Gazebo

A septic wind filled the air. It was this way after every heavy rain in the small town. The water poured into the sewers, causing them to lift their stench high enough for the breeze to take hold and deliver it back to those who had created it.

Maggie tightened her lips against the odor as she tossed her cigarette away, going back inside. Returning to her seat behind the counter, she ignored the radio playing behind her as she watched two, or maybe three cars pass by each minute along the highway in front of the motel.

This had been Uncle Morley’s parting gift to Maggie upon his death. This 70-year-old, four-room, termite-infested, mold-ridden, rusty-plumbed, lime-green motel — strategically built twenty miles from the city so as not to encourage borders. It was one of those rare days when Maggie had been surprised by the appearance of a paying customer.

Her head was sinking into her chest when the voice interrupted her nap.

“I said I would like a room.”

“What?” Maggie asked dumbly, scanning the room as she recalled her identity and station in life.

“I’m certainly sorry for waking you,” the woman said, lacking sincerity. “But I would like to get some sleep myself.”

She had two large suitcases resting on the floor on either side of her. She was not a significantly tall woman, though her legs were long. She wore a heavy leather coat over a blue dress, and her throat seemed always to be tight, as if she were resisting some invisible force pressing against her forehead.

“Let me see if I have anything available,” Maggie said, studying the four keys hanging from the four hooks on the peg-board. “Looks like Room One is open.”

Lifting a folded towel and two washcloths from a laundry basket Maggie led the woman down the sidewalk to Room One.

“Do you offer room service?”

“No.”

“Where is the kitchen?”

“Haven’t got one.”

“Cable?”

“Three channels all of the time, four if there is a full moon.”

“Where is the telephone?”

“The lines to the rooms stopped working a few years ago, but you’re welcome to use the one in the lobby.”

“That’s sweet of you.”

Maggie watched the woman as she moved around the room, inspecting it with an expression of disgust. She thought the woman must have been beautiful once, and was perhaps now angry that she had not stayed that way.

“I go out to lunch most days, and can bring something back for you if you like,” Maggie offered.

“If you don’t mind,” She answered shortly. “I would like to have a shower.”

“Sure. If you have any trouble with the hot water let me know. Welcome to the Majestic,” she added with a wave.

Maggie settled back into her chair behind the counter and opened a worn paperback she had purchased at a library sale for a dime. The book’s subject was the Gambino family. She cared nothing about Gotti or Castellano. Carlo Gambino was the one. She considered that if she were ever Godmother, she would run things much as Carlo had. Not drawing attention, not talking too much. She would answer police and reporters with silence, and when things needed to be taken care of she would make some small gesture, or nod her head and it would be done.

“Morning, Maggie.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Harper.”

Mrs. Harper judged the progression of the day on a sliding scale according to when she had joined it. Based on her salutation and wrinkled pajamas, she had slept at least until noon.

“I made these for you,” she said, pushing a covered dish across the counter to Maggie. “Well, I made them for myself last night, but there were too many to finish.”

“Thanks,” she said, after pulling the foil back to find six of the nine cinnamon rolls remaining.

“Don’t forget to warm them up so they get soft,” Mrs. Harper reminded her, walking to the window.

“I’ll remember.”

“It’s supposed to storm again tonight,” Mrs. Harper said, studying the clouds suspiciously. “If it gets bad, you come over and sit with me in the basement. I’m too old to run over in the rain to get you.”

“All right.” Maggie was eating a cold cinnamon roll.

“Did you ever get that leak fixed?”

“Not yet. Charlie said he would do it today.”

“That roof is shot to hell,” Mrs. Harper said, shaking her head. “Fix one leak today and another will spring open tomorrow. Those pipes are rustier than mine, and I have to go to confession before I come over every morning in case the damn floor caves in and kills me.”

Maggie was smiling with her cheeks full when Mrs. Harper turned from the window and faced her.

