day’s end came with the sun cutting under clouds boiling in from the west, so that the fading light and the arriving cumulus appeared like a massive collapse, an avalanche of glory pounding down. When the sun had gone from sight he suggested the Olive Garden, but she wanted to walk farther, to a family-owned Mexican restaurant in one of the strip malls. The pinatas nailed to the wall were dusty, the carpet filthy. A pudgy girl of five or six wandered in and out of the kitchen gripping a naked Barbie doll. But the margaritas tasted strong; the salty, greasy food filled him.
‘How long will you stay here?’ Heather asked.
‘How long will you?’
‘Why can’t you answer a question?’
‘A week.’ He said it and felt strings and cords all through him jerk tight. Why a week? He had no idea. And what would he do then? But he had announced it, and he let it stand.
‘Today is Saturday. You got here on Thursday? At sunset Wednesday, we go home?’
He said yes.
The next day he sat on the balcony, and Heather sat with him, or she went back into the room and turned on the TV, or she slipped out of the room without notice. She returned once with a change of clothes, a magazine, chewing gum, and then a second time with food and wine. With the TV on, she called out comments on a home- decorating show. On the room’s desk she had already accumulated a little pile of things she’d found along the road and in parking lots – buttons and dimes, several bluish pebbles, a few coffee stirrers, a pocket-sized calendar.
He watched the wind striking the eighth-hole flag. A man stood on the balcony two rooms over and shouted into his cellphone about estate planning. ‘No, no! There are springing and
He asked, ‘You play tennis?’
‘I’ve made things out of tennis balls. You?’
‘No.’
‘It’s kind of sad.’
‘Tennis is sad? Tennis is love and matches.’
‘That we don’t know these things about each other.’
She sat on the balcony with him, and through the remainder of the afternoon they talked in a lazy, intermittent, negligible way. It resonated in him differently than their conversations in the past, and it struck him that they’d never before had time like this. The sun might track over the sky, from its first appearance to its end, and the two of them remained together, not hiding, not racing the hour. The traffic always looked the same, more or less.
‘Maybe we should stay here forever,’ he said.
She smiled.
The sun hung a couple of fingers above the horizon, and a fine layer of dust, or pollen, or pollution, had settled over his skin. ‘When we leave here,’ Heather asked, ‘what’ll we do?’
‘Live together,’ he said. ‘Get married?’
‘If John just runs away and we never hear from him again, I’m not sure how difficult it’ll be to get a divorce.’
He wasn’t sure either. ‘Should’ve done it a long time ago,’ he said.
She stood and went into the room.
The horizon line began to eat into the sun. When he went back into the room, she was lying on the bed, watching him. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘What?’
‘If you’d said something, I would have divorced him a year ago,’ she said. ‘You pursued me, you found me. You knew what you wanted. I liked that. And me, I should make that jump alone? Me? I’ve never succeeded at anything. Never. And now I’m supposed to leave everything, with no word from you. When I’ve failed at my marriage. I’ve failed as an artist. I try to teach art to little kids, and the kids hate me.’ The left side of her lip twitched. She looked toward the room’s door. ‘I couldn’t pull your brother out of that car.’
He crossed and uncrossed his arms. He lowered himself to the bed. He said, ‘I’m sorry.’ She groaned. ‘I am,’ he said.
They lay in opposite directions on the bed, his head at her feet, with a hand gripping her ankle. They were naked. Street lights threw pale slants through the half-drawn windows. A yellow light cast on the ceiling advanced, strained to reach to the ceiling’s middle point, held there, then collapsed back in a rush, only to return and work to reach the middle of the ceiling again. He watched this cycle several times, with empty fascination, like the action of waves on a beach, until eventually he became aware, too, of the traffic noise and realised that the light on the ceiling was caused by the passing of vehicles’ headlamps. He turned from it and moved his other hand to her other ankle, so that he held both.
‘Your kids don’t hate you,’ he said.
‘A few do.’
‘You’re not a failure.’
She said nothing.
‘I didn’t know,’ he tried, ‘that you felt your art was a disappointment.’
‘Well,’ she said, shifting a little, ‘I don’t take it seriously, which is the problem. I don’t have the confidence to take it seriously.’
‘You should.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m not very creative or interesting. I’m not very smart. I don’t have confidence. I don’t know what I want.’ She laughed. ‘Should I go on?’
‘You don’t believe any of that, I hope.’
He heard the sheets shift as she shrugged. ‘I’m just telling you how I feel. I think some of my problems are just a part of growing up without a mother. No one taught me how to live as a woman in the world. I hate this kind of talk. Let’s talk about something else.’
‘I’m sure you can be a great artist if you want. I’ll insist. I’ll lock you in a dungeon and bring you pieces of trash to work with.’
‘Maybe I just want to paint kittens and rainbows. Flags and eagles.’
‘Eagles and kittens?’
‘Kitten-eating eagle flags,’ she said.
‘Sounds more like your style.’
He clung to her ankles and felt her settle a hand between his thighs. Eventually they slept that way.
The next day she came and went again, returning with food, with sunscreen. He waited for the times when she was out before he used the bathroom. He didn’t like to admit that he had to abandon his post even for that. On the room’s desk lay a considerable pile of cigarette butts that she had collected and a cellophane-wrapped 100 count box of matchbooks that she had found beside the road. They were bright red, with Ziggy’s Smokehouse written on them in a white script, and an address several states over. Later she came out onto the balcony with a motel pen and pad of paper. She drew a delicate scene in miniature of the highway, and the eighth fairway and flag, in blue ballpoint, cross-hatched for texture. Looming over the scene and looking down were giant flower heads with elaborately realistic, human, pinched faces, as if they’d just smelled something terrible. One smoked a cigar. Heather rolled the sleeves of her T-shirt to her shoulders, and turned her face to the sun. ‘I always wanted to live on a beach.’
‘We can do that,’ he said.
That night people on the golf course played with flashlights, hitting green-glowing balls. Ellis and Heather left the room and walked for dinner. The waitress who had given him cake sat in the booth with them to tell an incoherent story about her husband’s hair plugs. Back at the motel room, they joked of Detroit and Los Angeles, of how one might find a Little Detroit in Los Angeles. The next morning he arose before her and sat in the early cool outside, thinking pleasantly of sleeping in the same bed with her through a night and rising and not leaving, of talking lazily with her, of watching her step from the shower towel-wrapped and hair wet, of detecting the scent of her in the bed and in her towel, of watching her stretch in the morning, up on her toes. Of listening to the noise of her urinating, of the sharp odour of her shit in the bathroom, domestic intimacies that he seized and understood
