Four and Twenty Beds

A second story seemed to be our best bet, but it would be expensive to add a couple of rooms upstairs, and it might necessitate strengthening the present ceiling and roof in order to make them support the burden. We decided to file the idea away in our minds for future consideration.

We alleviated the space situation to some extent, temporarily at least, by getting bunk beds for the children and moving our bed into their room. That left the living room as a living room, not a combination playroom, living room and bedroom. The bunk beds were along one wall and our bed was along the opposite wall, with the foot of it near the east window that overlooked Featherbren's new lawn and his row of oleanders. Between his cherished, thrice-daily watered lawn and our window was the four foot expanse of land that the building code demanded should be left at the sides of the land when the buildings were constructed.

Grant finally got around to carrying out a plan we had made whereby Donna wouldn't be underfoot all the time, and whereby she could go outside in the sunshine without constant supervision. He fenced the whole four foot strip, from under the bedroom window clear along the cabins from number 2 to 6. Out in the field behind the cabins, he let the four foot strip widen into a fenced yard about twenty feet square. Later, when Donna was big enough to need a larger yard, but not yet big enough to be trusted to run around loose, he would fence our entire field behind the cabins for the children to play in.

The biggest complication now, of course, was that there was no back door through which Donna could go into her four-foot runway. Grant could have taken out the east window and substituted a door for it, but it would have been a lot of work and expense.

"She can climb up on the foot of our bed," I suggested, "and then–"

"And then what? Jump out the window?"

Grant has a low opinion, not only of my capability, but also, I'm afraid, of my common sense. I suppose in a way his attitude is justified: he is so capable, and his ideas are so good, that my feeble little brain children seem to him very poor by contrast. However, this time I felt that I had a good idea, and I elaborated upon it, in spite of the sense of helpless inferiority he always inspires in me.

"Well, there could be boxes outside for her to climb onto," I said. "You know, a big box on the bottom, with its closed, solid side up; another smaller box sitting right in the middle of it. You know, sort of steps."

They were "sort of" steps when Grant got through with them, all right. He followed my basic idea, nailing and pounding out there for about an hour, and finally he called me to look out the window at the finished product.

When I looked out the window it wasn't wooden boxes, nailed firmly together into the shape of a short stairway, that I saw; I saw blessed relief from the constant, demanding presence of a sweet little tyrant who was happy only so long as I was giving her my full attention.

"It's absolutely beautiful," I said fervently.

Donna learned very quickly to navigate on her new steps. For the first few days she came in the window and went out, over and over again, gurgling with glee at the unconventionality of this means of entrance and exit. After the novelty of that had worn off, she began making daring excursions along the entire length of the four foot strip, which Grant had cleared of weeds and covered with gravel. David's kittens usually scampered along with her.

My principal worry, after she had reached the point where she was playing out in her little yard for hours daily, was that she would see a black widow outside and pick it up. I tried to teach her to be afraid of all insects, but somehow the idea became twisted in her mind.

"Bug scarda Donna!" she would exclaim. "Bug see Donna, bug run way!" And she would rush ferociously at whatever bug had, by its appearance, inspired her remarks. Usually the insects could escape her small clumsy fingers, but occasionally she caught an unwary slug or ladybug.

I thought of warning her, "Bug might bite Donna," but it occurred to me that she might get that warning, too, twisted.

Anyway, the one crowning virtue of black widows is that they're as much afraid of people as people are of them; and I didn't think there was much danger that she'd ever be able to catch one. A glimpse of a child with a face apparently made of brown hair should have been enough to send any bug scurrying for cover, I thought. Donna's hair, although it was growing longer and thicker rapidly, was still too fine and soft to hold a bobby pin, or to submit itself to any kind of confinement that I had yet been able to discover. One day, though, I found that the front part of her hair–the part that screened her eyes from sight most of the time, the part that I had refused to trim into neat bangs–was long enough to braid. Since then she has had a prim little pigtail right in the middle of her forehead–drawn back and secured at the top of her head with a pert bow. She looks very chic now, and her nickname–Little Chief Hair-in-the-Face–has been tucked away into our mental chest of souvenirs.