“Why don’t you get rid of this place, dear?”

Maggie stuffed a half-chewed bite of cinnamon roll into one cheek before asking, “Have you found a buyer?”

“I’ll buy it,” Mrs. Harper replied after a moment. “I’ve got more money than life left, and you were going to get that when I kicked off anyway. You may as well inherit a motel from me instead of the money and go finish school now.”

“And what would you do with it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Probably knock it over and have a gazebo put up. I’ve always liked gazebos. Maybe hang up a hummingbird feeder so I can watch them buzz around in the evenings. I’ve always liked hummingbirds too.”

“I don’t think I would ever want to sell it,” Maggie said.

“You’d love to sell it today,” Mrs. Harper corrected. “You’d just feel guilty about doing it. You came here for your uncle. He thought you would want it because you enjoyed it here when you were a little girl, but if he had really thought about it, I don’t think he’d have wanted you to spend your life here. Or, maybe he would.” She turned her hands up. “If so, he’d have been wrong about it. I don’t know why people insist on behaving as if the wishes of the dying are beyond questioning. As though there’s some flash of perfect wisdom just before the bulb blinks out that grants them absolute authority over everyone they know for a couple minutes. They’re just as selfish as the living.”

“Why don’t you just give me the money now?” Maggie offered. “That way I could make repairs and sell in a couple years.”

“Because, dear. A couple of years can become a couple of decades in just a few minutes.” She pointed to Maggie’s chest. “And I want you to start living while those perky itty-bitties can still stand up on their own.”

Maggie crossed her arms.

Mrs. Harper motioned toward Charlie, whose truck was pulling into the parking lot. “Otherwise, you’ll end up married to that dingbat and have a dozen kids.”

Charlie smiled and waved through his windshield while still in motion until his truck stopped abruptly upon meeting the curb. Mrs. Harper shook her head, not smiling.

“He’s sweet,” Maggie offered in his defense.

“So is anti-freeze.”

They greeted Charlie as he entered, carrying his tool belt. He wore tight jeans, pulling the waist up near his naval, and his white T-shirt was tucked in.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Charlie assured her. “There are only a couple of shingles that need to be replaced.” He cleared his throat and glanced at Mrs. Harper before asking Maggie, “Do you think I could talk to you for a minute?”

Maggie nodded and Mrs. Harper gave Charlie her full attention.

“Well,” he began, waiting to see if Mrs. Harper intended to excuse herself, “I was wondering if you would want to come with me to see a movie tomorrow night. We could have dinner afterward if you wanted.”

“Sorry, Charlie,” Mrs. Harper intervened. “Maggie already promised to read Peter Pan to me tomorrow night.” She added an artificial elderly quiver to her voice as she spoke, and then burst into a laughter that hinted at senility. “Sorry, Charlie! That’s funny, isn’t it?”

“Another time then,” Charlie said. “I’d better get started.”

“That was mean,” Maggie noted after the door closed behind him. She started a second pastry.

“Why would a man wear his pants that way?” Mrs. Harper asked. “Is it some sort of mating ritual, all his privates bundled to one side of the seam so that everyone in the room is forced to look? It’s like he’s a peacock showing you his tail feathers.”

“He’s sweet,” Maggie said again. “He probably doesn’t realize they’re that tight.”

“Sure, the same way I don’t realize it when the butcher looks down my blouse, and so long as he keeps giving me a discount, I’ll go on not realizing. Could you imagine going out in public with him? Walking the aisles of the grocery store alongside him? Women snickering, children crying? My God.”

“He has money, and you want me to get rid of this place,” Maggie said.

“I want you to have your own money, dear,” Mrs. Harper insisted. “That way you can marry for lust like we did in the old days. My soaps are on,” she announced abruptly, and passed through the door returning home.

Maggie went to her book, but quickly lost interest. Her eyes scanned the lines on the pages while her thoughts wandered.

