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Room 235

Kenneth Weene

    We tried to fill the silence of the late night interstate with CDs and the familial banter that becomes so much a part of life after thirty years of marriage. The one thing we didn’t want to mention was the reason for our trip – yet another opinion from a world-class oncologist, one who would confirm or deny the masses, which were supposedly destroying my brain.
    It had been a difficult six months filled with illness and fear, with nervous glances from Sue and moments of terror for me.
    I had been surprised by the extent to which my illness evoked concern in others. Perhaps it was not so much the concern that surprised as the range of opinions and proposed cures that flooded in. Names of physicians and hospitals were the most common suggestions and the ones, which Sue and I had expected, but there were others, far less predictable.
    My cousin Monica, who had gone off to Alaska for three years, lived by herself in a cabin far to the north, and returned east with two small children and breasts grown dangerously pendulous with too much nursing and too little bra use, suggested a change of diet. “Eat fish and berries only,” she had written. “Become like our cousin the grizzly, for they are the healthiest of animals.”
    “Become like our cousin the grizzly,” Sue had mimicked; “she’s gone native.” I laughed, too. Briefly before the pain in my gut cut me short.
    Joan, Sue’s sister, the religious one, had sent a list of shrines throughout the world. Lourdes and Saint Anne de Beaupre were at the top, but the list went on for pages. “Take a sabbatical,” she advised. “Make a pilgrimage. Pray for Her intervention.”
    “Sweet,” I commented trying to be accepting.
    “Nuts,” responded Sue. “She’s gone over the edge.”
    Another suggestion had seemed even farther over that edge. One of my students from two years previous had heard of my illness and sent me his suggestion. “If you will allow the student to instruct the professor,” he wrote, “you will find in Brazil a man named Jorge Maravilhoso Fantastico. He truly is marvelous and fantastic. He is a faith healer, he has removed tumors from many, he has cured very many. You will find him in Rio Preto da Eva, just north of Manaus. He can cure you. Of that I am positive.”
    I wrote my ex-student to thank him for his concern and, promising to keep his suggestion in mind, I tossed the letter the basket.
    Most of the letters I received went into that basket. It wasn’t emptied into the trash, but it wasn’t kept for use either. I think that it was a way of keeping a list of those who would ultimately be sent another letter, one from Sue announcing my death. We didn’t say that, of course not. We never spoke of my death; we never spoke aloud of the fear that haunted us both.
    There was, however, one letter that was not tossed into that basket. It had come that morning postmarked in Dubai, half way around the world.
    The letter was from Bernie des Reichtums. Bernie had been my best friend in grade school, middle school, high school, even the first two years of college. Then we had drifted apart. He had become interested in wealth while I had stayed true to my interest in literature and writing. Bernie had gone on to head a large bank, to live in Manhattan, London, Paris, and Dubai, while I had spent those next thirty-four years studying and teaching in small college towns.
    We had lost touch, a thought which had sometimes saddened me enough to make me think of writing him. But, each time I had been taken short by the realization that I had nothing to say that could possibly have meaning to a man of the financial world. I had kept track of Bernie simply by reading the papers. He was often in the news. How he had learned of my health problems or my whereabouts, that was more puzzling. I had certainly existed in obscurity.
    Bernie’s letter was short and to the point. It offered neither assistance nor advice, only a cryptic comment. “Sometimes only the underworld can give us what we need. I shall do what can be done for my old friend.”
    As she was packing our overnight bag, I showed Sue the letter. “He always seemed weird to me. I never liked him.”
    “You never really met him,” I countered defensively. “He came to our wedding and left early. I don’t think ten words passed between you.”
    “Maybe not, but it was clear he didn’t approve of me or for that matter of you. Anyway, this letter is weird, and I think he’s weird, too.”
    I put the letter into my desk drawer. Perhaps I would write back, perhaps not; but I knew that Sue would not want to write Bernie, not to tell him that I had died or for any other reason.
    We had gotten a later-than-planned start. A bout of nausea had hit me just as we had been ready to leave. Then, as Sue tried to make up some of the lost time by speeding, the weather had changed. We had been creeping through the fog and mist for two hours. I could see that she was tiring quickly.
    “I think we’d better stop for the night.”
    “And get something to eat.”
    “You’re hungry?”