Grant decided that a big window in the front of the office would do a lot to attract business. The south wall, facing the highway, was solid, and the occupants of cars coming from the east couldn't see the light inside the office until they had gone a little past, where they could see the window in the west wall above the driveway. For the daylight and early evening hours the proposed window wouldn't have much value, but Grant figured that the extra nighttime business it would bring would pay for it in a week's time. Around midnight or later, travelers hesitated to disturb motel owners unless they could see that they were up anyway. The advantage of a window would be that Grant would be able to lure customers in by sitting comfortably in the office reading a paper, instead of having to run outside whenever a slow car approached, so that its occupants would be sure to see him. One summer of that had been enough for him, and I knew exactly how he felt. The idea of a huge window facing the highway appealed to me, too; never again would I have to perch on top of a typewriter case set precariously on a chair, while with one eye I watched out the kitchen window for slow cars from the east, and with the other eye tried to read.

Grant hired a man to cut away the wall and put in the window. He helped the man and watched every move he made, and if ever again in the course of Grant's life it becomes necessary for a window to be installed in a building that belongs to him, I know that he will install it deftly, correctly, and without assistance.

It was like stepping straight from a one-room prison on a desert island, to the geographical center of Times Square. I had never realized how much had been going on, or that we had been missing so much. When the window was finished, we could stand at the office desk and see life whirling by us on wheels; we could see life pulsing and throbbing in the accidents, quarrels, and petty encounters that were an inevitable part of a fast highway neighborhood; we could see life a trifle in its cups, staggering in and out of the bar across the street. We could see busses, cars, motorcycles, trains (on the track parallel with the highway, a block away) trucks, highway maintenance equipment, bicycles, and an occasional weird departure from conventional methods of transportation such as a covered wagon drawn by burros. Horseback riders cantered or galloped past daily, and it was a common, pleasantly exhilarating thing to see the great planes drifting down toward the airport, outlined against the sky and then silhouetted against the crowding mountains.

Even from the living room we could get a clear view of what we had, except when we were outside, been missing. I had never realized how many east-bound cars that had exceeded the speed limit going through town, were stopped almost directly in front of the bar, or how many minor fights originated in the bar and continued after the participants were outside. Major fights, of course, we would have gone out to see anyway, as they would have been announced by the customary loud threats and insults. But now we were able to enjoy the pantomime of these quieter fights also, which we would have missed entirely if the office window hadn't been there. It was like a movie, where the spectator is safe and comfortable as he watches gunfire and robbery or people struggling against blinding snow. In the office, we were close enough to get a good view of what was going on, but far enough away to avoid any danger of connecting with a poorly aimed left. It was better than a movie in one sense: it was real, and the angry expressions on the faces of the performers weren't assumed for the sake of a camera. But there was one thing which even the lowiest B movie has that I missed–explanatory dialogue. It was maddening to watch the quarrelers gesticulate and utter tantalizingly elusive sentences which were, even when I opened the door of the office in hope of eavesdropping, swallowed up in the roar of traffic.

"Why don't you shout?" I wanted to prod them. "If you're really mad, then yell, so you can hear each other–and so I can hear you, too!"

I guess I ought to take up lip reading.

Business did make a noticeable upswing after the window was installed. It wasn't much of an inconvenience for one of us to be in the office, reading or writing, until quite late every night, and the very visible presence of either of us seemed to act as a magnet to undecided drivers.

Grant's idea factory, however, was still producing; it was never slowed down by success. "Why don't we get a big picture of a man," he suggested, "life size, and hang it behind the office desk once? People will see it from the highway, and I'll bet a horned toad they'll think it's a real man. We could have a little calendar at the bottom, as an excuse for hanging it there. After the people ring the bell and we get up and let them inside the office, they'll see their mistake–but by that time we'll have them, so it won't matter."

