Read Online The Hotel Eden: Stories by Ron Carlson - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Carlson
Tags: USA
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hand it to Jerry, the young man has already wandered out back.
Ruckelbar takes the basket around to the open side of the van and offers it there, but the woman is on her knees on the middle seat bent into the far back, trying to untangle the straps of a collapsed child seat. Her cotton shift is drawn up so that her bare thighs are visible to him. Her underpants are a shiny satin blue and the configuration of her white thighs and the way they meet in the blue fabric seem a disembodied mystery to Ruckelbar. Ruckelbar looks away and steps back onto the moist yellow grid of grass where the Saab sat for eight weeks. He can hear the woman now, a soft sucking, and he knows she is weeping. He sets the basket there in the twilight and he walks back to the office. He is lit and shaken; he feels as he did when the witch said his name. On his way he hears Jerry break the mirror assembly from the van door and he turns to watch the young man throw it into the woods and then spin to the ground and grab his head.
Out front the sun is gone, the day is gone, it feels nothing but late. The daylight seems used, thin, good for nothing. He carries his chair back into the office and there in the new gloom is the boy, arms folded, leaning against the counter.
“You scared me,” Ruckelbar says. “Hello.” He sets the chair behind his steel desk and switches on the office fluorescents. He’s lost for a moment and simply adds, “How are you?”
“Where’s my sister’s car?” the boy asks. He looks different close like this in the flat light; he’s taller and younger, his pale face run with freckles. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt unbuttoned over a faded black T-shirt.
“The insurance company came and got it. It was theirs.” The boy takes this in and makes a face that says he understands. “Remember, I told you about this a couple of weeks ago?” The boy nods at him and then turns to the big window and looks out. His eyes are roaming and Ruckelbar sees the desperation.
The camera sits on the old steel desk, and in a second Ruckelbar decides what to do; if the boy recognizes it, he’ll give it to him. Otherwise, he’ll let this sleeping dog be. It feels like a good decision, but Ruckelbar is floating in a new world, he can tell. They can hear the loud voices outside, the man and the woman in the back, and Ruckelbar switches on the exterior lights.
“Where would the insurance take that car?”
“I don’t know,” Ruckelbar says.
“Would they fix it?”
“Probably part it out,” Ruckelbar says. “They don’t fix them anymore, many of them.”
“It had been a good car for Sheila,” the boy says. “Better than any of her friends had.”
“I hear good things about the Saab,” Ruckelbar says. “You want a Coke, something, candy bar?”
“I don’t know why I’m out here now,” the boy says. Their reflections have come up in the big windows. Ruckelbar drops quarters in the round-shouldered soda machine, another throwback, and opens the door for the boy to choose. “Root beer,” the boy says, extracting the bottle.
“You live in Garse?” Ruckelbar asks him.
“Yeah,” the boy says. His eyes are still wide, darting, and Ruckelbar can see the rim of moisture. The world outside is now set still on the pivot point of light, the glow of the station lights running into the air out over the road through the trees all the way to the even wash of silver along the horizon of Little Bear Mountain, and above the mountain like two huge ghosts floats the mirror image of the two of them. The leaves lie still. Standing by the door Ruckelbar can feel the air falling from the dark heavens, a faint chill falling from infinity. Tomorrow night it will be dark an hour earlier.
Now Ruckelbar hears the woman’s voice from outside, around the building, a cry of some sort, and then the rental Escort does a short circle in the gravel in front of the Sunoco pumps and rips dust into the new dusk as it mounts Route 21 headed for
Ruckelbar takes the basket around to the open side of the van and offers it there, but the woman is on her knees on the middle seat bent into the far back, trying to untangle the straps of a collapsed child seat. Her cotton shift is drawn up so that her bare thighs are visible to him. Her underpants are a shiny satin blue and the configuration of her white thighs and the way they meet in the blue fabric seem a disembodied mystery to Ruckelbar. Ruckelbar looks away and steps back onto the moist yellow grid of grass where the Saab sat for eight weeks. He can hear the woman now, a soft sucking, and he knows she is weeping. He sets the basket there in the twilight and he walks back to the office. He is lit and shaken; he feels as he did when the witch said his name. On his way he hears Jerry break the mirror assembly from the van door and he turns to watch the young man throw it into the woods and then spin to the ground and grab his head.
Out front the sun is gone, the day is gone, it feels nothing but late. The daylight seems used, thin, good for nothing. He carries his chair back into the office and there in the new gloom is the boy, arms folded, leaning against the counter.
“You scared me,” Ruckelbar says. “Hello.” He sets the chair behind his steel desk and switches on the office fluorescents. He’s lost for a moment and simply adds, “How are you?”
“Where’s my sister’s car?” the boy asks. He looks different close like this in the flat light; he’s taller and younger, his pale face run with freckles. He’s wearing a red plaid shirt unbuttoned over a faded black T-shirt.
“The insurance company came and got it. It was theirs.” The boy takes this in and makes a face that says he understands. “Remember, I told you about this a couple of weeks ago?” The boy nods at him and then turns to the big window and looks out. His eyes are roaming and Ruckelbar sees the desperation.
The camera sits on the old steel desk, and in a second Ruckelbar decides what to do; if the boy recognizes it, he’ll give it to him. Otherwise, he’ll let this sleeping dog be. It feels like a good decision, but Ruckelbar is floating in a new world, he can tell. They can hear the loud voices outside, the man and the woman in the back, and Ruckelbar switches on the exterior lights.
“Where would the insurance take that car?”
“I don’t know,” Ruckelbar says.
“Would they fix it?”
“Probably part it out,” Ruckelbar says. “They don’t fix them anymore, many of them.”
“It had been a good car for Sheila,” the boy says. “Better than any of her friends had.”
“I hear good things about the Saab,” Ruckelbar says. “You want a Coke, something, candy bar?”
“I don’t know why I’m out here now,” the boy says. Their reflections have come up in the big windows. Ruckelbar drops quarters in the round-shouldered soda machine, another throwback, and opens the door for the boy to choose. “Root beer,” the boy says, extracting the bottle.
“You live in Garse?” Ruckelbar asks him.
“Yeah,” the boy says. His eyes are still wide, darting, and Ruckelbar can see the rim of moisture. The world outside is now set still on the pivot point of light, the glow of the station lights running into the air out over the road through the trees all the way to the even wash of silver along the horizon of Little Bear Mountain, and above the mountain like two huge ghosts floats the mirror image of the two of them. The leaves lie still. Standing by the door Ruckelbar can feel the air falling from the dark heavens, a faint chill falling from infinity. Tomorrow night it will be dark an hour earlier.
Now Ruckelbar hears the woman’s voice from outside, around the building, a cry of some sort, and then the rental Escort does a short circle in the gravel in front of the Sunoco pumps and rips dust into the new dusk as it mounts Route 21 headed for
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