Don't Kill The Messenger (4 page)

We hold out for a full hour, arriving in Marathon, halfway back to Miami. There’s an all-night diner there, so we park and go inside, taking a booth in the corner. There are a couple of locals at the counter, more interested in politics than food, and a weary-looking young couple at a table across the room, appearing less than delighted with what they’ve been served. I tell myself that I’m not scoping out the place, looking for potential threats. Then I remember that I probably wouldn’t know a potential threat if it kneed me in the balls and asked, “You the guy lookin’ for potential threats?” So I suppress any notions of myself as private investigator or bodyguard or anything even vaguely heroic, and consign myself to the role of chauffeur.

I order a club sandwich with mashed potatoes, and she gets pancakes with link sausage. It’s close to midnight, not a time I traditionally associate with breakfast, but I have to admit that her pancakes look awfully good. It never fails; anytime I go to a restaurant with another person, whatever they order always looks much better than whatever I order. That’s probably why most of the time, I eat alone.

Halfway through the meal, she breaks the silence. “Are we gonna drive through the night?”

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. I suppose we could.”

“I can split the driving with you,” she offers.

I disagree. “I’m the only authorized driver on the account. They don’t have a copy of your license, so you can’t drive the rental car.”

She shrugs dismissively. “It’s not like they can see us. That only matters if there’s an accident or something. And if that happens, we can just switch drivers before the cops show up.”

“And if we’re dismembered and unconscious at the scene?”

“Then who’s on the rental car agreement is the least of our worries, isn’t it?” she replies with a self-satisfied little smile.

Before I can retort, the front door to the diner opens, and a man of about sixty enters. I hate to sound classist, but
shabby-looking
is the word that comes to mind when I see him. He may be a fine human being and a good family man, but to my tired and cautious eyes, he looks shabby. I watch as he scans the room, looking at the few patrons keenly. Seeing us, he begins to approach. Rebecca’s back is to him, but there’s no mistaking the look on my face, and she quickly turns to see him draw near.

“Stay calm,” I say to her discreetly. I see her reach for something in her pocket. Some kind of weapon, I can only surmise, though specifically what, I can’t tell.

I try to take my own advice and not panic as he walks right up to our table. Unfortunately, my extrasensory abilities aren’t something I can switch on and off, allowing me to look at this man and know what he’s about to do. The only way I’ll know what he’s going to do is when I see him do it.

I don’t have to wait long. Without hesitation, he speaks to us. “I’m sorry to bother you,” he says in a voice that bespeaks a life of deprivation, “but I’m hungry and I have no money. Do you have any change, so I could buy a meal?”

Behind the counter, the manager on duty calls out before I can answer. “I’ve asked you not to bother my customers!”

He turns to the counterman. “I’m sorry, Andrew. It’s late and there’s no one outside to ask …”

“It’s all right,” I tell him, finding ten dollars in my pocket and handing it to him. A look of surprise and relief spreads over his face. His entreaty, I suspect, is too often met with rejection at best, outright hostility more often.

“Oh, thank you!” he says sincerely. “I’m going to sit down right over there and buy some food. I promise I won’t buy booze or cigarettes or anything like that.” I believe him; he smells of neither of those things. “God bless you, sir,” he says. “Don’t fall in love.”

The moment freezes in my mind. Though I can’t see it, I’m sure my expression must be priceless.
No, it’s not possible.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said I can’t thank you enough.”

“Oh.” I look at Rebecca, and her face suggests that his words of thanks are what she heard too. “You’re welcome. Enjoy your food.”

He makes his way over to the counter, and I’m peripherally aware of him presenting himself to the contentious employee as a legitimate customer and receiving only the most requisite and begrudging courtesy in return. I realize that in the eyes of my traveling companion, I still look frozen like a … well, I won’t use the expected simile of forest animals and headlights.

“What’s with that face?” she asks. It’s a fair question.

“Nothing. I just … I didn’t know what he wanted, that’s all.”

“No,” she points out. “When you didn’t know what he wanted, you looked calm and in control of the moment. After you
did
know what he wanted, you got the vaguely catatonic look on your face.”

