Suspicious River Read Free

golfer, this paying guest, alone together in the glassed-in office of the Swan Motel like the plastic bride and groom knee-deep and stiff in stale cake behind the bakery window.
    He let his eyes move over my shirt slowly, and the eyes were yellowish, but I could see they used to be bright-white blue. He set his elbow on the desk and sighed.
     
    This is usual. If the front desk girl doesn’t want to do anything next, she’ll take a small step backward, maybe look down at the pen in her hand. But if she’s willing, or willing to think about it at least, she’ll look straight into your eyes. She’ll lean forward a little. It might even surprise you to realize your hunch was right.
    Then you think about what her breasts would look like bare. You might imagine that she is pushing them toward you, whether or not she is. She’s wearing a white blouse, and you think maybe you can see a tuck of lace at the V of her bra—one of those glued-on rosebuds?
    Maybe your heart speeds up if you haven’t already done this a million times—a bloody nest in your chest, soggy, like something dredged out of a river: Your heart, you never want it to stop.
    If she’s not just considering, if she’s done this a lot, she might tilt her head as if she’s stretching her neck. Casual. Nothing’s being said. She must be waiting for you to say something—so, perhaps you are clever, you say something funny like, “Sure is hot in here,” tugging at your collar with an index finger or loosening your tie. But if you can’t think of anything like that, or it’s just not your style, you’ll say, “I’d enjoy some company in Room 47. Meaning you,” looking hard at her now.
    “Is that right?” Flirting, and slow, “And what’s good company worth to you?”
    You smile. Maybe your palms are sweating or, if you’re a different kind of man, maybe all this makes you mad but makes you want it even worse. “Name it. I’ll see if I can scrape it up.”
    “Well.” She’s looking at your name in the guest register now and it makes you a little nervous, whether it’s your real name or not. “Your room was sixty dollars. I think the company would be worth that, don’t you?”
    It’s less than you expected. Or more. Maybe that makes you a little sad for her, or angry, but you don’t want to think about that now. You wink, but don’t smile. You say, “See you up there, sugar.”
    As you’re walking out the office door you hear her humming high and light under her breath. You wonder if she’s watching your back, wonder if she’s noticed your limp, worried that she’s taking down your license number, but you also think about her breasts. They looked good. Her lips were sweet. She’s young, early twenties, petite and polite-looking with thick reddish hair, a small-town girl—but you know now she’s a slut, too; she’ll do whatever you want. By now you’re so ready for it you can hardly stand to think about what’s next.
    What’s next is oddly almost always the same. She knocks on your door, whether or not it’s open. The room is small and smells like mildew and Pine Sol. The bedspread is thin and crisp, swirled with subdued colors—rust, gold, navy blue. The heat or the air conditioning has just kicked in, you’ve turned it on high because it was too hot or cold in your room, and it’s rattling now. It’s dark, even with the light on. You pulled the curtains already. Maybe you rinsed out your mouth. Maybe you used the toilet and it’s still running in the bathroom behind you.
    Now that she’s out from behind the front desk, you see she’s wearing a short skirt or semitight jeans—nothing special, but she has nice legs, little hips, small waist. She’s thin and pale, especially under that messy red dredge of hair. But she looks healthy. When she holds her hand out for the cash, you have it for her, already counted and folded. She looks at it before she slips it in her shoe, under her heel.
    Suddenly your heart is kicking