Ten Years In the Dust

"Don't you dare take those children to the desert!" I can still remember him threatening Dad. "That's not how you raise little girls." Grandfather had fought for us, as trivial as his threats had been. It was at least more than my mother had tried.

It was one of the few memories I had left from that perfectly grand house on Willow Lane. It clung to my brain the way the pungent scent of lavender blossoms lingered in my nostrils. Mother had planted it everywhere, as if it could solve world hunger. It was constantly clipped, bunched and arranged throughout the house until its fragrance invaded every surface possible. On the occasional warm summer night while lying still in bed, I can still hear the purple dragon outside my bedroom window sucking the breeze from the air and exhaling its perfumes. It smelled of luxury and overindulgence.

We packed up those luxuries one day. They were stacked in cardboard boxes in our driveway. We were off to live my father's dream.

"You're just going to have to leave it behind," mother called from the passenger side of the station wagon.

"No!" My eyes stung with tears of frustration and panic. I flung open boxes and dug through random arrays of contents. An old pair of gym shoes with some scraped up pots, old clothes wrapped around garden tools, all hastily packed away and left for charity. "I can't...I can't find it," my voice choking on the large lump in my throat. I stared hopelessly at the mountain of boxes, feeling father's impatient gaze boring through my little body.

"Now,Margret," mother hissed through her teeth.

My face began to crumple, not wanting to leave without my most prized possession.

"Goddammit! If you're going to ruin her life, at least let her take her stuffed toy." Grandpa heaved himself off the porch and shuffled across the driveway, scowling at mother. She withered back into the car in silence. "You'd think the damn place was going to blow away in a dust storm.

My tensions eased as he began to tear at boxes, swearing under his breath from the pain in his knees. "Ah-ha!" He triumphantly plucked a well loved stuffed monkey from under a set of curtains. "Is this what those tears are for?"

I nodded and gratefully embraced him as he handed me JoJo. "Thank-you, Grandpa." Father honked the horn in frustration, and my heart sank. I wasn't ready to leave my home and Grandpa. I could not understand why it was so imperative that we leave, and why my mother was so willing to oblige.

"Please, let me stay with you," I pleaded, my heart frantically pounding.

"Baby, I wish you could." His eyes were wet. "We talked about this, remember? You have to look after Emily for me."

I glanced at the car to see my little sister waving to me from the back seat. She was blissfully unaware that her life was being uprooted. She beamed cheerfully, as she always did. In that moment I hated her.

*****

Margret sat motionless while listening to the drone of the small fan in front of her. It didn't offer much relief to the hot stale air, but it was better than nothing.  She silently cursed her father's miserly restrictions, allowing only paying guests to use the airconditioning.

In her daze, she absently swatted at a pesky fly that circled her head. The flies were relentless, along with the heat and endless sense of monotony.

A small bell above the door jingled, alerting her to someone's entrance. She slowly swiveled her chair to face the intruder. "Need something?" Feigning interest was not going to happen today.

A thick, hairy man in a dirty T-shirt stood at the counter. He was drenched in sweat and stunk like week old garbage. "I need someone to fix the air in my room.  Damn place is like a sauna. I think I've lost ten pounds."

And unless those were your favorite ten pounds, I fail to see how that is a problem. Margaret removed the #13 key from the pegboard and slapped it on the counter.

"What the hell is this?"

"A key for the next room over. Just move into that room. The air is ice cold." Margaret had snuck in and slept in it the night before. It was pure bliss.The shower works, too.

He grunted a thanks and left, a stench of copper and molding upolstery trailing out behind him.

Margaret returned to her rigorous routine and began to doze. She was rudely awakened as her head hit the floor. Dazed, it took a moment to absorb her situation. Her chair was tipped on it's side and lie on the floor next to her, courtesy of her father kicking it over while she slept.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing in here?" He towered over her, reeking of bourbon and dirty sweat. It was late in the afternoon, and a volitle time to attract his attention. He was still half a bottle away from passing out, but far from sober and any rational thought. "Since when do we give away free rooms and when do we sleep when we're suppossed to be working?"

Margaret tried to ignore the spray of spittle on her face that found its way through his clenched teeth. Fear kept her calm and reminded her to carefully choose her words. "He was demanding money back because he couldn't get the air conditioning to work in the room. I offered him a new room so I didn't have to disturb you."

He swayed subtly, slowly processing Margaret's words. She had wisely appealed to his financial interests and he began to retreat from the room. "Don't do it again with out talking to me first," he called over his shoulder as he stumbled out the back door.

Hands shaking, Margaret rose to her feet and stood the chair back upright. It had been three long years of her father morphing into the monster he was at present. The loss of her mother had shaken him through to his soul and he never recovered. She wasn't sure if she would ever get used to this man that had extinguished her soft spoken, idealist father.

