This was an entry for The Writers’ Block Art Prompt Writing Contest #12. The image below from @vaughndemont is the “art prompt” for this contest.
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The motel was a bleak little lakeside place with an armpit aroma and thin walls. I heard a toilet flush, the squeak of the housekeeping cart, and the canned ocean sound of someone running a bath.
We had come in the off season, when prices were lower. Robert liked to save a dime wherever he could, and he didn’t like summer crowds. But I missed the bustle of the beach-goers, the mothers toting bags of sand toys, and the children with their tiny sandy feet, looking like odd little birds with their water wings.
I wanted to walk barefoot on sun-warmed sand. But the chill of the Minnesota winter clung to the lake, and clumps of snow lingered on the beach grass and the boat dock. Most lake resorts weren’t even open this time of year. They were all closed and dark. Except this one.
Out the window, a dense fog clung to the lakefront and, as we settled into our room, I was tempted to close the curtains, to shut us in against the strangling gray. But the mood in the room was oppressive enough.
Robert opened his suitcase. “I’ll take the right side of the drawers and you take the left.”
Was it really worth it to unpack? I could just as easily pull my pants and sweaters out of my suitcase as I could out of a musty-smelling drawer. But I complied to keep the peace.
My stomach growled and I looked at Robert. “We could go get some chowder at the pub after we’re settled. Maybe they still have those soup bowls made of French bread.” I remembered the chowder bowls from our first vacation here on Lone Loon Lake, seven years ago. We were newlyweds. It was summer then.
He shrugged. “We could probably make do with a little something from that market on Main.”
I sighed and gathered my purse. “Sure.” I envisioned eating some kind of meat on stale bread. A utilitarian endeavor. Perhaps we could grunt at each other like cave people.
I thought of telling Robert about the recurring nightmares. Terrible, dark dreams. I feared someone was going to die. I wanted him to help me make sense of them. Of everything.
“Robert?” He looked at me with humorless eyes that had perhaps forgotten what they saw in me. I thought better of it. “Let’s go.”
We stepped out of our room into cigarette smoke. Just down the hall, a man stood on a ladder, changing the lightbulb in a sconce.
“Good day, folks.” The man had a permanent leer on his face, evidently the effect of trying to smile for many years against the will of his mouth. There was something eerily familiar about him, though I couldn’t imagine I had seen him before.
“I’m the groundskeeper and handyman. Name’s Patterson. You can call me Pat.”
Robert raised a hand in salutation. “The Bilkersons.”
Pat nodded in a satisfied way, as if it was the answer he was expecting. He looked greasy and short-tempered and made me uncomfortable.
We set off toward the parking lot, but Pat spoke again. “That’s a fine looking lady, you’ve got there!”
Robert nodded and draped his arm over my shoulder as we walked to the car. I nestled under his arm, feeling his warmth.
A few minutes later we strolled the tight aisles of the local market, where Drano, spray starch and shampoo sprinkled the sparse shelves. We evaluated the sandwich meat and canned soup. An anemic tomato and a browning head of iceberg lettuce were the sole offering of fresh vegetables.
I broke, finally. “Honestly, Robert, none of this is the least bit appealing. Couldn’t we have an actual meal at the pub?”
He gave me an alarmed look, as if I had just suggested we buy property in the Yukon. How long had we been like this, like people from two different cultures, completely out of step with one another?
“That will surely cost twice as much.”
“And? This little trip was your idea, remember? You wanted us to reconnect. How can we do that over a microwave bowl of Hungry Man soup in a sad-as-death motel room with some creeper standing outside smoking?”
“Breathe, Brittany.”
I crossed my arms. All these years of keeping the peace. For what? “I’m just saying. There is more to life than saving a buck, Robert. There is pleasure to be had. Little things, like enjoying a meal in a restaurant. I can’t live like this. I won’t.”
We stood at an impasse in the store aisle, surrounded by jars of sweet pickle relish and Aunt Jemima syrup. The store proprietor craned his neck to look at us, perhaps determining if this was a serious domestic dispute requiring police intervention.
Robert stood with his arms at his sides like a soldier. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying can we please go sit in the pub and eat a decent meal?”
He looked relieved, as if he feared that I was threatening to leave him. I couldn’t have sworn it wasn’t the case, but for the moment I only focused on eating a meal together.
“Okay. To the pub.” He stepped aside to let me pass, which I couldn’t do without awkwardly skooching by. Seven years of marriage, and here we were, angry and alienated like strangers with road rage.
The food at the pub was good, which helped our mood. The only other people were another couple with a little girl of about five with curly blonde hair. After the usual pang of sadness over our childlessness, I smiled. She ate a french fry, then brushed a hair out of her face with greasy fingers.
Robert consumed a burger and a beer while I ate my chowder in silence. What did married couples talk about year in and year out?
My thoughts strayed to the recurring nightmare. It seemed to involve some kind of violent struggle. I could almost see it, but not quite. There was a cold wind, and we were fighting at the edge of something. I don’t know what. Each time I had the dream it seemed to build toward a horrible conclusion. But before that crucial moment, I woke up in a sweat.
I shuddered. Robert smiled at me. “You okay?”
I nodded and ate the last bite of chowder.
Back at the motel, Pat was in the little hallway, painting a patched wall. Why, in an establishment that had perhaps 40 rooms, was he perennially lurking near ours?
“Hey hey, Bilkersons,” Pat said.
I hated the way he spoke to us with such familiarity. I turned to glance at him as we went inside. He was watching me.
Robert turned on a game show on TV. The air in the room felt close and overheated, the way small rooms do on the far edge of winter.
I sat on the edge of the bed, irritated by the television and the rank aromas of the motel. “Can we go walking or something?”
“I need to digest a bit, hon.”
I couldn’t take it. I looked out the peephole and saw that Pat was gone. Then I bundled up. “I’m going to take a stroll. Walk off some dinner.”
“It’s dark.”
“I know. I need air.”
“Honey….” He looked at me with concern but it was too late. I turned and went out the door.
Out in the night, I walked through thick fog to the dock’s end, where the night opened into gray and nothingness. It seemed the perfect antidote to my stale marriage.
But then I heard footsteps and saw a figure emerging through the fog. It was then that I felt vulnerable, alone on the dock, nowhere to run. “Robert?”
It wasn’t Robert. It was that creep, Pat. I looked at him menacingly as he walked toward me. “What do you want?”
He said nothing, but came closer. Then he grabbed me. I tried to scream, but he covered my mouth. I could smell his cigarette breath as he began dragging me. I writhed and fought him, realizing why he seemed familiar. The dream.
“Hey! What the….” It was Robert. He ran onto the dock and tried to wrestle me away from Pat. The three of us were locked in a struggle, and I feared we would all fall into the icy water. At last, I managed to wriggle free just before they fell heavily onto the edge of the dock, then into the lake. I screamed.
For a moment, there were only bubbles. Then a thrashing. Robert came up for air and went back under. When he came up again, he shouted “Damn! I lost him.”
He had been trying to save Pat.
I helped Robert haul himself onto the dock. We held each other tight for a moment. I realized I was sobbing.
We ran for the warmth of our room. Behind us came the sound of a violent splashing, then a gasp as Pat’s lungs filled with air.
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