    “God, yes. Aren’t you?”
    I had vomited most of my dinner, and I realized that I was starving. Funny how I hadn’t thought about food before. “Yeah, very.”
    In the translucent reflection of our headlights I saw the signs for an exit. “Shaman is coming up,” I observed. “Funny, I’ve never noticed this exit.”
    “You’ve never driven this slowly on the interstate.”
    “True. The sign says there’s food and lodging.”
    At the bottom of the ramp was a sign for the Shaman Motor Inn and two fast food places. We followed the arrow, passed the two burger joints – both of which were closed – and pulled into the motel’s parking lot.
    There was an air of squalidness about the place, a feeling which was enhanced by the flashing red neon sign promising hourly rates and the drive up window for registering. Sue pulled around so that my side of the car abutted the window. I rolled down the car window, felt the cold moisture of the mist filling what had been our warm cocoon, and rang the bell. A disembodied, accented voice responded. “What do you want?”
    “A room for the night.”
    “Wait, I’ll be right there.”
    We waited. It wasn’t long. A slim Indian-looking man came to the window. He was fully dressed; his clothes had the rumpled look of having been slept in. “What do you want?” he asked again.
    “A room. My wife and I are heading to the city, but we need to take a break.”
    “Yes, yes. I can do that,” he said.
    Sue gave me a poke. I looked over, and she mouthed the word “food”. I nodded.
    “That will be fifty dollars for the night.”
    “Fine.”
    “And a five dollar deposit for the key. You return it when you leave, and I give the money back.”
    “Fine.”
    “Do you want to watch television?”
    Tired as we were, I still thought we might need some help falling asleep. “Yes.”
    “A ten dollar deposit for the remote. You return it when you leave, and I give money back.”
    “Fine.” I counted out the $65 and slipped it into the slightly opened window opposite me.
    “Room 235. First room on second floor.”
    “Is that non-smoking?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
    “All our rooms are same. People smoke in all.”
    “Can we get one farther from the road?” And from that damn sign? I thought.
    “235 is only one I have. Nice room.”
    “Fine. What about food?”
    “No food here.”
    “No, I mean is there somewhere we can get something to eat?”
    “Too late, restaurants closed now, till morning.”
    “Perhaps there’s someplace we can just buy snacks.”
    “All night convenience store at gas station one mile up road.” He handed me a registration card and a pen. “Fill out form, please.”
    I filled in the few questions and handed it back to him. He examined it closely as if it contained military secrets. “Mr. And Mrs. Chardean?”
    “Right.”
    “Mr. And Mrs. Chardean, yes. You will have good night.” He closed the window and disappeared into the darkness of the office.
    “Unpack or food first?” I asked already knowing the answer. A few minutes later we were looking for edible food in the grungy convenience store.
    “Did he say this was a convenience store?” Sue quipped. “I’d call it inconvenience.” The sandwich ingredients looked as if someone had been culturing molds. Many of the packages were well-past their ‘sell by’ dates. I wondered when the last customers had been there.
    Finally, desperate, we picked a few of the less deadly looking items, paid for them, and headed back to the motel. It seemed that the fog had grown thicker and that the flashing red light promising hourly rates had become correspondingly brighter.
    Neither the two cars leaving the lot as we pulled in nor the maid pushing her trolley of cleaning supplies and linens at that late hour raised our sinking spirits. But, fatigue and hunger had more than taken their toll; we had to have some rest.
    Sue carried the overnight bag and the brown sack with our meager provisions while I tugged myself up the stairs.
    I turned the key and pushed the door open. By the dim yellow lights of the balcony and the flashing red of the sign, I saw a light switch. The pallid overhead crowded with dead flies revealed a double bed covered with a faded and slightly torn spread. There was a stained table with two water-spotted drinking glasses and a foam ice bucket. Next to it were two rickety chairs. On the walls were two prints; they were as faded as the spreads and quite incongruous; both were scenes from The Bible. I looked more closely; they were labeled: “Ruth - Wither Thou Goest” and “Jesus: Curing The Lepers.” Between the beds was another small table – also stained; it held a telephone and a copy of The Bible placed there by The Gideons. The low, double chest of drawers looked as if it would disintegrate if someone were rash enough to unpack into it. On its top was a television, the only thing in the room that looked modern. There was a placard announcing: “For special pay channels push menu on your remote.”
