Generation Loss (6 page)

There
was another torn flyer taped beside the payphone. No photo on this one, just
the words HAVE YOU SEEN MARTIN GRAVES? LAST SEEN AUGUST 29, SHAKER HARBOR,
PLEASE
CALL
WITH ANY INFORMATION. I shoved in the last coin and prayed the
harbormaster was still around. The wind roared up from the sea so loudly that I
could barely hear when someone answered.

"Is
this Everett Moss?" I shouted. The phone reception was for shit.

"Hay-lo."
The voice was brusque but cheerful. "Yes, it is."

"This
is Cassandra Neary. Phil Cohen spoke to you about taking me over to Paswegas
this afternoon?"

"Oh
yes."

"I'll
be there in about half an hour. I'm in—" I craned my neck. "Well, I
don't know where I am, exactly, somewhere past Bealesville. Collinstown, I
guess this is. So maybe fifteen miles away?"

"Oh
yes, Collinstown, that's about fifteen miles. Well, that's very good, but I
can't take you out today."

"What?
Why not?" Cold and desperation made my voice crack. "I'll be there in
what? Half an hour?"

"Well
yes, but I'm afraid I couldn't do it then, neither. It'll be dark. Could
probably do it first thing tomorrow. How's that?"

"Tomorrow?"
I shivered, staring to where the ocean darkened from indigo to scorched steel.
"Jesus! I don't even know where I am! Is there a place to stay between
here and Burnt Harbor?"

"Well,
yes there is," Moss boomed genially. "You just keep on heading this
way, and when you get to just before the bridge, you'll see there on your right
the Lighthouse Motel. He's open year round. Then first thing tomorrow, you come
down here to the harbor and we'll get you taken care of. Say, six o'clock. All
right?"

"What
if he's not—"

"All
right then!"

Click.

I
stormed back to the car. My little by-blow of crank had long worn off. I wasn't
hungry or tired yet, but I knew the crash was coming, and I didn't want to be
stuck in a rented Ford Taurus when it did. That crystalline blue sky was now
nearly black. Wind rattled the bare trees and sent dead leaves skittering
across the parking lot.

I
clambered back into the car and drove on. Once I crossed the bridge spanning an
inlet of Hagman's Bay, I was officially on the Paswegas Peninsula.

Even
in the near dark, I felt a wild sense of space, of sky, the smells of salt and
balsam and rotting fish. Wood smoke pooled like fog above the marshes. I peered
vainly through the twilight for any sign of the Lighthouse Motel. It was hard
enough to see any houses, and when I did spot one it wasn't reassuring—a small,
raised ranch house with what looked like a dog hanging above the garage door.
That was weird enough, but it got weirder when I passed the next house and saw
three
dead dogs hanging alongside a shed. I slowed the car to get a better look.

They
weren't dogs but coyotes. Big ones too. I decided that if the Lighthouse didn't
show up in the next five minutes, I was going to turn around and drive back to
Manhattan.

And
then it appeared on a spur of land overlooking a small harbor, your basic
American motel circa 1962. A one-story mockup of a lighthouse, minus the light,
stood beside a neat white clapboard building with green shutters, lamps lit
within, a neon office sign. Three cars were parked m front of a row of attached
motel units. A sign hung from a denuded maple.

LIGHTHOUSE
MOTEL

BEST
RATES IN MAINE ALWAYS

YOUR
HOST MERRILL LIBBY

NO
PETS NO GUNS FREE COFFEE VACANCY

That
last word was the only one I cared about. I parked alongside the office, pulled
my leather jacket tight against the cold, and went inside.

It
was about what I expected, a room furnished in Early Knotty Pine, well-worn but
clean. I couldn't tell if someone had repeatedly spilled coffee on the carpet
or if this was a design decision that had never caught on in the lower
forty-seven. Still, it was warm. Heat blasted from a propane monitor. I was so
cold, I would have slept on that carpet. I hoped I wouldn't have to.

