Room Seventeen
by Yvette Ward-Horner

The faltering neon sign said Coach House Inn. It was a low white cinderblock building with a sagging roof. Shadows pooled in the narrow doorways as the last of the day’s hot sunlight seeped from the sky. Frank hunched over the steering wheel, eyeing the plastic chairs in front of the rooms. The big poster on the side of the building had caught his eye as he drove by. $29.99 Single. Just about all he could afford.

He bumped into the rutted parking lot, stopping the old black Jetta in front of the lobby. A few parched shrubs adorned the entrance, shreds of plastic entangled in their branches. Crushed cigarettes littered the weedy ground. A faint smell of urine seemed to cling to the building, as if one too many toilets had overflowed.

Frank wondered what Catherine would say if she was with him, being subjected to this. Most likely she would say nothing and simply register her disapproval with the stiffness of her back and a cool persistent refusal to meet his eyes. Her face would be pale, the skin around her mouth drawn tight. His gloom deepened. He pictured her parked across the street, watching him, a self-righteous smile on her lips. The way she drew strength from other people’s misfortunes had horrified him sometimes.

Inside the lobby the toilet smell intensified. It was a small room with a grubby carpet and an old TV blasting away in the corner. There was no one around. A few faded pamphlets were fanned out on the counter. Visit Casino of the Sun! Come to Tucson Greyhound Park! Frank stared at them without interest. Twenty years he had lived here and never once been to Casino of the Sun. Maybe now would be a good time. He could imagine Catherine’s face if she found out.

He drummed his fingers on the counter, looking in vain for a bell. The blaring TV annoyed him. Frowning, he stalked across the room and switched it off.

“Can I help you?”

Frank flushed.

“It was too loud,” he said, turning around.

A broad woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a tight skirt and too much eyeliner, confronted him.

“I was watching it earlier,” she said.

Frank hung there for a moment. The woman folded her arms and leaned back on one hip, her expression unreadable.

“I want a room,” Frank said, a little too loudly.

“How many adults?”

“Just me.”

He watched her surreptitiously as she sat down and tapped on her grimy keyboard. Her long red nails gleamed. He looked at her smooth cheek, downy with powder, at her moist, full mouth. There was a faint sheen in the creases of her neck.

She turned her head and caught him staring. She gave him a brazen smile.

“Can I see your driver’s license?”

His hands trembled slightly. He dropped his wallet and stooped to pick it up. Her voice had thickened, become provocative. What was she thinking about him? He handed her the license, noticing the taut plumpness of her upper arm, the bejeweled watch fastened around her wrist.

She studied the license for a moment. “Frank,” she said, drawling the word out in a way that would have never occurred to Catherine. She tipped the license toward the light. “Nice picture.”

Frank blushed.

“Catalina Parkway,” she said. “Got a friend who lives over there.” She handed the license to him. “Wife kick you out tonight, Frank?”

His tongue touched the top of his mouth.

Her smile widened, faintly malicious.

“I’m printing off your copy,” she said.

A printer whirred to life in a back room and started chugging. He watched her walk away, her ample backside stretching the fabric of the skirt. He imagined her thighs rubbing together, dark secrets and dampness trapped between them.

He wiped his hands on his pants. Now that he was a free man, he owed it to himself to explore new possibilities. He had always wondered what it would be like with somebody else.

He waited for her to come back.

“Can I buy you a drink later?” The calm sound of his voice surprised him. The woman smiled coyly but there was a flatness in her eyes that was disconcerting.

“I don’t have time for all that.” She scratched her shoulder. “I can come to your room when I get off at ten.”

“Oh,” he said. Was this how things were done now, then? He tried to look nonchalant. “That’ll be fine,” he said. He cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”

“Nancy.” The woman handed him his copy of the receipt. “Room Seventeen,” she said.

He carried his suitcase and two brown boxes into the room. There were five hangers in the closet. He hung up a few of his shirts and pants, biting his lip, fretting that they might smell musty by Monday. The two boxes contained his books and there was nowhere to put them so he carried them back out to the car. The night fluttered with flying ants. He feared their wings would stick to his face if they touched him. He hurried back inside.

A queasy hunger roiled in his belly but the thought of trying to find some dinner depressed him. He couldn’t tolerate fast food. Dining alone in a decent place made him self-conscious. Besides, he couldn’t afford it. Who knew how long he would have to stay here, in this squalid room.

