The Ottoman Motel (2 page)

Tarden looked confused. ‘You wanted directions, though?'

‘Doesn't matter,' said Simon's mother. ‘We'll find our way. We need to stop somewhere for a meal, anyway.'

‘Hold on,' said Simon's father. ‘We just need to get to—' he dug his phone from his pocket. ‘Got it in an email. Just need to…dammit!' He held his phone up in the air. ‘No mobile coverage either?'

‘You've come to the wrong place if you want
reception
,' said Tarden. He chuckled briefly at what was evidently a well-worn joke.

‘You didn't write down the address, Bill?'

Simon's father scratched his neck vigorously. ‘I emailed it all to myself,' he said quietly. ‘Thought it would be easier to have it all in one place.'

‘You said you brought it with you.'

Simon's father waggled his phone. ‘I did.'

Tarden laughed again, rather too hard, Simon thought. ‘Where is it you need to get to?'

‘A motel,' said Simon's mother. ‘I don't know which one.'

‘Strange name, though,' said Simon's father, still pressing buttons on his phone.

Tarden rocked on his heels. ‘Probably the Ottoman,' he said.

‘That rings a bell,' said Simon's father. ‘Yes.'

‘Well luckily,' said Tarden, ‘that's just where I was about to go. Why don't you follow me into town?'

Simon's mother turned on her heel and silently walked back to the car.

His father shrugged and ruffled Simon's hair again. ‘Much appreciated, Jack. Very community minded.'

Simon slipped from his father's grasp and walked off to join his mother. Somehow, this trip was going even worse than he'd expected it to.

They followed Tarden's ute—burnt yellow with rust stains like continents—the five minutes to the centre of town, Simon's mother seeming more anxious with every minute, his father's confidence restoring itself in equal measure. The main street was much as Simon had pictured it. Everything worn, washed out. A nature strip ran down the middle of the street, thatched with dry grass, flanked sporadically on either side with cars parked nose-first at identical angles. There were no lines anywhere on the road, and Simon wondered how everyone knew which angle to park at. All the buildings around them were old: some of them stone, most of them slatted timber, two storeys high, bulging with spindly balconies. As the car passed, Simon tried to make out what was in the window of each shop, but they all seemed fogged up or not cleaned properly. Many were obviously empty.

Tarden drew his ute in to the kerb. Simon's father pulled in behind and got out of the car. The two men stood together, chatting, their shadows sliding up the side of a large brick building. Simon and his mother got out too, keeping their distance.

‘Bit quiet out,' Simon heard Tarden saying. ‘Always a bit quiet in the cold months. Should see us in summer. Humming, it is.' He led them up the street, nearly around the corner, to an unremarkable shopfront where a small chalkboard was propped up by the wall.
Today's Specials
was written at the top in looped, even letters. The specials themselves were too smudged for Simon to read.

‘Is this our
hotel
?' said Simon's mother. She had brought her magazine with her. She was rolling it tightly between her hands.

‘Yes,' said Tarden. ‘Well, part of it. The hotel's behind. Thought you might want to get a cup of tea or something to eat.'

Simon's mother pushed the rolled-up magazine to her chin. ‘Well—'

‘Cuppa sounds great,' said Simon's father.

‘Our luggage?'

‘We'll take that out later, sweetie. I'd quite like a cuppa right now.'

‘Okay,' she said. ‘Whatever.'

Tarden grinned, swung the door open with a strange flourish of his hand. ‘Best food in town,' he said. ‘Nearly the
only
food at the moment.' He motioned for them to enter.

At the mention of food, Simon's stomach twinged. He let his mother usher him inside with no protest. The low hum of conversations met him first. The cafe was nearly full. The view was unexciting. Nothing more or less than a coastal milk bar: the long counter with stools down one side, the dragon's breath bain-marie, the faded Frosty Boy sign revolving on its tilted axis. Behind the counter, beside the faded menu, were posters for long-forgotten icypoles. A bleached island suggesting summer. A Coke-themed mirror speckled with white. Tables ran along the right-hand wall, some divided into booths, others standing alone, surrounded by flimsy metal chairs. The smell of a deep fryer filled the air. The only difference from any other milk bar Simon had been in was the glimpse of a darker room behind the counter: panelled wooden walls, the orange arc of old lamps.

