The Resort (23 page)

The freaky thing was that, despite all this, the mirror still worked; Ryan could see himself in it, superimposed over that ghoulish scene. It looked like he was in that dark room himself, standing in front of the cadaverous man.

He wanted to call his brothers or David, have them check it out and see if they saw the same thing, but at that moment the last segment of mirror wobbled and fell, crashing to the floor. There was no reason for it, no vibration or wind or movement in the room, and he couldn't help thinking that the destruction was somehow intentional.

In several shards on the floor, he thought he saw dark flickering movement.

Quickly, he backtracked and got out of the building.

The others were close by, their individual efforts having led them here to what had been the front of the old hotel. “Find anything?” he asked, and his voice sounded loud even to himself. He realized that it was the first time in quite a while that any of them had spoken. The atmosphere of this place was not exactly conducive to conversation.

“No,” David said. “You?”

He wanted to tell them about the mirror, but it didn't seem right to do so here. No, that wasn't the truth. It didn't seem
safe
to do so here. He shook his head. “No.”

There was a shadow on the far opposite side of the canyon, a silhouette of the western mountain superimposed imperfectly on the eastern cliffs. They all seemed to notice it at the same time, as though it had suddenly appeared full-blown rather than grown incrementally.

“Anybody have a watch?” Curtis asked, and Ryan thought he heard a trace of fear in his older brother's voice.

A watch! Why hadn't he thought of that? He looked from face to face, hoping that someone had a timepiece and that it had stopped as a result of the magnetic energy, but no one did have a watch, so not only didn't they know what time it was, but he could not test his theory.

“We'd better get back,” Curtis said. “We're supposed to be at Dad's volleyball game.” He glanced over at David. “Is your dad playing?”

David smiled wryly. “Yeah. He's going to be whaling it at my mom.”

Curtis laughed uneasily.

“What about you?” Owen asked Brenda.

She shook her head. “Tennis is our game.”

“Well, you can come with us.”

“No, I can't make it,” she said. “I'm supposed to write postcards with my mom this afternoon.”

“That takes all of ten minutes.”

“You don't know my mom.” Holding Owen's hand, she started walking back toward the bone-filled wagon and the trail beyond. The rest of them fell in behind. “So what about the ‘dive-in movie'? Are you guys going to be there tonight?”

“What are they showing?” Curtis asked.

“Does it matter? Some kid's movie.
Finding Nemo
or something.”

“I'll be there,” Owen promised.

“Mom won't let us out at night,” Ryan said, though the prospect of having access to the nocturnal world of the resort filled him with excitement.

“Where'd you get this ‘us'?” Owen asked.

“If you don't let me come, I'll tell.” He didn't know what exactly he would tell on, the trip to the abandoned resort or the lovey-dovey stuff with Brenda, but the threat obviously carried weight.

“I was just joking,” Owen lied.

They passed the buckboard, finally reached the path. Ryan looked back. He could see the wagon at the top of the small rise, but the ruins of the hotel were hidden from this angle. The whole thing seemed like a dream, not like something that had actually happened, and as they started walking back in silence, none of them mentioning what they had just seen, he found himself wondering if there was some way that he could determine the magnetic content of these mountains.

They lost in the first round of tournament play, and it was Lowell's fault. He was the one who, as point man on defense, failed to stop a series of spikes when crunch time came, and although everyone else had failed to return the balls as well, fumbling around and splashing in the water like spastic Jerry Lewises, they had not been expected to hold the tide. He was the one charged with providing a real defense, and he'd promised that he could do it. They'd been pretty successful with offense, racking up quite a few points despite the Coyotes' obvious advantage in athletic ability, but they crumbled before the Coyotes' scoring onslaught, and blame for that rested squarely with him.