He thought bitterly of Catherine, no doubt relaxing in their small serene living room at this very moment. No doubt having a nice cup of tea. Perhaps Bruno was with her. Frank pressed his lips together. Bruno. How could she be having an affair with a man named Bruno? Miss Goody-Two-Shoes, Miss Holier-Than-Thou, Miss Moral High Ground—in the end she was the one skulking around in the shadows, the one breaking promises, the one tossing out twenty years of marriage on a whim. And then there was Charlotte. How could she put poor Charlotte through this?

The thought of his daughter always gave Frank a slight headache. He went into the bathroom for a tissue. The dispenser was empty. He blew his nose on toilet paper instead. He thought about calling the house. He would hang up if Bruno answered. He would be stern with Catherine. He would tell her he didn’t want a man named Bruno in the house with Charlotte. He would insist that he leave.

The bleak fluorescent light threw a greenish cast over everything. Frank stood in the bathroom, looking at the pores on his nose, at the bags under his eyes, at the thin mouse-brown hair receding from his high shiny forehead. His shoulders sagged. He switched off the light and sat on the bed. He remembered the front desk woman, Nancy, coming over at ten. He shivered slightly. She would be like an animal, he thought. She would be thick and warm like custard. She would lie on the bed naked, picking her nails, staring carelessly at the ceiling.

He thought of Catherine’s cool colorless skin. She always wore a nightgown to bed. She didn’t like him to breathe on her and she didn’t like to be kissed. Twice a year, on his birthday and on their anniversary, they performed what he thought of as their ceremonial ritual. He always pretended to be all revved up for the occasion, full of testosterone and engine oil; a hairy-backed savage that Catherine would humor for one evening with a faint tolerant smile. And then back to normal.

Frank sighed. It was nine fifteen. He preferred to be asleep by ten. He pictured Nancy again. He imagined her wide hips, her sleazy underwear, her soft belly jiggling like a pudding. He felt an obscene desire to touch her. But she would want more than Catherine did. What if he couldn’t give her what she needed? What if she laughed at him, pushed him away?

He picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.

“Coach House Inn.”

“Hi,” he said tentatively. “It’s me, Frank.”

“Who?”

“You’re coming over at ten . . . .”

“What?”
“Room seventeen.”

“Oh. You.” She was chewing gum. “What can I do for you?”

“I have to cancel,” he said, twisting the edge of the sheet tightly. “I’ve got a headache. Bad headache. Is that OK?”

“Yeah,” she said, chewing, chewing. “Anything else?”

“No, that’s all.”

“OK, good night.” She hung up without waiting for him to reply. He listened to the dial tone for a moment, then put the phone down carefully. He took his clothes off and got into bed. Light from the street lamp in the parking lot spilled through the cracks around the door. The mattress pushed back at him. The pillows were stiff. He lay on his side, gazing at the wall, wondering if Catherine was in bed also and if she missed him.

In the morning, his cell phone rang. It was Charlotte.

“Mom said I should call you.”

He marveled at how distant her voice seemed already.

“Charlotte,” he said. “I miss you terribly, my dear.”

“It’s only been a day, dad.”

“But still. Will you have lunch with me?”

“If you want.”

He drove home—he still thought of it as home—listening to Schubert. Back in the old familiar neighborhood, it was hard to believe that anything had changed. His house looked just the same as he had left it; a small pleasant ranch on a quiet street. Just the sort of house that two high school teachers might be expected to live in. The grass needed cutting, he noticed. Catherine’s white Taurus was parked neatly in the driveway. She opened the front door as he trudged up the steps.

“Hello Frank.” There was nothing apologetic in her tone. Gloomily, he followed her into the kitchen to wait for Charlotte. His eyes swept around the room, searching for signs of Bruno, for signs of merriment. There were none. He tapped his thumbs together moodily. Catherine sat down at the table and shook out the newspaper.

“Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” He hadn’t meant to say anything but the words leaped out of his mouth.

Catherine raised her thin arched eyebrows, still looking at the paper. “If you need an explanation, I would say that’s definitive proof that you haven’t been paying attention.”

He snorted. “I’m not one of your students, Catherine.”

She didn’t deign to reply.

He leaned against the counter, feeling an intense helpless desire to belong here again, to be the one who had unloaded the dishwasher and put the mismatched coffee cups in the cabinet. To be sitting at the table, shuffling the other half of the newspaper in the dim light filtering softly through the well-worn curtains. To complain about the messy stack of mail by the toaster. To make tea.

“Da-a-ad!” Charlotte sounded impatient. Frank jingled his keys, wishing he could just stay home and relax. He waited for Catherine to say something. When she didn’t, he grabbed his dignity with both hands and left.

