The Boy in the Lot(2)

An eighteen-wheeler, all roaring tires and spaceship headlamps, blasted along the curl of highway on the far side of the parking lot. Tim barked at the truck while Mark watched it cruise past, its taillights glowing like demonic eyes before being swallowed up by the darkness.

Mark looped two fingers beneath Tim’s collar. “Come on, boy. Let’s get inside.”

He turned and followed his parents along the motel curb, Tim bounded obediently beside him. He passed lighted windows, their shades drawn, and for seemingly the first time noticed the other cars scattered about the parking lot. It truly was a miserable place; his mother had every right to balk at the accommodations, particularly since they had driven past several nice-looking hotels coming out of the last city. To Mark, this looked like the kind of place bank robbers would hole up.

The room was only slightly better than the outside of the place. Drab walls, worn carpeting the color of sawdust, two twin beds laid out like coffins in the center of the claustrophobic little room. There was a TV atop a nicked and scarred dresser, though it wasn’t even a flat screen. Similarly, the telephone that sat on the nightstand between the two beds looked like something salvaged from an antiques shop.

Tim emitted a high keening—a sentiment Mark could certainly relate to.

So could Mark’s mother, it seemed. She stood with her arms folded while her eyes volleyed from one bed to the other. “They didn’t have anything larger than twin beds?”

“Not it we wanted to all stay in the same room,” said his father, dumping their duffel bags on top of the bed farthest from the door.

“Terrific.” His mother turned and peered at the partially open bathroom door. “I’m afraid to go in there.”

“Cut it out, Sharon, will you?”

Tim padded across the room and settled down on the floor between the two beds. The old retriever rested his muzzle down on his front paws while his eyebrows triggered back and forth, back and forth. Mark smiled warmly at the dog then went to the one duffel bag his father had set on the bed that he knew contained his belongings. He unzipped the bag and pulled out a few comic books, along with a plastic baggie which contained a few of Tim’s favorite dog treats. Mark opened the bag and withdrew one of the treats. It was a greasy brown pipette that reminded him of a Slim Jim, though they tasted—and Mark knew this from experience, having been bested one afternoon by curiosity—like mint.

Tim’s head lifted up off his paws. A beggar’s whine filled the small motel room.

“Come get it,” Mark said, extending the treat toward the dog.

Tim rose, padded over to Mark, sniffed the greasy thin cylinder pinched between Mark’s fingers, then quickly gobbled it up. This made Mark smile, though there was a distant sadness in him now. He recognized that old Timbuktu wasn’t the young pup he’d once been—that there was gray in his muzzle and something called arthritis in his joints, which made him move more slowly and cautiously than he had in his earlier years. There would come a time in the not-too-distant future that Tim would no longer be with him. It would be a separation worse than leaving his friends behind in the old neighborhood, Mark knew. But each time he thought of it, the notion struck him with such grief that he forced the thought away before it could fully form. He didn’t like to think about a world with Timbuktu not in it.

Mark’s mother looked around the bathroom then returned to the room, an unreadable expression on her face. His father was taking off his wristwatch while peering out the singular window that looked out on the parking lot.

“Maybe I should bring the car in closer,” his father muttered, more to himself than to them.

“Maybe you should pull that shade so no one can see in here,” Mark’s mother suggested.

His father pulled the shade down then tossed his wristwatch on the bedspread. He met Mark’s eyes and winked. Despite the cheerfulness of his father’s demeanor, the old guy looked bushed.

“I’m going to attempt to shower,” said his mother, digging some fresh bedclothes and toiletries out of her own duffel bag. “The quicker I get to bed the quicker morning will be here and we can move along.”

Mark saw the tired smile on his father’s face falter, albeit for just a brief moment. When the bathroom door shut, his father sat down on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes.

“I’m gonna hibernate tonight, Mark-o,” he said. Then he reclined on the mattress, lacing his hands behind his head.

Tim whined and went to the door.

“I think he’s gotta go out, Dad.”

“We just came in,” his father said, staring at the ceiling.

“I’ll take him.”

“Don’t go far,” said his father.

“I won’t.”

Mark flipped open one of his comic books and found the postcard he’d purchased for seventy-five cents at the last rest stop. The card depicted a grouchy cartoon crab, a pouty frown in its face. The caption read WE’RE ALL A LITTLE CRABBY IN MARYLAND. He promised to send Davey a postcard from the road, and this was the coolest one he could find. A stretch, to be sure, but what could he do about it?

He stuffed the postcard in the back pocket of his jeans then went to the motel room door. He toed Tim aside so he could open the door.

“Be careful,” his father admonished from the bed. He sounded like he was halfway asleep already.