Fairfield

Stanley Moorehouse thumbed the button for the third floor, and the polished metal doors of the hotel elevator slid shut. The carriage creaked upwards and the red numbers above the door changed from one to two. His son, Jacob—a recent high school graduate (Go Knights! Class of 2018)—stood next to Stanley.

“What room are we in?” Jacob asked

Stanley looked at the sleeve of key cards the receptionist had given them and told him, “319.”

Jacob considered this a moment, then said, “Huh. That adds up to thirteen. Must be our lucky trip.”

Stanley didn’t think much about the room number. He recalled a short story by Stephen King about a room who’s numbers added up to thirteen. He never read the story, but he had seen the movie version with John Cusack and Samuel L. Jackson. It had scared the bejeezums out of him. No one at the front desk had tried to talk them out of room 319 though, so he figured they were probably safe.

Stanley usually took his business trips to New Jersey alone. But this trip—his firm’s National Sales Conference—was scheduled over the weekend, and Stanley had promised his son a Yankees game Saturday evening, when they were taking on the Cleveland Indians. Neither Stanley nor Jacob were big sports fans, but catching a game live at a stadium was a completely different experience than kicking back on the sofa and watching it on the zombie tube all by yourself. The plan was for Jacob to hang out at the hotel all day tomorrow while Stanley attended the conference. There was plenty to keep an eighteen year old entertained: cable television, room service, a fitness center, even a swimming pool. Saturday morning, they’d catch the ferry across the Hudson into New York City, take in the Empire State Building and Freedom Tower, maybe even Times Square if there was enough time. Then they’d take a cab into the Bronx and Yankee Stadium for the game.

The number above the door blinked from two to three and the elevator groaned to a stop. The doors let off a little chime and slid open, and Stanley and Jacob stepped into the carpeted hallway. There was a bronze wall plaque on the wall with two arrows, indicating that their room was to the left. About three quarters down the hallway, they stopped in front of their door. And no creepy twin girls in blue frilly dresses either, Stanley thought. Another good sign they would probably be just fine.

Jacob set his suitcase down at the door and held out his hand, palm up. “Can I do it?”

Stanley handed him the magnetic key card and Jacob swiped it through the slot. Stanley half expected it not to work, but it did, and the door didn’t even tilt sideways, as it had for John Cusack in that movie.

They went inside and set their luggage at the ends of the two queen beds. The pillows looked thick and fluffy, and the bleached white linens had been turned back. A pair of lamps gave the room a cozy yellow glow—one in the corner next to a reading chair, and the other centered atop the room’s wooden writing desk. The curtains had been left open, revealing a spectacular view of the late afternoon sun as it set behind the skyscrapers in Midtown and lower Manhattan.

Stanley unzipped his suitcase, took out his toiletry kit, and told Jacob he wanted to grab a shower before they headed downstairs to the Bistro for dinner. Jacob kicked off his shoes and hopped into bed with the TV remote.

In the bathroom, Stanley cranked the tub’s faucet and gave the water a minute to heat up before stepping in. When he did, the water was nice and hot. He switched the shower head to the massage setting, then sighed as the jets pelted his back and shoulders with needle-fine beads of water. The drive from Toledo, Ohio to Lyndhurst, New Jersey had been a long one—almost nine hours. Stanley never flew if he could avoid it. Statistically, they say planes are the safest way to travel, but Stanley always felt those statistics were flawed. Sure, fewer planes crashed every year than, say, cars or buses. But when a car gets banged up, most of the time passengers get to walk away from it. Sometimes hospital visits are required and, yes, death is not uncommon. But when a plane goes down? It’s almost always Good Night, Sweet Susie for two or three hundred people all at once. And good luck walking away from that. As far as Stanley was concerned, anything he could drive in less than twelve hours was just plain worth it.

Stanley ran his hands through his wet hair—growing thinner now every year it seemed—and then he looked up. Hanging over the curtain rod at the back of the shower was a wash rag, draped half inside the shower and half out. The half that was hanging outside was all white, but the half that was hanging inside was only mostly white, with large splotches of red all over it. Stanley didn’t think it was supposed to look like that.

It’s blood.

No, it couldn’t be. But it certainly looked that way.

Somebody died in this bathtub.

That was ridiculous. Somebody had gotten a killer nosebleed, that was all. Either that, or the last guest to stay in this room had been a woman, and she hit her special time of the month and just forgot to pack a box of Tampax. Either way, Stanley found it odd that housekeeping hadn’t noticed something like that and taken care of it.

He didn’t want to touch it. Also, he didn’t want Jacob coming in here and seeing it. He certainly didn’t want to have to look at it while he was trying to relax in the shower. He reached up with one finger and flicked it over the rod and onto the tiled floor next to the toilet. Then he washed his hands with soap. Twice. Housekeeping can’t miss it now, he thought. He’d throw his towel over it when he was done drying off. That way he wouldn’t have to look at it tonight every time he came into the bathroom.

