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Vacation at the Gator Gate Inn

A. C. Lippert

    You are one of Dale’s five groomsmen. Dale is standing at the altar with Father Pratt and you are stacked-up behind the other groomsmen, awaiting your sister’s procession down the aisle. Everyone except Dad and Anne has already taken their seat. Mom sits in the front row with several tissues laced between her plump fingers. Her eyes are clear and dry at the moment. You can’t picture her sniffling with tears, but your guess is that the tissues are meant to mask her normal indifferent demeanor. The church is a shack surrounded by dense woods and only holds about fifty people, but there must be a hundred present. Friends and family squeeze together to fit into the pews. You spot Uncle Tom, known as Rascal, and his third wife Ellie in the crowd of faces. Rascal wears a faded blue suit that desperately needs ironing and draped over Ellie is a faded green dress that is frayed near her cleavage.
    The church is humid. There are no windows or fans to alleviate the Virginia heat. The church’s walls are wooden, but they’re chipped and rotting and the floor hasn’t been refinished since the church was built in 1908. There is a sparkle everywhere you glance, not from dabbed-on glitter or expensive jewelry, but from sweat drizzling across everyone’s brow. They must be miserable scrunched so close together. You’re thankful Dale asked you to be a groomsman and saved you from the claustrophobic sauna of family members nearby, but you still despise his existence. You were immediately threatened when Anne described her first date with Dale over the telephone when you were at Virginia Tech. This was almost a year ago. And your hostility toward him was justified when you came home for Christmas and saw the seriousness of their relationship. You knew your sister Anne was slipping into another man’s possession. And your hatred heightened in the summer when Dale laughed at the way you fished. You would kill him if you had the chance.
    The organ bellows as if instructing the church to turn around. The doors in the back creak open. Dad and Anne enter. Anne’s dress is amazing. White ruffles and a white veil make her an angel. The church gasps in unison, stupefied by her beauty. Her blonde locks fall to the side as she cants her head close to Dad’s shoulder and giggles in the cutest way. Her azure eyes journey up the aisle and seize you. There is a huge grin carved into Dale’s flushed face that makes him look like a jack o’ lantern. His breath offends your soul. You wish your sister nothing but happiness, honestly. She deserves a husband that will kiss her goodnight and cherish her every day for the rest of her life, but those kisses before sleep and hugs at the breakfast table should be provided by you.