Margaret sat back down in her chair, alert again and thankful she wasn't tasting blood or wondering if any bones were broken. She stared out the window to the endless stretch of road that ran by the motel. Occasionally, days would pass before a single cloud of dust was raised by anything larger than a cyote. The stillness was nearly suffocating. She was certain it was the isolation that had claimed her mother.

She watched the minutes pass, painfully slow. Checking out the back door to make sure her father wasn't returning for round two. She perked with interest at the distant sound of a motorcycle. Ten years of listening for engines had made her hearing acute enough to judge the oncoming vehicle long before she could see the dust stirring.

She watched patiently, as there was nothing else to do in that cramped office besides wait. A single motorcycle rose up on the horizon. Her heart began to beat faster with anticipation. It was always a moment of excitement to see another living soul and be reminded the world did still exist.

To her delight, the motorcycle turned off the highway and followed the dirt road to the hotel. She stared intently as the rider pulled up outside the office and parked. The late afternoon sun blazed through the blinds, turning the rider into a silohete. It wasn't until he came into the office did she realize he wasn't the typical Harley rider that would cruise in.

He was dusty and a bit road weary, but a refreshing change from the jaded truckers that she normally encountered. He couldn't have been much older than herself, and smiled warmly as he approached the desk.

"Hi there," he started as he set his helmet on the counter. His blue eyes were striking against his tanned skin and dark hair that was pressed to his head from his helmet. "Do you guys happen to have any rooms left for the night?"

Margaret choked back a laugh as she looked at the nearly blank sign in register and board full of room keyes. "I think we can squeeze you in." She pushed the register towards him. "Just fill this out and I'll need your liscence and payment up front." 

As he bent forward to fill out the register, her heart sped up as a faint waft of cologne met her nose. Who wears cologne to ride a bike out here? "Where are you headed?" she asked, trying to restrain her teenage impulses to gush all over him.

"Not really sure yet. I guess I'll know when I get there." He flashed her another smile, and Margaret felt her cheeks flush.

"Oh, so where are you from?"

"Seattle." He signed his name with a swoosh of the pen and clacked it onto the counter. "Where are you from?" he asked, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"Here, well not originally. I wasn't born here or anything. We used to live in Chicago." Margaret took his ID from his outstreched hand and felt a shiver as her fingers brushed his.

"Chicago? Well, this is quite a change from home." Margaret could feel his eyes on her as she walked to the back of the small office to make a photocopy his liscence. Christian, that's a nice name. "What brought you all the way out here?"

"Um," she hesitated, not sure how he would respond to her answer. "My dad owns the motel. It's kind of a family buisiness." She ran his credit card while waiting for the machine to copy.

"No kidding? I ran a business with my dad back home. We fixed up old boats and resold them along with high end models. Wasn't too bad."

Our experiences with family business are just a bit different. "Then why did you leave?" Margaret handed his cards back with the credit slip to sign.

"Well, Dad passed away a few months ago and I didn't feel like hanging around." He signed the slip and returned the cards to his wallet. "So here I am, telling a complete stranger about my life and having no idea where I'm headed."

"Oh," was all Margaret could manage, feeling a bit dejected by his stranger comment. She plucked the number three key off of the pegboard and slid it across the counter. "Here you go. Just out the door to your left. There's a home cooked dinner delivered at six o'clock included with your stay. If you need anything, just call."

"Dinner? Wow, what are we having?"

"It's Thursday, so that would be pot roast and mashed potatoes."

"Nice, wasn't expecting that." He gathered his things and pushed the door open. "Sorry, I forgot to ask your name."

"Margaret." She felt her skin pop up goose bumps.

"Nice to meet you Margaret. I'm Christian. Thanks for your help." He walked out the door to his motorcycle. Margaret watched intently as he kicked up the stand and pushed the bike towards the parking space in front of his room.

Margaret impatiently watched the next couple hours creep by. She picked at the chipped formica counter top of the desk, her thoughts concentrated on Christian.
She played a game with herself every so often, trying to recall every exact detail of him. The exact shade of his eyes: like the sky after a storm. His jacket and motorcycle: too new for an experienced rider. The soft subtle accent.

The ting of the brass bell above the door startled her back into reality. Emily bounced through the door, her irritatingly perky smile plastered on her face.

"Took you long enough," Margret sneered as she jumped up from her chair.

Emily scrunched her eyebrows. "Huh? I't only five-thirty."

"Okay, tonite, you are gonna watch the desk while I deliver the dinners." Margaret put on her no-nonsense mom voice. "It won't take long, there's only three rooms."
She watched as Emily's eyes widened with panic. "What?"

"But Dad always said..."

"Dad is passed out cold by now, don't worry about him." Her hand was on the doorknob. She knew if she didn't leave, her resolve would be crumbled by her sister's wounded face. "Look, if he comes around...tell him I went to deal with a complaint."

Emily nodded reluctantly as she bit her lip, unable to voice any further protest.