Motel

The first room the motel shows him, the carpet is sticky with black grease.

'What happened here? Roy asks the boy with the key.

The boy says. Bob thinks the last people in here, they rebuilt an engine.

On the second floor?

Done it in one night, the boy shrugs.

The man shakes his head. No way my wife will let the kids stay in here.

The boy seems relieved. You should have seen this place the next morning. First thing we thought was somebody killed somebody. And the, bathroom. It's bad in there. Real bad.

Four hundred miles of glare off the hood of the car has creased the man's eyes into throbbing slits. Got another room to show us?

Let me call down.

When the boy picks up the phone to dial the office, Roy sees a black thumbprint in the cradle of the receiver. Bob, this is me, Calvin. The man says the room won't do. You want me to show him another one?

Even four feet away from the phone, Roy can hear Bob cursing the boy.

Well, 'cause of the oil all over the place, I guess. The boy stands up straight. No, I never opened my mouth. He's the one saw it. I didn't say a word, I swear. The boy hangs up the phone like he's putting a snake back in its nest.

Well, Bob says we only got something on the other side--over away from the pool.

Roy figures it's got to be 30, 40 miles to the next motel, at least to the next cheap one. And they've been driving nine hours already.

When he gets back to the car, his youngest, Teri, is crying. Marilyn is telling Dwayne and Shonna to stop tormenting their sister.

Roy starts the car. No good, he says. We gotta go around back.

How bad could it be? Marilyn wants to know. It's right over the pool.

It's bad, he assures her as he backs out. Real bad.

The other room overlooks I-30. The gritty heat gusts off the interstate as they stand in the doorway.

Yeah, Roy tells the boy, much better. Let Bob know we'll take it. He leans over the balcony and waves his family up.

The kids have the TV screaming before he gets the first suitcase up the stairs. By the time Roy walks in with the junk from the backseat, Dwayne already has on his trunks, and both girls are in the bathroom changing.

Want a soft drink?

Marilyn looks at him like she's ready for a fight. Yeah, she says suspiciously, something with caffeine.

Diet?

Why? I look like I need it?

Roy knows better than to try to answer that one. He just checks if he has enough quarters.

The kids are sitting on the edge of the bed in their swimming suits watching cartoons when he gets back from the vending machine. Come on, Daddy, let's go.

He doesn't ask Marilyn if she wants to come. He just goes into the bathroom and puts on his trunks.

The pool is like every other one Roy's seen since they started this trip--lots of kids, half of them crying, the other half making them cry. Some women are bunched around a table, shouting at the meanest boys when it gets out of hand. One or two of the women don't look so bad, one in particular. Down at the deep end, a man in a recliner is having a beer.

Roy pulls a chair up to the guy. Got a kid in there? he asks, nodding toward the shallows.

Me? No way. The guy has long sideburns. His shirt's unbuttoned, but he's wearing jeans and boots.

Roy says, I got three of 'em. Then he leans over. You get that beer somewhere around here?

The guy reaches down and draws up a rope tied to the leg of his recliner, a rope that snakes into the water. A six-pack pops over the edge of the pool and clatters along the blue concrete at the end of the wet line. The guy pulls two cans loose, then tosses the rest back into the pool like a stringer of fish threaded through the gills. One of the mothers, the pretty one, gives the men a look. Screw her, Roy thinks. Thanks, he tells the guy.

They sip their beers for a while, not saying much of anything.

Hot, huh?

Yeah, the guy says, hot.

Dwayne is holding his sisters under way too long, it seems to Roy. But before he can get out of his chair, the same woman who gave him the look is up and shouting at Dwayne to let them go. The cowed boy retreats as the girls, coughing water, stagger to the stairs. The woman is waiting for them with a towel. Oh, shit, Roy thinks, standing in front of his chair.

Behind him, he hears the guy's voice. That your boy?

Gotta go, he says.

The guy laughs. Yeah, guess you better.

Roy towers over Dwayne at the shallow end. You get your little behind out of that water right now, you hear me? He tries to make as big a show of it as he can. You go sit in that chair, and I don't want to see you move a muscle. Not a muscle.