He mulled over that a while, grinning, and then came up with something even better.

"Grandma's dress form!" he exclaimed. "Have her quick send it to us, and we'll put some kind of a head or hat on top of it and stand it behind the office desk." (Grandma's dress form has been through so much already that a little more wouldn't hurt it. Every few weeks its bolts and screws are loosened and Grant hammers it from a size forty down to a size twelve–or vice versa–depending on whether it's Grandma or I who wants to make a dress.)

"I know what we could do that would be a lot less trouble," I said. "Every night late, when all the motel owners around here are asleep, why not sneak out and take the covers off the "no" on each of their signs? Then this will be apparently the only motel that has a vacancy, and all the cars will come here. Then, after we have filled up, you can sneak out again and put the covers back on the signs, so that in the morning the other owners won't know they have been tampered with."

During the winter rush season, whenever we invited friends from Los Angeles to stay overnight at our motel, we always stipulated that they must come on a Sunday night, since even during the height of the busiest season there were almost always vacancies on Sunday nights. For most of our friends it was difficult or impossible to be away from home over Sunday night, since work, school, and the regular routine of living must begin again on Monday morning. As a result, very few of our personal friends had been to see us, except the several who came out the first summer. Now, though, with at least one vacancy every night except Saturday, we let them know that we would be "at home" any night except Saturday, and that they could have the use of a spotless, modern, new and well-furnished cabin–on the house! On an average of one couple or one family per week, our friends began making the pleasant, just-far-enough trip out to see us. This was very nice, but I couldn't pretend that it lifted the monotony or relieved the boredom, because around a motel there isn't any of either.

For months I had been resisting the mercenary advances of men who wanted to install coin-operated radios in our cabins. Grant and I had agreed that the commercial, cheapening effect of such radios would not be justified by the small revenue they would bring in.

One day, though, one of the salesmen whom I had turned away tackled Grant while I was downtown. For all his caginess and shrewdness, Grant becomes as limp and compliant as gelatin under the pressure of a good sales talk. And this man, a short, wiry creature with very intriguing mannerisms, was hard to ignore.

When I drove into the driveway the radio man was installing the last radio. He lifted his cap to me and wiggled his ears mockingly as I stalked past the cabin where he was working and into the house.

I sat down, seething, and mentally prepared some blistering hot coals to rake Grant over.

Having the radios installed turned out to be a pretty good idea, though. Our customers seemed to be pleased with the convenience of them, in spite of the fact that reception is poor in Banning because of the surrounding mountains.

The radios were attractive, with a walnut finish that blended with the maple furniture in the cabins. Each radio had a slot in the top where the noise-hungry customer could put his quarter for one hour of music, drama, comedy, quiz program, news or soap opera. Every two weeks the owner of the machines would come around with his keys, take off the backs of the radios, and unlock the coin boxes inside. Three fourths of the money he would keep; twenty-five per cent of it–"enough to pay mosta yer utilities"–would be ours.

As it turned out, our share of the take–about twenty dollars a month–was barely enough to pay for one utility, the electricity. But that, as Grant pointed out, with more spirit of self-defense than originality, was something.

And the customers did like having the radios in their cabins. We always gave them their change in quarters now instead of in fifty-cent pieces, so that if they wanted to play the radios they'd have the proper coins. And often a customer would come to the office and ask us to give him quarters in exchange for a fifty-cent piece or a dollar.

Our own little radio, that we had been renting out for fifty cents a night, was no longer in demand. And sometimes I pointed out acidly to Grant that eight separate quarters, for eight full hours of playing time, had to be dropped into the slots of the coin-operated radios before we'd make as much as by renting our own radio once.

The man who installed the radios in our cabins and came every other week to get the money out of them, became simply "the radio man" to us. I suppose he had a name, but if he did, I never discovered what it was.

"That radio man's the funniest guy I ever saw," Grant remarked, after the first time he had come to get his money. "He points his finger at you, with his thumb up in the air; then he quick bends his thumb, and the knuckle cracks, and it's just as if he's shooting at you."