    You remember the first time that you felt romantic feelings for your sister. It was on your family vacation ten years ago. You were thirteen and Anne was almost twelve. Your family had driven down to Orlando in Dad’s wood-paneled station wagon. The car ride down was pretty uneventful. Dad smoked cigarette after cigarette while he drove. Mom slept or read fashion magazines. You and Anne rested your heads on the rough, crimson upholstery. The car’s red interior glowed as if you wore blood-smeared glasses and the fabric felt like someone had scrubbed it with a boar bristle brush. You and Anne played card games or took turns listening to your portable CD player or just stared out the window at the trees whipping by. The trip was mind numbing, but you loved family vacations. You loved driving somewhere new in that old station wagon. It was exciting to see something different than the same thick trees and the same trickling creek and the same kids at school who had apparently never used a toothbrush. The whole experience of traveling got your legs jittery, even if the car ride took forever and there was barely anything to do.
    You and Dad played the dead game while driving through Georgia. Both of you tried to find dead animals on the side of the road and whoever found the most mutilated animal won. There were only three road-killed animals to be found, though. The two that you spotted looked like they had died of old age instead of a car collision, but Dad discovered a good one. The scene was horrible and gruesome and breathtaking all at once. A great smile erupted over your face and you pulled yourself up on your knees to get a better look.
    “Oh, man. That doe really got it, huh?” Dad said. He had slowed the car to about twenty miles an hour so your family could digest the scene. People honked and zoomed by in the fast lane, but Dad didn’t care. This was his version of a Picasso. There were gallons of blood splattered across the road, intestines lay on the pavement like a pink, coiled rubber hose, and the doe’s legs were cracked into angles that you thought were only accomplishable with mirror tricks. You glanced over at Anne when the luggage in the trunk blocked the deer from view. She buried her eyes in the floor mat and rested her head in her hands. Her arms were shaking. And her breath came in quick bursts as if she were hyperventilating. The radio covered any trace of Anne’s hectic breathing, but you could tell by the way her chest hitched. You directed your eyes out the window after seeing this. You sank into a pit of shame.
    “Wish we had a camera,” Dad said. “A snap of that’d go great above my workbench.” Dad was a car mechanic. He owned the only shop in town, but the thing Dad loved the most was hunting. He closed the car-shop for the first two weeks of hunting season every year. Dad looked forward to hunting season more than Christmas, Thanksgiving, and even his birthday. He took a picture of each deer he’d shot as it lay in the grass next to a buzzing pile of its own organs and intestines and stuck the picture above his workbench in the garage. He had named the collage: the blood gallery.
    You only remember asking are we there yet a few times during the car ride. A heavy scolding from Dad and a light swat on the cheek from Mom changed your mind about whether that was an accepted question. The car reeked of cigarette smoke, even when the sweet Carolina or sticky Georgia air rushed in from the open windows and flooded your face. Other than that, the only thing memorable about the ride down was that Anne complained of the car’s seats making her butt hurt.
    “Shut your yap, or I’ll really make your ass hurt. It’ll hurt so bad you’ll miss out on every ride in Disney World,” Dad yelled without taking his eyes off the road. Anne didn’t complain again because he had meant every word.
    Your family stayed at a motel called the Gator Gate Inn. Nature had chipped away most of the Gator Gate Inn marquee’s black and sludge-green paint. The only sun-faded letters left clinging to the sign said: liV gAT Rs uT bA k iN gAt s. There were no other cars in the weed-eaten parking lot. Not even an employees’. You wondered for a split-second if the town had been abandoned.
    That motel should have been condemned. The railings on the second and third floor were rusted and brittle, missing in some areas. A few of the rooms on the third floor were missing doors. The entire squatty building was painted alligator-green and trimmed with black paint that the Sun had faded into a grey. The motel’s office was no bigger than a child’s tree house, but it was surprisingly luxurious. It contained a squeaky leather couch, a dark oak coffee table, lush carpet, and a golden lamp. The furniture occupied most of the office. There was just enough room for Dad, Mom, Anne, and you to fit inside when Dad checked into the room.
    “What can I help you with?” The employee standing behind the waist-level front-desk asked as you entered the office. He had a shaved head and wore glasses that were too big for his face. His voice was dull and whiny like a six-year-old’s.
    “Where do you keep the alligators?” Anne asked before Dad could answer the man’s question. Fear of Dad’s punishments kept you quiet, but deep down you admired Anne’s brazenness. You also wanted to know where they kept the gators, but had figured that you and Anne could search for them later while exploring the motel’s grounds. Anne was much more adventurous than you, but you always managed to gather enough courage to agree to explorations without appearing weak or scared.
    “Anne,” Mom said. “Don’t just blurt out anything that pops into your head. Your father is doing something. You always do that. How many times do I have to tell you: that’s not lady-like.”
    “It’s no problem.” The worker said. He leaned on his palms. “See the door right behind me? Well, that leads back to the gator pen. They’re all dead though. Last one’s been dead about eight months now.”
    You clenched your fists and thrust them toward the floor in silent protest. Dead? But you wanted to see them. You thought it’d be awesome to watch one of those suckers chomp down a live goat or chicken. Before you left home, Dad had pulled you aside and promised that the motel had live gators out back, but he didn’t act surprised when the office attendant told you the gators were all dead. He didn’t even scratch his short beard in puzzlement. You almost thought that Dad had known the gators were long dead and had done this purposefully to watch the disappointment smear across your face.
    Dad checked you into a room without any more interruptions. The office attendant assigned you to room 113. The room wasn’t as battered as the motel’s exterior, but it looked like everything was coated with a very fine layer of dust. The next few hours were boring, but nice. Mom ordered Dad’s favorite pizza, pepperoni, onions, and pineapple, and had it delivered to the room for dinner. After dinner, Dad stubbed cigarette after cigarette while all four of you sat on one of the beds and played cards. The family played Bull-Spit. You weren’t very good at that game, but it was Dad’s favorite, so you had to play. Mom had pushed her strawberry-blonde hair back in a ponytail and Dad had changed into his West River High gym shorts and a plain grey T-shirt. Anne wore the same jean shorts and pink shirt as she had all day. Her shirt fit tightly, revealing the little lumps that would one day attract Dale. Her wood-hued brown hair floated around her face and neck. And her teeth were dazzling when she giggled at one of your jokes. Dad left the TV on for background noise and he craned his neck to watch it between turns.
    “I have two kings,” Mom said as she laid down two cards. She smirked as you fanned your cards to check how many kings were in your hand. You had accumulated almost the entire deck.
    Dad was next to go. He only had one card left and he took his time before laying it down. He looked you in the eyes, then Anne, then Mom, challenging anyone to call him out. The tip of Dad’s cigarette flickered to life as his lips pulled on it like a straw and he kinked the corner of his mouth to puff smoke into your face. The gator incident returned to the forefront of your mind. Dad had deliberately deceived you, just to watch as the excitement drained from your innocent face. You believed this from the bottom of your soul. Shut your yap, or I’ll really make your ass hurt. It’ll hurt so bad you’ll miss out on every ride in Disney World echoed in your head. And you recalled the way Anne had curled and shivered and how her breath became scarce when Dad had slowed the car to gawk at the mutilated deer on the side of the road.
    “I am laying down one ace,” Dad said. He glared at you as if hearing your thoughts.
    “Bullshit,” you said. “That’s bullshit.”
    Dad’s mouth gaped. You were playing Bull-Spit, not Bullshit. You were still a boy, just thirteen, but you had had enough and decided to avenge these injustices without considering the consequences.
    “What did you just say?” Dad said.
    Mom lashed her arm and slapped your cheek.
    “Oh, no dear.” Dad said as he scooted off the bed. “He doesn’t need something cute like a swat on the cheek or a bar of soap in the mouth. This requires an iron fist and stitches.”
    Dad leaned forward and cocked back his arm. He had beaten you before, but nothing too serious, just a few swats on the ass or a quick jab to the gut. But this time it looked as if Dad were set to fight Mickey Ward. You sat there, stiffened like a deer in headlights. Your pants suddenly felt hot and wet and your mouth started to tremble and tears welled up behind your eyes. You tried to fight the tears, but eventually failed and little rivers fell down your cheeks. A dam of fury had broken somewhere inside you and you had done your best to confront Dad about being an unfair, abusive, mean bully to you and Anne, but you were only thirteen. No match for your father.
    “No,” Anne wailed. “Don’t. This game was stupid anyways. Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit. We hear you say that word all the time when Jean and Bob come over to play. And they say fuck and shit and damn too. And talk about sex. Don’t hit him. If you smack anyone, punch Jean and Bob right across the goddamn face.”
    You were older than Anne by a year, but for some reason Anne stuck up for you like an older sister. She took over your job. You looked at her in awe, forgetting that Dad threatened to blacken your eye. Anne’s azure eyes stared and she pursed her lips, waiting for Dad to transfer his rage.
    In that moment, your heart jumped as if you had done cocaine. You just wanted to flash a smile amidst the dysfunctional family violence. The first time you ever felt romantic love was in room 113 of the Gator Gate Inn, as you sat on the bed in a puddle of hot pee, with Dad ready to pummel your sister, and the TV muttering in the background. Anne became your protector in that moment and she had created a bond so intense that you knew could never be duplicated with anyone else.
    Your face buzzed like a rattlesnake’s tail from Mom’s slap. She reached over and hit Anne even harder. The noise of the impact bounced throughout the room.
    “I won’t have my children talking like that,” Mom said.
    “You little bitch,” Dad screamed. “I’ll teach you to open your filthy slut-mouth.”
    Dad punched Anne in the gut. He slapped her on the face repeatedly and spanked her on the ass. You didn’t say a word, even though you desperately wanted to. At the time, you felt like Anne’s efforts would have been wasted if you’d tried to save her in return.
    The rest of the trip was without any more physical abuse. The entire family went to Disney World the next day, even though Dad wanted to cancel. You and Anne sat next to each other on every ride. She was able to sit down, but not without a visible wince. Her cheeks were red like a drunkard’s and bruises shadowed her right eye. You reached over and held Anne’s hand when you were on Splash Mountain. Anne turned, smiled, and squeezed your hand back.