Dwayne is defiant. Aw, we was just playing.

Now! Roy shouts, trying to get the woman's attention.

Teri is still crying, and her nose is running. Shonna's OK. She just wants to beat the crap out of her brother. But the woman has them both wrapped in a big towel and keeps patting them and cooing. She's even younger up close.

Roy kneels on one knee behind the girls, putting his arms around them. Thank you, ma'am. Dwayne can get a little rough sometimes.

Rough? She's furious. He nearly drowned these two little angels.

Yes, ma'am, it was good of you to step in the way you did.

Maybe it's none of my business--he can see the tears welling up in her green eyes--but you ought to keep a closer watch on your children. It just takes a split second.

Suddenly the woman is crying hard, and Roy understands. He couldn't explain how he knows if you asked him, but he knows just the same. This woman has lost a child. Somehow, somewhere, she lost one of her babies.

Ma'am, he says, ma'am, it's all right. You saved these two little angels. I can't thank you enough.

He wishes he could touch her. But instead he tells his girls to give the lady a kiss.

The woman squeezes them so tight, Shonna turns around and looks at her father. He lifts his hand to signal her to keep quiet.

Then he picks up both girls in his arms, smiles and says, I bet these kids could use some dinner. The whole time, though, he's thinking, Jesus, this poor woman.

When they get back to the room, Marilyn is taking a bath. Come on, Mom, we're hungry, they shout through the door. But it's more than an hour before they're squeezed into a booth at a barbecue restaurant waiting for their spare-ribs and coleslaw. And it's another two hours after that until they lie at last beneath the shifting blue shadows cast by the television set, the kids in one bed slack-jawed and limp in exhausted sleep, Marilyn half awake beside Roy in the other.

Come on, Roy whispers, slipping his hand over hers.

Come on and what? she hisses, trying not to wake anyone.

You know, he insists. We haven't done nothing since we left home.

Marilyn's awake now. Are you crazy? With the kids in the next bed? She gives him a nasty title laugh.

We can go in the bathroom, Roy pleads.

You can go in the bathroom. I'm not breaking my back on that tile floor.

It's linoleum, he tries hopelessly.

She doesn't even answer.

He knows it's useless. Then the tub--we'll bring some pillows.

Get real.

She turns onto her side, her back to him. He kisses her shoulder.

Propped up on his elbow, he hovers over her. And turn off the TV, she whispers without opening her eyes.

Sighing, Roy gets up to flick off the television and notices the alarm clock on the dresser. It says 9:50.

Some fucking vacation, he thinks. He sits in the chair by the window and puts on his pants and the shirt he wore to dinner. He can't find his socks in the dark, so he slips on his shoes without them. Checking his pocket for the keys, he slides the chain lock loose, clacks open the deadbolt and turns the knob. He holds his breath to hear if everyone is still asleep, then gently shuts the door behind him as he steps onto the balcony. Lighting up a cigarette, he leans on the railing and watches the interstate. The traffic is still heavy, big 18-wheelers highballing to Dallas, tankers heading for Memphis and a hundred (continued on page 132)(continued from page 92) little cars flashing between the trucks like funny-eyed fish at the bottom of the sea.

Roy's just noticed the June bugs swarming around the big lights above the parking lot when he hears someone cursing. He looks down and sees some men in an old Cadillac parked two over from his station wagon. Their windows are rolled down, and they are quarreling over something. Finally, one of them gets out of the backseat and slams the door. Roy hears what he tells the others as he walks away. Go fuck yourselves.

It's the guy from the pool, Roy realizes. He watches the man climb over an embankment at the edge of the lot and head for the lounge on the service road behind the motel.

The two others get out of the Cadillac and let themselves into one of the first-floor rooms. Roy can't see which room because he's backed away from the railing--no reason to get mixed up in their fight, he figures, dropping his cigarette under his heel.

He hesitates a moment. He knows he ought to go back in and get some sleep. But he doesn't do that. He follows the balcony to the stairs and, sticking to the shadows when he crosses the parking lot, scrambles up the embankment. It's already damp with dew, and when he slides to the gravel at the bottom of the little hill, he finds himself up against a fence. He hasn't scaled one since he was a teenager, but he gets himself over it with only a scratch or two. Crouching among the garbage cans behind the lounge, he catches his breath. What the hell am I doing?

