Henderson confined his replies to monosyllables, then she said: “Do you know that you have really a lot of hair growing out of your ears?”
Henderson did indeed know. It was one of the catalogue of alarming body-changes he’d been registering recently. He had rather too much hair growing out of his nostrils too, if it came to that, for his liking. He certainly didn’t care to be reminded of it.
“These things happen, you know,” he said. “As you grow older your body changes. It’ll happen to you too,” he observed with some relish. “Things will happen to your body when you’re a mature woman that you won’t be too pleased about.”
“I’ll have plastic surgery.”
“Don’t make me laugh.”
She shrugged. “So how old are you, then?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Is that all?”
“What do you mean ‘Is that all?’”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought you were older.” She scratched at something on the dashboard. “I mean, Grandpaw Wax has got hair in his ears too. You’ve almost got as much as him. I just figured you were, you know, older.”
Henderson felt himself colouring. The nerve, he thought. The little bitch. He tried desperately to think of some way of getting his own back.
“We’re staying at the Jefferson-Burr tonight, aren’t we?” Bryant asked.
The Jefferson-Burr was one of Washington’s grander hotels. If you hung out of certain bathroom windows you could glimpse the White House lawn. Melissa had booked two rooms.
“No,” Henderson lied, revenge inspiring him. “It was full up.”
“Oh. Where are we staying, then? The Hilton?”
“No, no. It’s a little way off yet. I’ll tell you when we get there.”
Chapter Two
‘Skaggsville Motor Hotel’, a tatty billboard proclaimed at the side of Highway 95, along which they now drove, “Next junction.”
“Here we are,” Henderson said.
“You’re kidding!”
“Best I could do at short notice.”
The motor hotel stood in an expanse of crowded carpark. It was long, three stories high and as functional as a tool box. Henderson ordered Bryant to stay in the car while he ‘checked’ their reservation.
The lobby was carpeted in worn orange sunburst pattern, with matching curtains. Underfoot it felt vaguely adhesive. It was ideal. By the reception desk was a little noticeboard.
THE SKAGGSVILLE MOTO HOT WELCOMES
THE DELAWARE FIBRE-GLASS CURTAIN
WALLI G CONVENTIO
“Welcome to the Scaggsville Motor Hotel,” echoed a small plump receptionist. “Are you with the convention, sir?”
“Me?” Did he look like a fibre-glass curtain-walling contractor, he wondered? “No, no. I just want a room for the night.” He put down his credit card on the desk. “Two! rooms.”
She looked at a chart. “We don’t have two rooms left, sir. The convention.”
“Oh.”
“I have a junior suite.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s like an extra large room with two double beds, some armchairs. Sorta like a suite but in one room.”
He thought. What should he do? Press on?
“Your name, sir?”
“Dores. Look, I’ll be back in a second.”
He dashed outside to the car.
“They’ve only got one room. A junior suite.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
He realized he was getting in a bit of a flap. Calm down, he told himself. He went back in. Bryant followed at her own pace. Henderson signed his name on a card, was given his key and told where he could find the room.
“Great,” he said, a little worried. This wasn’t quite how the revenge was meant to function. He turned. Bryant was looking at a mildewed picture of the Capitol hung on the plastic pine panelling.
“Enjoy your stay, Mr and Mrs Dores,” carolled the friendly receptionist. Henderson whirled round in horrified protest, but the girl was on the phone. Good God, he thought, this is probably some sort of federal offence — crossing state lines with a minor masquerading as a wife.
Bryant looked at him through thin eyes.
The room was at the very end of a very long corridor. Outside the door was a mumbling drinks dispenser and an ice-machine. They had a good view of the car park.
The same orange sunburst pattern encountered in the lobby prevailed here too.
“This is it,” he said. “Not too bad.”
It looked lived-in, certainly. By keeping his eyes restlessly on the move and never allowing them to settle for a second he found it was just about possible to avoid noticing the many little rents and stains and cigarette burns, legacy of a thousand previous occupants.
There were, as promised, two double beds, and a pale green, three — piece plastic suite with the bonus of a baby’s cot in one corner. Henderson looked in vain for a shred of natural fibre or piece of wood. Perhaps that was why the curtain-wallers had their convention here — they felt at home.
“I’ve seen worse,” Bryant said, not nearly as put out as she should be. She turned and looked at him.
“Let me get one thing straight,” she said. “This ‘Mr and Mrs’ business. You’re not going to try and fuck me, are you?”
“Good God, no! I wouldn’t dream…How dare you…A simple error on the part of—”
“Relax,” she said. She was beginning to sound like Teagarden. Henderson mopped his burning face, aghast at the obscenity of the notion.
Bryant threw her jacket on the bed. “Just checking.”
♦
They ate in the hotel dining room at half past seven. It was full of large men rather uncomfortably and selfconsciously dressed for ‘business’ in suits and ties. Henderson ordered a steak, which overlapped his plate by a good inch on either side. Bryant had a vegetarian salad and three cigarettes.
Henderson managed about eight square inches of his steak and pushed it aside. He felt strangely depressed, which he put down to having been in Bryant’s company for most of a day. This didn’t bode well for the marriage. He sighed, and thought about tomorrow. He wondered when they would get to Atlanta. Beeby had phoned Gage to let him know Henderson was on his way. They would make an early start in the morning; get Bryant dropped off as soon as possible…He looked around the dismal dining room, suddenly missing New York. He wished he were staying at the Jefferson-Burr, instead of this anonymous hotel. Too clever by half, he considered ruefully. This was what happened when he tried to be malicious or cunning: he ended up inconveniencing himself. He was condemned to remain ineffectual, tolerant and nice.
Bryant tipped saccharine into her Sanka.
“What exactly are you meant to be doing on this trip?” she asked.
Henderson told her about the Gage collection, its significance, what he had to do when he saw the paintings.
“Where does he live, this old guy?”
“Somewhere called Luxora Beach.”
“Are you going there?”
“Later. I’ll get directions in Atlanta.”
“Are you staying with him?”
“No. I’ll probably stay in a local hotel.”
“Could I come?”
“What!?”
“Can’t I come with you? I’ve never been to the real South.”
“Absolutely out of the question.”
“Come on, Henderson, I won’t get in your way.”
“Completely impossible.”
“I just can’t stand the thought of a week with Grandma and Grandpa. You don’t know what they’re like.”
“Too bad.”
“Ple-ease.”
“No. No. En oh.”