‘That side's the pub.' Tarden made a proprietorial gesture over the counter. ‘Opens up later when the cafe shuts. Have a seat and someone'll be over in a sec to take your order.'

Simon's father nodded his head, slowly, taking in the scene. He smiled. ‘Thanks, Jack,' he said. ‘For everything.'

Simon thought perhaps
everything
included not reporting them to the police for trying to break into his shed.

‘No worries.' Tarden shook hands with Simon's father and went off to the back of the cafe, where a group of men in the same type of overalls sat hunched over the table with steaming plates of food.

Simon's parents silently chose a booth, sliding in side by side. Simon sat down opposite, slumping his chin down into his crossed arms. His parents ignored him and each other, and picked up their menus. Simon took his arms away and let his head rest sideways on the cool of the plastic table. He stared at the tiny hills and valleys of congealed food, missed by the wipes of a thousand sponges. His parents began to mutter behind their menus. Simon tuned their voices out. Somewhere a radio was playing a song with drums that sounded like explosions.

Simon lifted his eyes sideways to the people sitting at the counter, observing the lost movements of their lower halves. Two sets of legs were shorter than the others: one with brown feet and pink thongs that moved up and down like drawbridges, the other even shorter: swinging silver pants and green gumboots. Simon sat up. The brown feet belonged to a girl who looked about the same age as him. She wore a complicated dress with three layers, each one a different shade of grey, wrapping in and around itself like a seashell. A charcoal woollen jumper was tied around her waist. Her hair was a dark brown, cut in crude, lopsided lengths. She stirred at something in front of her with a fork, her back unusually straight.

Next to her was a younger boy with a green ice-cream container on his head and a silver suit and cape, like something you'd wear to school on dress-up day. The outside tread on the heel of his gumboots had nearly worn away. He began to spin a metal milkshake container on the bench, his body swivelling in sympathy on the stool. The girl stuck out her left hand and grabbed his arm. She had a large black sweatband on each wrist, the type a tennis player would use. The boy's body and the milkshake container both stopped abruptly. Brother and sister. Simon could tell.

Suddenly, he sensed a terse silence. He turned his head; his parents were looking at him, expectant.

‘What. Do. You. Want?' said his father, measuredly, like Simon was stupid. ‘You've got to eat. Choose something.'

Usually, his parents didn't press him any further than they had to, but there was an insistence in his father's voice that suggested he wished to impress someone, probably—Simon guessed—everyone in the cafe.

Simon's mother laid the menu out in front of him; he pointed to something where he knew the kids' meals would be.

‘Okay,' said his mother. ‘Nuggets and chips. Fine.'

Simon looked back to see the brother and sister at the counter but they were gone. As his parents droned on about trivial work matters, Simon dragged his gaze around the room, noting each detail as it came. It was a trick he had taught himself, pretending he was a spy or policeman, trying to take in everything about a scene in case he had to remember it later.

Strung just below the cafe's roof was the same blue netting he had seen in Tarden's yard. Woven through it were little orange balls, some bleached starfish and, strangely enough, a life jacket. A joke, probably. Or in case the town flooded.

He looked back at Tarden sitting with the other men. He guessed they were all fishermen, back from the boats. Tarden's overalls were the only ones that were bright yellow. The rest of the men were dirty, like they'd been wearing the same clothes all their lives. The men laughed and talked, each one cupping a giant mug with both hands; teabag tags were delicate shapes between their thick fingers.

The food arrived quickly, and Simon's father rubbed his stomach at the waitress with vaudevillian glee. Simon knew this was his father still being a salesman, but instead of selling cosmetics he was selling himself. ‘Great country fare,' he said, accepting his steak sandwich. ‘Good for what ails you!'

The waitress smiled. She had a piercing under her lip and her eyes were different colours. Her nametag read
Megan
.

Simon's mother said nothing as her salad sandwich was placed in front of her.

‘Thank you,' said Simon, smiling at the waitress, who handed him a plate of grey nuggets.

As the waitress walked away, Simon's mother tipped her head to the ceiling, exhaling loudly.

‘Sweetie?' said Simon's father. ‘Everything okay?'

‘Well,' she said, picking up her knife. ‘Not really, no.'

‘You don't like your meal?'

‘No, Bill, my meal is fine.'

Simon's father levered a thick slice of tomato into his mouth. ‘What, then?'