Even with their battered lids on, the cans ooze a smell as thick and damp as the darkness, and threaded through the sour air is a syrupy sweetness he doesn't want to think about.

I can't stay here, Roy knows. Somebody will be coming out before long and see me. So he brushes himself off and finds the front door.

It's an old place with clocks and lamps on the paneled walls advertising beers like Regal and Jax that haven't been brewed in 20 years. The lights are so low he can't see what the black, gummy floor is made of. Roy crosses the room to the bar and looks around for the guy from the pool, but he's nowhere in sight. There's an old couple at a table with an empty pitcher between them. Over by the window, a woman keeps checking the parking lot, waiting for someone. Another woman is drinking a beer at the corner of the bar, eyeing Roy as he eases onto a stool and orders a draft.

You lose somebody, darling'? It's the woman a few seats over.

Just a friend.

Use a replacement?

She's making him shy. I'm married, he tells her.

Me too, darling'.

You lose your husband?

Just mislaid him is all. She smiles. Till tomorrow.

Roy takes a closer look at her. She's a handsome woman, he thinks. He knows he'd like the way her shoulders would fit his hands.

She's still smiling. Any chance you mislaid your wife tonight, sweetheart?

It could happen, he realizes. It could happen real easy.

Her body is already rising, floating toward him.

Afraid not, he says a little too loud. I know right where she is.

Like a genie returning to its bottle, the woman sinks back onto her stool. It's a lucky man, she tells him, knows the bed his wife sleeps in.

He's still thinking about Marilyn asleep in their bed when the rest room door swings open and the guy from the pool staggers out, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

Hey, I know you, the guy says. He plops down beside Roy. So, your little girls dry out yet?

Oh, yeah, Roy says, they're fine.

I like that boy of yours, the guy mumbles, holding up a finger to the bartender for a beer.

Let me get this, Roy insists. I owe you one from this afternoon.

That's real white of you. Everything he says is slurred. Name's Thorne.

Pleasure to meet you, Thorne. I'm Roy.

So where you from, Roy?

Just outside Amarillo. How about you?

Hell, I don't know. I always tell people I'm from Toad Suck Ferry, you know, just to shit 'em, but truth be told I was born up the road in Arkadelphia. We was on the move all the time, though, so I don't know where the fuck I'm really from.

Your daddy in the military or something?

Or something. He sort of had the knack of making himself unwelcome wherever we went.

That's too bad.

Well, he finally found a place they don't ever want him to leave.

Near here?

Not far. Down in Louisiana. Angola--the penitentiary.

What did he do?

You mean, what did he get caught for? Armed robbery. A payroll job at a sugarcane processor one Friday afternoon. Daddy always says it should have been a real sweet deal. Thorne tries the beer the bartender has just set before him while he waits for the joke to sink in. Get it?

Who the shit is this guy? Roy thinks, trying to chuckle. Yeah, I get it.

But some little prick accountant pulls out this old pistol and shoots Daddy in the leg. You believe that?

So what did he do?

Do? What do you think? He hollered like a stuck pig. They said in court he was still yellin' his head off when the sheriff got there 10 minutes later.

He was in it alone?

Hell, no. But the boys he was workin' it with, they just fuckin' took off when the shootin' started. Sons a bitches.

That's a tough way to grow up.

Thorne turns a bleary eye toward Roy. For some, maybe. But there's a lot to learn, and the sooner you get started, the better. I'll tell you, if that were my boy you got, I'd have him at the basics already. There ain't no such thing as too young to get started.

Well, I'm a lineman for the utility, Roy smiles. Dwayne Henry can't even reach the first stirrup on a pole yet. And tell you the truth, I don't really want to see him shinnying up telephone poles all his life. Got the sun frying you like a strip of bacon all summer. Come winter, go up in a storm with the sleet in your face and power lines whippin' allover the damn place. Shit. I want him working inside somewhere, with a tie and a white shirt.