Charlotte sat across from him at the greasy-looking table in Applebee’s. He gazed at her despondently, feeling put-off as usual by the shapelessness of her face, by her broad slumped shoulders and messy hair.

“Are you upset about what’s happened?” he asked her.

“No,” Charlotte said. She looked bored. “Everyone thought I was weird anyway, living with both my parents. Like I was on Leave It To Beavis or something.”

“Leave It To Beaver.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He looked at her. She scowled at the table.

“I’m so sorry this happened, dear,” he told her.

“I don’t care. It’s probably better, “ she said. “It wasn’t much fun watching you and mom ignore each other.”

He panicked slightly. What had she seen that he’d been unable to see himself? Had Catherine been ignoring him?

The waitress arrived, chirping like a sparrow. They placed their orders. Frank’s left temple ached. He watched the waitress leave, then leaned across the table, tried to make Charlotte meet his eyes.

“Have you seen Bruno?” he said.

Charlotte’s lip curled slightly. Her eyes were steely. “He’s a plumber,” she said. “But a cute one.” She gave a short bark of laughter.

Frank recoiled.

“What do you mean, a plumber?” His face felt bloodless.

“Just what I said.”

After he dropped her off, he cruised down Central, looking for Terrentino’s Plumbing. His heart bumped uncomfortably in his chest. He saw the sign, recognized the storefront as just another plate-glass window in a languishing strip mall that he drove past every day. So this was Bruno’s lair, wedged between a Subway and a laundromat.

He got out of the car, his knees quaking slightly. The sun blazed on the front of the building. A bell on the door handle jangled loudly as he went in. He walked into a cramped, untidy office with boxes stacked against the wall and a humming overhead fixture making the stale yellow light seem shaky. He heard voices around the corner. A compact man with a head like the top of a boot brush tramped into the room.

“How are you today?” the man said heartily.

Frank cleared his throat. The corners of his eyes itched.

“Good,” he said. He licked his lips. “Are you Bruno?”

“Bruno’s out back.” The man looked at him closely. “Something I can help you with?”

“No, no, I just wanted to see Bruno. I can come back later if he’s busy.”

“I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Frank waited. He stared at the pile of bubble-wrap on the desk. A door slammed in the distance. Several voices rose in shouts of laughter. Bruno sauntered into the room. His curly black hair brushed his shoulders and his t-shirt stretched tightly over his chest. His big nipples pushed against the fabric. His mouth was fleshy and red, moist-looking like salami. Thick hair curled abundantly on his arms.

“Jim said you’re looking for me?”

“Yes.” Frank felt lightheaded.

“Something I can do for you?”

“No,” Frank said. “No, actually, no.”

His mind reeled drunkenly between rage and pity. Pity for poor middle-aged Catherine, who had sunk to this. Rage because she’d dragged him down with her. Rage because he’d spent the night on a hard creaky bed while his wife fondled this man’s scurrilous nipples.

Bruno stared at him.

“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Frank said and lunged for the door.

He headed back to the Coach House Inn, the Jetta protesting as he stamped on the gas pedal. He squinted into the sun. He would have Nancy come to his room tonight, with her red nails and glossy mouth and dense buttocks. He would rub himself all over her with abandon.

Two could play at this game.

He went to the lobby. Nancy wasn’t there yet. A thin dusty old lady shook her head at him impatiently.

“Later, later,” she said.

Frank went to room seventeen. He lay on his unmade bed, wondering if Nancy was technically a prostitute and, if so, how much he would have to pay her. Anxiety furrowed lines into his brow. How did one go about asking such things?

The door rattled suddenly. Frank jumped.

“Housekeeping!”

He bolted upright, staring around wildly as if there might be something he needed to hide.

“Just a minute…”

“Housekeeping!”

Frowning, he snatched the door open. A swarthy woman stood there with her heavy cleaning cart, peering up at him.

“Housekeeping,” she said.

“So I gathered.”

“I clean your room?”

“Why not.” He held the door open. She came in, wedging her cart into the doorway. Frank moved squeamishly to the stained blue kitchen chair by the window that was the only thing to sit on beside the bed. He put his chin in his hands and watched the maid stump confidently around the room. She disappeared into the bathroom, humming. She returned with his wet towel. She smiled encouragingly at Frank.

“Nice sunny,” she said. Her dark brown eyes were small and shiny like buttons. Her short-sleeved blouse showed off plump, hairy arms with surprisingly slender wrists. She wore ill-fitting black pants and what looked like nurse’s shoes. Her long hair was scraped off her face.