He turned off the water and reached for the stack of rolled bath towels from the shelf over the toilet. He unrolled the towel and was about to put it to his hair when he stopped. Dangling in the middle of the white towel was a long curly black hair. At least it’s not a pubic hair, Stanley noted, which made it only a little less disgusting. Certainly it was a woman’s hair, and a younger woman at that—no gray, unless she had dyed it black. The long hair gave some weight to his earlier theory that the bloody wash rag had belonged to a woman on her womb-bomb, and this idea made Stanley feel like he was in a Sherlock Holmes story, which, if he was being perfectly honest with himself, felt much better than the idea of being in a Stephen King movie.

He pinched the strand of hair between two fingertips and pulled it off the towel. He tried dropping it to the floor, but his fingers were still too damp from his shower and the hair just stuck to his skin. He tried shaking it off his hand, but only managed to get it wrapped around his wrist like a coiled snake. He finally resigned to wiping it off on the wall, where it hung like a black fettuccine noodle. As he finished drying off, he wondered what other clues he and Jacob (his Watson?) might come across during the course of their weekend stay.

Stanley left the bathroom and found Jacob lying on the bed with one arm tucked behind his head, watching an episode of SpongeBob. Jacob pointed the remote at the TV and cranked the volume down, then asked, “Can we just order a pizza instead of going downstairs?”

After the long drive, Stanley wasn’t really looking forward to the prospect of just sitting around the hotel room all night. “You mean you’d rather stay cooped up in here instead of walking down to the restaurant?”

Jacob shrugged. “I was looking through the Bistro menu and it kind of sucks. Plus I could really go for one of those famous New York-style pizzas; they’re supposed to be amazing.”

Stanley thought it over while he dressed, then finally relented. The kid wants pizza, and how many times would they get this chance to travel together again? Maybe never. “Why not,” he said, and fished his credit card out of his wallet.

Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock on their door. Stanley opened the door, and the smell of hot pepperoni and onions wafted into the room. He signed for the pizza and added a generous tip for the driver, then handed the box to Jacob while he waited. He looked at the driver’s hands, which were now empty. He told the driver, “We ordered a couple of Cokes too.”

The driver looked at his copy of the receipt then shook his head. “I don’t see any Cokes on the order. Are you sure?”

Stanley could feel his polite smile melting off his face. “Sure I’m sure.”

The driver glanced down at his watch, then up at Stanley. “If you want, you can call the store and tell them what happened. They’ll be happy to send another driver back out.”

Sure, in another forty-five minutes, Stanley thought but didn’t say. There was no point in complaining to the delivery guy. It wasn’t his fault. And he couldn’t make the drinks just magically appear. Instead, he thanked the driver and closed the door, wishing he could go back and change the amount of that tip. He was just heading towards the phone to make the call when Jacob said, “This is the wrong pizza.”

Stanley stopped halfway to the desk. “What are you talking about?”

Jacob spun the open pizza box around so his dad could see inside. Pepperoni, sausage, and onions—just like they ordered—except there was also mushrooms, which Jacob hated, and pineapple, which Stanley had no problem eating in a fruit salad, just not on a pizza.

Stanley had been second-guessing about whether or not to call the store back about the Cokes. Forty-five minutes was a long time to wait just for a couple of drinks; they could just have ice water. But the pizza was a definite deal breaker. He picked up the handset and dialed the number, and the voice on the other end no sooner picked up than he was placed on hold. He tapped his feet while he waited, and the frustration on his face must have been obvious because Jacob said, “Lucky room thirteen, eh Dad?” Jacob was trying to make a joke of it—lemonade out of lemons and all that, but Stanley wasn’t seeing the humor anymore.

The phone clicked on the other end and a young girl—college kid working her way through school, Stanley figured—said in a rushed voice that sounded more overworked than courteous, “Thank you for calling Uncle Guido’s Pizzeria. Will this be for takeout or delivery?”

Stanley, his stomach now rumbling from the smell of the pepperoni, and irritated after being put on hold, laid into the girl. He complained about the drinks, complained about the forty-five minute wait, complained about the screwed-up order. Pineapple. Really?

To her credit, the girl on the other end listened patiently and didn’t argue. There was a tapping of keys over the line as she pulled up his order, double checked it, and confirmed that, yes, they had in fact forgotten the drinks and mixed up their order.

“I’m so sorry about that,” the girl said, and she truly sounded like she was sorry. It made Stanley regret losing his temper with her. “We’ll get the right pizza and those drinks back out to you just as soon as we possibly can. Go ahead and keep the other pizza at no extra charge. I really am sorry about that.”

“It’s okay,” Stanley found himself saying. “Accidents happen every now and then. Thank you for taking care of it so quickly.”