Thorne is nodding. Sure, everybody wants better for their kids. My daddy too. That's why he warned me off all that penny-ante bullshit. You know, stealin' cars and crap like that. I tell you what, he ever heard I was out breakin' into houses for TV sets or stereos, he'd take a strap to me from one end of town to the other. My daddy raised me right. Stores, banks, hijacking--fine, he'd say, that's a job fit for a man. But the juvenile delinquent shit? Thorne whistles. He always used to say if you gonna do it, then do it. You know?

Roy nods, afraid not to.

Thorne keeps drinking. You ever think, he wonders as he turns his head toward Roy, about gettin' into another line of work?

Work?

Easy work, low-risk kind of things. Like gas stations or convenience stores.

You mean open one?

Shit, no, Thorne laughs. I mean knock-in' 'em over.

Rob them?

Yeah. If you just pay attention to what you're up to, there ain't nothin' to it. You get a little gas. Then one guy keeps it runnin' while the other goes in Eke he's gonna pay. You show the asshole your gun, he fills up a bag with money and you drive off to the next place. Do two or three a night in different spots, and you're talkin' about some real cash by the end of the week.

Roy realizes he's serious. But you don't even know me.

Hey, Roy, you're a family man. I seen that at the pool this afternoon. My daddy always says, Thorne, put your trust in a man with a family. He takes another sip. You know why?

A family man's reliable?

Thorne gives him a look like he's some kind of half-wit escaped from the state asylum. Hell, no. Daddy says they won't fuck with you 'cause they know you can always hunt down their family and kill 'em all if you have to.

Roy sinks lower on his stool. Yeah, I suppose your daddy is right about that.

Thorne smiles. Yes, sir, he's a smart one all right.

Roy stares into his beer, trying to figure out if he's supposed to say something else.

So what you think? Want to give it a try? You and me, we can split it right down the middle, anything we make, 60-40.

The words are out before he can stop them. You mean 50-50?

Thorne wheels on him and hisses through lips pressed so tight together they just about disappear. You fuckin' kiddin' me? My plan, my gun, and you want the same as me? He looks around like he needs something to hit Roy with. Why I ought to----

Hang on, Thorne. I was just trying to understand you. Yeah, sure you ought to get more than the other guy. Absolutely.

Thorne's face loosens a bit. All right, he growls through his teeth, all right.

It wouldn't be fair any other way.

That's what I told those fuckers I been runnin' with. But the two of 'em won't have it. Hell with 'em. I'll get myself a new partner. Somebody who ain't half crazy like Teddy.

Teddy? Roy knows he shouldn't be asking, but he can't figure out how to stop Thorne.

You know what that asshole did the last place we hit? Shot the goddamn clerk in the leg. Just like they done Daddy. And you know why?

Roy shakes his head.

'Cause they don't have no chocolate swirl left in the freezer. Now, what the fuck's chocolate swirl got to do with the job, that's what I want to know.

Roy watches Thorne's fists tighten, the veins tensing into swollen blue scars. You sure you should be telling me all this?

Thorne turns his head and smiles. Shit, Roy, I ain't got to worry. You're a family man, remember?

Oh, yeah, Roy nods, seeing how right Thorne's daddy is about that.

Listen, Thorne says, muffling his voice against his shoulder, you got a car, don't you? We could go give it a try right now. See if you like it. And even if you don't, you still $60, $70 ahead on the deal. What you say?

Roy knows he needs a reason, a good reason. I appreciate it, he says, I really do. But my wife'd never stand for it. Not for a minute. He takes a sip of his beer. And it's not for me. It's kind of you to offer, but it's not for me.

I mean, Thorne says, shaking his head, it just gets old runnin' with two assholes who haven't got half a brain between 'em. This morning J. Billy walks into our room with nothin' on but a swimmin' suit and a pair of boots. We're outlaws, goddamn it. You don't go runnin' around like that in public. Shit.

Yeah, you're right.

They're gonna get me caught, those two. Or worse.

Roy nods. He almost feels sorry for Thorne.

It didn't used to be like this.

You want another beer? Roy asks.

