Day Shift
Page 13
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“MultiTier Living is experimenting with this mixed residence concept,” Eva Culhane was saying. “This is a small hotel, so it was one of the first on our list. We wanted to start small, to work out the bugs before we tried the concept on larger properties. We’re catering to the extended-stay people, but we’re including not only businesspeople who need to be close to Magic Portal for a few weeks, but the able elderly who—for one reason or another—need to have a minimum-care place to live until they can make more permanent arrangements.” She paused and smiled brilliantly. “Questions?”
A reporter from the Davy paper said, “How able do these elderly people have to be?”
“Good question! Don, they have to be able to dress themselves and manage their own toilet needs,” Eva Culhane said, so cozily that Joe thought she must have grown up with the reporter. “They’re certainly not required to do any cleaning—or furnishing—of their own rooms. Each unit has a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bathroom. In the eldercare-designated rooms, there are features you might expect: safety bars, a panic cord, and so on. Why don’t we go on the tour, and you can see for yourselves.” Culhane swept open the door of the hotel and ushered in all the media: two newspaper reporters, an area magazine editor, and the film reporter, who’d come from . . .
“I don’t see a station designation on his microphone or on the van,” Joe said quietly. “Who would film this? What TV station would cover a hotel opening in Midnight?”
“I don’t know what to think about that.” Chuy looked up at his lover. “Hey, let’s go home. You have to eat some breakfast before the shop opens, my rugged runner.”
Joe laughed. “I’m ready for it. Maybe one egg and a granola bar.”
“You’re just a martyr,” Chuy said, as they crossed over to the shop and started up the stairs.
After Joe had eaten and showered and gotten ready for the day, he went down to find Chuy doing Olivia Charity’s fingernails. Olivia was one of Chuy’s few steady customers.
“Chuy tell you about the grand opening?” Joe said, after greetings had been exchanged.
“He did,” Olivia said. “I don’t know if we’ve ever had a grand opening in Midnight. Even as far back as Lemuel can remember.”
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days,” Joe said, getting out his feather duster. He tried to go over all the furniture in the shop every other day, at least. The duster had been a gag gift from Chuy a couple of Christmases ago, but it had taken Joe’s fancy.
“Lemuel’s not here,” Olivia said. Though she didn’t emphasize the words, it was easy to read her unhappiness in them. “Those old books that Bobo found? Well, he couldn’t translate all of them, so he’s gone to find someone who can. He’s on his third city.”
Chuy concentrated on the job he was doing, but Joe could tell simply from the way he held his head that he was curious. But they both knew that Olivia probably would not—perhaps could not—answer a single question.
“I hope he returns soon,” Joe said, which was safe enough. “Midnight’s not the same without Lemuel.”
Olivia turned a little to look at him. “That is the truth.”
She really loves him, Joe thought, with wonder. He’d never thought of their relationship as a love affair. More as a “like attracts like” joining, like magnetized metal filings. But he hadn’t figured the tenderer emotions entered into it.
He caught a glance from Chuy and understood that Chuy was thinking along the same lines.
“Maybe he won’t be gone long,” Chuy said. And then he changed the subject. “Olivia, do you want the little wing brushstrokes on your nails this time?”
“Sure, that was pretty,” she said, but her face simply expressed indifference. As Chuy bent his head over her hand, Joe turned back to his dusting.
5
Olivia stood opposite the hotel for several minutes, her mind not made up to action. The vehicles were gone from the curb. The banner was still flapping above the doorway, but there was no one on the sidewalk. The petunias in their pots tossed their bright heads in the wind.
The wind was one thing that reminded her of home. In San Francisco, where she’d spent a significant part of her youth, the wind off the bay was a given. She had always felt good when it brushed her face. It was part of being out of her parents’ compound, out of the high walls that sealed her in: or, as her father always insisted, kept her safe.
Kept her safe from everyone and everything but her family.
“Fucking assholes,” she said out loud. She said that every time she thought of her parents. The words slipped out no matter where she was. Here in Midnight, it didn’t make any difference. Who was there to hear, or who would question her if he did hear? But she’d startled a lot of people out in the real world. That was the way she thought of it. Here in this little hole-in-the-road of a town, with so few people remaining that a POPULATION sign would be a joke, she’d found the most unlikely place to live and the most bizarre creature to be her lover.
He siphoned off her agitation.
There was a long list of things she liked about Lemuel Bridger. But his ability to drain her of the tension and anger that propelled her into terrible places . . . that was priceless.
And it helped him to thrive, too. Win-win.
Looking over at the reopened Midnight Hotel, she felt that familiar anger building, at least partly due to Lemuel’s absence. And before she knew it, she was striding across Witch Light Road and pushing open the restored door to the lobby, which smelled like a mixture of new and old. There was the dust of decades buried deep between the refinished boards of the floor, and it added flavor to the smell of the paint and varnish and wax and the sharp tang of new nails and hardware. This depth of scent made possible by Lem’s blood, she thought. Lem loved it when she bit him.