    Anne now stands at the altar with Dale and holds his hand. Dale is still wearing that stupid fucking grin. Of course he’s happy. He should be. He’s just another dumb asshole car mechanic like your dad, marrying the most beautiful girl in the world. You are a senior at Virginia Tech, studying to be a high school History teacher. Anne should be yours. You could take her away from this dumpy town and give her all the love and affection and babies every girl fantasizes about. You could provide her with all the things she deserves, while Dale can only duplicate your childhood and deliver permanent anger and failure. This is all wrong!
    You look over your shoulder at Mom. The tissue is twisted in her hands and still unused. Dad stares at the altar blankly as if watching a football game. Would they disown you if you object to the marriage? Would everyone in this church shun you? How would Anne react?
    “Does anyone have a reason why these two should not wed?” Father Pratt says.
    Your mouth trembles as if chewing glass. You love Anne, more than anything. You directed envious rage at all the boys in high school that took her on dates and kissed her in the movie theater and danced with her at prom, but every moment you believed that Anne would one-day shrug social standards for a life filled with bliss and love. You clear your throat to make sure it’ll work and glance back at the familiar faces of the audience. What would everyone think? What if Anne doesn’t love you back?
    Your words are too heavy for your jaw. And Father Pratt’s droning voice continues the ceremony. Your chance at marriage, and eternal love is gone.

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