Chapter Text
May looked through her bedroom window from above the motel’s business office. Snow flurries, deceptively light, had hung around the Front Range all day and laid a couple of inches of powder on the western Denver suburb by mid-afternoon.
So far, only a few thrifty tourists had checked into the aging lodging. The bulk of her customers were the long-haul truckers, the ones who didn’t want to challenge I-70 west through the mountain passes at night. The regulars had yet to arrive, pushing through the last miles of daylight from Indianapolis.
She knew one of the truckers would be happy to shovel and salt the walk around the building for beer money and a chance to stretch cramped limbs after riding a double-shift.
A few of the drivers already had called ahead to reserve their rooms. May would wait up and make sure they had hot coffee and awesome glazed donuts for their check-in snack. (Her culinary secret? The local big-chain grocery had a retired Navy pastry chef running the bakery. Best. Donuts. Ever.)
Her night auditor, Francie, had shown up early, giving May time for a quick nap before finishing up second shift at the front desk. Ran a comb through her cropped brown curls; grey roots were showing. Like her mom, she would go white before her 40thbirthday. Would look good with her blue eyes and coffee au lait skin.
Took her a minute to make her way downstairs.
May’s uncle had left her the business, and, to her surprise, she enjoyed being in charge after twenty years of waitressing. As the old joke ran, she could work part time, and it didn’t matter which 16 hours a day she clocked. Was breathing life back into the 18-unit property, hidden in a corner of a formerly thriving industrial park.
She knew firsthand how tough it was to live paycheck-to-paycheck. She offered working class folk a clean bed and plenty of hot water in the morning. No frills, but a kind smile at the end of the day and plenty of cheap carbs to fuel their mornings, aka a “Continental breakfast.”
She and Francie exchanged greetings. The cheerful older woman had been an accountant with a high-priced law firm on Denver’s notable 17th Street, the former cowtown’s equivalent of Wall Street.
Retired, widowed, children scattered across the continent, Francie was happy to work for the pittance May could offer. Loved wearing jeans, Hawaiian shirts, and Western boots after a lifetime of custom grey suits and designer high heels. She stopped coloring her hair and wore it long and straight, a mix of silver and faded gold, pulled back in a pony tail. Showed off her Slavic cheekbones and lovely complexion, inherited from her Russian mother.
Francie flirted with the truck drivers, brought flowers from her garden to brighten up the lobby, and was a fierce and knowledgeable advocate for the business when tax agencies overstepped their authority.
Once the Internal Revenue Service sent May a five-page letter demanding $20,000. Francie sent back 20 pages explaining why her friend owed nothing. The women framed the apology letter and hung it in the upstairs bathroom so that May could start her work day with a smile.
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A big black muscle car pulled up, challenging the wind off the foothills with a throaty growl.
The driver, a gruff man with bloodshot eyes, worked out a deal. Rented a room for a week in exchange for his older son, Dean, doing chores. Haul trash, sweep the sidewalk, help May in the laundry, fill the soda machine, clean rooms. The kid was bright and charming. Sixteen his father said, but even though he had the height and shoulders, she wondered.
The younger boy, Sammy, looked frail in comparison to his brother. But his eyes were sharp, taking in everything.
He’s smart, said the father. He can find a way to work, too.
Sammy nodded, eager to please.
May made the deal in part because of what the sons were wearing: the uniform of the chronically poor. Ill-fitting jeans that revealed thin, pale ankles, sneakers with holes in the toes over lumpy socks, and not-quite warm enough canvas jackets, which once belonged to someone bigger.
In deference to Colorado’s winter weather, under the jackets both boys were swaddled in layers of outsized sweaters and plaid flannel shirts, the kind sold in truck-stop convenience stores. Under it all Little Sammy wore a man’s black t-shirt that billowed over his knees.
No hat, no scarf, no boots, no gloves. They stood stiffly, listening to their father’s admonishments like the small soldiers they were.
The Impala roared off an hour after the family checked in.
Didn’t take long for May to fall hard for both boys. She wondered what she was going to do if the man didn’t come back.
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She made sure Sammy knew it was fine if he filled his cereal bowl up three times in the morning with the generic sugary flakes and toasted oat rings.