They'd spent most of the morning practicing, with only an hour break for lunch, and there was a tinge of desperation in their efforts, a need to succeed far beyond the bounds of what this supposedly easygoing competition warranted. Lowell could recognize it, but he fell prey to it, too, and he found himself getting far angrier at both himself and other players for minor mistakes and inadvertent errors than he otherwise would have. It was as if their very lives depended on the outcome of this game, and while he didn't know where or how this attitude originated, he succumbed to it just as much as anyone else.

They lost the match 24 to 20, a much closer score than any of them had expected given the drubbing they'd taken during the last half, and though he blamed himself for the loss, it was clear that his teammates did not. They all congratulated him on a game well-played, and he perpetuated the fiction by praising them as well. Separating to sit with their individual families on the plastic chairs that had been temporarily set up around the perimeter of the pool, they remained to watch the matchup of the Coyotes and the Roadrunners, and as Lowell observed the game from the sidelines, he found himself feeling grateful that their team had not survived to play. They would have been eaten alive. The Coyotes were athletic but the Roadrunners were
aggressive.
They purposely drove the heavy volleyball into faces and stomachs, yelled taunts and curses and threats at their opponents, splashed and pushed those players closest to the net. Blodgett, the captain, was the worst offender. As Rand Black had said, and as he'd already known, Blodgett was a bully, a big man used to throwing his weight around both literally and metaphorically. He did indeed look as though he could have been a linebacker, and even when smiling his face possessed an expression of arrogant intolerance.

He has a pair of Rachel's panties,
was the only thing Lowell could think of as he watched the man, and more than anything else he hoped that someone nailed that asshole in the face with the ball and gave him a bloody nose.

One Coyote actually did spike the ball past Blodgett's head—a pleasant-looking middle-aged man with a track team physique whom Lowell had served against—and Blodgett went crazy, lunging at the man, bellowing like a wounded bull. He hit the net, nearly knocking it over, but the activities coordinator, acting as referee, declined to call him on anything. As he had throughout the tournament, the activities coordinator—

—sat on a raised lifeguard's chair in front of the cabana, watching the match with a detached and slightly amused smile, doing absolutely nothing. There was something different about the man this afternoon, Lowell thought. He seemed slightly less jockish than he had initially. But only for brief sections of time. Lowell would watch him, and he'd suddenly seem older, more formal. But then he'd seem younger, more casual, more relaxed. And then he'd be back to his old coachlike self again. It was as if he were a diamond or a hologram, showing different facets and different sides depending upon the angle from which he was viewed.

Blodgett's teammates and their bullying tactics carried the day, unchecked and tacitly endorsed by The Reata's representative, and to no one's surprise, the Roadrunners demolished their competition. Lowell stood with his family on the sidelines next to Rand Black and his wife and watched as the triumphant team cavorted in the water, high-fiving each other. Ironic, he thought. He'd avoided his own reunion only to be thrust into an artificial world with the same hierarchal structure as high school. The Roadrunners were the jocks, the Coyotes were the regular kids and his team, the Cactus Wrens, were the nerds.

Aside from the Roadrunners, no one really seemed to have enjoyed the volleyball games. Not the other players, all of whom, like Lowell, seemed to be participating out of obligation, and not the onlookers, who, judging from overheard conversations, were only waiting for the tournament to end so they could go back into the pool and continue swimming. He didn't know why The Reata would sponsor such an event if no one got any fun out of it, but he had a sneaking suspicion that this result had been known ahead of time and was intentional.

The Roadrunners' victory still did not put an end to the proceedings. Rockne got down from his lifeguard's chair and procured a plain brown box from the snack bar. “It's time for the awards ceremony!” he announced. There were groans from people waiting to get back in the pool and loud cheers from the Roadrunners, emerging from the water. The activities coordinator placed the box down on the cement at the edge of the pool, withdrawing a bright gold statuette of a man with upraised arms holding a volleyball and standing atop a tall Doric column. “The winner's trophy!” he proclaimed. “On behalf of The Reata, I present this to the winning team of our tournament, the Roadrunners! Will the captain of the winning team please step forward!”

