Motel

Rose had more or less moved into the motel. The motel looked like all the other motels on the strip. Anonymous. Yet she felt surprisingly at home in the bleak surroundings. She had Scotch taped postcards from the city’s art museum onto the walls. She had bought a plastic glass and plate at the mall so she could eat dinner in her room. She had bought a wooden rosary at a Catholic gift shop in Old Town. When she awoke, she said what she could remember of the Rosary. This bead’s an Our Father, this bead’s a Hail Mary, this bead’s a prayer for peace, she hazarded.

Every morning Ben called to nag. When are you coming home?

Soon, she replied. I’m getting over my cold. I’m praying for the success of your play.

What?

A joke. Your plays are always a success. She didn’t tell him about the prayer thing.

She slept twelve hours a night. She sniffled and coughed less. The continental breakfast? Ugh, unless you liked cereal. Nevertheless, it was free. She chowed down on Cheerios and then walked down the strip to Starbucks and returned to her room with a latte. She sat in the middle of the enormous bed, sipping coffee and designing houses on her computer. She designed suburban houses that looked like building blocks with curving turrets and a pseudo-Victorian country house with a wraparound porch and upstairs sleeping porches . She wrote in the margin, Monkey-puzzle tree? She hadn’t a clue what a monkey-puzzle tree was, but it sounded perfect for the country. Maybe they only grew in English novels.

In the late afternoon she explored the city. Downtown she sat on a restaurant terrace and chatted with an old man. She hadn’t been looking for friends. She was sitting there vacantly staring into space, waiting for the server to bring her soup, .when he offered her part of his newspaper.

I only read the sports when I’m on vacation, he said. I’m in town for the game.

Oh, she said politely. She knew from the TV news that it was the World Series playoffs. People were psyched. They were wearing baseball caps and team colors and mascot earrings. A group of fans had checked in last night and stayed up whooping. She found it mildly obnoxious. This man seemed normal, though.

Baseball was his passion. He was a season ticketholder. He had played center field in the minor leagues in the sixties.

Really? How exciting.

She supposed it had been exciting. Bus travel? If it’s Tuesday, it must be Omaha? Beer and groupies?

Now he sold insurance. Ken Bond, he said, holding out his hand. Divorced.

I’m Rose, she said, smiling. Married.

He moved to her table and got her laughing about something. The price of gas. How it was the only topic that excited most people at all.

That and sports, she said.

Suddenly he grew serious. If you’d care to attend the game with me, I have a box, he said.

A box? Oh, a box, she said, laughing.

Rose had never had an opportunity to sit in a box. Far from the madding crowd. Sitting above the fans. She was sure it was different. The rich are different from you and me...

It’s very nice of you to ask. But I’m going home today, she said.

She watched the old man climb into a Porsche. Good God, who was he? She waved from the curb, no regrets. She wasn’t really going home. She wasn’t the type who picked up strangers on a brief vacation. She planned to go back to the motel and read DAVID COPPERFIELD. She was happy again.

It just took a few days away.