Page 59 of Rock and a Hard Place

With money running low, she needed to settle for a bit and this town seemed as good as any. She scanned each storefront in hopes of finding a help wanted sign. At this point, she’d be willing to do just about anything to make some money. Anything but go back to Rockville or the group home.

By the time she reached the edge of town, disappointment weighed on her shoulders like a heavy cloak. The last building before the road turned into the countryside was a battered motel called the Twilight. A vacancy sign blinked on and off, except for the broken last three letters. Scraggly weeds beat down the grass in sporadic patches around the perimeter. The motel could lead the list of tacky places to stay, but a real bed and a shower tempted her enough to approach.

The screen door squeaked as she entered a rundown office. A television blared cartoons from a backroom.

Libby stood in the middle of the small lobby, afraid to be noticed, but desperate to know if she could afford one night. A woman’s voice yelled in the background. “Damien, stop poking your brother.” The woman walked past the open doorway, looking up in time to see Libby.

“Hang on, hon, I’ll be right with ya.” Her voice sounded harried.

The young woman returned with a baby on her hip, her hair in a messy ponytail, and bags under her eyes.

“Can I help you?” she asked, eyeing Libby. “Well?”

“I’m sorry, I was just wondering, how much for a room?”

“Single or double?”

“Um, just a single.”

“Forty-five bucks. Cash or credit card, no checks.”

Libby mentally recounted her money. The toddler started to smell.

“I ain’t got all day. Do you want it or not?”

“Yeah, I do.” She stepped up to the scratched counter and dug in her pocket for cash.

“Sign in here.” The woman pushed a small card at her, requesting her name and address.

Libby stared at the card, then, trying not to look nervous, grabbed the pen and signed the first name that popped into her head--Jill Munroe. Her mother always loved the television showCharlie’s Angels. Jill Munroe was her favorite character, a beautiful, confident cop. Why she thought of that now, she couldn’t guess. Libby scribbled the signature, and pushed the card back toward the woman.

“That’s forty-nine eighty-two with tax.” She shifted the child to her other hip and peeked into the backroom. “Damien, get down from that cupboard right now or I’ll tan your little hide. No more cookies!”

Libby counted out fifty dollars and placed it carefully on top of the card.

“That child will be the death of me yet, the rotten little bugger. Just like his father.”

Libby smiled weakly and hoped the woman would remain distracted and not question why a teenager was renting a room at two o’clock on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Here you go, room six.” She handed her the key and her change. “I’ve gotta get this one changed before I have a bigger mess on my hands.” The woman scooped the cash and card behind the counter, then vanished into the chaos of the back room.

Libby picked up the key and then paused to be sure the clerk wouldn’t return. When the coast was clear, she took a huge handful of candies from a dish on the counter. She walked with a skip in her step as she went to find her room. A clean bed, a warm shower—life was looking up.

The room turned out to be little more than a closet. The walls were thin and the fuzzy old television barely worked. The shower walls were marred by rusty water stains, but the faucet provided hot water. Between the tiny soap for shampoo and the touch of water, butter soft as it rolled over her, Libby hadn’t felt this good in weeks. She spent more time under the spray washing out her panties and socks. Finally, exhaustion and wrinkled fingertips coaxed her to turn off the shower. After drying with a thin towel and hanging her undergarments overthe shower rod, she fell into bed. Despite it being only late afternoon, she was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Libby woke slowly. She’d slept straight through the evening to the next day. She sat up in bed and noticed her groggy reflection in the dresser’s chipped mirror. Her hair was a mess of blond split ends; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d trimmed it. The tangled strands fell nearly to her waist. Dark circles shadowed below her eyes. She really needed mascara. Her adrenaline had been churning for so long from her fear of being caught that she’d let her looks go.

She needed to regroup and figure out what to do next. Her money would only pay for another night or two, and then she’d be out on her own again. While in Chicago, waiting overnight for the next bus south, she’d slept on the streets and spent most of the night terrified, freezing, and heartbroken.

She pushed the thoughts away. A pity party wouldn’t solve anything. She got up and slipped into her dirty jeans and pulled on a cami and a long-sleeved shirt. Her socks were still damp, so she set them on the heat register and slipped into her tennis shoes. She pushed her cash deep into the front pocket of her jeans. Her life savings. It was meager, but enough to survive on for a couple more days.

After sliding the room key in her back pocket, she grabbed her coat and braved the cool January air.

The squeaky door of the office announced her arrival. The familiar drone of a kids’ show seeped in from the next room. The frazzled voice of the desk clerk sounded as she popped her head around the doorway to see who interrupted. She held a phone to her ear. “Just a minute,” she said, and disappeared behind the wall.

Libby examined the tourist pamphlets displayed in a rack while she waited for the conversation to end.

“No, I don’t know when I’ll be able to bring the kids again. I’m trying to keep this place afloat by myself, and Jimmy Junior’s asthma is flaring up again. Jimmy, I’m not blaming you. I’m doing the best I can is all. I gotta go, I’ve got a customer.”

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