I wonder if I should sell the motel. How much money does she have put away? I should get her to teach me how to make cinnamon rolls. If I went back to school I think I would change my major to Anthropology. How much do they make? It is embarrassing that Charlie wears his pants that way. He doesn’t realize it though. I’ll bet she’d give me all of her recipes if I’d ask. I could type them up and make a cookbook. There couldn’t be many jobs for anthropologists. I’ve never met one, and if there were many out there I certainly would have met at least one of them. I’ve never met a professional baseball player though. I guess there aren’t many of them either. It’s ironic if Charlie does do it on purpose. Displaying his masculinity while lowering his sperm count. I wonder if they can get the scratches out of my Alanis Morissette CD down at the video store. He really should wear boxers. Or, maybe it’s like birth control and he could just go back to making spermies whenever he decided to wear looser pants. Maybe Accounting. No, I flunked Algebra. I don’t have an oven. Besides, I’ve always hated cooking. Typing too. Uncle Morley would be heartbroken if I sold his motel. It isn’t so bad running it. I should try advertising. Maybe I could start up a website. I wonder if there are women that like it when men wear their pants that way? Whatever major I choose I want to earn a Ph.D. “Both pilots are having heart attacks! Is there a doctor on the plane?” “Yes, I’m a doctor. A doctor of Anthropology. Step aside. Give these men some room to breathe and go boil some water!” It would break Uncle Morley’s heart, even if it were selfish of him to be broken-hearted.

Maggie turned the deadbolt on the lobby door, and moved to the couch in the backroom to lie down. In a few minutes, she drifted off.

The seasons change grudgingly in America’s middle — warm and cold air not yielding to the other without violence. Maggie had grown up with it though, and lost the respect that violence deserved. The storms had always hit the next town, or passed altogether in spite of meteorologists’ predictions. It was rude of Maggie to be asleep when her first tornado introduced itself.

She was panicked and disoriented by the onslaught of noise that woke her. The incessant ringing of the telephone. The hail showering the motel and clacking against the windows like someone throwing gravel. The sound of muffled shouting and pounding at her door. She bolted from the couch, smashing her knee against the table, searching for the light switch. Charlie’s forehead was pressed against the glass as he shouted.

“We have to go, now!”

Charlie grabbed her arm hard enough that it hurt as he dragged her barefoot into the mud. The bits of ice stung her neck and arms as they ran to Mrs. Harper’s next door. She was cursing angrily at Maggie when they burst into the basement.

“I told you the storms were coming, fool girl.”

They huddled in the deepest part of the basement, farthest from the door. Mrs. Harper held Maggie, who trembled, while Charlie’s pale face pretended to be brave. Mrs. Harper was relaxed now that Maggie was with her, and made shh sounds, trying to calm her.

“It will pass in a few seconds, child.”

The noise became louder as it approached. A deafening whine, like a train racing by. The air felt strange as the pressure fell from under it, and the only other sound was the loud snap of a tree losing in its protest. As Mrs. Harper had said, it passed after a few seconds. The hail and wind followed after it.

Charlie searched through the box that Mrs. Harper specified, found her spotlight, and led the way outside. Every streetlamp and home was dark. After a few moments more, swaying flashlights emerged from neighboring homes. The blue sedan that rested on its roof reminded Maggie of a dog who wanted his stomach scratched.

Only one of the farthest rooms of the motel had survived. The rest of the old building was scattered, bits of it nearly a mile away. She turned to look at Mrs. Harper’s house, which had gone untouched. On its roof though, rested the mattress from Room Three. Maggie turned when she heard Charlie’s voice coming from the ditch. He was reaching into a culvert.

“I don’t need your damn help now!” a familiar voice said.

The Majestic’s only border that night climbed out wearing a red satin chemise and wrinkle-fighting cream on her face.

Maggie looked back at her toppled motel and felt Mrs. Harper’s arm around her shoulders.

“Where do you think my gazebo should go?”