After a few more moments, I merged back into traffic with exaggerated caution. I risked asking, “Are you okay?”
“If you don’t stop leering at me, I’m sitting in the back seat.”
“Don’t do that. Please. I’m just fascinated with you. You know how men are.”
“Yeah, I know how men are and it’s not a comforting thought.” She shook her head slowly as if I was an exasperating child. “How soon will we get to Florida? Assuming we make it.”
I glanced at the dashboard clock. “Can’t make it tonight. We’ll have to stop somewhere.” I was glad I’d thought of that. I was certain she didn’t have money for a hotel. That might be an opening.
“You could drive overnight, Freddy.”
“No thanks.”
“We could trade off driving.”
“No thanks.”
“What’s with this, we must stop somewhere shit?”
She didn’t want to appear too forward. I’d have to be subtle. “I’ll find a first-class hotel with a fine dining room.”
“Don’t have money for that. I’ll sleep in the car.”
She couldn’t be serious. “I can’t let you do that.”
“So, I get a separate room in your hotel, that what you’re saying?”
I thought about it a minute and answered, “No, I guess not. How about double beds, Candy, and you can put that gun under your pillow.”
“You just called me Candy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Freddy, I have no interest in getting laid tonight. I think I’ll skip the endless hours of begging and get my own motel room.”
Perhaps I still had a chance. That wasn’t a definite rejection, was it? After some wine and a pleasant dinner, she might change her mind. Isn’t that how it’s done?
After half an hour, I spotted a likely exit. I thought it safe to tell her I was tired of driving. We came to a Marriott and I slowed. She said to drive on past. I ignored her, pulled up into the driveway under the canopy, and stopped. I turned off the key.
She reached over and turned it back on. “Sleeping with you wasn’t part of the deal.”
She wanted her own small motel. I told her we were in rural Georgia and I didn’t think there was much else down the road going away from the Interstate. Try anyway, she said. A mile farther into the sticks, at a small crossroad, we came to Mom’s Cafe and across the road was Papp’s Motel with a flickering vacancy sign. In spite of how the place looked, the faded sign out front assured us the place was very up-to-date with not only air conditioning, but free TV as well.
“Pull up in front, Freddy.”
“You’re not serious. There are no other cars parked here.”
If Papp was eighty and wore a NASCAR cap, that must have been him sitting outside the motel office leaning back on a wooden bench. He wasn’t whittling, but otherwise it was a perfect homespun tableau.
“Wait here.” She took her shoulder bag and walked to the office, with her long legs disappearing up under that skirt and gently swaying those wonderful hips. Her head was up as if she was about to enter the Mayflower in DC.
The old man jumped as if he was eighteen and held the door for her. I waited. After thirty minutes, maybe more, I thought she’d dumped me and gone out the back way. At last, she came out front smiling and jingling a room key from her fingers.
I hurried over. “How’d you get that key?”
“A box of crackerjacks. It came as a prize.”
I had to raise my eyebrows at that. “It’s the Bates Motel. I can’t let you stay in this dump.” To tell the truth, the place appeared okay, it just wasn’t a modern multi-story.
“Grandpop in there gave me the best room. He says the bed is clean, the shower has a new glass door, and there’s a nice view of the road.”
Clearly, I didn’t understand this woman. “Okay, but let’s go back to that Marriott and have some dinner.” Maybe after dinner and drinks I’d have a chance.
“I’m not dressed for that and no money for anything fancy.”
“I’ll pay. I promise...no obligation.”
“Let just go across the road, Mom’s Cafe. Do people eat chili in Georgia?”
There were five other people in the cafe. Betty Jo brushed back some of her delightfully curly hair and stared up at the menu on the wall. No chili. A child in a far booth, who had been sitting with an open book and writing in a notebook, skipped over to our booth. When she saw Betty Jo she stopped frozen, her mouth open. Betty Jo called her over and managed to get her talking. She was Mom’s nine-year-old daughter. She slowly recited her spiel, which twice informed us there was no additional charge for coffee, and we could have all the refills we wanted. Looking upward and moving her lips slightly as we spoke, she took our order without writing it down. She then ran into the kitchen. Through the large window behind the counter, we could see her talking excitedly with Mom, who gave us a playful wave with a spatula. Then the child ran back to Betty Jo and asked her if she was a movie star. I had also decided, in the last eight hours, she was a very attractive woman.
I insisted on paying and we both ordered the fried chicken dinner with canned green beans, but real mashed potatoes. Not at all bad. The Congressional Restaurant should serve food like that. The young daughter balanced the dishes in heart-stopping fashion and took them away. We finished up with the free coffee and Mom’s homemade pecan pie.
I hadn’t had my usual evening drink, nevertheless I felt surprisingly at ease. Maybe we needed this. Needed to get acquainted. Do some ordinary things together. She was pleasant to be with. I suppose I’d be more pleasant if I could think of just one thing in the entire world other than her.
I wanted to hear her speak, to watch her talk, to tell me everything about herself. The order in which she put her clothes on and how she took them off. I wanted to know what she ate for breakfast, what she wore to bed, the name of her childhood pet, everything. Of course, I didn’t in fact ask any of those things aloud.
I did ask about her perfume. I liked it from the start and now it was even better. It was the warm fragrance of Betty Jo herself. I hoped the scent would remain in the car forever. If I knew the name, I could buy some for Ellen. Then when I was lying with her, I would think about Betty Jo. “I like your perfume. What is it?”
“I’m not wearing any. You’re smelling soap.”
I didn’t believe her. She was most likely embarrassed to mention some inexpensive brand from some common store. I would learn all such details later once she knew me better, if she became my mistress. I wondered if she’d mind moving to DC. I didn’t want to be driving to Baltimore all the time. Of course, Baltimore would be safer as far as people seeing us out together. I’d want to be with her inside the apartment most of the time. She could go out by herself on the nights I was busy. Although, it’d be best if she told me where she was going.
As we finished our coffee, my thoughts went back to how to get closer to her. There had been no drinks, so she wasn’t feeling high. We hadn’t eaten at my hotel, so we couldn’t just go upstairs. What should I do? What should I say? The day, the night, the opportunity, was getting away from me. I’d wasted it and tomorrow we’d be in Florida. She stood to leave and asked me to take her across the road to her motel.
We drove across to Papp’s and stopped in front of her room. I gave it another try. I tried to think of something persuasive. What I said was, “Are you sure you want to get out?”
“Freddy, you're about as romantic as my dirty sneakers.”
“I’m just acting like any sensible man.”
“I don’t meet a lot of those. Is this how they act?” She got out and gave me a little wave. “Goodnight, Freddy.”
“Wait, wait,” I called after her. I got out quickly and went around the car to her. “I’ve changed my mind about the hotel room. You can have your own private room at the Marriott after all.”
She just looked at me.
“No room with me, no double beds. Is that romantic?”
“Not at all. But it’s better. A single rose would be better.”