The speakers around the pool area, which had been silent throughout the tournament, blared with a triumphant fanfare as rough backslaps and pats on the ass propelled Blodgett forward. He punched the man nearest him in a manner which, under the guise of camaraderie, was clearly meant to hurt, then strode forward, grinning arrogantly. “Thank you!” he said loudly. “This would probably mean more if we had some real competition, but we'll take our wins where we can get them!”

Holding the trophy high, Blodgett returned to his team amid whoops, hollers and laughs of derision.

“Just a minute, there, Mr. Blodgett,” the activities coordinator advised. “I think you're due for another trip up here.” He reached into the box, pulling out one more gold trophy: a naked flexing strongman standing atop a square block.

And sporting an erection.

“Player of the day!” he announced. “Mr. Blodgett!”

Once again, the big man walked up to accept his prize. This time he said nothing, only emitted a series of apelike grunts that baffled the rest of the crowd but sent the other Roadrunners into gales of laughter. He banged his two trophies together as though they were beer steins at a toast, then returned to his team. Rachel had turned her body in such a way that Blodgett and his teammates could see neither her front nor back, only her side.

“We have one more trophy to give out, our booby prize as it were, presented to the worst player of the tournament!” The activities coordinator grinned and set his sights on Lowell, who suddenly knew what was coming. “Loser of the day is—” He paused for effect. “Mr. Thurman!”

“Thank you, thank you,” Lowell said, raising his hands in a parody of false modesty. There were some scattered claps and a lot of puzzled looks from the crowd, and loud obnoxious jeers from the Roadrunners' quarter.

He accepted the prize good-naturedly, though he was not at all sure that was the spirit in which it was intended. Still, he felt bad, for his team if not for himself, and he wondered how he had allowed
that
to happen. He was not one of those people who defined himself in relation to a group, who allowed himself to be a cog in the machine. He was definitely not a team player. In fact, for most of his life, he had assiduously avoided joining teams or clubs or organizations, preferring to engage in more solitary, individualistic pursuits. But somehow he had gotten roped into this tournament and against his will and without knowing it had become emotionally invested in the Cactus Wrens. Lowell glanced over at his teammates, saw pained expressions of sympathy, embarrassment and encouragement, and he gave them a wan smile as he walked back to his family.

He looked down at the statuette in his hand.

It was a miniature version of himself.

Lowell nearly stopped in his tracks. His mouth was suddenly dry. He looked up at Rachel, saw a perplexed look on her face, then glanced back at the activities coordinator, who was smirking. Using his finger to trace the contours of the small silver face, he saw a caricature of the visage that was reflected back to him each morning from the bathroom mirror. He couldn't immediately process all of the implications here. One thing he knew was that it had been determined ahead of time that he would be the tournament's designated loser, although how far ahead it was impossible to say. How long did it take to etch a face on a trophy?

And was this supposed to be some sort of joke or a warning?

The pool was opened again, the tournament officially over, and the gathered crowd separated, the Roadrunners heading off somewhere together with Rockne, their wives and their families, other people wandering out of the gate to another part of the resort, swimmers of all ages returning gratefully to the water. Rachel had already claimed a small table and series of lounge chairs with her bag and several towels.

Lowell sat down heavily on one of the lounge chairs, placing the trophy on the ground next to him. Ryan put a tender hand on his drooping shoulder, and he found that extremely touching. “Don't worry, Daddy,” he said seriously. “It's just a game.”

Lowell smiled. “Come here.” He hugged his son, and it felt good. For some reason he had stopped hugging the boys as they approached puberty—embarrassment on both their parts, he supposed—but it was nice to once again feel the warmth of his son in his arms, and he flashed back to when the boys were little and he had picked them up and carried them around and given them piggyback rides and hugged them for no reason whatsoever. Time passed too quickly, he thought, and he wished he could go back in time and do it all over again. Not to change anything, just to once again experience it.