She pulled into the vast parking lot and stopped the car next to a police car, slipping the FBI identification card under the windshield before the nearest cop could tell her to drive on. Flashing her badge, she led Becker past another huddle of cops and into the mall.
Just before they stepped into the elevator that would take them to the security office, Karen touched Becker’s arm lightly.
“John, I’m an asshole,” she said softly.
“I know,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“But you’re probably right about me,” he added.
They rode the elevator in silence.
When they reached the top she said. “Nobody taught me how to be a mother. My mother didn’t know.”
“I know,” he said. “You told me once.”
“And you remembered?”
He grinned at her with the kind of smile that could break hearts. “You told me a lot, one way or the other.”
“It was a very busy few days,” she said.
“Six,” he said. “Six days. And I remember every minute of every one of them.”
Karen found that she had to control her breathing on the short walk to the security office.
Chapter 8
They had a sign burned into a chunk of maple on the counter in the motel office announcing them as “The Lamperts,” as if they were a pair of Siamese twins, not just an aging married couple, as if they were a team yoked to a common cause-but in fact only Reggie thought of herself as an indissoluble part of a unit. George considered himself a free agent, always had, intended to continue to until they carted him away. No matter that he had been married to her for forty years and had never yet strayed in any significantly threatening way. He still might, he had it in him. He might decide tomorrow to just chuck it all, including his nagging wife and this burden of a business that was supposed to have been their retirement heaven, and hike on out to Utah or somewhere with a lot of sky and plenty of women to treat him with respect. He just might do that little thing, because, no matter how bad Reggie looked these days, he wasn’t that old yet.
Reggie knew that George harbored these defiant little notions and she had purchased the “Lamperts” sign just to remind him that he was about as much a free agent as the back half of the jackass. The sign was on the counter to serve as a daily reminder-so she wouldn’t have to.
Like the back half of the jackass, however, George did need to swish his tail now and then, and Reggie was too smart by far to try to deny him that. She took his flirtations in stride, regarding them as old habits that no longer had much meaning but were too comforting for him to discard. He looked about as much like a lover as the WWI vet saluting the flag on Memorial Day looked like a warrior. George was not capable of saluting anything these days-and who would know better than she, who had tried, God knows, every trick she could think of to get some lead into his pencil. So she let him have his flirtations with the guests, confident that he had as much at stake in seeing to it they never took him up on it as she did. The humiliation would make him unbearable, and he was tough enough to get along with as it was. If she had believed in sainthood and all that Roman claptrap. Reggie would have figured someone should put her name on the Pope’s waiting list just for having tolerated George Lampert for all these years.
He was flirting now, the damned old fool. She watched him from the office window as he patrolled the motel “cabins,” supposedly checking to see that they all had fresh towels. He knew damned well they had fresh towels because Reggie had seen to it herself that very morning. It was just his flimsy excuse to talk to the woman in number six again. He didn’t show any concern for the guests’ towel situation earlier, she noticed. Only when he saw the woman’s car bring her back from work. Then he was all of a sudden concerned about the linens.
The woman came out of the cabin as soon as he approached, closing the door behind her. Reggie could see her lift her head in laughter, hear the sound of it ringing across the grounds. She must have said something funny, Reggie thought. She certainly couldn’t be responding to George, who hadn’t said anything original in a couple decades at least. Reggie could tell what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth, and, often as not, she could tell she didn’t want to hear it. Which was one of the reasons they spent so much time in silence nowadays.
There was nothing silent about the woman in number six, however. She was one of the talkiest women Reggie had ever seen. And so good natured that Reggie sometimes had the urge to ask her what world she was living in. She was a pretty thing, if you liked that type with the shortish dirty blonde hair. More brown than blonde, of course, but Reggie, whose own hair was a faded pink, did not hold the use of artifice against anyone. A girl did what she had to do. Still, the woman actually seemed like fun and if she weren’t a guest, Reggie might have liked her.
She never allowed herself to really like any of the guests because she didn’t trust them. They always wanted something more-more blankets, more towels, more channels on the TV. As if they had pulled off Route 78 and into the Ritz, not the Restawhile. And they treated the cabins as if they were kept clean by an army of Puerto Rican maids, not just Reggie herself. And George, of course, when he felt like catering to the fancies of pretty guests.
Look at him now, leaning against the post supporting the phony porch roof, arms folded in front of him so the towels flopped down like some sort of high-waisted breech cloth. As if he had anything to cover up. Leaning and smiling and chatting away like a teenager. She wished a gust of wind would come along and blow those carefully arranged remaining hairs atop his head into disarray. He was so vain about those silly, forlorn-looking white scraps that he composed so meticulously each morning. As if they hid any of his shiny scalp. As if they fooled anyone but him. Reggie was forgiving about cosmetic deception for women because that was how that particular game was played and you played the cards you were dealt, but in men it seemed nothing more than the last crow of the dying rooster. She wished she had a video camera so she could tape him and then make him watch himself acting like a foolish old man for the benefit of this young woman. No fool like an old fool, and none bigger than George Lampert.
Now he was returning to the office. Reggie busied herself behind the counter. She could have made it into the next room and settled herself in front of the television before he reached the office if she had wanted him to think she hadn’t been watching. By staying behind the counter she could keep him in doubt. Maybe she’d watched him, maybe she hadn’t. A little uncertainty would help keep him in line. The trick was to not let him think he was getting away with anything so he got cocky, but not to make him think he was spied upon so he got rebellious, either. Being a good wife required a precise understanding of nuance.
“She’s a pisser,” he said approvingly as he entered, letting the screen door slam behind him as usual. She had told him a thousand times. Just as he had promised to fix it several hundred.
“Oh?” Reggie did not bother to look up.
“Got more juice running through her veins than a dozen women. You know who she reminds me of? That girl on television, the spunky one who’s always getting herself into trouble, then getting out again. You know the one I mean; she’s on that show you like.”