There
was a little alcove at one end of the room, and here in a swivel chair a
teenage girl, maybe fifteen, sat hunched over a computer. I drew close enough
to catch a glimpse of a screen full of IM dialog bubbles. Then the girl looked
up. A heavyset gothy kid with cropped hair dyed black, black-rimmed eyes, white
skin beneath a flaking layer of pinkish foundation. She had a stud beneath her
lower lip and what appeared to be a bunch of threepenny nails stuck through one
earlobe. She wore a necklace made of the tabs from soda cans laced together on
a leather thong and interspersed with bits of sea-glass, a flannel shirt over
jeans wide enough to double as body bags, disintegrating lowtop sneakers.

She
smiled shyly. That smile made her look about eight, that and the pink hearts
she'd drawn on her wrist.

"You
got a room?" I asked. "The sign says Vacancy."

"Oh,
yeah—sorry."

She
clicked off the IM screen and began rummaging around the desk. "We have
lots
of rooms. Um, non-smoking only, that okay?"

"Sure."

She
pulled out a clunky old credit card machine and handed me a form. "You
visiting someone?"

"Yeah.
Nice piercing."

"Hey,
thanks!" She was cute, in an early Xene Cervenka, bad hair kind of way.
"I like your jacket. It looks . .. real."

"It
is." I filled in the form and handed it back to her.

She
read it then looked at me in surprise. "You're from New York?"

"Yeah.
You’d fit right in there."

"I
wish. I would love to go to New York."

"Yeah?
Maybe I could fit you in the trunk on my way back."

She
laughed, then froze.

"Mackenzie!
I told you, cash only!" A bleating, high-pitched voice echoed from the other
side of the room. "No credit cards, sorry—tear it up! Tear it up!"

I've
heard that pigs are among the most intelligent mammals. Seeing Merrill Libby, I
could believe this was true. A short, bloated man who looked like he'd been
carved from a slab of salt pork, he wore brown Dickie overalls and a flannel
shirt that billowed around him like a deflated plaid balloon. He had small
bright dark eyes, and his cheeks were an unhealthy pink against his white skin.

I
gave the girl a quick sideways look, raising my eyebrow in sympathy, then
turned back.

He
waddled up beside the girl and elbowed her out of the way. "I told you,
cash only," he repeated. "Go to your room."

Mackenzie
started for the door. Her father stared at me balefully.

"All
I want is a room." I pulled out two twenties and slid them across the
counter. "Okay?"

He
took the money and stuck it in a cashbox, keeping his cold little eyes on me
the whole time.

"No
smoking," he said. "Checkout's eleven. There are no telephones in any
of the rooms."

By
now I was just hoping there'd be heat and a flush toilet. I waited as he turned
and began checking a row of keys. Just outside the doorway, Mackenzie stood and
watched, her face half-shadowed so that all I could see was the glint of metal
along one ear.

Poor
kid,
I thought.
If he was my
father, I'd hammer nails in my head too.

Merrill
handed me a key. "Checkout time—"

"Eleven,"
I said. "One question—is there anyplace to eat around here?"

"This
time of night?" Merrill looked as though I'd asked for directions to the
local Satanic Hall. "No."

I
wanted to point out it was only five o'clock, then recalled that I had not, in
fact, seen anything resembling a restaurant for at least two hours. I hadn't
seen anything resembling a motel, either, and all the B&Bs I'd passed were
shut for the winter.

"That's
okay," I said. "Thanks."

I
went back outside and got my stuff from the car. The wind had picked up; my
cheeks stung from the cold and salt mist. I hurried toward my room—Number
2—slammed the key into the lock and kicked the door open.

Inside
was no warmer than out, but at least there was no wind. I shut the door and put
on a light then located the electric heater, a pre-Sputnik deal with exposed
heating coils.

