Читать книгу Sunsets of Tulum - Mr Raymond Avery Bartlett - Страница 15

Laurel Departs

Reed woke up to the sound of a doorbell. For a moment he thought he was in their brownstone in Boston, but the starch of the sheets and hard pillow gave it away. Laurel groaned and shifted the covers over her head. The doorbell rang again, followed by a soft knock.

“Housekeeping,” someone called.

“Coming,” he said. “Just a minute.” He sat up, rubbing his temples. His head throbbed; he couldn’t remember a hangover this painful since college. As soon as he stood he remembered his leg was injured. Not putting ice on it was dumb: though the bleeding had stopped, it was red and quite swollen. Hot to the touch. He wrapped a white terrycloth robe around him and limped to the door, stopping once to steady himself on the back of the room’s chair. A boy in the hotel uniform was standing there with a tray, and in the center was the book that the girl had lost.

“Your book, Señor. Luz María dried it for you.”

He picked up the heavy hardcover and opened it. Tucked inside was a small card on hotel stationery that read: “We are sorry for the damage to your book. We could dry it, but some damage could not be repaired.”

For a book that had spent an hour, maybe more, in the water it was remarkably repaired. Dry as if it had been baked in an oven. The binding was back in place; Reed could see a few spots where fresh glue, still tacky, had beaded at the top and bottom before hardening. The cover was warped and blistered from the long soak, and parts of the bird design had peeled off, revealing the cardboard underneath. But it was still a book, perfectly readable.

Reed imagined a matron in housekeeping bending over the soggy mess for most of the night until her back ached, her calloused fingers peeling each page carefully off and holding each one up for the hair dryer until it was crisp paper again. How many hours had it taken her to repair a book for someone she didn’t even know? The book wasn’t even his.

He put a ten dollar bill into the boy’s hand. The youth’s eyes grew wide.

“That’s for you,” Reed said. Then he handed over another ten dollars. “This one, I want you to give to Luz María. Tell her thank you. She must have worked hard.”

“ ¡Sí, Señor!”

He watched the boy disappear down the long corridor and then stood at the threshold, bracing himself to favor his knee with one hand, while flipping through the warped pages. His eye fell on the inside jacket cover, where there was an old-style nameplate and a series of signatures below:

Property of the Welcome Wanderer

Read By:

Harold Ryan

Josephine Santos

Robert R. Redone

Louis Lafferty

Sara Borden

Kenji Matsuyama

Sarah Cortoni

It took him a moment to realize that this book hadn’t actually belonged to the girl. It was property of the hotel she was staying at, part of a library for guests at the Welcome Wanderer, whatever that was. He stared at the seven names for a long time. He couldn’t remember anything of what he’d said to Carlos, or what had happened that entire afternoon, yet he could picture everything about that third girl, every detail. The way she’d knelt right in front of him as they’d picked up the purse contents. The smell of her hair. Her delicate arm deformity. The way she’d walked up the staircase feeding that poor dog. Her saunter as she went toward the bathroom, as if her hips owned everything in the world. The word “drama” as it hung suspended and silent on the tip of her perfect tongue.

How was it that despite ten minutes of meeting her he hadn’t caught her name?

Hobbling back into Room 1114, he closed the door, guiding it back and holding down the handle to make sure the sharp click didn’t wake his sleeping spouse. He wrapped the novel in a clean face towel and tucked it into the middle of the pile of clean, laundered ones that rested on a stainless steel rack in the bathroom.

He slipped back into bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours.

* * *

Reed and Laurel ate breakfast in silence punctuated by knives hitting plates and utilitarian requests to pass this or that. Any conversation seemed to fall apart before it even got started. Laurel pointed out a hummingbird that buzzed and hovered at the flower bushes just outside the glass. Reed couldn’t find anything to say in reply.

“What will you be doing when you get back?”

She shrugged. “Stuff for the station. It’s a busy time of year,” was all she could say.

“It’s that important?” Reed stared at his glass of black coffee and took a few sips of orange juice. A croissant sat on his plate, untouched. The thought of eating anything solid made him feel nauseated. “The stuff?”