    “I can only imagine what the special channels are,” Sue observed.
    “They probably exceed our imaginations.”
    “I wonder how many of them were filmed here ...”
    “Featuring unsuspecting guests,” I finished the thought for her.
    “I have to use the john.” No matter where she was, no matter how ugly, depressing, or even filthy the surroundings, Sue always used the bathroom.
    She walked across the room to the partially opened door. “This is as grungy as the rest of the place,” she observed as she closed it. She reopened it immediately. “Tom, you’ve got to see this.” She was laughing.
    I followed her into the bathroom. She closed the door and pointed at the floor behind it. On the floor was a pair of women’s panties. They were covered with bright red hearts with arrows through them. They were so silly that I at first ignored the hygiene implications.
    “I wonder how long they’ve been here.”
    “They must give the place a proper cleaning at least once a month.”
    We both laughed at that idea.
    “I hope she had pants, or her butt must have gotten real cold.”
    “I wonder if she missed them.”
    “The finest lingerie.” She paused. “I still have to piss.”
    I left the bathroom and pulled the spread down on one of the beds. The blanket beneath it was stained and ripped. It looked like a refuge from a war. I pulled that down, too, and revealed sheets colored a dingy gray by many hours of use and many halfhearted washings. The pillows were rock hard inside their off-gray cocoons.
    I heard the toilet flush and the water in the sink running. She came out and went over to the food. Opening a package of trail mix, she offered me some. I took a handful and munched it down. I opened a bottle of cola, the product of some company of which I had never heard. It tasted terrible.
    “God, what a face.”
    “You try the stuff. No, on second thought, don’t.”
    She did anyway. “That’s awful!”
    “This isn’t going to be a good night.”
    “We’ll survive.”
    She laughed nervously. “I don’t even want to get undressed.”
    “Yeah.” We hadn’t lain on the bed yet, but I could already feel unnumbered insects and microbes climbing up and down my skin. “This place is disgusting.”
    “On its good days.” Sue scratched herself vigorously.
    I pulled the beige plastic curtains closed. There was a sag where the fabric had pulled away from two hooks, and the yellow lights of the balcony and the red blinking sign still lit the room. We lay down together on the bed that I had partially stripped. I could feel the bumps in the mattress and the lumps in the pillow. “I hope we can sleep.” I rolled on my side and draped one of my arms around Sue’s shoulder.
    “I love you,” she murmured.
    “Me, too.”
    “I just wish there was more I could do.”
    “I know.”
    “If there was only some way I could make it disappear.”
    “Believe me, I appreciate how much you’re already doing.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like driving to the city, like coming to every one of my doctors’ appointments, like spending the night in this horror hole.”
    “This, I will grant you, is a bit above and beyond.”
    I laughed. “It sure is.”
    I waited for Sue’s response, but she said nothing. Her breathing hadn’t settled into the gentle rhythm of sleep. I knew she was either thinking or praying or, more likely, both. Finally, she spoke. “I just wish I could make you well.”
    “I love you, too.” Then there was silence. In the blinking, partial darkness I could hear that gentle rhythm taking hold.
    I didn’t fall asleep. I was too busy worrying about the future – mine if I was to have one, Sue’s if I was going to die.
    Some time later, Sue padded her way to the bathroom. I heard the door close and the light switch click. Then she screamed. I’d never heard Sue scream in terror before. I sat bolt upright and stared at the bathroom door. It took a moment or two before I could make my legs respond. Swinging them off the bed, I stood up and started toward the bathroom. I stumbled on one of my shoes, nearly fell back to the bed, then ran across the room. Throwing open the peeling door, I blinked in the harsh light and saw Sue. She was staring into the toilet. It was filled with red liquid. There was a sickeningly sweet smell. I reached over and flushed. The liquid moved slowly, not as if the toilet was clogged but as if the viscosity of the red liquid was much greater than water.
    “Blood?” Sue asked.
    “I don’t know.” The liquid that came from the reservoir was the same smelly red stuff that I was trying to flush. I put the cover down and turned.
    “Jesus,” I yelled. I was looking at the panties, or rather where the panties had been. They had been replaced by a pair of blood red men’s briefs. The crotch, where the scrotum would have been if someone were wearing them, was cut away and appeared to be oozing blood.