Within
seconds the coils began to glow. I huddled over them and warmed my hands and
face until I felt like I could move without cracking. I did a quick room
inspection—more knotty pine, a single bed with protective plastic beneath thin
white sheets, a hundred-watt bulb in a lamp shaped like a lighthouse, Sears
Kenmore television with rabbit ears. Propped atop the pillow was a small
hand-lettered sign—

Please
DO NOT LEAVE Your Disgusting Germy Used Tissues

Under
The Pillows Thank You Your Host Merrill Libby

I
had just tossed the card across the room when there was a knock. I opened the
door. Mackenzie stood in the dark, wearing a ratty wool poncho.

"Hi."
She gave me that sweet shy smile, then glanced over her shoulder. "I just
wanted to tell you—what he said about nowhere to eat? He's wrong—there is a place.
Down in Burnt Harbor, on the waterfront."

"Wait,
come in," I said. "It's freezing."

"Thanks."
She stepped inside, and I shut the door. "It's warm in here, anyway."

"It'd
be warmer if you left the heat on."

"Huh?"
Her brown eyes widened. "You'd be paying to heat an empty room all
winter."

"Right."
I hadn't thought of that. "So there's a place in Burnt Harbor?"

"The
Good Tern—it's right on the main street, you can't miss it. The only
street," she added. "There by the water. The food is really, really
good. They open for breakfast at five." She looked around and her gaze
fell on my bag. "So you're really from New York? That must be really,
really cool."

"Really,
really different from here, I can say that." I rubbed my hands above the heating
coils. "You work for your father? No child labor laws in these
parts?"

Mackenzie
shrugged. "Only part time. I go to the voc school up by Naskeag Harbor.
I'm studying culinary arts. I want to be a chef. Or maybe make my jewelry and
sell it."

"Good
idea. You could come back here and open a restaurant."

"No
way. I'm going to New York. Or San Francisco. I hear that's a sweet
place."

I
looked at her, the pink heart on her hand and the piercings that hadn't healed
all that well; the way she stared at my leather jacket, like it was a shiny new
bike or whatever the hell kids dreamed of up here—a snow shovel? I leaned
forward to peer at her necklace, the sea-glass glinting green and blue between
the aluminum tabs. "Did you make that out of old cans?"

She
fingered it and nodded. "Yeah. I like to do stuff like that."

She
held out her arm to display more tabs and sea-glass threaded with wishbones and
broken seashells and dirty gray twine—beautiful and strange, like something
you'd find buried in the sand. For a moment I thought she was going to say
something else.

Instead,
she went to the door. She looked at me, her face half-shadowed, and gave me
that sweet kid's smile.

"Okay,
bye," she said and left.

For
a few minutes I sat on the bed and tried to warm up. The protective plastic
crackled noisily every time I moved. I was afraid if I waited too long I'd end
up stuck to the plastic, stuck here all night, hungry but still too buzzed to
sleep.

Plus,
I needed a drink. I peeled off my jacket and held it above the heater until the
room started to smell a little bit too much like me, slung it back on and went
outside.

I
headed for my car, walking past Room I. Without warning the door flew open. I
ducked as a man stumbled onto the sidewalk. When he saw me, he backed up,
smacking his head against the door.

"Hey,
watch it," I said and edged away from him.

He
rubbed his head and glared at me. "Goddamit, that hurts. What, are you
lost?"

"No.
I was leaving my room. I didn't know anyone else was here."

"Yeah,
well you're sure acting like no one else is here."

He
stared at me—a tall, lanky guy about fifteen years younger than me, with
shoulder-length dark brown hair, a wide mouth, aquiline nose, wire-rimmed
glasses. He wore corduroy jeans and a suede jacket over a white shirt, none of
them very clean. After a moment he shoved his glasses against his nose and gave
me a wry smile. It made him look younger but also oddly familiar. I had a spike
of amphetamine panic. Could this guy know me?

Unexpectedly
he laughed. There was nothing overtly sinister about that, but I felt such a
powerful rush of fear—not just fear but genuine terror—that everything went
dark: not just dark outside, but dark inside my skull, like there'd been an
abrupt disconnect between my mind and my retinas. The only thing I can compare
it to is what I felt the one time I shot heroin: a black wave that buries you
before you even know it's there.