Nah, thanks. I ought to go see what those idiots are up to. Probably tryin' to break into a vending machine or something. Sure you don't want to give it a try? Wouldn't take 10 minutes.

He's lonely, Roy realizes. He's just fuckin' lonely. I don't think so.

Thorne nods. You take care of that boy of yours, you hear?

And you take care, too, Roy says, sticking out his hand.

Standing, Thorne smiles and shakes his hand. Hey, he calls to the bartender, whatever my buddy here wants. He flips a 10 on the bar. Adios, amigo.

Roy stares at the mirror behind the bottles of liquor, watching the door ease shut after Thorne, and tells himself he ought to get back to his own room. He picks up the 10-dollar bill. For the first time he realizes it's more gray than green, the front of money. Whiskey, he says out loud to no one in particular.

Two whiskeys, he hears like an echo coming back to him.

The woman is still there.

You know, he says, not even looking at her, I think maybe I've lost the woman I love.

Easy to do, she says. Easiest thing in the world.

I'm only just realizing, he nods, still staring into the mirror.

Well, maybe I can help you find her, the woman offers, her voice half drunk and half dreamy as she sidles up beside him. The bartender pours two whiskeys. But you know, darling, I don't think she's in here. I mean, I been here, I don't know, two, three hours. Maybe we ought to look somewhere else.

Roy waits for her to figure it all out for them.

Maybe, she says, smiling a smile that makes Roy forget about everything he's supposed to remember, maybe we could have a look in one of those rooms over at the motel. She takes a sip of his whiskey. What do you think?

Yeah, Roy hears himself whispering in her ear, yeah.

She finishes off his drink.

You got a car, baby? she wonders as she stands up.

Not here, he admits, suddenly worried maybe that'll ruin everything.

But it doesn't make any difference to her. That's OK, she says twice, I got the Caddy.

She waits for him to drink the other whiskey. He throws it back the way cowboys do in the movies, in a single gulp. It flares as it goes down, searing him from the inside out.

Hang on a minute, he says to everybody at once, just one more drink.

An hour later, they are leaning against each other like they're in some slow-motion, three-legged race. The door of the bar seems far away, but they find it. Suddenly, they're outside in the parking lot, and it's dark and humid and if only the car wasn't a convertible and if only the top wasn't down, Roy is thinking. But then she fishes the keys out of her purse and dangles them in front of his face. They sound like a bell, like the little bell they used to ring at Mass, he remembers, the little shiver of metal like a glass shattering against a stone floor, and it's as if he's been awakened from a dream. The only thing is, the dream's been his whole life up till now, he thinks, and this woman, she's the realest thing he's ever seen. She's a monster she's so real, and she wants him to drive.

He opens her door, and she gives him the smile again. How does she do that? he thinks, amazed. How do they all do that, the women? And he's lost, but he doesn't care. He wants it to happen. All of it.

He gets in the red car, the color of lipstick, old-fashioned lipstick. And the wheel is white, and the seats are white. Before he turns the key, he tolds his breath for a moment. He slides his hands along the porcelain steering wheel like a kid pretending to drive. They don't have to go anywhere, he tells himself, they could stay right here. But he's already turned the key, he realizes, and the car is sliding over the gravel, the gravel that looks white as the upholstery under the floodlights on the roof of the bar.

He wishes it were far away, the motel. He'd like to drive this woman's car under the stars all the way to California, to Canada, to New York City. But they haven't gone a hundred yards and the sign is already flashing right over their heads: Vacancy.

Roy drives through the arch beside the office and parks in the dark--away from the bugs by the lights, he explains to the woman.

Peeking through die louvers on the office door, he sees the top of a bald head balanced on the arm of the sofa next to the desk. Bob, he thinks.

He turns the knob, but the door is locked. Roy rattles it till Bob sits up and rubs his face, as if he's not sure he's heard something. Roy tries tapping on die glass with the keys to the convertible.

Bob holds up a hand. He must have been asleep is all Roy can figure. But when the fat man finally unlocks the door, Roy sees he's been watching wrestling on television.

I was almost a pro, you know, Bob says, nodding at the TV. If it hadn't been for the knee.... He shakes his head at how it's all worked out.

