In
the winter of my tenth year, my grandmother took me to San Francisco to a
wonderful old theater in the heart of the city to see a production of the avant-garde
ballet ‘Red Queen, White Queen’.
‘Red Queen, White
Queen’
had first premiered in the late Sixties, a Cold War retelling of the classic Brothers
Grimm story of Snow White and Rose Red. The political overtones had been over
my young head, of course, but I’d been entranced by the ballerinas in their
sparkling tutus and satin toe shoes. I’d been on the edge of my seat, scarcely
breathing as they twirled and pirouetted; dancing around the enormous red and
white chess pieces decorating the stage.
For
the next six months, I took ballet lessons once a week at the community center,
and every afternoon, clad in a black leotard and pink tights, I ceaselessly
practiced plies and forced my growing feet into fifth position.
It
was those long-ago memories of music and black ballet shoes that came to mind
when the woman walked into the motel office that November afternoon. There was
nothing remarkable about her: she was tall, but so are hundreds of others. She
was slender: again, not remarkable. Her simple scoop-neck top and tapered black
pants could have come from any store here in Cactus Springs, as could the
simple canvas slip-on shoes she wore. But there was something about her
posture, the carriage of her head and shoulders, the graceful way she moved
across the tile floor of the office toward the counter, that whispered to me: ‘that’s a dancer’.
“Good
afternoon!” I said cheerfully, smiling at the woman with the gamine haircut.
She smiled back, a tentative smile as if she weren’t quite sure how to smile.
“Are
you looking for a room?” I asked, already typing commands into the computer to
find an available single.
“I
think so, yes.” she spoke softly, with a slight accent I couldn’t immediately
place. Not from California, I thought.
“Just
you?”
“I
beg your pardon?”
“Is
it just you? Do you just need a single room?”
She
looked around the office as if to check for others.
“Yes.
Just me.” A faint smile flitted across her face, and was quickly gone.
“All
right. If you have a driver’s license or other form of ID, I’ll fill out the
registration form and get you all set up.”
Now,
a cloud crossed her face, as quickly gone as the smile.
“No,
I don’t have a driver’s license. Is that going to be a problem?”
Something
about the tone of her voice made me take a closer look at her; noticing for the
first time the strain around the wide mouth, the bruised look to her dark eyes.
“Well,
normally I do require some form of identification; do you have anything I can
use? A credit card, anything?
Her
shoulders slumped, but only for a moment, before she resolutely squared them
again She looked at me with a combination of defiance and despair.
“No,
I don’t. But I do have cash; I can pay for the room. Please, if you can’t help
me, I’ll need for you to call me a cab so that I can find another place.”
There
was something about the way she faced me; masking her fear, refusing to be
denied, that impressed me. I made an on-the-spot executive decision.
“Well,
since I happen to be the owner, I’m going to bend the rules a little for you,”
I said with a friendly smile. “May I have your name?”
“Benedetti.
Charmaine Benedetti.”
Hands
on the keyboard, I looked up at her.
“Can
you spell that?”
She
patiently spelled both her first and last name and I typed as quickly as I could.
“Okay.
Address?”
A
hesitation. I looked up to see confusion in her eyes.
“No.
I’m so sorry…” she said softly, distress in her voice. “Does it matter?”
My
immediate thought was that she was homeless. Even a town as small as Cactus
Springs has its share of homeless, but most of them have found shelter in
battered motor homes or campers out in the desert. I hurried to reassure her.
“Well,
since you’re paying cash, no. We only really need an address to confirm the
credit card. I will require a
security deposit, though. Will that be a problem?”
“No,”
she said with a shake of her head. “No problem. I quite understand.”
“All right, Miss Benedetti…”
“Mrs.
Mrs. Benedetti.”
“Oh!
I’m sorry! So, Mrs. Benedetti, how long are you planning on staying?”
“I’m
not sure. Can we start with two nights, and go from there?”
With
a few clicks of the computer’s mouse, I finished filling out her meager
information and selected a room. We were almost full, so there were only a
couple from which to chose, but I thought she’d be happy.
“I
have a nice little room, right on the end. Double bed, tub with shower, small
kitchenette. Fifty-nine dollars a night, plus tax. And one night’s fee as a deposit. Will that
work for you?”
“That
will be fine.” She lifted a handbag onto the counter and rummaged in its
depths. When she withdrew her hand, she was holding two one hundred dollar
bills.
I
accepted the money, rang up the sale, and printed a receipt and a registration
form. After she signed the form, I separated the pages and handed her a copy
along with the key to her room and her change.
“I’ve
put you in number one. It’s just outside the office to your left. Do you need
help with your bags?”
Again,
the quick glance around the office, as if looking for someone or something.
“I
only have the one bag. I believe the taxi driver left it outside the door. It
rolls. I should be able to handle it.”
I
had already walked around the counter, planning to hold the door open for her.
I pulled the door open and stood back to let her exit.
“All
right, then. If you need anything else, please just call from your room, or
come and see me.”
“Thank
you so much, Miss…?” Mrs. Benedetti held out an elegant hand to me. I grasped
it and shook it gently.
“Spencer,
Sage Spencer. Owner and manager, at your service.”
Mrs.
Benedetti smiled, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes.
“Thank
you again, Miss Spencer. You have saved my life.”
With
that, she collected her suitcase, pulled up the handle, and began walking across
the circular gravel drive that swings around past the twelve rooms of the motel
and encases the swimming pool and lawn area. I knew from experience that
pulling a suitcase like that across gravel isn’t easy, but she didn’t hesitate,
didn’t even slow down. I watched until she had unlocked the door and disappeared
inside her room. Only then did I hurry back inside to call the sheriff.
