American Elsewhere - By Robert Jackson Bennett Page 0,17

at her.

Mona looks back, and sees they are all wearing black, or at least dark gray, and some of the women’s faces are veiled.

The yard with the wrought-iron fence, she realizes, is a graveyard. And at the center of the crowd is a lacquered casket hanging over an open grave.

Wink is not deserted: everyone is attending a funeral. Which Mona has just interrupted, in her rumbling muscle car with squealing tires.

“Ah, shit,” says Mona.

For a moment she has no idea what to do. Then, haltingly, she waves. Most of the people do nothing. Then a small boy, about seven, smiles and waves back.

An older man in a black suit says something to the woman beside him, and walks to the iron fence. Mona rolls down the passenger window, and he asks, “Can I help you?”

Mona clears her throat. “I-is there a motel around here?”

The man stares blankly at her. But not, she feels, in shock or reproach: it is as if his face can make no other expression. Then, without taking his eyes off her, he raises one arm and points down the road ahead. “On the left,” he says, slowly but clearly.

“Thanks,” says Mona. “I’m real sorry for interrupting everything.”

The man does not respond. He stays stock-still for a couple of seconds. Then he lowers his arm. The rest of the crowd keeps watching her.

“Sorry,” she says again. “Real sorry.” She rolls up the window and drives away, but when she looks in the rearview mirror they are all still watching her.

There are probably worse first impressions, but right now Mona cannot think of any. She’s come from one awkward, unhappy funeral to another. She wonders what they will think when they hear she’s inherited a house in town.

Her face is still bright red when she finds the motel, a low, long, dark building at the edge of town. The motel sign reads PONDEROSA ACRES in orange neon, and below that, in smaller red letters, is the word VACANCY. It looks a little like a cabin, with walls made of—or made to look like they’re made of—huge pine logs. There are no lights on in any of the rooms except the office.

She gets out and scans the parking lot. There are no other cars here, not even any on the street.

She walks into the office with her bag over her shoulder. The office is surprisingly spacious, with green marble floors and wood-paneled walls. It smells of beeswax and dust and popcorn. There is only one light in the room, a yellow ceiling lamp that casts a spotlight on a small desk in the corner, littered with papers. In the corner she can just make out an old yellow sofa. Keys glint on the wall behind the desk, and somewhere a handheld radio tinnily plays “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” Besides that corner, the office is oppressively dark. She can barely make out a dead palm in a pot before the desk. Its curling brown leaves are still scattered on the floor. On the wall is an old calendar turned to the wrong month; it is brown with age and unmarked, the tool of someone who has had nothing to do for a long, long time.

The office appears to be empty. “Damn it,” she says, and wonders where she will go now.

“Can I help you?” asks a deep, soft voice.

Mona turns around, looking for the speaker. The room is so dark that it takes her eyes a moment to adjust. Then she sees there is a card table in the corner of the room beside the door, and seated at it is an old man with a board of Chinese checkers in front of him. He is bald and gray-bearded, and his pock-marked skin is so dark that initially his gray beard appears to simply float in the darkness. In one of his hands is a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. He wears a gray zip-up sweater, red-and-black-striped pants, and alligator shoes, and he watches her over a pair of half-moon spectacles with calm, reserved eyes.

“Oh,” she says. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t see you there.”

The old man sips his coffee but says nothing, as if to mean—Obviously.

“I’d like to rent a room, please, sir. Just for tonight.”

The old man looks away, thinking. After nearly a full thirty seconds of meditation, with nothing but Hank Williams to break the silence, he says: “Here?”

“What?”

“You want to get a room here?”

“What? Yes. Yeah, I want to get a room here.”

The old man grunts, stands