I need another room, Roy says.

Bob recognizes him. You're awfully damn picky. What's wrong with the one you got?

Nothing. I just need an extra room, that's all.

Bob looks past him, to out where the car is parked. Where everybody always parks, it occurs to Roy.

I get it. He gives Roy a sly smile. You need an extra room.

Roy sees it in Bob's eyes. You can't fool me, his fat smirk says, you can't fool me about nothing.

Just give me the goddamn key.

Yeah, yeah. Bob is loving this. I guess you don't want your extra room too close to that other room you already got, huh? I think there's an empty one here on this side of the place.

He reaches under the desk and tosses a key onto the counter. It's a real nice room. You two'll love it.

Thanks, Roy says under his breath. Maybe Bob isn't such an asshole after all, he thinks.

He changes his mind when he slips the key into the lock on the second-floor room overlooking the pool. That's when he remembers the number, 218. Don't turn on the light, he whispers to the woman. He knows there's no going back.

Oh, you are a shy one, she whispers. The door closes behind them, and he can hear her smiling in the dark. Then it occurs to him he's got to get her on the bed before she takes off her shoes and her feet stick to the carpet. He catches her up in his arms like she's his bride and lays her on the bedspread.

She's lighter than he expects, and she likes it, being carried to the bed. You're sweet, she sighs, and pulls him down on top of her.

Jesus, we're drunk, he tells her, wanting to believe it.

He hasn't been with another woman in a long time--since just after they were first married, Marilyn and him. What's your name? His voice is higher pitched than he wants it.

Red. Call me Red. Her voice is a whisper.

They can barely see each other in the dark room. He feels her rustling beneath him. I'm Roy.

He undresses her on the bed, doing his best not to let any clothes fall on the floor. And at first it works, making love to her the way he makes love to his wife--simple, gingerly. But it doesn't last long. She is so willing, he forgets all about what he was trying to do. Not that it matters. Red's so drunk there's no way he can keep her from slipping off the bed in a heap and him on top of her. And it really is funny, though she can't figure out what they're sliding around on, when their bodies get so slick with oil they can barely hang on to each other. She's hoarse from laughing in the dark, and it's too late for Roy to do anything about it. He's never known anything like it either, the drunken, sloppy joy of it. The bodies skim across each other, and there are flashes when Roy can make out the sheen on her flesh like some kind of honey she's been dipped in. And the more they roll around on the floor, the more they disappear into the darkness, the oil smudging their white bodies black like two pale ghosts fading into the night.

It's her scream that wakes him, and he's surprised, at first, that he knows right where he is. The light from the bathroom explains it all. Jesus, what time is it? he wonders, still on the floor. He tries to rub the grease off the face of his watch: 2:40 or so, it looks like. Shit, we fell asleep.

He stands in the bathroom door, and Red is still staring at the black woman in the mirror staring back at her. Her hair is matted with long, thick gobs of dirty brown gunk. Her hands are so damp with oil that every time she tries to wipe away a streak of grease, it spreads. Her dark, naked body glistens in the raw light of the fluorescent halo overhead.

But when she turns to Roy framed in the threshold, she bursts into laughter. You should see yourself, she hoots.

He cranes his neck so he can see for himself. He doesn't recognize the black face, the slick hair. She pulls him into the bathroom, and they stare at the couple in the mirror. They are covered in it, the oil. They turn around and look over their shoulders-on their backs it's even worse. What the fuck happened? Red wants to know.

Shit, I don't know, Roy stammers.

You think it'll come off?

Sure, sure it will. He discovers he's good at this lying thing.

She follows him out of the bathroom. When he flips on the light, Red gasps. Did we do this?

No way, there's no way we could have done this. He draws a finger across her belly and holds it up to examine, rubbing it against his thumb. This is motor oil, he exclaims.

You sure?

He tastes it. I don't know how it got here, but it sure as hell is motor oil. He needs all the authority he can muster. Feels like 20 weight 50. All purpose, he adds, nodding.

The woman kneels and touches the carpet. It's all over the place. She looks up at him. So now what do we do?

I think we take a bath.

In there? You better go take another look at that bathroom.