Let the brothers fire up the microwave for their canned tomato soup and mac-and-cheese anytime. Sammy got to push the buttons.
She told the boys the extra servings of food were tips for good work. Bagels and oranges and bananas from the skimpy continental breakfast buffet and free sodas and candy from the vending machines. She bought cheap cold cuts courtesy of the nearby gas station’s upright cooler, so that Dean could make sandwiches on toast, and much to Sammy’s delight, melt the cheese. Another opportunity to play with the microwave.
May made sure there was enough for seconds for both boys and insisted that Dean take his share. As long it was something for Sammy, Dean accepted the small gifts with no hesitation. But she crossed the line several times. Both boys would stiffen, she realized, if they thought an offer was too much, would weaken them, somehow make them vulnerable. Somehow imply the absent father was not doing his best by them.
She was the same way, at their age. Poverty was an embarrassment. It nibbled away at her self-esteem. Put a target on her back, beholding to manipulative do-gooders. Took her years to realize that not every gift had a hidden price. Some people were just nice.
May told Sammy that he could park all day at a side table in the lobby if he wanted to. No desk in their tiny room. He piled up a stack of books to read, and really study, like an older kid, taking notes on plain typing paper in old-fashioned cursive. The books were not what you might expect a 10-year-old kid would be reading. College-level history and math textbooks and thick volumes in Greek and Latin. A little intimidating for high school dropout May.
Dean had a daily ritual. He stayed with Sammy every morning, during and after breakfast, to make sure he was eating right. Watched the cable sports channels on the big television in the lobby while snacking on dry cereal and pastries. Would eat a piece of fruit if May demanded it. Drank milk and juice but would sneak a cup of coffee.
At breakfast May would see Sammy talking to some of the truckers. Mostly family men; a few couples enjoying the road together and supplementing their meager retirement income, meaning Social Security based on the withholding from a lifetime of low-end jobs. But now, they were paid to drive a nice leased truck and see the country, just as if they were rich snow birds following the sun in a fancy RV.
Dean would watch the conversations with the focus of the well-known neighborhood cat observing a band of sparrows discussing the weather as they pecked seed from the motel’s driveway. Francie had a feeling if any of the men had tried anything with Sammy that Dean would have leapt across the lobby, claws and fangs elongated.
When he finished his version of breakfast, Dean would polish off his chores. Worked hard. A good young man.
He then would come back to the lobby and ask Sammy if he would keep May company with a wink to her. She would nod and smile. Then the older boy would disappear for hours on what he vaguely described as errands.
Little brother Sammy was smart as a whip. Would take breaks from his studies to help May. Liked to file invoices and mastered the reservation system in no time. Customers thought it was adorable, the little boy with the serious face, staring at the computer screen through a veil of bangs.
Sammy seemed fine with the arrangement.
Francie told May that Sammy was “gifted” and expressed hope there would be resources to pay for the kind of opportunities he deserved. In her immigrant neighborhood back in Chicago, they joked that the smartest kids had three career choices: medicine, law, or the mob.
Francie had gotten a whiff of criminal class off of the sullen father with his broken nose and scarred knuckles. The stains on his clothing.
The bulge of the gun under his coat.
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Before it grew dark, Dean would return. Made them dinner: soup, pasta, bagels, fruit, and milk for Sammy. Could be worse. Plus, whatever May felt she could get away with adding to the meal without hurting Dean’s pride as provider. He obviously doted on the younger boy.
But as the shadows deepened, Dean would grow uneasy. He would signal his little brother.
“Come on, champ, time to go,” and they would trudge back to their room.
Dean would oversee Sammy’s go-to-bed rituals and then return to the lobby to fold laundry and keep Francie company while he watched cable tv and ate whatever goodies the women served him. Then back to his room, with many thanks for their helping him take care of Sammy.
The boys would not appear until dawn.
Something about the night spooked them.
(The women never brought up the fact that the brothers should have been in school. Not the first family on the move they had sheltered. Never a call to CPS unless they saw abuse. And it had to be bad to pull the kids from their parents into the waiting arms of well-meaning but overburdened local social service agencies.)