    Sue turned to look. “God, let’s get the hell out of here.” She fled from the bathroom; I followed only taking time to slam the door in my wake.
    “Let’s get out of here.” She repeated with even greater terror. She ran to the door and pulled. “It’s stuck.”
    I had grabbed the bag. In this moment of terror I had new strength and energy. “Let me try it.” I tried the doorknob. It wouldn’t turn. I dropped the bag and used both hands. The knob wouldn’t budge. With all my strength I pulled on the door. Nothing!
    “What’s going on?”
    “I don’t know,” I answered. The blinking of the hourly rates sign seemed to be mocking me. I moved to the window and pulled back the plastic drapes. Behind them was a brick wall from which the mix of dingy yellow and red lights seemed to emanate. “Damn them!”
    “Who?” Sue asked.
    “I don’t know. I have no damn idea.”
    “What are we going to do?” She had slumped down on the bed and sat there holding her head. I sat down next to her. “The phone?” It was more of a question than a suggestion.
    “Good idea.” I looked at the dialing instructions and dialed “0” for the “motel operator”.
    A voice – not human, not metallic, something best described as plastic – answered. “The word shall set you free,” it said and then repeated and then repeated.
    “Hello,” I shouted into the phone.
    “The word shall set you free,” the voice said yet again.
    I hung up and reread the dialing instructions. I dialed “9” for an outside line. The same voice answered. It started in the middle of its message. “shall set you free. The word shall ...” I hung up.
    Already knowing the outcome, I tried dialing a room number, “234”. “you free. The word ...” I slammed the receiver down.
    “What are we going to do?”
    “I don’t know. Let me think.” I crossed the room and started to bang on the wall. There was no response. Desperate, hoping to open a hole, I picked up one of the chairs, tore off a leg and banged it against the wall. I felt it bounce back in my hands. I wasn’t hitting plasterboard; the wall was as solid as the bricks I saw through the window.
    Again I sat down next to Sue. She put her trembling hand on my leg. I looked down at my feet.
    “I have to go,” Sue muttered. There was desperation in her voice. She got up.
    “Where are you going?”
    “I told you: I have to go.” There was so much pain, so much stress, so much panic in the “have to”. She was headed toward the bathroom.
    “You can’t go in there.”
    “I have to.” More pain. I’ll lean over the bathtub.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Do you want me to come in with you?”
    “No, it wouldn’t help. I’ll be ok.”
    I watched Sue cross the room. Her gait was slow but determined as if she were on her way to a sacrifice. She closed the door behind her, and I turned my attention to the room. I thought about trying the phone again. “What had that plastic sounding voice said?”
    “The word shall set you free.”
    “What word?” I questioned myself. “The word: what was the word?” Then, for the first time I thought of The Bible sitting on the night stand. For the first time I noticed what was written across the cover:
        YOU SHALL KNOW THE WORD
        AND THE WORD SHALL SET YOU FREE.
    I picked the book up hoping for – even expecting – a key to unlock the door of the room. I ruffled through the pages, stopped here and there, found nothing. I decided to try a new tack. Standing up, I held the book over my head and flipped it onto the bed. As I had hoped, it landed open. I looked at the pages. It was from “The Book of Ruth”. I perused them for a while, trying to find the secret. Suddenly, I became aware that Sue had been in the bathroom for a long time.
    I rushed to the bathroom door and knocked. She made no response. I turned the knob, the door swung open. Sue was not there. “Sue!” I yelled already knowing that she could not respond. I held my nose and lifted the toilet cover. The bowl was filled with clear water. Whirling around, I realized that neither the briefs nor the panties were any longer there.
    “What the hell’s going on here?” I asked myself as I walked across the room to the door. Even as I walked, I knew that this time it would open. It did. For some reason I went back to The Bible. I closed it and put it back on the nightstand. As I did, I saw the cover. The words had changed.
        I SHALL KNOW THE WIFE
        AND THE WIFE SHALL SET YOU FREE.
    In helpless confusion, fear, and rage, I threw the book at the mirror. It bounced off and dropped to the floor. The pages flipped open. Without looking I knew it was again open to “The Book of Ruth”.