"I know," I said. "He did that to me several times, to emphasize his arguments when he was first trying to make me let him install the radios. But," I added pointedly, "I didn't fall for it."

"And," Grant hurried on, "did you notice there are hinges tattooed on the insides of his elbows?"

"Mm-hm. I wouldn't be surprised if he had hinges tattooed on the backs of his knees, too. He's just the type."

The small cement block building that was being erected across the highway from us, west of the bar and the Blue Bonnet motel, turned out to be a bakery. "Purtel and Purtel" announced their big neon sign. "Doughnuts, pies, and pastry."

Grant went over to buy a pie the first day they opened. After talking to the Purtel brothers an hour–his absolute minimum for a conversation–he came back and reported that they had a nice place, that they were old men with beards, and that he had promised them that I would come over soon and meet them.

We demolished the pie at dinner time, and after I had washed the dishes I decided to return the tin.

The front part of the bakery was clean and delicious-smelling. One of the Purtel brothers was putting things away, getting ready to close for the night. When I introduced myself he dashed away to call his brother, who was in the rear part of the building.

The brothers confronted me together then, the first beaming with friendliness and a tail-wagging anxiety to please, the second smiling in the manner of a movie actor meeting the president of one of his fan clubs. They were almost identical in appearance, and looked as though they had been cut off a cough drop box.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause then, while we all tried to think of appropriate remarks. I felt an insane impulse to murmur, "What nice big beards you have," and an equally insane fear that they would reply "All the better to tickle you with, my dear."

At last I said lamely, "Well, I brought your pie tin back."

"But I must introduce you!" exclaimed the first brother, clapping his hands together with energy. "This here is the wife of the nice young man who stopped in and talked to us for awhile this afternoon. We are the Purtel brothers."

He leaped toward a chair, sat on it and bounded up. He made wild gestures of apology and self-reproach and indicated that I should sit on the chair.

The second brother said languidly, "His name is Purtel, if he so chooses. But my name is Purtel. Please remember that." Mr. Purtel laughed heartily, wrinkles fanning out from his eyes across his cheeks. He smacked his fist into the palm of his other hand.

"Usually it's women that change their names when they get married, but Si here changed his when he got married. Always before, he was satisfied with Purtel, but ever since he got married it's had to be Purtel. That's why our sign says "Purtel and Purtel" instead of "Purtel Brothers"–so people can pronounce it Purtel and Purtel."

"Purtel and Purtel," corrected the second brother, brushing a speck of something daintily off his shirt sleeve. He lit a cigarette, and I watched in fascination as the flame curled near his long black fire hazard.

Mr. Purtel disappeared into the rear part of the building again, but Mr. Purtel gave me a refund for the pie tin, and then asked me if I had any children.

"Yes, two," I told him. "A boy and a girl."

He reached into the show case. "Take this for the boy," he said, bringing out a huge sugary doughnut. "And this for the girl." The second gift was a luscious cream puff. My mind's eye presented me with a swift foreglimpse of Donna, her hair stuck into thick strands, her face covered by whipped cream and a blissful expression.

I told Grant that one of the brothers was nice, but that I didn't care much for the other. And until bedtime I wondered why Mr. Purtel's marriage had caused him to become dissatisfied with the name he had grown up with.

At last, just as I was getting into bed, I thought maybe I had it.

"I'll bet," I thought happily, "his wife's name is Myrtle."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

WHEN BUSINESS SLOWS down for Banning motels due to the scarcity of tourists, it naturally slows down for the service stations and highway restaurants as well. Moe, the beak-nosed owner of the cafe next door, was very annoyed because business was so seasonal, and he decided to sell his place and take his family back to Los Angeles, where the demand for restaurant meals was more the same all year around, and where it wasn't necessary to comb the want ads and employment agencies for enough help part of the time, and the rest of the time to fire perfectly good employees because there wasn't any work for them to do.

