39
He woke to Vivian tapping him on the shoulder, saying his name, and beyond her voice and touch, the rude sound of someone banging on the door of their room. Loud, heavy fistfalls, battering the door.
Charlie, Vivian said, her voice rising above a whisper, Charlie. Wake up.
Now he was wide awake, his bare feet on the carpeting, his heart pounding. The knocking was incessant, almost violent. Beyond the door a voice, hoarse and belligerent, slurred, My room. This is my room. This goddamn key.
In the neighboring bed, Jessie said, an edge of fear in her voice, Auntie? Auntie? Are we okay?
Just some drunk, Melissa murmured, wrapping her pillow over her head. He’ll go away eventually.
But the stranger did not go away, and now the knocking rose in volume and intensity.
Charlie, Vivian said, should we call the front desk?
But Charlie was already rising from the bed, dressing quickly, irritated that he couldn’t find his shoes in the darkness.
Charlie, you’re not going to—don’t confront this guy. Charlie? What are you looking for?
My fucking boots, he said, my shoes.
Charlie? What do you need your shoes for? Charlie? Call the front desk. Charlie?
He wasn’t frustrated by Vivian exactly, but his temper was flaring. And something new. A defensiveness. His family was in the room, and his daughter was scared. Vivian was scared too; he could hear it in her voice. There wasn’t time to have a discussion about confrontations, poor behavior, or fighting. About the fact that he wasn’t going to open that door without his shoes on. He felt his heart pumping, not with love or excitement or even fear, but pure adrenaline, just jet fuel. The knocking persisted, and from far outside the door and far down the hallway, he heard plaintive voices, to which the drunk only answered, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Fuck off.
He used to live for these moments of conflict. Years ago, he would even go to a bar looking for fights, looking for these dark moments, moments of violence and release. Nights culminating in parking lots or bathrooms. Bloody knuckles, cut lips, black eyes, a line of stitches melting into a new scar. He liked to fight on Fridays, then heal over the weekend before heading back to work on Monday with a new story he’d rehearsed and edited like an article about a boxing match. For some of the men he worked with, fighting was a sport, a hobby. It was one of the things Vivian detested most about his job and coworkers.
Charlie quietly unclasped the chain locking the door and snapped the door open.
There before him stood a young man in a well-tailored dark blue business suit, his burgundy tie loosely unknotted over a pale collared shirt that showed blotches of perspiration or perhaps spilled alcohol. The man certainly smelled of alcohol. His thick dark hair was swept back off a sweaty face, and his dull eyes looked lost behind drooping eyelids. He wore expensive shoes and a heavy silver watch that seemed to tug the left side of his body down, as if a toddler were pulling at his sleeve. The young man wiped his nose with the back of his hand and steadied himself.
That’s my room, he declared.
From several doors down the hallway, a huge man stepped out into the hallway, which his wide body seemed to practically fill. This man wore flip-flops, athletic shorts, and a white tank top.
Wrong room, Charlie rumbled, unconsciously clenching his fists.
What’d you say to me? the man down the hallway called.
What I said, the drunk man slurred, is—fuck off. Now, if you’ll excuse me, he continued, slowly trying to brush past Charlie.
But Charlie stepped in front of him and, with his left arm, blocked the young man from moving forward again. C’mon guy, he said, go sober up.
Fuck off? the big man called. Fuck off?
Charlie? Vivian said. Please.
Hey old-timer, the drunk continued, you must be confused. Pronouncing that word, confused, took him considerable effort.
Fuck off? the big man repeated, this time as he pounded a great forearm over his chest, making an audible thumping sound. Fuck off?
Charlie? Vivian said louder, I’m calling the front desk.
He could hear Melissa trying to calm Jessie, and something in him cooled. The jet fuel that seemed on the brink of combusting dissolved, and he realized he didn’t want the temperature to rise one degree more. That he didn’t want to fight, not at all. It was their voices behind him. He was no longer who he once was. He turned back to Vivian and said, I’ve got this. And then he stepped forward and shut the door.
The moment he turned his head from glancing at this hand on the doorknob, the young man slapped him hard across the face. The slap left Charlie whiplash dazed. He shook his head and stared at the drunk, who suddenly took a step back. There wasn’t any violence in his heart at that moment, but he knew his eyes were aflame.
You gonna let him punk you like that? said the man down the hallway, who moved steadily closer to them.
Charlie held his hand in the air between him and the drunk, his other hand massaging his face. What’s your name? Charlie asked.
Huh?
Your name? Charlie asked again.
Cooper, the drunk said.
Cooper, Charlie repeated. Okay. Cooper, I need you to stop talking and sit down. Right there. Can you do that for me? Charlie’s voice was low and commanding, and he felt the power in his words, in the restrained volume. Sit down, and try to relax.
The young man retreated slowly until his back pressed against the wall of the hallway, and then he incrementally collapsed to the floor until his head hung between his knees.
Now Charlie moved towards the big man. He allowed his limbs to loosen, and although he rubbed at his face, he tried his best to smile. He could feel other travelers cracking their doors, eavesdropping. He could hear quiet voices, no doubt on the telephone, talking to the front desk. He hoped he had the time to make everything right.
That was my nephew, he said casually. Kid can’t hold his liquor, am I right?
He’s lucky he’s alive, the big man said, no longer moving forward, but crossing his arms over his massive chest.
He didn’t mean any offense, Charlie said, offering the man his hand in peace. But I’ll tell you this, if the cops get called, he’s going to lose his job. So can I ask you a favor, brother?
The man said nothing, just glowered at him.
Let’s all go back to bed.
Charlie slung one of the young man’s arms over his shoulder and half carried him as quickly as possible into one of the awaiting elevators, propping him in a corner.