“Yes, quite sunny today,” Frank said.

She laughed, showing a thick red tongue and square teeth.

“Quite sunny today,” she repeated. “Must forgive my English.”

“Not at all,” Frank said. He sat up straight to look at her. “I’m an English teacher,” he said.

“Oooh!” The woman’s free hand flew to her mouth. “English teacher!”

Frank smiled. “What’s your name?”

“Hermosa.” She flushed a little, standing there with his damp towel draped over her arm. “I have many mistake.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” Frank’s eyes drifted to the buttons on her blouse, straining valiantly across her chest. “Perhaps I could buy you a drink later?”

Her expression changed swiftly. “No drink,” she said, lowering her voice. “I come back here.”

Frank bit his lip. Was the world teeming with prostitutes, or was this just the effect he had on women? And if she was a prostitute, how much would he have to pay her?

“Twenty dollars,” Hermosa said.

He looked at her thoughtfully. Then, surprised, he found himself relaxing.

She came back to his room at sunset. He let her in, looking nervously over her head. There was no one around.

She wore different clothes—tight jeans and a shiny blouse with ruffles in all the worst places. Her hair was still scraped back. She walked over to the closet, humming again, took off the blouse and hung it up. Frank lay fully-clothed on the bed and watched her. His hands were damp. She wore a big white industrial-strength bra underneath the blouse. She peeled off her jeans. Her panties were big and white like her bra. Her brown belly folded over them. Even from across the room he could tell that she had vast amounts of pubic hair.

His thoughts rattled back to Catherine, to her pale, smooth body and slender frame. Her breasts were small and discreet. She had none of the excess that this woman, Hermosa, had—none of the bulging flesh and untrammeled hair. He felt a bit frantic suddenly.

“Hermosa, wait.”

She was reaching back to unclasp her bra. He didn’t have the fortitude to watch her unleash her massive bosom all at once. He would have to do this in stages.

She looked at him questioningly.

He patted the bed. “Come,” he said. “Lie here with me.”

Her face clouded.

“No funny stuff,” she said.

“No, absolutely, no funny stuff,” he said. “It’s just that I—I’m married.”

She didn’t seem impressed. She walked toward the bed with her arms folded.

“Twenty dollars,” she reminded him.

“Yes, twenty dollars.”

“Thirty minutes.”

He felt saddened by that.

She lay down beside him on the hard bed with a sigh. He put his arm around her. A rich scent emanated from her body; a mingling of cinnamon and sweat. Her skin felt oily. She put her head on his chest and they lay there looking at the silent TV.

“It’s quite sunny today,” she said.

He stroked the hairs on her arm. They were long and soft. He liked the weight of her body against him. He undid her ponytail, letting her thick black hair wash over her shoulder. It shone with health.

“Forty dollars,” he said impulsively. “Stay here for an hour.”

He felt sure, suddenly, that Catherine had not slept with Bruno. She would have come undone when faced with his abundance.

His cell phone rang after school on Monday, as he walked to his car. It was Catherine.

“I’ve been giving this some thought,” she said.

“Really.”

“I think we’re being unfair to Charlotte.”

He slid his binders on to the passenger seat, then shut the door and leaned against it. The sun burned down relentlessly.

“We?” he said.

Catherine laughed. Her laughter sounded as cool and measured as her voice, the laughter of someone who had never done anything suspect.

“Let’s not get petty about it, Frank.”

Tension crept into his neck.

“Obviously we’ve had some problems with our marriage,” she said. “It takes two to tango, as they say.”

“Are you in the kitchen?”

“Yes, why?”

He imagined her sitting at the table, her pale green eyes unblinking, her back straight. He thought of Hermosa, of her smells and textures, of the weight of her warm head resting on his chest. He thought of a world full of women like her.

“Let’s consider the main problem, Catherine,” he said. “The fact is that you’re a frigid bitch.”

He expected her to hang up on him but she didn’t. He listened to the silence. He strained his ears, trying to hear her breathing. Nothing.

“Give my regards to Bruno,” he said.

There was a click.

He stuck the phone in his pocket, climbed into the Jetta and drove away.

 

YVETTE WARD-HORNER is a new writer, in the sense that she’s only recently begun submitting her stories for publication. She has no publishing credits yet, but her story "The Nomads" recently won 1st place in the Literary Short Story category of the Writer’s Digest 78th Annual Writing Competition. Visit her blog at yvettewardhorner.blogspot.com.

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