He pulls back the shower curtain. The tub is bad. Real bad. But at least there are plenty of towels and two or three tiny bars of soap in their wrappers. When he turns around, though, and sees how thick the grease is in her hair, how deep the oil has been massaged into her flesh, he realizes it's hopeless.

He sits down right there on the linoleum floor and would weep for what he's done--if only his tear ducts weren't plugged with oil.

But hers aren't, it turns out. When she sees him give up, black tears slither down her face, tremble and drop to her breasts. He's never been able to take that, tears running down a naked woman's body.

Hang on, Red, we're not done yet. He takes her hand and pulls her down, hugging her to stanch the tears. And while he's rocking her in his arms, he remembers the jar of cream he's got in the back of the station wagon, the one they use to clean up with on the job when they've been working on transformers.

Wait here, he tells her. I know what to do.

He doesn't bother with his drawers. He just pulls on his pants and throws his shirt over his shoulders. The grease holds the pants wherever it sticks to the fabric, the same for the shirt. He thinks he ought to be able to make it to the back parking lot without anyone seeing him, he tells Red. I mean, I'm camouflaged like some kind of commando.

You be careful, she warns. Anybody sees you, they'll think you're some kind of commando car thief or something.

It's late, and everyone's asleep behind dark windows. He shifts among the parked vans and cars with license plates from Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Tennessee. Crouching behind the open tailgate of his station wagon, shoving aside battered suitcases and toys, he fishes out the can of cream from the tire well. He returns the way he came, dodging from shadow to shadow, dashing across open spaces in his floppy shoes, until he is huffing in front of 218, tapping on the door with a black knuckle.

Red has all the lights on. The place glows with a golden luster.

He peels off his clothes, and they retreat to the bathroom. Roy, kneeling before the naked woman, begins with her foot, urging the cream into her flesh. Off balance, she rests a hand on his shoulder. He likes her, he realizes, he likes her very much. Kneading her calf with the cream, spreading it beneath his large hand across her yielding thigh, the man imagines he is shaping her out of clay, this slick woman. Gathering her belly in his grip, he flicks a finger of the cleansing cream over her breasts, teasing her nipples. Then he pulls her slender blackened arms between his cupped hands.

Still on his knees, he turns her, working from her shoulders down her stained back. There is, in his hands, he senses, a tenderness he has never felt before, as they slide, thumbs together, along the gully of her spine, his fingers spreading like wings, opening. He slathers dollop after dollop of the cream between his hands and her flesh, along her hips and the wavering lines of her legs converging on the narrow ankles, just apart. She turns again to face him and bends to kiss his black face.

She takes the can from his hands and lathers his body in the thick cream. By the time she comes to his long calves, she on her knees behind him, he could love her, he decides.

They stand in the filthy tub beneath the feeble shower, scraping the oil-darkened cream from each other's bodies until the water eddies black around their feet. Then they bathe each other with the little bars of soap and swilling water.

But even after an hour of rubbing the cream into her flesh and her rubbing it into his, of bathing each other in running water, the yellow stains across their bodies linger like huge bruises. And nothing makes any difference on their feet.

What are you gonna tell your husband? Roy asks.

I don't know, Red sighs, shaking her head. Jaundice, 1 guess.

He tries again, washing her as she squats in the tub. Massaging the cream along her back, running his hand over the lather he's soaped across her little belly, scooping the water over her hair, he feels the realness of her thicken under his fingers. And when she stands over him, her flesh still yellow with stains, letting water fall from her hands on his face, on his chest, on his thighs, he can't help but think of the Baptists back home in the river. He doesn't struggle against the idea of it. Not that he believes it. But he sees, at last, sees what they are getting at.

I gotta go, he says.

Yeah, it's about time I found my husband, too.

They dress as well as they are able in their filthy clothes. As they are about to leave, Roy remembers the white seats of Red's Cadillac. He grabs the cleanest towel that's left. You might need this, he offers.

Red hesitates, her hand on the doorknob. We don't know each other, she whispers in the dark room.

Yeah, Roy nods, we just met.

She pauses. The thing is, she says, my husband don't need to be found. It's my money, my car.