Damn her observational skills.

“It’s …” I start, remaining stone-faced. “It’s just that …”

“What?”

“That man is my father. I haven’t seen him in over twenty years.”

She looks at me, astonished. “Oh my God … you’re shitting me.”

“Of course I’m shitting you. Now shut up and eat your pancakes before I decide that they look better than what I’m having.”

She throws an orange slice at my head and tries unsuccessfully not to laugh. “You know, part of getting me to trust you includes not making up weird shit on our first date.”

The word catches me off guard. “This is a date?”

“Might as well be,” she says, finishing a pancake. “You’re buying breakfast.”

With the food consumed and the bill paid (by me; she wasn’t kidding), we exit the eatery and find ourselves back in the parking lot. Only a few cars travel the highway at this hour. We stand there for about thirty seconds, absently watching the traffic go by. “Were you scared?” she asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe a little. When he came over to the table, you reached for something in your pocket. Can I ask what it is?”

She pulls out a canister of pepper spray. “I’m not afraid to use it,” she says. Though the words are informational in nature, I can’t help feeling there’s an implied threat in them, should the circumstance warrant it.

“Good to know,” I answer unemotionally.

Again we stand in silence, watching as a semi truck and three more cars head up U.S. 1.

“Tristan?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wrong. I don’t think I can drive through the night. I’m pretty tired.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Can we get a room here in … Where are we again?”

“Marathon,” I reply. “I think that’s a pretty good idea.”

Within five minutes, we are at the Days Inn, standing at the registration desk, blearily facing a desk clerk who possesses the nocturnal alertness that comes with working third shift. “We’d like two rooms for one night,” I say to him.

“Can’t help you there,” he replies, earning a confused look from me.

“But your sign said ‘vacancy.’”

“Yep,” he says, “but if you’ll notice, it don’t say vacan
cies.
All I got’s one room.”

He has no reason to lie, yet I find it hard to believe. “In Marathon, Florida at one in the morning on a Thursday night?”

He gives a little laugh. “You must not be from around here.” There’s a snide retort in me, but I resist. “It’s Pelican Days!” he continues proudly.

“It’s what?” Rebecca says. She’s a lot closer to a native than I am, and the term means nothing to her either.

“Pelican Days,” he repeats. “Four-day festival of fishing, boating, and beach parties. Every place in town is booked solid until Monday. Heck, only reason I’ve got the one room is because I had a last-minute cancellation by a fella from Atlanta.”

“We can keep driving,” I suggest to Rebecca.

“No,” she says, “I’m so tired.” She turns to the clerk. “Does the room have two beds?”

“Two queens,” he says. He then gives us a scrutinizing eye. “You two married?”

“Engaged,” I say flatly, “but passionately in love. Can we have the room?”

“Well, normally during Pelican Days, our minimum rental is two nights, but you two look pretty worn out, and I’d hate to be the cause of a car crash because I turned you away. I can let you have it for the one night.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca says, relieved.

“Fill this out,” he says, sliding me a registration form and a pen. “It’ll be eighty-nine fifty plus tax.”

My credit card is in his hand without my even remembering extricating it from my wallet. Within two minutes, the charge is approved, the form is completed, and an actual metal room key is in my hand. I haven’t seen one in years.

“Room 116,” the clerk says. “You go out this door, park around the back. You’ll have an ocean view, come morning. Breakfast is from six to nine in the room right off the lobby.”

“Thanks,” I say to him. I can feel the fatigue taking over, along with the relieved feeling that the day’s activities are over and I can actually let myself sleep.

“You two get some rest,” the man says with genuine concern in his voice. “You look like the devil himself’s been chasin’ you.”

I manage a weak smile. “Let’s hope not, anyway.”

Chapter 4
 

Room 116 of the Marathon Days Inn is unlikely to earn any praise from the Michelin Guide, but it is clean, quiet, and very inviting to our weary eyes. Rebecca brings in one of her suitcases, and I bring in the travel bag I’ve had with me in the Sebring’s trunk. A quick visual inspection of the room tells us all we need to know. The two queen beds are there, as promised, neatly made up, and—barring close inspection under a black light, anyway—clean enough to sleep in.