She stared at her plate.

“Stay,” he finally said. “Please. Just stay.”

Laurel looked at him. She reached over and put her hand on his.

“I’m not saying things are over, honey. I’m just not sure it’s doing anything for either of us for me to be here.”

“If you’re not sure, then think about it some more. There’s still ten days left.”

“No,” she said. “That’s not what I meant. I’ve thought about it a lot. And I’m sure. It was a mistake to come.”

“It wasn’t a mistake. It was wonderful spending time together again.”

“It was deceptive.”

Reed shrugged. “You can’t deceive me for another week?”

“You’d want that? Really, Reed? Even if I’m somewhere else mentally?” Laurel paused. “And physically?” She paused, carefully buttering a piece of bread before taking a bite. “It’s not like I can’t see what you want from me. I just can’t give you that. Emotionally. I don’t want kids anymore. I’m not sure I ever did even before we lost her.”

“If that’s all it is, we forget kids. Fine.”

“I want to focus on my career….” She trailed off. “Explore options.”

“After twelve years? Just toss in the towel?”

Now Laurel shrugged, a slight lift of her eyebrows and shoulders. “I didn’t say that.”

“What else is there?”

“We could try counseling.”

“You want us to go to counseling again?” Reed laughed. “Because it worked so well the first time?”

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

“If your heart isn’t here anymore, counseling isn’t going to rebuild it.”

“I was thinking about you, Reed.”

“Me? You think I’m the one who needs counseling?” He suddenly felt dizzy. Pushing back the chair, he stood up. “I’ll be up in the room. When you’re done eating, let me know. I’ll take you to the airport.”

* * *

When the taxi cab pulled up to the airport Departures lobby, Reed let the driver heft Laurel’s suitcase out of the trunk, still trying to favor his leg. The two held hands walking up to the counter. When they’d checked in and gotten the gate assignment, his wife gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “See you soon, honey. Enjoy yourself. I mean it. Take those swimming lessons they’re offering at the pool.”

And that was how they’d left it. Laurel turned once and waved at him through the glass after she’d crossed security, then walked directly to the gate, head high, pulling the little carry on bag primly behind her. Reed waited, his hand raised, but she went down the long corridor and turned right without looking back again. It took three Bloody Marys and forty minutes at the airport bar to calm him down enough to hail a cab.

On the way back to the hotel, Reed stared out at the dirty streets and the shabby buildings and wondered why he hadn’t simply followed her home. In a sense, staying here just prolonged the inevitable. The discussions they’d be having. The figuring out of where they would live. Reshaping their lives. Or maybe he was already over-thinking it: maybe this wasn’t as final as it sounded. Maybe Laurel would get back to Boston and miss him. He wished it wasn’t so uncertain.

He tipped the driver and went into the lobby and pushed the “up” button on the elevator. As the doors opened, Reed stepped away and walked over to the long faux-wood check-in counter, where a receptionist in a neat beige uniform was typing something into a cellphone. Seeing a guest, the boy snapped to attention.

“How may I help you, Señor?”

Reed put his arms on the table.

“Have you ever heard of something called the Welcome Wanderer?” he asked. “I think it’s a hotel in Tulum.”

The other man scoffed. “Hotel? Sir, it’s not a hotel, it’s a youth hostel. Filthy. Not even a swimming pool.”

“I’ll be happy if I never see another swimming pool in my life.”

“Sir, if you have to get there today, it’s not impossible. A taxi will be happy to take you. It’s only a two hour ride. Or, if you want to save money, the bus is very cheap, but we don’t recommend it. It’s not…” He paused. “Not hygienic enough for Grand Medallion guests. And then I can arrange for the hotel van to bring you from the ruin back to the hotel. I’ll tell the driver to be on the lookout for you. But you have to be at the ruin parking lot at two p.m. sharp or he will leave without you.”

“No,” Reed said. “It’s not important.”

As he pushed the hotel keycard into the slot on 1114, he decided a little day trip was in order. In less than ten minutes he was back at the lobby, the Murakami book under his arm.

“How do I get to the bus station?” he asked.