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CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was the rattling bang of steam through cold pipes in the radiator in my room that tore me from the dream, echoes of shotgun blasts fading. I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly noon. The room, even the hotel seemed quiet as a tomb except for the gaseous thunks of air in the radiator. The hotel seemed to be respirating with the circulation of the warmth that was creeping into the room. I was certain I was the only guest that night. With any luck I would be able to leave this place after we had visited Clayton. Would my departure be a continuation, or an end to our lives as we had lived them?
I was hungry, so I shaved in the sink, and splashed water about, dressed, and left the room and went down the stairs. The lobby was deserted, the cruel light of the day disclosed the scars and scabs and dreariness of this moribund pile of bricks called the Hotel Bruxelles. Mrs. Stoner was nowhere about. There was little motion on the main street, a slowly passing car with snow chains on the back tires made a chink-a-chink, the deep snow absorbing all sound as if the world was swathed in absorbent cotton. I walked to one of the wide windows and looked out at a world of white on white.
The air was warmer, wet, and one could sense a melt from a warm front just beginning to infiltrate the valley from the west. But this snow was here to stay, probably for another six months. Snow was still falling intermittently, the sky a bruise of gray, the streets deserted. I saw the track of the snowplow down the broad main street. There were a few cars parked parallel to the high banks of snow in front of the huddling buildings.
I looked at my car with dismay. Eighteen inches of snow was piled on roof and trunk and windshield. The snowplow had pushed a solid, slushy bank against the street side doors. Damnit. I looked around, wondering if there was a shovel in the trunk of the rental, and knew that was foolishly optimistic. But I had to change my assessment of Hertz, for the trunk not only contained a good snow shovel, but a set of tire chains, and little bundle of emergency flares. At least I could dig myself out.
I wondered if there were any cafes still open in the town. After I had the car back on the road I drove up and down the long street that bisected the town. The little service station seemed to be the only place open. I had no desire to see anyone in this place, nor was I hungry enough for a bag of potato chips and a Coke for breakfast. I thought, briefly, of trying to get out to the cemetery. There was my mother and father, grandparents, Pete, Hank Shelton . . . It would be snowed in. Until the next death, it would remain snowed in. My stomach was knotted, not with hunger, but with apprehension.
The remainder of the day I spent aimlessly driving the length of the valley, the day dark as my mood. The town of Appelton, relative to the insular somnolence of Alma, was a metropolis. Hardware stores, fast food joints, two chain grocery stores, and two electric traffic lights. I got something to eat at an Arctic Circle late in the afternoon, visited the state liquor outlet, and then drove back across the valley.
It was seven o’clock when Max knocked on the door. I let him in.
“Are you ready?” he asked. Little flecks of melted snow, like jewels, were on the collar of his expensive fawn colored, cashmere overcoat.
“Yes, let’s go,” I said, shrugging into my old blue watch coat with the insignia removed.
“They will meet us there,” Max said.
“And?”
“And I guess we’ll see what we see.”
“I’ll follow you in my car,” I said. “I’ll be leaving right after.” I had my bags packed and picked them up, took a last look around the shabby room. “Why do you hang on to this place?” I asked, curious.
“It may be the only thing I have left after tonight,” he shrugged.
“The Brethren” is copyrighted © 2001 by T. O. McCallister. All rights reserved. You may not republish or reproduce this work without the expressed written permission of the author by any means mechanical, electronic, graphic, including photocopying, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems. Permission can be granted by writing the author at alimed42@yahoo.com. He also welcomes your feedback to this story. All violators will be persecuted.
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