Simon's mother put down the knife. Her lips trembled. ‘What do you think?' Her voice was too loud, cutting into the white noise of surrounding conversation.

‘Sweetie—'

Simon stared helplessly at his plate. This was the moment. He had been waiting for this from the minute they left.

‘She's my
mother
, Bill. It's—' She wrenched a napkin from the metal dispenser on the table. ‘You need to understand, but it's quite obvious you can't.'

Simon was sure he could hear people shifting in their seats, heads turning to get a better angle. His mother took noisy, halting breaths. He cleared his throat. The words came out before he realised he was speaking them: ‘Can you wait?'

His father turned to him, his mouth a thin grim line. He said, ‘This doesn't concern you, Simon.'

Simon's scars began to burn. He went to grab his leg and knocked over the water glass. Ice scattered across the table.

‘For God's sake!' shouted his mother. ‘Just leave it. Leave it!' She started crying. The waitress reappeared, but Simon's father waved her away. ‘We're fine,' he said, smiling. ‘Just a little accident!'

Simon knew everyone was looking at them now. He slid out of the booth, avoiding his father's waving arm, and went up to the bar. He pulled himself onto the stool he had seen the girl sitting on; it was higher than he realised, and his sandals dangled in the air some way even from the metal footrest. He leaned his arms on the counter and, for some reason, he shivered. The waitress brought him a fresh glass of iced water and put it on the counter next to him. Simon thanked her. He watched condensation leach into the thin napkin she had placed underneath the glass.

‘What can I get you?' said a scratchy voice beside him.

Simon turned. It was Tarden, thumbs propped behind the straps of his overalls.

‘Samuel, wasn't it?'

‘Simon.'

‘Right, yeah. Simon.' Tarden had a toothpick wedged in between his bottom front teeth. ‘Get you a lemonade?' The toothpick moved as he talked, switching up and down like a baton.

‘No, thank you,' said Simon, pointing to his fresh glass of water.

‘You sure?'

‘Yes.'

‘
Yes
, you'd like one or
Yes
you're sure?' Tarden smiled, stretching his face out: leather taut across a frame. His eyes were grey, wet at the edges.

‘I'd better get back to my parents,' Simon said quietly. He was quite sure he didn't like this man.

‘Just having fun with you,' Tarden laughed. He reached out and rubbed Simon's hair. His fingers were thick. Somehow, Simon knew that Tarden couldn't feel much with them; they seemed dead against his scalp. ‘You not in school?'

‘It's holidays.' Simon hadn't even seen his new school yet, but already knew it would be the same as the rest. He turned, trying to wriggle out of the chair, and saw his parents looking at him.

‘Sorry, Jack,' called Simon's father. ‘He can't sit still a moment.'

Simon shot his father a slit-eyed stare, which was duly ignored.

‘Not a problem,' said Tarden, putting his hand on Simon's shoulder. ‘The devil and idle hands and all that. Good to meet a fellow explorer.' He barged Simon back to his parents' table. He smelled of seawater kept too long in a shallow container.

Simon's mother reached out for him. Her eyes were red-ringed. ‘Don't just run off like that,' she said. ‘We need to know where you are.'

Simon nearly spoke, but his father cut him off with a quick glare. ‘Won't say a word while we're in the car, but as soon as we stop—'

Simon slid back into the seat. It wasn't worth the trouble to defend himself.

‘Ah well,' said Tarden. ‘Good to see some life passing through. Normally just the same faces over and over, once the weather turns. What brings you here, anyway?'

Simon held his breath. He braced himself for his mother's reaction. Tarden rocked back on his heels, comfortably, like he was talking to old friends.

‘Actually,' said Simon's mother, ‘we're visiting someone.'

Tarden rocked forward again. ‘Really.'

‘My mother, she lives here. We're visiting her.'

Simon's parents joined hands under the table.

‘Who's your mother, then? Might know her.'

‘Iris. Iris Shamar.'

Tarden's face dropped, for a moment losing its tautness. Simon's parents—looking at each other—didn't notice. Tarden wiped his hands down the front of his overalls as if they were covered in something he didn't like. ‘Iris,' he said. ‘Yes.'

‘You know her?' said Simon's mother, the edges of her mouth creasing into nearly a smile.

‘Well, I know
of
her,' Tarden said. ‘She's up at Ned Gale's place, by the water.'