Edward Adrift

could hear him. When I said “you’re pretty high and far out,” I was quoting Sergeant Joe Friday from the first episode of
Dragnet 1967
, which originally aired on January 12, 1967. It’s one of my favorites.
    The last part, when I said “fuck you and the horse you’re riding on” to Kyle, is easy. That’s my father. Those are his words. I am flabbergasted (I love the word “flabbergasted”) that they ended up on my tongue. Not literally, of course. That’s a figure of speech.
    Two things are clear. First, when it comes to yelling at people, I am derivative (I love the word “derivative”). Second, I have no business telling Kyle what he should or shouldn’t say. I can’t control my own mouth.
    Kyle again shimmies under the fence, and then he steps on the middle strand and lifts the top one so I can dip my head and sneak through.
    We get in the car, and I turn it on. Michael Stipe is singing about the flowers of Guatemala and how they cover everything. I make a U-turn on the dirt road and head back to the two-lane highway that will lead us to town, and that’s when the first fat snowflake hits the windshield.

    By the time we get back to the motel, it’s an onslaught (I love the word “onslaught”) of snow. The flakes are fat and wet, and they cling to the windshield almost as fast as I can use the wipers to get rid of them. The streets of Cheyenne Wells fill quickly with snow, and the Cadillac DTS fishtails as we pull into the parking lot.
    Inside, the motel owner is waiting for us.
    “I was watching for you,” she says. “I told you a storm was coming.”
    I rub the top of my head with my hand, feeling the snow melt in my hair, and Kyle stomps on the entryway rug to get the snow off his shoes.
    “It came on with no warning,” I say.
    “No,” she says, “I warned you. I told you ‘storm’s coming.’ I couldn’t have been more clear than I was.”
    Again, her eyes are playing games with me. Every time she speaks they sparkle, or seem to. I know this is a trick of the light. And her mouth crinkles like she’s holding something back—it flummoxes me that I can’t tell if it’s a grin or disdain for how stupid I was, getting caught in the storm like that.
    “I don’t believe I got your name,” I say to her. Kyle tugs at my jacket and asks for the room key because “this is boring.” I hand it to him, and he skips down the hallway.
    “I don’t believe I offered it to you,” she says. “My name is Sheila Renfro.”
    She extends her right hand to me, and I take it in my right hand. Her fingers feel rough and chalky. She shakes my hand firmly, up and down three times, and then she lets go.
    “I think I stayed in this motel when I was a little boy, with my father.”
    “It’s the only motel in town. If you stayed in Cheyenne Wells, you stayed here.”
    “It was nineteen seventy-eight. I was nine years old.”
    “When in nineteen seventy-eight?”
    “June.”
    “What day in June?”
    “I don’t remember.”
    “I was either two years old or three years old. I was born June fifteenth, nineteen seventy-five, so it depends on when you were here.”
    “When I was here, the motel was run by a big, fat guy who had white hair.”
    “That was my father. He wasn’t fat. He was pleasantly plump. He’s in the ground now.”
    “He and his wife had a little girl.”
    “That was me.”
    “That was you?”
    She narrows her blue eyes at me. “Yes, silly. I just told you.”
    “So we’ve met before?”
    “I guess we have.”
    “Do you remember me?”
    “No, silly. I was just a little girl. Plus, you only have to remember a couple of people. Do you think I can remember everyone who has ever come to this motel? Sure, I could look at the register and see who’s been here, but that doesn’t mean I would remember them.”
    I’m really foundering (I love the word “foundering,” but I hate to do it). I keep saying dumb things, and she keeps pointing out that they’re dumb. And yet, I do not want to stop talking to Sheila Renfro. She fascinates me.
    I decide to change the subject.
    “Why do your hands feel so weird?”
    She rubs her palms on the hips of her blue jeans twice. “They’re not weird. I’m working. I’m doing drywall in room number eight.”
    “Papered or fiberglass?”
    “Papered.”
    “Bathroom or living quarters?”
    “Living quarters.”
    “I’m pretty handy with drywall. Do you need help?”
    “Are you offering or do you expect to be paid?”
    “I