I’m going to go through your pockets now, Charlie said quietly.
Wrong room, the drunk managed.
Yeah, you went to the wrong room all right, Charlie said, as he found the plastic key card tucked inside a small white envelope. He flipped the envelope over and read out loud: Eighteen oh eight. Cooper, your room is eighteen oh eight. Guess which floor we’re on?
Eighteen? Cooper slurred.
Not quite, Coop. Nope, we’re on eight.
Charlie pressed eighteen, and they rode the elevator up, Cooper’s chin now resting on his lapels. When the elevator door opened, Charlie moved out into the quiet hallway, but Cooper stood there, in the corner of the elevator, quite like a mannequin, except for the puddle forming around his shoes.
Come on, buddy, Charlie sighed, and lifted one of the man’s limp arms over his shoulder, navigating him towards his room. He knew the man wouldn’t remember it, wouldn’t remember him, these steps, his words, this night, but what he said next, he said in the manner of a prayer or a mantra, hoping that somewhere, the words took hold, found purchase, like a windblown seed clinging to a cliff crag. He said, I don’t know you, son, but I know this wasn’t who you’ve always been, and you don’t have to be this person, if you don’t want to be. I’ve been to the place you’re at. There are better places. I’ll be thinking about you. And I wish you luck.
At room 1808, Charlie pressed the key card against the door, and heard the lock relax and open. With his arm holding Cooper upright, he pressed a shoulder against the door and eased into the room.
The lights were on, and immediately, a young woman dropped her phone on the bed and raced towards them. Beyond her, he could see two children sleeping on a separate queen bed, their heads resting on pillows. She had been crying; she was obviously relieved, but still frantic, still upset, and as soon as she saw Cooper, she helped ease him onto the bed, and then, just as Charlie was about to reverse course, she hugged him, her arms around his neck, like she was clinging to a pier, a riptide pulling at her legs. Charlie returned her embrace very lightly, then more firmly. The young woman was crying against his chest. They stood that way for a few minutes, until her breathing evened, and then she let her hands run down Charlie’s arms until they caught his hands, which she squeezed.
Where did you find him? she asked.
He tried… Charlie began. He was lost. Wrong floor. It can happen to anyone.
She was shaking her head in the negative. I don’t know how to thank you, she said. I looked everywhere. I called his friends. His family. I called the police. I’ve been looking for him for three hours. Two of his friends have been walking along the lake. One of his coworkers is following the river. He could have drowned. Or been mugged. I don’t know…
Her voice trailed off.
I don’t know if I can keep doing this. What am I saying? She laughed darkly, dropping Charlie’s hands and wiping her face. Thank you. Thank you for being so kind. I wish I could repay you, honestly. Thank you.
There was so much Charlie wanted to say, but he didn’t. He was tired too, though his body was still jagged with adrenaline. Good night, Charlie said, drifting towards the door, which he shut gently.
Now he stood in the hallway, in the darkest hours of the night, and he knew that even if he would have preferred a walk or a cigarette, there was only one place for him to go. So he rode the elevator down to the eighth floor and felt tremendous relief when he reached into his pocket and discovered a key card. He slipped into the room, welcomed by the sounds of Jessie’s snoring, and then gently slid into bed beside Vivian.
Oh, she sighed, there you are. Is everything okay?
Everything’s fine, he said, kissing her shoulder. Everything’s fine. But for a long time, he merely stared through the darkness of the room towards the curtains cloaking the glow of the city, and as the minutes and hours passed, he thought he perceived the sliver of light between those curtains grow brighter and brighter.
He thought of all the times when he had been drunk, belligerent, violent, cruel, loud, or dangerous, and all of the times someone had talked him down or picked him up out of some gutter. The countless times some bartender had asked for his keys, or some friend had driven him home. The nights when Vivian had made him drink glass after glass of water, when she’d guided him to toilets, or helped him into a comforting shower, and later bed. All the weddings he could not remember because he had blacked out. All the dinner parties he’d spoiled by lighting a cigarette in someone’s house, or the hosts he’d offended with some crass joke. He closed his eyes against the memories. He had missed the birth of his daughter, her entire childhood. His daughter had been raised by another family because he could not be troubled to part from his drinking, his bottles. He shook his head and wanted to be free of those things he’d done.
The tiny room was filled with the sounds of his family breathing, sleeping, and he closed his eyes and said in his mind, Please forgive me, please forgive me, please forgive me.
He woke hours later to the rude sounds of the television squawking and a blow-dryer’s steady drone. He opened his eyes, and the curtains were parted. Jessie stood at the windows, her palms on the glass. She was humming a song he couldn’t quite place, but it made him smile. His heart felt overfull in a way he now recognized was only possible for those people who understood that their second chance was as good as or better than heaven. And then Viv was there, kneeling down beside him, smiling too, and touching his face gently.
Are you okay? she asked quietly.
He nodded and fought back the happiest of tears.
Are you sure? Did someone hit you? Your face…it looks swollen.
I’m all right, he managed.
You helped that man last night. Was he okay?
He’ll be okay.
He was lucky you were there, she said, running her fingers along his earlobe. Do you know that? What if you hadn’t helped him?
He could imagine the spectrum of outcomes, all of them disastrous, some of them even deadly, and he thought of the man’s wife, up there in that hotel room, calling everyone she knew, asking for help, and all that implied.
He nodded his head.
Hey, she said, taking his face gently between her two hands, I love you.
I love you too.
And guess what?
What?
It’s a new day. And we’re in Chicago, can you believe it?
He shook his head no, because he couldn’t, he couldn’t believe it.
Come on, she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead, let’s go find some coffee.