I don't get you.

I mean, you sure you want to find your wife?

She hears his hesitation.

You ever want to start over again, Roy--with everything? Fresh?

He tries to see Red in the dark. Sometimes it feels that way, he whispers.

Because you really are sweet.

You, too, he says.

She kisses him, differently than before.

He takes her by the shoulders and holds her off. But I got a family.

Kids? He feels her shrivel in his hands. They make all the difference, don't they?

Roy opens the door. It's time we got home.

Yeah, she says, a weariness suddenly rasping her voice.

She offers him a ride, but he thinks he'd better walk.

He lets himself into his other room, slides the chain lock back into place. He kicks off the sticky shoes, strips off his greasy pants and shirt, rolls them into a ball, and stuffs them into the plastic bag in the wastebasket. Flopping into the chair beside the window, he listens to the air conditioner, growling deep in its throat like a sleeping dog. He can smell the mold on its chilly breath. His family is sound asleep. What the fuck do I do now?

Roy peeks out the curtains. The parking lot is deserted. He pads into the bathroom, wearing nothing but his shorts, and shuts the door. In the mirror, he can see the yellow bruises tinged with darker borders all over his body like water stains on old wallpaper. Somehow or other, he'll find a way to explain it. He sees the tracks on the bathroom floor. The bottoms of his feet are still black with oil. He sits on the edge of the tub, trying to scrape the stain off his soles with emery boards from his wife's makeup kit. But most of it won't come off.

It's 4:12. He gets dressed, takes the bag of oily clothes outside and throws it away in a garbage can by the vending machines. He has another cigarette before he goes back in. Already the interstate has more traffic than just a half hour ago. Behind every pair of lights, it occurs to him, leaning on the balcony railing, is somebody going somewhere. And here he is, on the edge of the highway, car keys in his pocket. Anything is possible, he thinks. Anything.

He wakes the kids first. Time to hit the road, he says.

Marilyn is confused. What time is it? she wants to know.

Time to hit the road, he says.

It doesn't take long to load the car. The kids are half-asleep. We'll eat when the sun comes up, he promises them.

Before he pulls the door shut, he makes sure he's got the keys to both rooms in his pocket. Let's go, he says, more certain than he's ever been about anything.

He backs the station wagon out and slowly circles the complex the long way back to the office. The vacancy sign is flashing overhead, but the door is locked. He looks in the window and can see Bob asleep on the sofa near the desk. Roy slips the keys to both rooms in the mail slot, gets in the car and waits to slam his door shut until they're on the service road back to the interstate.

But Roy doesn't take 1-30 to Dallas like he had planned. Instead, he follows the markers and takes highway 71 to Fort Smith.

When the lights of Texarkana fade in his rearview mirror, he relaxes a little. It feels good in the dark, barreling along 71 like there's no tomorrow, the kids slumped in sleep across one another on top of the towels and blankets in the back of the station wagon, Marilyn groggily waking up to bitch at him for a while, then falling back asleep for another few miles.

Every now and then, Roy looks up from the rough grain of the concrete in the throw of his headlamps to check his rearview. Just before dawn, a car passes him outside of Acorn. He catches their faces in his lights when they pull back into his lane up ahead, a bunch of kids, drunk and on their way home, probably from drinking down in Mena.

Then, out of Marilyn's window, all of a sudden like it always does, the sky goes greasy with streaks of first light, brown and slick as burned butter sizzling in a skillet. He checks his mileage. Still another 50 miles or so to Fort Smith, he figures, where he can pick up 1-40 to Oklahoma City and then all the way home to Amarillo. His foot eases the gas pedal closer to the floorboard, and he feels the sock stick to his foot.

He can do it, he knows, he can see it through, this life. He looks over his shoulder at Dwayne Henry and the girls. The lady was right, angels all of them. Then he puts his arm around Marilyn, and little by little she turns to him, leaning into him in her sleep, until suddenly she curls up on the seat, her head in his lap. He strokes her hair with one hand and steers with the other.

The radio is on real low, not much more than a buzz, tuned to a country station somewhere in North Texas, fading in and out, and all the songs about love, O love, O careless love.