The day after Moe put up a big "For Sale by Owner" sign in front of his restaurant, he stopped in at the office, and told us the place was sold. He was holding the sign, which he had just taken down, in his thick fleshy hands.

"Sold it just like that!" he exclaimed. "Fellow stopped in an hour ago, looked it over, liked it, and gave me a check for the full down payment. Just one catch–he insists on taking over right away tonight, even though we won't put it in escrow until Monday. I said okay, I didn't want to louse up the deal over a little thing like that. So me and the wife's going on a weekend trip, and he can run the darn thing all by himself."

It was five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon then; by nine o'clock that night Moe was gone, the new owner had taken over, and big hand-made signs tacked up all over the outside of the restaurant announced: "Opening Night. Everything on the House! Come in and have fun!"

People, in flocks and bevies and droves, were thronging into the place to see if the signs really meant what they said. Apparently they did, because the people who went in stayed in, and reinforcements kept pouring in behind them. Cars that were speeding along the highway stopped and spewed out occupants who only a few moments before had been intent upon faroff destinations. The habituees of the bar decided to see the fun, and the customers of all the surrounding motels, having heard rumors of the gala–and free–opening night, straggled toward the restaurant.

I straggled toward it myself, after getting the children to bed and extracting a martyred statement from Grant to the effect that nope, of course he wouldn't mind in the least if I wanted to leave him all alone and go away and have fun without him. For moral support, I joined Mr. and Mrs. D'Aura, a quarrelsome couple who were celebrating their tenth anniversary with a short vacation in Banning. They had been renting one of our cabins for three days. From their attitude toward one another, it was hard to understand why they considered an anniversary an occasion for a celebration.

They were a medium-sized, rather nondescript couple. His main claim to distinction was the fact that nine or ten long coarse black hairs grew out of the very tip of his nose; and the only things outstanding about her were that her eyes did not seem to focus correctly or in unison, and that she had extremely broad, well-padded hips.

The night they first rented the cabin, they were arguing about her figure while he signed the registration card. "I tell you I've lost ten pounds," she crackled.

"Yeah?" he asked, casting a skeptical glance over her. "Where?"

"If I knew where I lost it, it wouldn't be lost, would it?" she snapped. "At least that's what you always say when you've lost something."

He chortled while he finished filling out the registration card. "Witty, ain't she?" he asked me. Reflectively he pulled the hairs on the end of his nose while he searched his memory for his license number. "She ain't much to look at, but she's smart, and she's got a well-rounded personality." He laid the pen down and smacked her hard, in the region of her lower back. "And that ain't all she's got that's well-rounded, bless her heart!" he roared.

I wondered if she was going to let him get away with that. I should have known that, being a woman, she'd have the last public word. She did, and it was rather a subtle last word. "My attitude toward you," she said icily as they went out the door, "is that of nature toward a vacuum."

I caught up to them now as they were opening the door of the cafe.

"You're certainly developing a beautiful head of skin," Mrs. D'Aura was saying scathingly to her husband just as I joined them.

"Bless her heart, she's clever, ain't she?" Mr. D'Aura asked me as we went in.

The air inside the restaurant was heavy with smoke and loud, hilarious conversation. Every available seat in the dining room and around the shining black counter was occupied by a thirsty, voracious human being; food and beer and wine were disappearing at such alarming rates that I wondered if the new owner wasn't regretting his impulse to throw an impromptu party.

I saw him standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen, beaming and genial, slapping waitresses and guests alike in hospitable good fellowship. His stance and expression proclaimed him to be the new owner, and he seemed to be having as good a time as any of his noisy guests. His plump face was red and his small eyes were shining. He saw me staring at him, and he waved at me over the sea of guzzling heads as though we were old friends.

Two men, making vulgar noises of satisfaction, left the restaurant, vacating two rickety chairs that were near the door. Mr. and Mrs. D'Aura slipped into the empty chairs and began to quarrel in low, intense voices.