A reporter from the Davy paper said, “How able do these elderly people have to be?”
“Good question! Don, they have to be able to dress themselves and manage their own toilet needs,” Eva Culhane said, so cozily that Joe thought she must have grown up with the reporter. “They’re certainly not required to do any cleaning—or furnishing—of their own rooms. Each unit has a bedroom, a sitting room, and a bathroom. In the eldercare-designated rooms, there are features you might expect: safety bars, a panic cord, and so on. Why don’t we go on the tour, and you can see for yourselves.” Culhane swept open the door of the hotel and ushered in all the media: two newspaper reporters, an area magazine editor, and the film reporter, who’d come from . . .
“I don’t see a station designation on his microphone or on the van,” Joe said quietly. “Who would film this? What TV station would cover a hotel opening in Midnight?”
“I don’t know what to think about that.” Chuy looked up at his lover. “Hey, let’s go home. You have to eat some breakfast before the shop opens, my rugged runner.”
Joe laughed. “I’m ready for it. Maybe one egg and a granola bar.”
“You’re just a martyr,” Chuy said, as they crossed over to the shop and started up the stairs.
After Joe had eaten and showered and gotten ready for the day, he went down to find Chuy doing Olivia Charity’s fingernails. Olivia was one of Chuy’s few steady customers.
“Chuy tell you about the grand opening?” Joe said, after greetings had been exchanged.
“He did,” Olivia said. “I don’t know if we’ve ever had a grand opening in Midnight. Even as far back as Lemuel can remember.”
“I haven’t seen him in a couple of days,” Joe said, getting out his feather duster. He tried to go over all the furniture in the shop every other day, at least. The duster had been a gag gift from Chuy a couple of Christmases ago, but it had taken Joe’s fancy.
“Lemuel’s not here,” Olivia said. Though she didn’t emphasize the words, it was easy to read her unhappiness in them. “Those old books that Bobo found? Well, he couldn’t translate all of them, so he’s gone to find someone who can. He’s on his third city.”
Chuy concentrated on the job he was doing, but Joe could tell simply from the way he held his head that he was curious. But they both knew that Olivia probably would not—perhaps could not—answer a single question.
“I hope he returns soon,” Joe said, which was safe enough. “Midnight’s not the same without Lemuel.”
Olivia turned a little to look at him. “That is the truth.”
She really loves him, Joe thought, with wonder. He’d never thought of their relationship as a love affair. More as a “like attracts like” joining, like magnetized metal filings. But he hadn’t figured the tenderer emotions entered into it.
He caught a glance from Chuy and understood that Chuy was thinking along the same lines.
“Maybe he won’t be gone long,” Chuy said. And then he changed the subject. “Olivia, do you want the little wing brushstrokes on your nails this time?”
“Sure, that was pretty,” she said, but her face simply expressed indifference. As Chuy bent his head over her hand, Joe turned back to his dusting.
5
Olivia stood opposite the hotel for several minutes, her mind not made up to action. The vehicles were gone from the curb. The banner was still flapping above the doorway, but there was no one on the sidewalk. The petunias in their pots tossed their bright heads in the wind.
The wind was one thing that reminded her of home. In San Francisco, where she’d spent a significant part of her youth, the wind off the bay was a given. She had always felt good when it brushed her face. It was part of being out of her parents’ compound, out of the high walls that sealed her in: or, as her father always insisted, kept her safe.
Kept her safe from everyone and everything but her family.
“Fucking assholes,” she said out loud. She said that every time she thought of her parents. The words slipped out no matter where she was. Here in Midnight, it didn’t make any difference. Who was there to hear, or who would question her if he did hear? But she’d startled a lot of people out in the real world. That was the way she thought of it. Here in this little hole-in-the-road of a town, with so few people remaining that a POPULATION sign would be a joke, she’d found the most unlikely place to live and the most bizarre creature to be her lover.
He siphoned off her agitation.
There was a long list of things she liked about Lemuel Bridger. But his ability to drain her of the tension and anger that propelled her into terrible places . . . that was priceless.
And it helped him to thrive, too. Win-win.
Looking over at the reopened Midnight Hotel, she felt that familiar anger building, at least partly due to Lemuel’s absence. And before she knew it, she was striding across Witch Light Road and pushing open the restored door to the lobby, which smelled like a mixture of new and old. There was the dust of decades buried deep between the refinished boards of the floor, and it added flavor to the smell of the paint and varnish and wax and the sharp tang of new nails and hardware. This depth of scent made possible by Lem’s blood, she thought. Lem loved it when she bit him.