“You can use the bathroom first if you want to,” I tell her.

“Thanks.” She takes a toiletry kit from her bag and starts in that direction, but then hesitates outside the bathroom door. “It …” She searches for the right words. “I’m sure I don’t have to say this, but … nothing’s gonna happen tonight.”

Is she seeing the future now?
“Huh?”

“With us, I mean. Nothing’s gonna …”

Got it now.
“Oh, right, of course. I wouldn’t.”

“That’s not to say …”

“You don’t have to …” I tell her.

“I just don’t know you …”

The question comes out before I can stop it. “Does that mean if you
did
know me, that …”

“What?”

“Nothing. Stupid question. I … recant. I …”

“Retract?” she offers.

“Right. I un-ask what I just asked.”

“Please tell me that isn’t what this is about,” she says, disappointment lacing her tone.

“No, no, I … it was a stupid question and I don’t know where it came from. This is about sleep, and if there were two rooms available, I would have paid for two rooms. Honestly. I’m very tired, and I didn’t know about Pelican Days or whatever the hell it’s called. Look, if you want, I can sleep in the car.”

“You can’t sleep in the car.”

“There’s room in the back seat.”

“Tristan …”

“Because I don’t want to make …”

“Tristan.”

I am rambling and I know it. The unique kind of rambling that happens after you say something you wish you hadn’t said, and you figure that if you add enough words on
any
topic, the unfortunate words on
that
topic will be buried and gone and forgotten about. Not this time. The elephant not only entered the room, it took a mighty shit on the bed. Now my honor and my intentions are in question, and despite her sincere-sounding utterance of the words, “It’s all right. I’m sorry I brought it up,” the remainder of the trip is in danger of smelling like elephant.

“Okay,” I reply. “Sorry.”

She goes into the bathroom and closes the door, and I’m left alone in the room to bang my head against the wall, if I were the type of person who would bang his head against the wall in situations such as this one. Fortunately for head, wall, and the occupants of room 117, I am not that person.

Do I even want her that way? I suppose I’m biologically programmed to think so. Pretty young woman, available man. Pass on my DNA, continue the species; high school biology at its finest. But I don’t want to marry this girl, and my DNA is the last thing on my mind. I have a long trip ahead with Rebecca, and I have to know if I can control any feelings I have for her. I mean, we’ve just met, so there’s no deep emotional attachment. Anything I feel would strictly be—for lack of a more sophisticated expression—dick-related. It’s been so long since I’ve felt human contact that transcended the delivery of a message.

But shit, she needs to be able to trust me. And more importantly,
I
need to be able to trust me. Otherwise, the road to Ohio is going to be littered with uncomfortable silences, physical and emotional distances between us, and me apologizing for my feelings over and over again. To hell with it. The deer was right—don’t fall in love, which at the moment includes “don’t give in to lust.”

And then she comes out of the bathroom in a long white shirt and a pair of shorts that she’s planning to sleep in. Were this an old Tex Avery cartoon, I suspect my tongue would be depicted as four feet long, unfurling onto the floor. My eyes would be on springs, my heart likewise, accompanied by an absurdly exaggerated pounding sound. And to cap it off, I’d be making a wolf whistle at the sight of her. Tex Avery understood the male of the species.

“It’s all yours,” she says to me, and for the moment, I’m so distracted that I don’t even understand what she’s referring to.

“What?” I ask, rapidly and silently praying to myself that she’s referring to her body.

“The bathroom,” she replies, with just enough of an old-school
duh
undertone to make me feel stupid for asking. “I’m done in there.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Be careful. The floor’s a little wet.”

I get up and make my way toward the bathroom. Before I can close the door, she says, “Tristan, I’m sorry about what I said earlier. I’m sorry I assumed the worst about you.”

This is it, the opportunity to be noble, to be the bigger person and own up to my part in making her feel that way in the first place.
Instead, I hear myself uttering in a mock-wounded tone, “I just hope you understand that’s not how I am.”