t know if she mentioned me . . . ?”
“Maybe to my wife. . . . I don’t really know.”
“I was so sorry to hear what happened.”
“Yep.”
“I was wondering . . . I’ve come down to Florida. . . . I was wondering if I could come and talk with you and your wife?”
“Jesus Christ. Hold on a moment.”
He heard Audrey’s father yell out, “It’s some boyfriend. He wants to come here.”
George took a deep breath through his nostrils, then nervously yawned.
“Honey, who’s this?” It was a woman’s voice, on the line after a click.
“George Foss. I knew your daughter at Mather.”
He heard another click, probably Mr. Beck hanging up his end. He pictured Mrs. Beck in her bedroom, a framed picture of Audrey in her lap.
“George, honey, did you come all the way from Connecticut? That’s so sweet.” She sounded drunk, slurring a little bit on the word
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