The Rest of the Story(24)

This stung, for some reason. “Not really.”

“Well, tell it to Mimi. That’s what she said.”

Oxford glanced at her, then me. I thought he was about to say something, but was glad when he didn’t.

BING! went the toaster, six slices popping up. Trinity retrieved them before bringing them to the table on a paper towel. She reached across me for a knife, which she then used to briskly butter each slice, the scraping sound hard to ignore.

“I’m late,” Jack, also in a BLACKWOOD T-shirt, said as he came down the stairs. “Is there any—”

Wordlessly, Trinity picked up two pieces of buttered toast, holding them over her head. As Jack passed, he grabbed them. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“We’re short a cleaner,” Oxford said as he started for the door. “Mimi’s knee. Ask Roo if he wants some hours.”

“Will do,” Jack said, heading for the door. “Thanks for the toast.”

“Thank the Sergeant,” she replied. “He’s the one who bought that huge thing.”

I looked at the toaster, remembering how my dad had remarked that it was new. Apparently, there was a military aspect to it as well. In this house, even the appliances were complicated.

“Trinity?” I heard Mimi yell from outside. “Best get started on those rooms.”

In response, Trinity sighed loudly enough I literally felt a breeze from her direction. Then she pushed back her chair, grabbing a piece of toast. Oxford said, “Mimi’s got no business cleaning. Her knee can’t take it.”

“I’m pregnant,” she replied unnecessarily. But she got to her feet, yelling outside to Mimi, “Coming!”

As she left, I looked at the table. Only three pieces of toast remained. On the counter, the bread bag, defeated, was crumpled into a ball. The clock on the stove said 8:58 a.m.

I stood up, carrying my plate over to the sink, which was again full of dishes. They don’t want your help, I told myself, even as the urge hit, then grew, to start washing them. But I rinsed only my cup, putting it on the (empty) dish rack as Oxford grabbed a final slice of toast and the phone, taking both with him as he left. After so much noise and commotion, the house felt so still suddenly, with only me in it and the whole day ahead. What do you do when no one wants you to do anything? I wasn’t sure. But I did put the butter away.

It’s so boring, oh my God. I mean, I’m happy Grandpa’s ok. But I am so sick of hospital cafeteria food and trying to keep my brothers quiet.

It was late morning now, and I’d finally heard from Bridget. Her grandfather was recovering in the hospital, the boys were driving her nuts, and there was nothing to do in Ohio. These were the headlines.

I understand, I wrote back. So glad he’s getting better, though.

Me too. What are you doing?

What was I doing? At the moment, sitting on the front steps of Mimi’s house, wondering how to keep myself busy while everyone else was at work. So far, that had entailed reorganizing my already neat clothes, reading part of an Allies book Gordon had left in the living room—the sixth book from the second series, according to the back cover, but I’d had no trouble dropping right into the mythology—and, now, watching the hotel guests converge on the beach for the day.

Guests emerged with beach bags, wheeled coolers, and more children as they made their way down the plank walkway to the water. They set up camp on the covered part of the dock or the sand, spreading towels and dragging chairs into position as kids were wrangled, protesting the application of sunscreen.

The office of Calvander’s, in the opposite direction, was the other center of activity. All morning long, people had been coming and going: Mimi, of course, even though she was supposed to be off her feet. Oxford, wiping down the glass door with Windex and weeding the sparse garden. I even glimpsed both Taylor and April popping in before they walked off down the street, out of sight. Between the constant activity of both the beach and the office, I felt even more frozen where I sat on the steps.

Getting used to this place, I finally wrote back to Bridget.

What’s the boy situation?

Immediately, I had a flash of Roo the day before, shirtless, holding out a hand to me at the raft. That gap in his teeth. Which was ridiculous, I knew.

All related to me. Or might as well be.

Seriously?

Just then, I saw Mimi coming down the motel sidewalk, pushing a cleaning cart. She now wore a Velcro brace on one knee and had the office phone between her ear and shoulder as she stopped by a door marked 7 and pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. She let herself in, and a moment later the front blinds were rising, revealing a streaky window.

I thought of how I’d offered help to Trinity earlier and the way she’d so easily grouped me with the guests now out on the beach. She’d said it was Mimi who made this clear, and possibly she had. But maybe sometimes you had to ask twice. I walked over.

“No kidding,” I heard her saying as I approached the door to room seven. “In a perfect world, my body wouldn’t be breaking down. But this is the world we’re in.”

The room was dim, and it took my eyes a second to adjust. Once they did, I saw the walls were made of cinder block painted white, the carpet a dated flat orange. There were two double beds, both stripped, a rattan bedside table between them. The TV was one of those ancient kinds, huge and mounted up high on the wall, a bunch of cords snaking out of the back. Against the far wall was a small fridge and stovetop, a microwave and a sink, three skinny cabinets above. The only other furniture was two faded canvas chairs, and between them a low table with a flyswatter and an ashtray on it. Who even smoked inside anymore?