He hung up the phone, and he and Jacob spent the next few minutes picking mushrooms and pineapple out of the layer of greasy cheese. Jacob ate a few slices, but Stanley couldn’t. Pineapple juice had leaked onto the cheese, turning it sweet, which was just all kinds of wrong. His stomach grumbled again.

Thirty minutes later there was another knock on the door and this time the correct pizza and drinks arrived. It was the same delivery driver who had shown up last time, and he lingered in the doorway just long enough to suggest that Stanley might want to consider giving him another tip just for making it back out again in record-breaking time. But Stanley’s good will extended only so far. He thanked the driver for coming back out and closed the door.

The pizza was wonderful, and Stanley wolfed down three slices before having to call it quits. After that, he stood and stretched. Nearly nine hours in a car and an extra long wait for their food, and his back and leg muscles were starting to tighten up on him.

“What do you say we head downstairs to the pool for a while, Jacob? I could use a good stretching out, and we can work off some of that pie.” Jacob agreed, so the two of them changed into their suits and headed for the elevator.

Their room pass also let them into the pool. There was no one else around, and they had the place all to themselves. The pool was a small oval and the water looked clean, clear, and blue from the bright shade of paint on the bottom. A large white sign hung on the wall next to the pool with the obligatory liability warnings in bold red letters: SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK. NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY. NO DIVING ALLOWED. CHILDREN MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT.

The warning against diving was also repeated in stenciled black lettering at both ends of the tiled deck along with the posted maximum depth, which was a life-threatening four feet zero inches. Stanley had no intention of diving into the water, but he was considering simply jumping in feet first just to get the initial shock of it over and done with. He decided to test the water first though, just in case. While Jacob was still taking off his tee shirt and sandals, Stanley dipped his foot into the water. No sooner had the water reached his ankle than Stanley’s teeth clenched up and his head felt like someone had stabbed his temples with a pair of ice picks.

“Eee-yow!” he cried out, and jumped away from the pool like it was full of hammerheads. “It’s a freaking ice bath in there!”

Behind him, Jacob was laughing. “Don’t be such a baby, Dad. The brochure said it’s a heated pool.”

“Well the heater must be broken. I’m not kidding; that water is freezing. There’s no way I’m getting in there.”

Jacob stepped to the side of the pool and dipped his own foot into the water, then pulled it back out again nearly as fast. His face scrunched up like he had just sucked a lemon, and it was Stanley’s turn to laugh.

Stanley looked over Jacob’s head to the far end of the pool area, where a whirlpool tub had been built into one corner. It looked big enough to seat at least ten people. Stanley started to walk over, then noticed the sign hanging on a long chain suspended across the stairs going down into the whirlpool. CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. A smaller set of letters beneath this told hotel guests: WE APOLOGIZE FOR THE INCONVENIENCE.

“That’s it,” Stanley said. “That’s the last straw. We’re heading back upstairs and packing up. This whole place sucks.”

“Where are we going?” Jacob asked.

“There’s a bigger hotel practically next door. We’ll go check in over there. I’m sure they’ll have a room.”

Before heading over though, Stanley called just to make sure, and was assured they would have a room waiting for him. Jacob didn’t argue. He didn’t really care where they stayed, and he had gotten two New York-style pizzas for the price of one, after all.

The receptionist at the front desk was as apologetic as the girl at Uncle Guido’s Pizzeria. “I’m so sorry things didn’t work out for you here,” she told Stanley as she checked them out and refunded his card. “We do hope you’ll come back and try us again the next time you’re in town.”

Stanley smiled politely, even while thinking to himself, Lady, you couldn’t pay me enough to come back to this dump again.

The hotel next door was bigger—more than twice as big, as it turned out—and as Stanley checked them in, he asked the man at the counter, “Would you happen to have any rooms available on the top floor, something with a nice view of the city?”

Keys rattled as the receptionist typed on his keyboard and checked the computer. He studied the screen a moment, then told Stanley, “As a matter of fact we do. Two queen beds and a great view. Would you like me to book that one for you?”

“You bet. Also, is your swimming pool heated?”

“Yes, sir, it is.” More clicking of keys, and the receptionist asked, “You guys in town for the game tomorrow night?”

Jacob looked up at this and gave his dad a smile. Stanley reached over and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t miss this one for anything.”

The man tucked two room passes into a little blue envelope and handed them to Stanley. “I hope you enjoy your stay with us.”

Stanley and Jacob grabbed their suitcases and wheeled them to the bank of elevators across the lobby. The door opened, and they stepped inside. “What room?” Jacob asked with one hand poised over the row of floor buttons, ready to push the right one.

Stanley reached for his shirt pocket and took out the sleeve of room passes. He opened it up and looked at the room number, then dropped his overnight bag on the floor and fell back against the paneled elevator wall. Written in neat script in the top right corner of the envelope was their room number: 724.

THE END