identical Wayside
accommodations—twenty-by-twenty rooms complete with twin beds and bad lighting.
We were lined up in a row with Tyson and the professor in the middle and Twyla
and me as the bookends. When the team finished unpacking, we reboarded the
Mitsubishi and headed for the first inexpensive restaurant I could find. It was
after six o’clock and no one had eaten anything since downing a quick snack
before our liftoff from Newark. I settled on a pizza joint called My Way or the
Pie Way.
After a large pepperoni and a pitcher of beer, I drove back
to the Wayside and discovered the occupants in the room to my left, separated
by the thinnest of walls, were none other than the Kyzwoskis. For a while, the
only noise I heard was A-Frame pounding the hell out of Noah. But in time, the
boys’ ruckus was out amplified by Conway and Ida.
“Ain’t gonna listen to your bullshit about hell and
damnation!” Conway screamed. I heard the squeal of the motel room door as
Kyzwoski ripped it open.
“You got eyes for her!” Ida yelled back. “You think I’m that
stupid! Go ahead and hurt me like you done before! Hurt your family! It’s not
me or your sons you need worry about. Y’all got God to reckon with!”
I clenched my jaw waiting for Conway to slam the door. He
wasn’t about to leave without firing a few more shots.
“Woman, you keep on pushin’ me and I’ll splatter you like
duck turd on a rock!”
“Y’all ain’t gotta beat me to make me hurt! Your adultery
takes care of that!”
“I don’t wanna hear it!”
“Matthew 5. But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman
lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart!”
Finally , I
thought. A passage from the Bible I knew, thanks to an old Playboy interview
with Jimmy Carter.
“Best thing y’all can do with that Bible of yours is to
stick it where even God can’t get the sun to shine!”
The Wayside door slammed shut. Through the cheesecloth
curtains in my room, I watched Conway clamber into his Dodge Ram flatbed loaded
with a white aluminum camper shell. Best I could figure was that this was where
A-Frame and his brother were stowed whenever the Kyzwoski family hit the road.
I listened to Ida’s whimpering for about a half hour. Then
things went quiet. I drifted off into a restless sleep.
At one a.m., I woke in a sweat. At first, I blamed the
barely functioning air conditioner for making the room so warm. Then I realized
it was something else that sounded an alarm. After yanking on my jeans,
loafers, and a tee shirt, I walked outside into a clammy Florida night that was
actually cooler than my Wayside quarters. It didn’t matter—I was still all
perspiration and a few seconds later, I knew why.
Every room was dark except mine and Twyla’s. A gusher of My
Way or the Pie Way mozzarella bubbled up my esophagus. If Twyla were maimed or
worse, I’d be spending the rest of my life running from Manny Maglio and
whichever of his associates didn’t happen to be doing time. I tapped on Twyla’s
door. I was hoping for the improbable—that she had fallen asleep before
clicking off the twenty-five-watt lightbulb.
Twyla opened the door no more than a foot. “Oh, hi, Bullet.”
She had cocooned herself in a blanket and her hair was blonde spaghetti gone
wild.
“I thought—” I started. “Your light was on and I just wanted
to be sure you were okay.”
“Ohhh. You’re such a sweetheart.”
There was enough of an opening for me to catch a glimpse of
everything I needed to see. A fifty-dollar bill lay flat on the dilapidated
table by the window and a man’s foot stuck out from under the top sheet of the
bed. Doc Waters? No, this wasn’t the kind of refined foot that I assumed Doc
might have. It was more simian. Then there was the odor—a mix of Twyla’s cheap
perfume, cigar smoke, and Valvoline motor oil.
“All right, then,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I was
feeling relief, confusion or disgust. “Remember,
accommodations—twenty-by-twenty rooms complete with twin beds and bad lighting.
We were lined up in a row with Tyson and the professor in the middle and Twyla
and me as the bookends. When the team finished unpacking, we reboarded the
Mitsubishi and headed for the first inexpensive restaurant I could find. It was
after six o’clock and no one had eaten anything since downing a quick snack
before our liftoff from Newark. I settled on a pizza joint called My Way or the
Pie Way.
After a large pepperoni and a pitcher of beer, I drove back
to the Wayside and discovered the occupants in the room to my left, separated
by the thinnest of walls, were none other than the Kyzwoskis. For a while, the
only noise I heard was A-Frame pounding the hell out of Noah. But in time, the
boys’ ruckus was out amplified by Conway and Ida.
“Ain’t gonna listen to your bullshit about hell and
damnation!” Conway screamed. I heard the squeal of the motel room door as
Kyzwoski ripped it open.
“You got eyes for her!” Ida yelled back. “You think I’m that
stupid! Go ahead and hurt me like you done before! Hurt your family! It’s not
me or your sons you need worry about. Y’all got God to reckon with!”
I clenched my jaw waiting for Conway to slam the door. He
wasn’t about to leave without firing a few more shots.
“Woman, you keep on pushin’ me and I’ll splatter you like
duck turd on a rock!”
“Y’all ain’t gotta beat me to make me hurt! Your adultery
takes care of that!”
“I don’t wanna hear it!”
“Matthew 5. But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman
lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart!”
Finally , I
thought. A passage from the Bible I knew, thanks to an old Playboy interview
with Jimmy Carter.
“Best thing y’all can do with that Bible of yours is to
stick it where even God can’t get the sun to shine!”
The Wayside door slammed shut. Through the cheesecloth
curtains in my room, I watched Conway clamber into his Dodge Ram flatbed loaded
with a white aluminum camper shell. Best I could figure was that this was where
A-Frame and his brother were stowed whenever the Kyzwoski family hit the road.
I listened to Ida’s whimpering for about a half hour. Then
things went quiet. I drifted off into a restless sleep.
At one a.m., I woke in a sweat. At first, I blamed the
barely functioning air conditioner for making the room so warm. Then I realized
it was something else that sounded an alarm. After yanking on my jeans,
loafers, and a tee shirt, I walked outside into a clammy Florida night that was
actually cooler than my Wayside quarters. It didn’t matter—I was still all
perspiration and a few seconds later, I knew why.
Every room was dark except mine and Twyla’s. A gusher of My
Way or the Pie Way mozzarella bubbled up my esophagus. If Twyla were maimed or
worse, I’d be spending the rest of my life running from Manny Maglio and
whichever of his associates didn’t happen to be doing time. I tapped on Twyla’s
door. I was hoping for the improbable—that she had fallen asleep before
clicking off the twenty-five-watt lightbulb.
Twyla opened the door no more than a foot. “Oh, hi, Bullet.”
She had cocooned herself in a blanket and her hair was blonde spaghetti gone
wild.
“I thought—” I started. “Your light was on and I just wanted
to be sure you were okay.”
“Ohhh. You’re such a sweetheart.”
There was enough of an opening for me to catch a glimpse of
everything I needed to see. A fifty-dollar bill lay flat on the dilapidated
table by the window and a man’s foot stuck out from under the top sheet of the
bed. Doc Waters? No, this wasn’t the kind of refined foot that I assumed Doc
might have. It was more simian. Then there was the odor—a mix of Twyla’s cheap
perfume, cigar smoke, and Valvoline motor oil.
“All right, then,” I said. I wasn’t sure whether I was
feeling relief, confusion or disgust. “Remember,
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