    With a sense of expectant terror mixed with a strange feeling of relief, I looked out the window. I did so somehow knowing that it was no longer blocked by bricks. I could see daylight making its way through a cloudy sky. The rain had stopped, but it still was threatening. I picked up the phone and dialed 9. When a new tone started, I dialed 911. An officer would be right over. I’d report Sue missing, but I knew it would do no good. I picked up the bag and brought it to the car. I sat in the driver’s seat and waited for the police.
    “You leave already, Mr. Chardean?” The receptionist had crept up behind me like a ghost.
    I spun around. “Where’s my wife?” I demanded.
    “Wife, Sir. Did not see a wife, Sir. No wife with you, Sir.”
    “The hell ....,” I started. But, I knew it was useless.
    “Do you have the key, the remote?”
    “They’re in the damn room.”
    “Then I can not return your deposits. You must bring them to the office.” He turned away.
    There was no way I was going back into that room. That was what I told the police officer who appeared twenty minutes later. He went up without me, came back, and said that the room appeared normal. At my request he had brought the key, the remote, and The Bible.
    “Mr. Chardean, I really don’t see what I can do. If you want, you can file a missing person’s report after twenty-four hours.”
    “Come with me to the office,” I pleaded. “Look at the registration card. Sue couldn’t have just disappeared out of that bathroom. It doesn’t make sense.”
    “Frankly, sir, not much of your story does make sense.” I stared at him. I felt old, and he looked like a schoolboy. “Well, what about The Bible?” I asked. “Is that a normal cover?”
    He held The Bible out – front cover up. it said “Holy Bible” and in smaller letters near the bottom: “Placed here by The Gideons.” I stared at it, at him, and then back at the book.
    We went to the drive-in window and summoned the rumpled clerk. He took the key and the remote and handed the officer fifteen dollars. With no resistance he handed over the registration card.“The registration card,” I repeated with a begging tone that seemed foreign to my own ears. “I know I put Sue’s name on that card.” The policeman looked at the yellow form.
    “Is this your handwriting?” he asked. He held the card. I had the fifteen dollars in mine; it felt too dangerous to put the money in my pocket.
    “Yes.” I looked at the card. Only my name appeared. “Somebody must have changed the card.”
    “But it is your handwriting!”
    “Yes.”
    “Look, Mr. Chardean, you said you had a doctor’s appointment later today. Right?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Well, obviously you must be pretty nervous. Maybe you just had a spooky dream and can’t get by it. I suggest you keep your appointment. Then, call home. Your wife is probably waiting by the phone to hear the results.”
    “My wife ...” I started to argue and then realized there was no point. The only thing I was going to convince him of was that I was crazy. “Look, you may be right. Thanks for your help.” I tried to make it sound honest even though I was thinking, “He’s in on it. I know it.”
    When I pulled onto the highway ramp, I debated whether to go home or to keep my doctor’s appointment. Something told me that I didn’t need a second opinion anymore. I knew the cancer was gone – that it had disappeared with Sue. But, I really didn’t want to go back home. I didn’t want to face friends, to tell them what had happened, to try to explain Sue’s disappearance; and most of all I didn’t want to face life alone. “Whither thou goes, there I would go, also,” I thought as I pulled onto the main road and headed for the city and its medical specialists.
    “There’s no sign of cancer,” the doctor said.
    That was what I had expected. “Thanks, that’s good to hear,” I lied. Meanwhile, I was wishing that I could die – that I could go beyond the mystery to wherever Sue would be waiting.
    I left the doctor’s office and sat in the car. I hadn’t cried before. It had all seemed too unreal. But, now I gave in to the horrible sense of loss. I knew Sue had somehow sacrificed herself for me. Now, I would have to face life without her.
    On the way home I looked for the exit to Shaman, but I must have missed it. “Just as well,” I thought. “I wouldn’t want to go back there.”
    My mind drifted to the basket full of letters. Did I have to write all those people. No, probably not. I stared at the road and the bare trees that lined it. Not winter anymore, I thought, but not yet spring. Strange, like limbo. Suddenly, desperately, I wanted spring; and I wanted Sue. Oh, I wanted her.
    Bernie’s letter. That one I’ll answer. I wonder ...
    Our neighbor was walking her dog when I pulled up to the house. “How you feeling, Tom?”
    “Better, physically much better.” I paused. “But, Sue didn’t come back with me.”
    “Sue? I don’t think I’ve met her. Have I?”

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